by the provost's lantern we were able to count losses. martin had a cut upon the forehead which, dribbling down by the corner of his mouth, gave him a pitiful appearance, but meant little. the thickness of his skull, he said, saved him. monsieur narbonne's companion had his own wounds to lament, and mademoiselle's guard was cursing softly in a language i did not understand over a palm slashed in warding off a two-edged dagger. if it was french he spoke, it was no french that i had ever heard. monseigneur was unhurt, and my own bruises were no worse than three or four days would see cured.
beyond the table the damage was not much greater. of the three on the floor, and the two afterwards found in the court, only he who had received martin's first thrust had forestalled the hangman. for the rest, toute beste garde sa pel, had been villon's motto, and his fellow rabble had echoed it.
at first it seemed as if we would join the other four upon the gallows, and so settle our quarrel with equal honours. but drawing the provost aside, monseigneur showed him some token which turned the midnight of his face to a smiling noon, and if we had but expressed the wish, he would have dangled his four prisoners from the newly-painted sign there and then. "in any case it is but three days' delay," said he cheerfully, "and if the first loiters but a little, all five can travel home together."
next he was anxious to see monseigneur safe to his lodgings, but was met by a firm refusal.
"i know my paris. in the open street so large a party is safe. these," and he paused, looking doubtfully at us, nor, in the faint yellow light of the smoky lantern was our appearance prepossessing, "these—um—gentlemen had better join my friends."
"so, so!" and in his zeal that the extreme justice of the law might not be cheated three days later, even by such pitiful wretches as we, the provost caught martin by the arm. "monseigneur does not know these—um—gentlemen?"
before either monseigneur or i could answer, martin cut in, the ominous grip of the sleeve quickening his tongue, and the seeming trivial interference bore its fruit later on.
"we are gaspard hellewyl of solignac in flanders, and his servant," said he, shaking off the persuasive hand.
the thiefcatcher promptly replaced it.
"that is for monseigneur to say, not you—do you know these men, my lord?"
the answer and the action that foreran it startled me. taking the lantern from the provost's hand, monseigneur, still keeping himself completely in shadow, threw the light brightly on to martin's face.
"yes," he said slowly, "i know hellewyl of solignac in flanders, but—" he stopped.
"i am—" began martin, only to be checked by a wave of monseigneur's unoccupied hand.
"that will keep," he said curtly. "for the present it is enough that i know and vouch for hellewyl of solignac. you have horses? get them, then; i give you ten minutes. mademoiselle," and he turned to the hooded woman who, with her companion, had remained in the shelter of the alcove throughout the melée. how she had borne herself i could only guess, for her face was still hidden, but she had neither uttered cry nor hampered us in any way, "this is a lesson, a book without words, and a child may read the pictures. i desire peace, and war is forced upon me."
what she answered i do not know. he had such a curt, masterful way with him that when he said, i give you ten minutes, self-interest advised, take eight or less. there was not even time to ask ourselves, who is this that knows hellewyl of solignac here in paris? that it was monsieur de commines himself we never guessed. i, for i had never met him, nor had martin seen him for nineteen years, while he was still a lad in the service of charles the bold, and then not often.
nor was it so strange that we should meet as we did. martin had only told the truth when he said the star of dauphiny had been a rendezvous in the old days, and now, when monsieur de commines had need of a trysting place where all might go without remark, the memory of his youthful experience had come back to him. of the changes for the worse twenty years had in the inn worked he knew as little as martin.
it was a procession of two and two, headed by monseigneur's companion, that presently turned westward down the rue neuve saint martin. mademoiselle's guard and woman attendant went next, then monsieur de commines and mademoiselle, martin and i bringing up the rear, the only mounted members of the party. we men had our swords drawn, and all kept the middle of the streets. these were mostly dark and empty, ill-lit by a cloudy half-moon. when a band of night-prowlers met us, our numbers were passport enough, and they slunk away into the gloom of a side lane. if up these we heard the noise of a scuffle, a cry, a clash, a blasphemy, even an appeal for help, we marched on as if we had not heard; murder and theft were the common events of the night, and the weak must pay the penalty of their weakness. with women to guard we did not divide our party, and to have penetrated into the unlit ways was to court destruction. in the midst of most open spaces bonfires blazed, round which the watch gathered, and across certain streets chains were drawn to break the rush of the mob in times of disaffection.
during their long tramp, those immediately in front of us spoke little. to avoid the offal flung on the streets and the holes half filled with slime strained all their attention in the dim light. but as we paused where the rue des poulies joins the rue saint honoré, i heard monsieur de commines say:
"is it wise, so near the louvre?"
