The Black Wolf's Breed Part 23

"The horses are saddled and at the door."

"Go and wait with them."

Jerome had taken my cloak from the fellow's arm, for in fact he had it, and now laid it across his knee. His blank expression showed utter astonishment at the disclosure.

"What does this mean? We are to rest here to-night?"

"No; I ride to Paris."

"Why?"

"I am afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of everything. We are in the house of our enemies, and it is the quality of courage to be discreet."

During this brief dialogue Jerome was stealthily running his hands through the lining of my cloak until he comprehended I had misled him.

I could almost put his thought in words. Together we arose, laying each our hands upon the half-closed door, he to hold it, I to open it, steady-eyed, and each reluctant to cause the breach we knew must come.

"Placide, the papers are not here," he said in a quiet tone, yet full of determination.

"I know it."

"Why have you deceived me then?" for he could mask his purposes no longer, "Hand me those dispatches."

"No. My orders are to place them in the hands of Serigny."

"But I must have them."

"And I tell you as firmly, you can not."

"Listen, Captain," he begged in altered tones, "those dispatches may compromise Celeste. Let us take from them anything which implicates her in this miserable intrigue, and deliver the rest. That is easy. I can open and close them again so it can not be told."

"My orders are not to open them."

"By G.o.d, you will!" he burst out with volcanic fury, "no, no; I am too hot. We can lose them; tell Serigny they were never found; tell him Yvard carried them off; tell him he never had them. We can fix a tale."

"It would be a long story, and a liar must needs have a good memory."

I was playing for time, time to think, time to get away.

"But I will go with you to Serigny," he insisted, "tell the lie and make him to believe. 'Pshaw, man, you know not the ways of the world, at least not at the Court of France."

"Think, Jerome, of the war, of our people in the colonies, of our honor?"

"I care not for it all," the wild pa.s.sion in his voice made me almost fear him. "All that is as nothing to me where Celeste is concerned.

Oh, Placide, think of it! I love her, love her, love her--do you comprehend what that means to such a man as I? I, who have loved her almost from her birth, have seen her taken from me and sold--yes, sold by her money-loving father, sold, sold! I, who have borne all her husband's leers when, flushed with the insolence of rank and wine, this shriveled bridegroom bore her as a piece of ornament to his house in Paris. Can I bear to lose her now?

"But, Jerome, you would not be such a coward as to permit our brethren in the colonies to be slaughtered, while you tell your pitiful lie to s.h.i.+eld a woman? It can not be done. What a fool you are come to be.

Man, man, where is your courage?"

"I care not. Love for such a woman would make of Truth a liar, and of Jove a fool. Think, Placide, think of her, Celeste, in the Bastille, the irons cutting into her delicate hands, those hands which I have so fondly held within my own--the cold stones for her bed. Or, worse: The block, the headsman and the jeering rabble. Have you no feeling, man?

Suppose there was some woman whom you loved--a guilty love, I grant--but so strong, so deep, so overpowering, you could not master it? Suppose _she_ were threatened, would you not protect her even if you lost your life; yea, bartered away your honor?"

A pale little tearful face thrust itself before me as he spoke, and I knew my own weak heart. I confess his pleading staggered me, and I hesitated. He came closer; all the love and fear of a strong and desperate man wove itself into his words.

"Could you only have seen her two hours ago when you left her chamber; have heard her sobs, felt the tremble of her heart when she threw herself, just as when a child she used to do, into my arms pleading for protection! Those dispatches will ruin her. She so calm, so proud, so brave to all the world, wept like a terrified baby upon my breast.

Placide, I'd die and go to h.e.l.l to save her. She so cold and pure, her very name is a reproach to this flock of b.u.t.terfly women. This woman loves me, loves me even though that love be what men call dishonor.

Bah! I hate the word. Her father never sold her heart. No, that was mine, forever mine. Had I but foreseen this I'd have left you rotting in Bertrand's dungeon. No, no. Placide, I meant it not; I'm not myself; forgive me, comrade; pity her and pity me."

I vaguely wondered what there could be in the packet to cause him so sincere an apprehension. But I must think of my people and be strong.

I denied him once for all. He sprang at me with the fury of a demon.

Being the cooler and stronger, I threw him off easily and reached the door as he came again with his sword. It was a delicate predicament.

I could easily kill him. Wild with a lover's fear, he left his front open to my blade, but I'd had enough of death. He paused to shove a table from his path, which gave me time to open and slip through the door.

In a moment he rushed out behind me, pale and panting. The corridor, deserted, echoed to our flying steps. I ran on ahead making my way toward the horses. Meeting people outside, we had to slacken our gait, smile, and conceal the realities of the situation, the necessity for which he apprehended as quickly as I.

