CHAPTER XVIII

The chaise roulante went on slowly up the avenue towards where, a quarter of a mile ahead of it, innumerable lights shone from all the windows of the royal chateau; the driver, as it passed De Beaurepaire, saluting obsequiously the man whom, by his rich apparel and quantity of gold lacing and passementerie, he knew to be some great functionary of the Court.

And that great functionary, that man who, but a few moments before had boasted to himself, who had told himself proudly, that he was no assassin, sat on his horse revolving hurriedly within his mind whether he should not now become one. Now, ere another two or three moments had elapsed; now, ere the conveyance could advance another dozen yards upon its road. Revolving in his mind whether he should turn rein and rush at that carriage, thrusting his sword through the driver's heart and, ere he could help himself or cry for assistance--which would not be forthcoming!--through the heart of that white, sickly-looking man within. For, it could be done, he knew. Nothing could prevent him doing it, nothing could save either passenger or driver if he chose to do it. Nothing.

With the exception of that creeping creature who had glided from his sight into the darkness of the underwood, and who was probably far away by now, there was no living creature near. No living soul. And it was dark at last! One thrust at the man who had just saluted him, another at the other in the vehicle: the light extinguished and the chaise roulante thrown over on to its side as he, in his great strength could easily cause it to be--and--and--that was all! All that was needed. All! The Court was at supper: the menials busy attending on the Court. It could be done in a moment and he far away half an hour after. And none would ever know. That was all that was needed! Yet, was it--all? Would none ever know? Ah, God! would He not know? Would his own heart not know? Yes, always! Always! Always! He would have become a twofold murderer. And he was--a De Beaurepaire!

With a sound that, as it issued from his lips, might have been a curse--or a sob--he loosed his rein and dug his spurs into his horse and rode away from that carriage. Away to Paris to meet his confederates in the great plot; to tell them that they were betrayed; that the one man outside their own band who knew this secret was alive and had, must have, divulged it to the King. That this man was alive while he, their chief, had had the chance of slaying him, of silencing him for ever--and that he had let the chance pass.

"Yet," he muttered to himself, "also have I missed being a murderer. I have missed that. Thank God! And--and--I am a true De Beaurepaire still. One who has brought no blot upon the name, who has nought to blench at."

Meanwhile, the chaise roulante went on until it drew up at a side door of the chateau, and two lackeys sauntered down the stone steps to see what the business of its occupant was.

"Monsieur desires?" the first inquired, letting his eyes roll insolently, or, at least, indifferently--which in a menial is the same thing!--over the terribly ill appearance of the man inside and also over the shabby hired vehicle in which he arrived. "Monsieur desires?"

"To see His Majesty the King. At once. On a matter of life and death."

"To see His Majesty the King," the fellow repeated, while a faint smile spread over his face. Yet, even as it did so, the footman felt some wonderment creeping into his mind. For the tone of the new-comer's voice proclaimed that this was no common person; his white hand as it lay on the lower part of the window-frame was not white from ill-health alone: it testified that its owner was of gentle blood. Also, the look and bearing of the traveller spoke more plainly than silks and satins and laces would have done of who and what he might be.

"To see His Majesty the King," the man repeated again, while his fellow-servant stood by his side--"On a matter----"

"Valet!" the new-comer exclaimed now in a tone of command, "open the door and help me out. Stand not muttering there but do as I bid you, and then take my name to some chamberlain who will pass it on to His Majesty. It is known to him. He will see me."

The words, if not the tone in which they were uttered, had their effect. In a moment that contemptuous, scornful address, that voice of command from a superior to an inferior told the footman with what manner of man he had to deal. The nobility, the gentry, spoke thus--to such as he was--with sometimes a snarl, with sometimes a curse--often with a blow--but they alone did so. The rest--who had not yet gathered themselves together into that black cloud which, more than a hundred years afterwards, was to burst over France and destroy King, Court, Nobility and all who were better than themselves--were nothing. They were nothing but dogs, beasts of burden, toilers for their betters; providers of playthings, in the shape of their daughters and wives and sisters, of toys for their rulers and masters, to be afterwards broken and flung away.

