to decide where my part of the story begins is the difficulty. a chain swung across a gulf from a staple fixed into a rock has a strain put upon it at a certain link; does the strain begin at that link or at the staple?
of the chain of my knowledge of gaspard hellewyl, one end is fixed in a sordid paris inn, the other—i think the eternal himself holds it, for god is love. upon many of the links of that chain a special strain falls; the link of tours, of the grey leap, of the morning he rode to la voulle with my rose in his bonnet, of the day he left morsigny between the lines of foes turned friends, of the august night in the coq rouge.
at any one of these my story might begin, and though it paralleled what he has already written, it would be no twice-told tale, for a woman does not read motives with the eyes of a man. all through he saw poverty, shame, failure; while i know there were riches, clear honour, and achievement; a wealth that to me outweighed narbonne, a humble seeking after that which was highest, and a winning of a greater glory than any gift from a king's hand.
but because it has been told already i let it pass, and slip out of the darkened room into the yet darker passage beyond the door. of martin's death i knew nothing. events, hopes, despairs, fears, yes, and joys too, had so crowded one upon the other that my brain was in a whirl. one thing only was clear: gaspard was so far safe, and would be until the king's pleasure was known; that much the woman brigitta had told me. instantly upon his arrest an express was to be sent to plessis. there the king lay sick, three-parts dead some whispered, and it was her belief that my dear one's life hung upon louis' mood of the moment. so had it been with her. while she looked for nothing less than death the king had repented, turning her over to jan meert and life at a caprice. that gave me hope for gaspard.
in the rumour of his sickness i had no belief. it was louis' policy to make all things serve him, even death itself, and twice by a rumour of death he had sifted his covert enemies to their confusion. but he who made all ambitions subject to his own was in turn subject to his moods, and monsieur de commines, seizing the softer moment before the blunt story of the arrest spurred his malice, might move him to mercy.
if the express was to be instant in its departure, so must i, and slipping past father paul in the darkness, i stole out into the passage. it was empty. when the fox of plessis went a-hunting, meaner beasts—if meaner there could be—kept out of sight. but a hissing whisper came up the stairs, and that i might pass unnoticed i paused a moment to recoif my hair.
in the hall below all was dark, perhaps by jan meert's orders, perhaps by reason of the closeness of the august heat, and gathering up my skirts, i raced down. the passages were full of excited groups, and once, passing through these, i was challenged. but with a frightened whimper and the curtsey i had so long practised at morsigny, i fled on; that a serving maid, upstairs upon her duties, should be in terror of the clash of swords was reasonable enough, and no one gave me a second thought.
first i blundered into the empty kitchen, then into a store closet hung with flitches, smoked hams, and branches of dried potherbs, but once in the grey of the yard, a rattle of manger-chains guided me. like the kitchen, the stable was empty except for the horses in the stalls. in one corner stood a filthy horn lantern. the coq rouge had few guests, and the morsigny horses filled a row of stalls apart. by each, upon a great wooden nail, hung bridle and saddle, and that night i thanked god and my father that i had not only strength, but knowledge how to use it. there never was a girl narbonne but could bit and saddle a horse for herself.
then came the question, a man's saddle or a woman's riding chair? i could use either; that, too, my father had taught me, but for seven years i had never backed a horse man-fashion. it was the speedier, but after all i was a woman with no more than a woman's frail strength; in seeking more haste my woman's weakness might make the worse speed. my dress? that would have been no hindrance. it was for gaspard's life. if i saved that, a world's jeer or a world's laugh would matter little, and if i failed they would matter nothing at all.
leading anita out, i mounted her from the square raised stone set across the kennel, and turned her head the way we had entered. i knew the road through the city, and when presently jan meert's express went thundering northwards, none would say as he passed the walls, there is a woman before you!
at the angoulême gate i met my first check. that it should be fast closed and guarded was to be expected, and that the guard should be an insolent, ribald crew was nothing strange. those who served louis earned their wages more by licence than as lawful pay. there were some half dozen of them, and i could hear their laughter long before i drew rein, crying peremptorily, though my teeth were almost chattering—
"on the king's business, open, and quickly! on each of the round towers flanking the gateway there hung a lantern, so smoke-grimed as to give light nowhere but where it was least wanted, that is, upwards to the sky. lifting one of these down a guard flashed the glare into my face.
"the king, my pretty?" said he, laying a hand upon my knee and shaking me. "won't a simpler man do you?"
"learn manners, brute!" said i, slashing him with my riding whip as he leered up into my face. "learn manners, and be thankful i have no time to wait to see you flogged. fetch your master; this is the king's business of life and death."
half to my surprise he obeyed, and presently returned with the officer of the night.
"by the king's command, monsieur," said i, holding the ring so that the light fell full upon the collet.
"it is against orders, and who, mademoiselle, are you?"
"the king is above your orders, and i, monsieur, am the king's messenger. that is my passport." and i pushed the ring fairly into his face. "do you know the king's cypher, or do you refuse to honour it?"