Four horses stood ready, and choosing the one I thought best fitted for a hard chase--it was evident we could not afford to fight it out at Sceaux--and to fight seemed now his purpose--I vaulted lightly into the saddle, and before Jerome could hinder, had jumped the low wall and taken the direct road to Paris.

Practiced horseman as Jerome was, it took him no time to follow, and his grooms joined in the chase.

On, on, we sped. Trees, fences, walls and people all melted into one motley and indistinguishable stream. In the open road we strung out, according to the speed of our mounts, one of the grooms dropping farther and farther in the rear. The distance between Jerome and myself, despite his frantic belaborings of his brave steed, grew steadily greater.

Just before we pa.s.sed a crooked lane off to the left, leading whither I knew not, Jerome turned in his saddle and called to the two grooms now well to the rear.

"That way quick; to the Versailles road. Cut him off."

The fellows obeyed, reining their horses into a swinging lope, as, less hurried, they took the lane indicated. Jerome thence rode on after me alone. The situation was now becoming awkward. I had acted without cool consideration heretofore, taking the Paris road because it was the only one I knew, and trusting thereafter largely to fortune. Now, as I caught occasional glimpses of the city spires, the towers of Notre Dame, I must perforce remember I had no hopes from them. The crazed man behind knew the city well, while to me it was a labyrinth of difficulty. I had no friends, while he counted many. I must act, and that quickly. Had I but known enough to turn down that lane into the Versailles road I could have reached the palace without molestation, thanks to my good luck in picking the best horse of the lot. Thinking of the lane brought an idea which promised well.

Moderating my speed gradually I suffered Jerome to draw nearer. I then called over my shoulder that as we were now man to man, we might dismount and fight it out upon a piece of level sward beside the road.

His horse was nearly spent, and inflamed to fury by the fear of my escape, he eagerly agreed. While we parleyed, I worked myself into a position near his horse's head, and as he prepared to alight, s.n.a.t.c.hed my sword and with a quick upper cut severed one rein near the bit. The blade having cut his horse slightly under his throat, he reared and plunged, and finding himself uncontrolled started madly off down the road, Jerome cursing, screaming and clinging to his mane.

I had to laugh at the success of my stratagem, for though it was a scurvy trick to play an old friend, it was much the simplest way out of the difficulty to dispose of him in this bloodless fas.h.i.+on. I put my horse about now without interference. When I wheeled down the lane toward Versailles, Jerome's clatter and dust was just dying away over the crest of a distant hill, making most excellent time in the direction of Paris.

Now that this new danger was past, I rode on heavy-hearted enough, for I had grown to love Jerome, and blamed him little for his sudden touch of fury. For I was nearly in the same boat, borne on by the same strong currents as Jerome.

Verily, what will man not do for woman? Love had turned him from a courteous n.o.bleman of France, a brave and kindly gentleman, into the frenzied coward who would lie to his master, slay his friend, and turn traitor to his countrymen. A G.o.d could not love and be wise.

I jogged along slowly, seeking to rest my horse, for I could not tell how soon I must look to his speed for safety. It was necessary also that I should see the two fellows who watched the Versailles road before they caught sight of me. Possibly an artifice might avail me where force would fail.

Presently from a slight eminence the broad highway could be seen winding out of Paris, glistening in the starlight, for it was now after dusk, twisting in dusty undulations toward the distant palace of the King. I drew rein among some trees which served for shelter, and scanned the way to see if the watchers were in sight. The lane, before it entered the Versailles road, branched out into two portions, one bearing away toward Paris, while the other traversed a piece of low ground that struck the main road several hundred yards in the other direction. Within the irregular triangle thus formed the two grooms had thrown themselves upon the ground, being distinctly visible in a little clearing.

Their position commanded quite a considerable stretch of road toward the city, and as by going that way it would take a good hour and a half of hard riding to get so far, it was certain they did not expect me to pa.s.s for some time. That cut-off through the lane must have been ten miles the shorter journey.

This reflection gave me some hope that I might be able to slip by in a gallop before they could take horse. Yet I could not afford to waste much time, for Jerome might perchance find means to follow, and would not be in a pleasant humor. There could be no accounting for the lengths to which his desperation and folly might carry him. I had need for both haste and caution.

I was now at the top of a slight hillock, the grooms resting at the foot. As ill fortune would have it, my horse's hoof loosened a stone, and one of them looking up recognized my figure clear drawn against the fading colors of the sky. They both jumped up with an alertness which would have done credit to old woodsmen, and before I could dodge by, had remounted and taken possession of the road. My more elevated position and perhaps better hearing, too, enabled me to detect the coming of persons along the road from Paris. Certainly as many as three or four hors.e.m.e.n, perhaps a vehicle. It could hardly be possible that Jerome had made the trip so quickly, yet I did not know what other and shorter way he might find. At any rate every instant intensified the danger, for if it were Jerome, then, indeed, I could not hope to make Versailles that night.