The Chevalier d'Auriac Part 37

De Gomeron was half-way down the stairs by this, and when our swords met he did not for the moment recognise me. But at the second pa.s.s he realised, and the torchlight showed him pale to the forehead.

'You!' he said between his teeth.

'Yes--I--from under the Seine,' and I had run him through the throat but for our position, where the advantage was all his, and my reach too short. He had backed a step up as I spoke. Whether it was my sudden appearance or what, I know not, but from this moment his bravado left him, and he now fought doggedly and for dear life.

There was a hush behind me, and the light became brighter as more torches were brought, and I could now see the Camarguer white as a sheet, with two red spots on his cheeks.

'Do you like fighting a dead man, monsieur?' I asked as I parried a thrust in tierce.

He half groaned, and the red spot on his cheek grew bigger, but he made no answer, and step by step I forced him upwards.

He had been touched more than once, and there was a stain on his white satin doublet that was broadening each moment, whilst thrust and parry grew weaker, and something, I know not what, told me he was my man.

Messieurs, you who may read this, those at least of you who have stood sword in hand and face to face with a bitter foe, where the fight is to the last, will know that there are moments when it is as if G.o.d Himself nerves the arm and steels the wrist. And so it was then with me. I swear it that I forestalled each movement of the twinkling blade before me, that each artifice and trick the skilful swordsman who was fighting for his life employed was felt by something that guided my sword, now high, now low, and ever and again wet its point against the broad breast of the Camarguer.

So, too, with him--he was lost, and he knew it. But he was a brave man, if ever there was one, and he pulled himself together as we reached the upper landing for one last turn with the death that dogged him. So fierce was the attack he now made, that had he done so but a moment before, when the advantage of position was his, I know not what had happened. But now it was different. He was my man. I was carried away by the fire within me, or else in pity I might have spared him; but there is no need to speak of this more. He thrust too high. I parried and returned, so that the cross hilt of my rapier struck dully over his heart, and he died where he fell.

But one word escaped him, some long-lost memory, some secret of that iron heart came up at the last.

'Denise!' he gasped, and was gone.

I stood over him for a moment, a drumming in my ears, and then I heard the ringing of cheers and the rush of feet. Then a half-dozen strong shoulders were at the door before me, and as it fell back with a crash I sprang in and took a tall, slim, white-robed figure in my arms, and kissed her dear face again and again.

One by one those in the room stepped out and left us together, and for once a brave heart gave way and she sobbed like a child on my shoulder.

I said nothing, but held her to me, and so we might have been for a half-hour, when I heard de Belin's voice at the broken door:

'D'Auriac! Come, man!--the King waits! And bring your prisoner!'

There was a laugh in his voice and a light on his face as he spoke, and my dear lifted her swimming eyes to my face, and I kissed her again, saying:

'Come--my prisoner!'

As we pa.s.sed out I kept between Claude and the grim figure still lying stark on the landing, and held her to me so that she could not see.

So, with Lisois before us, we pa.s.sed down the pa.s.sage, filled now with men-at-arms, and halted before a room, the door of which was closed.

'We must wait here a moment,' said de Belin; and merely to say something, I asked:

'I suppose we have the whole nest?'

'All who were not killed. Stay! One escaped--that rascal Ravaillac. I could have run him through, but did not care to soil my sword with such _canaille_, so his skin is safe.'

'And Babette?'

He gave me an expressive look and muttered something about Montfaucon.

Then the door was flung open and a stream of light poured forth. We entered, and saw the King standing surrounded by his friends, and a little on one side was the dejected group of conspirators.

The Marshal, now abject, mean, and cringing, was kneeling before Henry, who raised him as we entered, saying:

'Biron, and you, Tremouille, and you all who called yourselves my friends, and lay in wait to destroy me and destroy your country--I cannot forget that we were old comrades, and for old friends.h.i.+ps' sake I have already told you that I forgive; and G.o.d give you all as clean a conscience as I have over the blood that has been spilt to-day.'

He ran his eye over the group, and they stood before him abashed and ashamed, and yet overcome with joy at escape when death seemed so certain; and he, their leader, the man who hoped to see his head on a crown-piece, broke into unmanly sobbing, and was led away vowing repentance--vows that he broke again, to find then that the mercy of the King was already strained to breaking-point.

As Lafin, with a white and bleeding face, led his master away, Henry's eye fell on me, and he beckoned me to advance. I did so, leading Claude by the hand.

'Chevalier,' he said, 'it is saying little when I say that it is through you that these misguided gentlemen have realised their wrong-doing. There is one recompense you would not let me make you for the wrongs you have suffered. There is, however, a reward for your services which perhaps you will accept from me. I see before me a Royal Ward who has defied her guardian--_Ventre St. Gris!_ My beard is getting over grey to look after such dainties. I surrender my Ward to your care.' As he said this he took Claude's hand and placed it in mine. 'I see, madame,' he added, 'that this time you have no objections to the King's choice. There--quite right. Kiss her, man!'

It is all over at last--that golden summer that was so long, and yet seems but a day. It is ten years ago that those s.h.i.+ning eyes, that never met mine but with the love-light in them, were closed for ever; and the gift that G.o.d gave me that did He take back.

I am old, and grey, and worn. My son, the Vicompte de Bidache, is in Paris with the Cardinal, whilst I wait at Auriac for the message that will call me to her. When she went, Bidache, where we lived, became unbearable to me, and I came back here to wait till I too am called--to wait and watch the uneasy sea, to hear the scream of the gulls, and feel the keen salt air.

I have come to the last of the fair white sheets of paper the _Cure_ brought for me from Havre this autumn, and it grows strangely dark even for my eyes. I will write no more, but sit out on the terrace and wait for the sunset. Perhaps she may call me to-day.

'Jacques, my hat and cloak!'

THE END.