Obediently to the dictatorial voice of the young man in the conveyance--whose ill-health they now supposed was due to some form of long-continued aristocratic debauchery--they did as they were bidden. They opened the door of the chaise roulante and helped its occupant out; they assisted him to mount the stone steps and led him to a deep fauteuil in the richly carpeted vestibule, and then the first lackey said in a deferential tone:--

"His Majesty the King is at supper. But, if the seigneur will give his name it shall----"

"My name is Humphrey West. The King is acquainted with it. Here, give me some writing things. I will set it down. Your master knows it well, I say. Then lose no time. I tell you, man, I come on serious import." After which, Humphrey took the pen and paper that the footman brought and wrote his name as largely and legibly as his weakness would permit. Bearing the paper in his hand the man went away, while his fellow walked to the farther end of the vestibule and entered into conversation with another member of his fraternity who was loitering about. A few moments later, however, the first one returned followed by a handsome young page dressed all in crimson and lace, over which latter his long fair hair streamed--a pretty youth who, bowing to Humphrey, said:--

"If monsieur will give himself the trouble to follow me, I will conduct him to the apartment of Monsieur le Marquis de Louvois. Yet, I protest, monsieur," he said, in a well-bred, soft voice as he witnessed Humphrey's painful attempts to rise, "you will not get so far alone." An instant later, in a totally different tone, while stamping his red heel on the richly carpeted floor, he said to the lackeys: "You dogs, do you not see that monsieur can scarcely rise? Give him your arms at once. At once, I say, or I will have you both whipped."

"At once, Monsieur le Duc. At once," the fellows exclaimed, rushing to obey the summary orders of this handsome youth. "We but awaited Monsieur le Duc's commands." After which they assisted Humphrey along the corridor, while the masterful young sprig of nobility walked behind them muttering further objurgations as he tossed his fair locks over his shoulder.

After traversing two corridors--during which time the aristocratic page was profuse in his regrets at the distance Humphrey had to accomplish in his enfeebled state--the group arrived at last in a large room furnished in dark, highly polished oak on which the lights from the candles in a huge silver candelabra were reflected as in a mirror. Then, when the footmen had retired, the page, after saying in a soft voice, "Monsieur le Marquis is here," bowed to Humphrey and backed out of the door after the others.

Looking round the room, which was so vast that one portion of it was quite in shadow, Humphrey saw that down at the farther end, and standing before a vast fireplace in which the logs were almost extinct, was a man. A man richly, handsomely dressed whose eyes were fixed on him. One who, when the page and the footmen had departed, advanced towards Humphrey.

"Nay," this man said, seeing the latter's efforts to rise from a chair to which the young Duke had motioned him, "do not distress yourself. I have heard that you are in sore plight. Now, Monsieur West--whose name I know well and my master, the King, knows better--tell me all you have to say. I am the Marquis de Louvois," and, as he spoke, he drew another chair up close to Humphrey and sat down in it.

That this man was De Louvois--De Louvois called by some "the terrible," by others "the unscrupulous," and by still others the "curse of France"--Humphrey knew very well, since he had seen him often. He knew, also, that not only was De Louvois the Minister of War but Louis' most confidential minister: the only confidant the latter had ever possessed since De Louvois had gradually ousted Colbert from the same position. He had often seen that tall, rugged frame and coarse-featured face which told of the many vulgar passions beneath, and of the evil temper and overbearing disposition which caused the man to be hated by all who surrounded him and were in a position to be tyrannised over by him, and, consequently, he knew well enough that he was speaking to the domineering autocrat who, if not the king, was the King's right hand.

"Monsieur le Marquis," Humphrey said consequently, "I have come post-haste from Basle after escaping from death by a miracle, to reveal to His Majesty the existence of a plot which threatens not only his throne but his life."

"His life. Hein!" De Louvois muttered, rubbing his square jaw reflectively; "his life as well as his throne. How is that to be? Come, tell me that. But, stay, first tell me how you chance to be in possession of this knowledge. Thereby I shall be better able to judge of what value that knowledge is."

Then, as he said this, Humphrey was astonished to see the powerful minister spring to his feet and assume a most deferential attitude while, as he did so, Humphrey heard at the same time a low clear voice say behind him, "And as I, too, shall also be able to judge."

