Orrain. S. Levett Yeats

is true that the walls were bare, except for a demi-suit of mail, a couple of swords, and a banner I had taken at Cerisolles; but for the rest, what with my books—I had five in all—and my lute, I flattered myself that I had all that a man needed.

      Pierrebon was asleep on a settle, and I had to call twice ere I could wake him, for he slept like the dead. But he rose quickly enough, and lit the candles. Then, bidding him fetch me materials for dressing a cut, I begged my guests to be seated. It was the first chance we had of really seeing each other. The jester Le Brusquet I did not recognize at all, though I noticed the royal cipher on his pourpoint. As for the other, there is only one house in France that bears such features, and the greatest of them all is now King, and owes his being to the man who stood before me.

      As the lights fell on us I noticed a quick glance pass between the two, and Le Brusquet's hand moved beneath his cloak. It was as if suspicion were gone and he had resheathed his poniard. I smiled to myself; but Pierrebon now entered with a ewer and the things I required. He placed these on the table, and at a look from me, which he understood, vanished again.

      I set myself at once to dress the wound, which was, after all, but a slight affair, though it had bled freely. I said so as I finished, adding that if it had been a trifle deeper the business would have been serious; but, as it was, a couple of days would mend matters entirely, except for a patch.

      "Not Frenel himself could have tended me better," said the wounded man.

       "Monsieur, I am deeply obliged to you."

      And Pierrebon entering at this time with some wine I begged them to do me the honour to drink a cup.

      This they willingly assented to, and filling three cups from the flagon

       I raised mine on high.

      "Messieurs, a toast for all good Christians! Down with the crescent!"

      They understood and drank—Le Brusquet with a searching look in his eyes and a smile on his lips, and his companion with a reckless laugh.

      And now they rose. "Monsieur," said the wounded man, "will you add to your kindness by telling us to whom we are indebted? You are a soldier—I can see that—and I can keep that sword of yours from rusting if you will."

      So he had not recognised me! Well, ten years make a difference! And yet, if once, he had seen me a hundred times in the days when his valiant brother Enghien lived. I began to feel sure that if he did not know me I was safe indeed; but I had no mind to change my present peace for any other life, and so made answer:

      "Monseigneur, it were idle for me to say that I do not know you. Rest assured that were I so minded I could follow no braver or more generous prince than Antony of Vendôme, but my sword is hung to the wall. My name is Broussel. I am bourgeois, as you see, and having a small estate of fifty écus have all that suffices for the simple needs of a citizen such as I. Monseigneur, the little service I rendered is small; let it be forgotten. Nevertheless, I thank you for the kind offer you have made."

      I delivered this speech with a respectful air, but yet in a tone that carried the conviction that my resolve was unchangeable.

      "As you will," said the Duke, with some coldness of manner. "A Bourbon does not offer twice. And so, farewell! I fear 'tis a long road and an ugly road we have yet to travel, thanks to my folly—eh, Le Brusquet?"

      Out of the tail of my eye I had been watching Le Brusquet. All this time he had been engaged in examining the silver cup from which he had drunk his wine—a relic of my past splendour. He toyed with it this way and that, looking at the arms engraved thereon, and comparing them with those on the flagon. Then his little eyes stole a swift, searching glance at me, and a smile—just the shadow of a smile—flickered over his lips. He had not, however, lost a word of what was passing between Vendôme and myself, and on the Duke addressing him he put down the cup he held in his hand, saying quietly: "If Monsieur Broussel will add to his kindness by lending me a sword it may, perhaps, be better for us, and I promise faithfully to return it."

      Without a word I took a sword from the wall and handed it to Le Brusquet, who received it with a bow, and then, turning to the Duke, I offered to accompany them to the end of the street, which was an evil place even by day. I added that a little beyond the end of the street was the Gloriette, where the guards of Monsieur the Lieutenant of the Châtelet were to be found, and that thence their way would be safe.

      The Duke pulled a long face, apparently at the thought of having to disclose his identity to the guards of the Châtelet, but Le Brusquet cut in with a "Let it be so, Monseigneur. Three are better than two, except in love-making."

      At this the Duke laughed, and agreed, and we all three went out into the street, which twisted and wound its crooked way towards the river face between two rows of overhanging houses, that seemed as if they were ever threatening to fall over and bury it in their ruins.

      For a little we walked without a word; for Antony of Vendôme—fickle and vain, at once the hope and despair of his time—felt himself hurt and aggrieved by the refusal of his offer, and for a space preserved a sulky silence. Ere we had gone a quarter mile, however, his temper—variable as the wind—began to change and his kindly nature to reassert itself. We were passing the house of the Duplessis Richelieu when he spoke.

      "Eh bien, Monsieur Broussel, change your mind and think better of my offer. What with one thing and another there is steel in the air at present, and a stout heart and a good sword such as you are may make an estate of fifty écus five hundred or more. Come, think of it!"

      I felt my blood warm within me in spite of my fancied devotion to my contented life; but I thought of that affair of the duel, of the judgment of the Chambre Ardente, and above all, of Simon and the cards he held against me. Besides, I knew Vendôme, and so I refused once more.

      "Well, well," he said, "as you will; but never say Antony of Vendôme was ungrateful."

      We had by this time reached the point where the road opened out upon the river face, and halted together in the moonlight.

      A little distance from us lay the Seine, shining in scales of hammered brass. The convicts were still on the Gloriette. Poor wretches! They slaved there day and night, and lights were moving to and fro amongst them as the guards watched them at their toil. They were singing a weird refrain—a chorus—ever and again interrupted by yells and curses as the lash of the task-master fell on some victim of his hatred or sluggard at work.

      "Here we part, Monseigneur!" I said. "The lieutenant of the Châtelet will give you guards to escort you farther."

      I bowed to both, and would have gone—for I thought it well not to be mixed up further in this matter—but the Duke stayed me. He had taken off his glove, and was fumbling with a ring on his finger. This he drew off and thrust into my hand.

      "Keep this, monsieur. Remember, if ever you want a friend you have but to send it to me. Farewell!"

      "Au revoir!" cried Le Brusquet, who had up to now preserved silence. "Remember, Le Brusquet is also your debtor doubly—once for a life and once for a sword—and forget not my address is the sign of the Crescent."

      With this mocking allusion to the Louvre and to Diane de Poitiers' influence there, he followed on the heels of Vendôme, leaving me with the ring in my hand.

      I watched them until they were lost in the shivering haze. They never sought the Gloriette, but kept on the right, making directly for the Louvre.

      Then I looked at the ring. It was light enough for me to see that it was a plain gold signet in the shape of a shield, with the arms of Béarn—two cows on a field Or—cut thereon.

      "Perhaps," I said to myself, "I shall need it some day." With this I slipped it on my finger, and went back.

CHAPTER III

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