The Grey Cloak Part 27

"The news!" cried the poet and the gamester.

"Devilish bad, Monsieur, for every one. The paper . . ."

"It is not here," interrupted the vicomte.

The count swore. "Mazarin has mentioned your name, Saumaise. You were a frequent visitor to the Hotel de Brissac. As for me, I swore to a lie; but am yet under suspicion. Has either of you seen Madame de Brissac? I have traced her as far as Roch.e.l.le."

The vicomte looked humorously at the poet. Victor scowled. Of the two men he abhorred D'Herouville the more. As for the vicomte, he laughed.

"You laugh, Monsieur?" said D'Herouville, coldly. His voice was not unpleasant.

"Why, yes," replied the vicomte. "Has Mazarin published an edict forbidding a man to move his diaphragm? You know nothing about the paper, then?"

"Madame de Brissac knows where it is," was the startling declaration.

"I ask you again, Messieurs, have you seen her?"

"She is in Roch.e.l.le," said the vicomte. How many men, he wondered, had been trapped, by madame's eyes?

"Where is she?" eagerly.

"He lies!" thought Victor. "He knows madame has no paper."

"Where she is just now I do not know."

"She is to sail for Quebec at one o'clock," said the poet.

There was admiration in the vicomte's glance. To send the count on a wild-goose chase to Quebec while madame sauntered leisurely toward Spain! It was a brilliant stroke, indeed.

"What boat?" demanded D'Herouville.

"The Saint Laurent," answered the vicomte, playing out the lie.

Victor's glance was sullen.

"Wait a moment, man!" cried the vicomte, catching the count's cloak.

"You can not mean to go running after madame in this fas.h.i.+on. You will compromise her. Besides, I have some questions to ask. What about De Brissac's play-woman?"

"Died in prison six days ago. She poisoned herself before they examined her." The count looked longingly toward the door.

"What! Poisoned herself? Then she must have loved that h.o.a.ry old sinner!" The vicomte's astonishment was genuine.

The chilling smile which pa.s.sed over the count's face was sinister. "I said she poisoned herself, advisedly."

"Oho!" The vicomte whistled, while Victor drew back.

"Now, Messieurs, will you permit me to go? It is high time you both were on the way to Spain." D'Herouville stamped his foot impatiently.

"And you will go to Quebec?" asked the vicomte.

"Certainly."

"Well then, till Monsieur de Saumaise and I see you on board. We are bound in that direction."

"You?" taken aback like a s.h.i.+p's sail.

"Why not, Monsieur," said Victor, a bit of irony in his tones, "since you yourself are going that way?"

"You took me by surprise." The count's eye ran up and down the poet's form. He moved his shoulders suggestively. "Till we meet again, then." And he left them.

"My poet," said the vicomte, "that was a stroke. Lord, how he will love you when he discovers the trick! What a boor he makes of himself to cover his designs! Here is a bag of trouble, and necessity has forced our hands into it. For all his gruffness and seeming impatience, D'Herouville has never yet made a blunder or a mistake.

Take care."

"Why do you warn me?" Victor was full to the lips with rage.

"Because, hang me, I like your wit. Monsieur, there is no need of you and me cutting each other's throats. Let us join hands in cutting D'Herouville's. And there's the Chevalier; I had forgotten him. He and D'Herouville do not speak. I had mapped out three dull months on the water, and here walks in a comedy of various parts. Let us try a pot of canary together. You ought to change that livery of yours.

Somebody will be insulting you and you will be drawing your sword."

Victor followed the vicomte to a table. After all, there was something fascinating about this man, with that devil-may-care air of his, his banter and his courage. So he buried a large part of his animosity, and accepted the vicomte's invitation.

All within the tavern was marked by that activity which precedes a notable departure. Seamen were bustling about, carrying bundles, stores, ammunition, and utensils. Here and there were soldiers polis.h.i.+ng their muskets and swords and small arms. There was a calling to and fro. The mayor of the city came in, full of G.o.dspeed and cheer, and following him were priests from the episcopal palace and wealthy burghers who were interested in the great trading company. All Roch.e.l.le was alive.