Looking round as well as the stiffness and soreness from which he was suffering would permit him to do, the young man saw that the King, who must have entered the room softly, was standing behind him. The King who was now dressed in a black velvet Court suit devoid of all adornment, save a glittering diamond-set semblance of the sun that sparkled from out the rich lace of his breast. The King who, even as Humphrey endeavoured to struggle to his feet by aid of pressing his hands on the arms of the fauteuil, said, "Nay, Monsieur West, be seated; do not rise," and added, "I grieve to see you in such a condition," while as he spoke he held out his hand, sparkling with jewels, to the young man to kiss.

"Sire," Humphrey muttered, having done so, "I--I--must rise----"

"Nay. Instead, I will be seated," and Louis subsided into the chair just vacated by Louvois. Then he said, "Now proceed with your tale. Tell all you know. Everything."

It took perhaps not more than a quarter of an hour for Humphrey to describe all he had overheard in that bedroom of his at Basle; all of what was said in the adjacent salon. Nevertheless, he told the story clearly and succinctly, omitting only one thing, namely, all mention of De Beaurepaire. His name he could not bring himself to pronounce, remembering that he had ever been treated kindly by the chevalier and also that, even now, he was not resolved as to whether the former was the head and front of the whole conspiracy or whether his name and position were not being used by the conspirators without his consent.

"So," said the King, "you overheard all this. And--the names of those who plotted thus? Do you know them? Outside that of La Truaumont with whom you rode in the train of the Duchesse de Castellucchio, are you aware of the names of the others? The name of the woman and also of the man passing as her father?"

"Sire, the woman is known as the Marquise de Villiers-Bordéville."

"The Marquise de Villiers-Bordéville. De Villiers-Bordéville!" the King repeated. Then, after a moment's reflection, he said, "There is no such title in France."

As, however, the words fell from his lips the attitude of De Louvois, while he leant nearer to him, showed that he desired to speak.

Whereupon the King said, "You know her, De Louvois?"

"Sire," the minister answered, "La Reynie, your Surintendant de Police, knows her. He has signalised her to me as dangerous."

"Who is she?"

"She is Louise Belleau de Cortonne. Her husband was Jacques de Mallorties, Seigneur de Villers and Boudéville. Villers and Boudéville are almost akin to Villiers-Bordéville. That husband died mysteriously by poison, she was tried at Rouen for his murder but acquitted. Now----"

"Yes, now?"

"She is a spy in the pay of either Holland or Spain or both, and she loves secretly--the--man--whom--we suspect."

"Dieu!" the King exclaimed, exhibiting, however, as little agitation as, in all the great crises of his long reign--the plots and conspiracies against his life, the combinations of half Europe against him, the treachery of those whom he had enriched and advanced, as well as the treachery, in one extreme case at least, of the women he had loved--he was ever known to show. Turning, however, to Humphrey now, Louis said in a voice that was absolutely calm:--

"Was any great name mentioned in this talk you overheard? Any name so great in all that pertains to it that, almost, it casts a shadow over, or pretends to cast a shadow over, the name of Louis de Bourbon?"

"Your Majesty," Humphrey whispered, "such a name was mentioned, hinted at. But--but----"

"But what?"

"More as the name of one who occupied the position spoken of by Monsieur le Ministre a moment past. As one who is admired, perhaps loved by----"

"That woman, the soi-disant Marquise?"

"Your Majesty has said it. More as that than as the name of a plotter, an intriguer."

"So be it. Let us pass from this. Now, Monsieur West, the name of the other man? The old man who travelled from Paris to take part in this grievous conference after having travelled beforehand from Holland to Paris. The man who passed as the woman's father?"

"Sire, as her father he passed under the name of Chateaugrand. But he was addressed and spoken of as Van den Enden."

"A man," exclaimed De Louvois, "well known to La Reynie and to me. A Dutch Jew, who has been everything: doctor, schoolmaster--he speaks all languages--a preacher of atheism, keeper of a bagnio, proprietor of a tripot and spy and plotter. But principally the latter."

"'Tis well. Very well. Communicate with La Reynie to-night. He will know his work. Now, Monsieur West, let me hear the rest of your story. When that is told you will remain here as the guest of the King whom you have striven so bravely to serve."