"the nearer the church, the further from grace, monseigneur," she answered bitterly, "and i suppose i may adapt the saying to the nearer the foe, the farther from danger. besides, who knows we are in paris?"
"few things pass in paris that my master does not know; he has eyes at the end of the earth," was the reply as we turned down to the left.
but only a little way. opposite a darkened house, a few steps down the rue des poulies, we again halted, and as monseigneur bent over mademoiselle's hand in farewell, she held him fast.
"is it ruin, truly ruin?" she said, the tears trembling in her voice. "oh, monseigneur, monseigneur, can you not give us some hope? so much to us, so little to france; give us some hope to live upon, monseigneur, for the love of god!"
monsieur de commines made no attempt to withdraw his hand, nor, in his place, would i. but his voice had a cheery ring through its gravity as he answered—
"take comfort, mademoiselle, take comfort. though all must be as the king wills, two things fight for you; i desire peace, and time is on your side."
"ah!" she replied, still bitterly, "that is cold comfort, cold as—as—the love of louis." then her voice sharpened as if she had caught a meaning in his tone which the bare words failed to suggest; or it may be a pressure of the hand had passed in the darkness; had i been in his place, i think it would, "unless, indeed, monseigneur, you have some plan in your head, you, who are so shrewd, so far of sight, the cleverest, clearest brain in france, ah, then—then there would be hope."
this time he dropped her hand as if its touch scorched him.
"a plan? who am i to have plans, mademoiselle? no, no, not a plan, hardly that, hardly that. farewell, mademoiselle, farewell, madame; my last word is this, forget paris and the star of flanders. come, gentlemen, our way lies forward," and he walked briskly on towards the river just showing its silver between the darkness of the walls on either hand, leaving us to follow.
but a few steps further on, the door having closed behind the women, he turned and called sharply,
"monsieur hellewyl, here, if you please. no, no," he went on, as i drew up to his side, "not you, but that weasel-faced fellow who calls himself gaspard hellewyl of solignac in flanders. it is he i want."
"but i am gaspard hellewyl of solignac."
"thou? then how came he to call himself hellewyl?"
"that was your misapprehension, monseigneur. he is my—what shall i say?" and i laughed a little bitterly, a little forlornly, "my squire, my servant, my retinue, the last friend left to the last hellewyl unless monsieur de commines can help me. you cut him short in his explanation."
"a misapprehension?" he repeated. "my word for it, young gentleman, but you rubbed shoulders with the gibbet for that misapprehension. if i had not been a trifle in your debt i would have left you to the provost's mercies for what i took to be an impudent lie. i knew hellewyl of solignac of old, but you, who are you?"
"gaspard hellewyl, son to philip hellewyl who was in paris nineteen years ago, and died in 'sixty five.'"
"turn your face to the light. in these unsettled times we must run no risks. yes, the age fits, and you have a look of philip. i took you for a pair of night-hawks, and that such sorry clothing bestrode such well-bred beasts strengthened the thought." long before this we had walked slowly onward, still in the direction of the river, i by his side, with roland's bridle in one hand. "but the story of the incongruity can wait," he went on; "monsieur de commines? what claim have you on him?"
"he was my father's friend——"
"nineteen years ago!" he interrupted cynically. "in an age of short memories have you no claim more modern?"
"he is a far-off cousin."
"a relationship monsieur de commines has apparently never remembered or recognised; anything more plausible than a german cousinship?"
i shook my head.
"yes," and he laid a hand on my shoulder, pressing it warmly, "i know better. you have five claims, one dead, and four with three days' life in them. i am philip de commines."
"monsieur de commines? the prince de talmont?"
"the same, and in all sincerity let me add, at your service. but we can talk of that later. do you know your whereabouts? no, how could you! this is the louvre, and our lodging for to-night."
monsieur de commines! the louvre! i could only stare. as we talked we had walked on, to the right by the rue du petit bourbon, to the left down the rue d'hosterische, bordered on the one side by a wide fosse beyond which rose a palace of disenchantment. the louvre! when one spoke of the louvre i had imagined i know not what, but a vague glory fired the fancy. the louvre! these frowning walls of dirty grey were a prison house, these little pierced windows the shot-holes of a threatened fortress, that rounded donjon in the centre the king's clenched fist menacing paris, those pointed towers at the corners—but monseigneur cut the catalogue short; we were already at the moat.
late though it was, the drawbridge was lowered, a guard of three standing at the hither end. to these monsieur de commines gave the password, and we crossed to a small postern that pierced the walls to the right of the sunk gateway. through this he led us.