The vicomte, like all banterers, possessed that natural talent of standing aside and reading faces and dissecting emotions. Three faces interested him curiously. The Chevalier hid none of his thoughts; they lay in his eyes, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the immobility of his pose. How easy it was to read that the Chevalier saw nothing, save in a nebulous way, of the wonderful panorama surrounding. He was with the folly of the night gone, with Paris, with to-day's regrets for vanished yesterday. The vicomte could see perfectly well that Victor's gaiety was natural and una.s.sumed; that the past held him but loosely, since this past held the vision of an ax. The a.n.a.lyst pa.s.sed on to Brother Jacques, and received a slight shock. The penetrating grey eyes of the priest caught his and held them menacingly.

"Ah!" murmured the vicomte, "the little Jesuit has learned the trick, too, it would seem. He is reading my face. I must know more of this handsome fellow whose blood is red and healthy. He comes from no such humble origin as Father Chaumonot. Bah! and look at those nuns: they are animated coffins, holding only dead remembrances and dried, perfumeless flowers."

A strong and steady east wind had driven away all vestige of the storm.

The sea was running westward in long and swinging leaps, colorful, dazzling, foam-crested. The singing air was spangled with frosty brine-mist; a thousand flashes were cast back from the city windows; the flower of the lily fluttered from a hundred masts. A n.o.ble vision, truly, was the good s.h.i.+p Saint Laurent, standing out boldly against the clear horizon and the dark green of the waters. High up among the spars and shrouds swarmed the seamen. Canvas flapped and bellied as it dropped, from arm to arm, sending the fallen snow in a flurry to the decks. On the p.o.o.p-deck stood the black-gowned Jesuits, the sad-faced nuns, several members of the great company, soldiers and adventurers.

The wharves and docks and piers were crowded with the curious: bright-gowned peasants, soldiers from the fort, merchants, and a sprinkling of the n.o.blesse. It was not every day that a great s.h.i.+p left the harbor on so long and hazardous a voyage.

The Chevalier leaned against the railing, dreamily noting the white faces in the suns.h.i.+ne. He was still vaguely striving to convince himself that he was in the midst of some dream. He was conscious of an approaching illness, too. When would he wake? . . . and where? A hand touched his arm. He turned and saw Brother Jacques. There was a kindly expression on the young priest's face. He now saw the Chevalier in a new light. It was not as the gay cavalier, handsome, rich, care-free; it was as a man who, suffering a mortal stroke, carried his head high, hiding the wound like a Spartan.

"A last look at France, Monsieur le Chevalier, for many a day to come."

The Chevalier nodded.

"For many days, indeed. . . . And who among us shall look upon France again in the days to come? It is a long way from the Candlestick in Paris to the deck of the Saint Laurent. The widest stretch of fancy would not have brought us together again. There is, then, some invisible hand that guides us surely and certainly to our various ends, as the English poet says." The Chevalier was speaking to a thought rather than to Brother Jacques. "Who among us shall look upon these sh.o.r.es again?"

"What about these sh.o.r.es, Paul?" asked Victor, coming up. "They are not very engaging just now."

"But it is France, Victor; it is France; and from any part of France Paris may be reached." He turned his face toward the north, in the direction of Paris. His eyes closed; he was very pale. "Do we not die sometimes, Victor, while yet the heart and brain go on beating and thinking?"

Victor grasped the Chevalier's hand. There are some friends.h.i.+ps which are expressed not by the voice, but by the pressure of a hand, a kindling glance of the eye. Brother Jacques moved on. He saw that for the present he had no part in these two lives.

"Look!" Victor cried, suddenly, pointing toward the harbor towers.

"Jehan?" murmured the Chevalier. "Good old soul! Is he waving his hand, Victor? The sun . . . I can not see."

"Do you suppose your father . . ."