"you will come with me, monsieur hellewyl. morlaix will see after—is it martin you call him? only, remember this, all three. you heard my farewell to mademoiselle? take it to yourselves, and forget the star of flanders. to-night i have been on the king's business, and louis has but one cure for loose tongues. i ask no promises, your risk is my best assurance."
some men would have said "your honour," but not monsieur de commines; he had lived long at courts and preferred to rest his claim on the surest foundation.
it was not until my wounds were dressed, and garments of i know not whose ownership provided in place of my mired rags, that monsieur de commines—we being in the privacy of his own suite of rooms—asked for my story. nor did he interrupt me in its telling, but sat like a statue, his face turned up to the painted ceiling. the failure of our fortunes, the burning of solignac, the murder of old babette, moved him no more than if a stranger had bidden him good day. but as i ended he lowered his eyes, looking at me keenly but not unkindly.
"and why do you come to paris?"
my answer was as curt as the question.
"to move monsieur de commines to move the king to give me justice on jan meert."
"i might as well hope to move the louvre to carry you to plessis les tours—unless the king willed to be moved. and on jan meert!" a little grim smile dashed with a tolerant contempt, broke over his lips; "a hollander, eh?"
"you know him, monseigneur, you know him!" i cried impetuously, moved less by the words than by the look on his face, "oh, then, it will be easy."
"i know many things," he answered, the smile deepening. "i know this, my friend; you are very innocent. did it never strike you that the king of france has many agents—no, agents is too strong a word, it implies a kind of intimacy, a private confidence,—call them tools?"
"agents? tools? monseigneur, monseigneur, what commerce can a king of france have with a jan meert?"
"commerce? pish! this time it is you who use too strong a word. monsieur hellewyl, do you know how kingdoms are built? how varied, how complex, yes, and at times how opposite, the elements of construction? loyalty at home, treason abroad, a bribe to avarice, a threat to cowardice, flattery to pride, men's blood, tears of women, babes made fatherless, the wisdom of a louis, the rashness of a charles, the i would but i dare not of a maximilian, the brutishness of a jan meert."
"the most christian king and jan meert! oh! monseigneur, the conjunction is impossible, the thought is too contemptible."
commines' face darkened as he leaned towards me, his arms resting on his knees.
"learn to guard your tongue, monsieur, when you speak of the greatest monarch now upon earth. how can you, a green and weedy sapling out of a flanders hedge, judge the oak of the forest? is a gardener unclean because he raises a flower of nobility and strength from the outscourings of a stable?"
but the wound to my hopes galled me, and i was obstinate.
"i do not see the king's gain in such an honourable partnership."
"i will tell you. but first, why should the king do justice for you on jan meert?"
"it might give him a hold on flanders."
"you must have a great mind, friend gaspard, for you and the king thought alike, only he before the event, and you after. anarchy in flanders creates a need for the strong hand of a better government, and so—jan meert!"
"then monseigneur," said i helplessly, "my quest is ended before it is well begun."
but monsieur de commines shook his head. the sudden sternness that had flashed into his voice had passed away, and he was once more the friend and patron.
"you go too fast. never try to take all your ditches at one stride. some tools are only used once and then flung aside, others of their kind being never far to seek. there are many jan meerts in the world. as i said before i say again, all is as the king wills. what is your plan? except monsieur de beaujeu, the officers of state, and myself, the king sees no gentlemen. that is his humour. are you very proud, monsieur hellewyl?"
"not too proud to serve—"
"the king?"
"myself, monseigneur," i retorted, for i had caught his meaning. he laughed and nodded.
"good, i see you have learned your lesson. there are times when a man must stoop that he may rise. that will suit the king's humour. i will be frank with you. he spends his time raising men up and casting them down again, that france may understand her master's life is still strong in him. he loves new faces, but soon tires or grows doubtful. there lies your opportunity. to have a gentleman of ten generations serve him as a servant will please him. before he tires, or grows doubtful of your fidelity, your chance may come."
"to move him to justice?"
"no, no; i said you were very innocent. to earn your wages: jan meert's life in your hand, a new solignac on the ashes of the old, your lost lands restored."
"large wages, monseigneur," said i, drawing in a breath, and catching something of the spirit of hope throbbing high in his words, "almost too large to dream of receiving, except in a dream."
"pish! now you are modest! when the king gives, he gives royally, only, remember this, large wages mean great service. if the pay is to be earned, the task will match the pay. are you afraid?"
"god helping me, monseigneur, no!"
"just so," answered he, drily, "god helping you. it is a help most men need who wade in king's waters," and sat looking at me in deep thought.