"i know it well enough," he answered civilly. "twice i have served at clery when his majesty was in residence; but this is against all rule."
"have it so," said i, gathering up the reins. "i can return the way i came, and say to those who sent me that monsieur the king's officer of the angoulême gate rates his captain higher than his king. may i suggest, monsieur the king's officer, that it will be wise of you not to be found in poictiers at daybreak to-morrow! but i give you one more chance. in the king's name and by the king's authority, i bid you open the gate."
with a shrug, and "it can do no harm," he unhooked a bunch of huge keys from his girdle, and drew aside one leaf of the great gate.
"it is your wisdom," said i curtly, and spurred through. nor, so long as the pa-lop pa-lop of her hoofs could be heard did i ease anita from her gallop. then by such faint light as the stars gave through a misty sky i fumbled my way round the city towards the north.
once only, and then by day and in the reverse direction, had i before travelled the road. what wonder i blundered and went astray, rousing up sleepy villagers too stupid to set me right? what wonder i despaired, and flinging the reins on anita's neck, left her to pick her own path? what wonder that, being a woman and weak, i wept myself into helplessness, and then, being a woman who loved, prayed myself back into strength and courage again?
through shallow fords we splashed, fords mercifully low in the august drought, else must we have been swept away in the darkness; under overarching woods of denser, solemn night; past the stubble of new-reaped cornfields, a golden glimmer even in the mirk, through villages silent and evil-smelling in the dank heat of the night; now by a hill, now by a valley, now by a flat wilderness of whin-brakes, until the east lightened and a coolness rose with a wind before the sun. then, when i was no further than ligueil, the dawn came.
the dawn, and plessis ten leagues away. doggedly, despairingly, i pushed forward at little better than a walk. how could anita, poor beast, go faster? the day before she had made a march of forty miles, and the nine hours struggle to keep her feet in the darkness had worn her out. a walk! the impatience of my heart burned like fire roaring down the wind. stiff though i was, it was a relief to dismount and plod through the dust, a relief to feel the stones rough and cutting under my feet.
let those who have sat by the last awful struggle of one they love judge how bitter were my five hours' agony with the sun upon my back. i had failed, and the price of failure was a holiday-spectacle in the market-place of poictiers. jan meert's express was hours ahead of me, and i was too wise or too weary to hope for the king's mercy.
as the day broadened life crept out to its labour; peasants in the fields, women by the village wells, children in the doorways, stood and stared as i passed. on the roads, especially as i drew near tours, the trickle of travel thickened, forcing a march in the cool of the morning. merchants with their bales, men-at-arms, a noble and his train of hired bullies; and though these did more than stare, their coarse jests failed to penetrate the armour of my despair. the whiteness of my face, and perhaps the fire in my eyes, saved me from any insult worse than words; for once, when one who would have called himself a gentleman seized my rein, i had but to throw back my hair and look him in the eyes. with a "curse her, she's mad!" he snatched back his hand, and i rode on unmolested.
but even these five hours came to an end. at the gates of plessis there was an astonishing disorder. had i been coifed, court clad, and dainty as a lady fresh from tours, i might have passed without notice in the confusion. but the dust-sown woman on the broken horse, her riding chair awry, her skirts rent, her hair in straggled wisps below her shoulders, could not go unchallenged.
"monsieur de commines, take me to monsieur de commines; on the king's service!" and i held out the ring. "oh, sirs, sirs! for the love of god, make haste!"
at first i thought they would refuse me, for they drew aside and talked in whispers. then one in authority said, "better take her; who can tell what will happen next, or which way the wheel will turn." so they led me in through the triple gates, anita with her nose between her knees for weariness, and the fellow who held the rein cursing her slowness, while he looked back at the entrance as if his heart lay there. midway, down a quadrangle, he pointed to a door. "commines' lodgings," he said curtly, and returned, running, the way he came.
leaving anita where she stood, i pushed the door open and called aloud—
"monsieur de commines! monsieur de commines!"
"he is with the king," answered a voice from the floor above, and leisurely feet moved towards the stairs. "who wants monseigneur?"
"gaspard de helville," said i; "and oh! monsieur, whoever you are; if you have any pity, will you make haste!"
"gaspard de helville!" the leisurely tread quickened to a run, and a well-grown page lad came flying downstairs almost at a leap. "de helville? how can that be? de helville is—madame—mademoiselle—"
"monsieur de commines? bring me to him. oh, monsieur! can you not see the haste and trouble i am in?"
"but he is with the king."
"then he must leave the king."
"but the king is ill, some say dying——"
"other men die as well as kings, and are we all to go a-mourning because the king is ill? i must—do you hear?—i must see monsieur de commines." then i tried a woman's wile upon him. smoothing back my hair, so that he could see my face, the weary whiteness of it, and the great black hollows circling the eyes, i touched him timidly. "see, monsieur, i have ridden all night from poictiers to save gaspard de helville's life—i, a woman, and alone. i know there is a risk to you in this thing i ask——"
"i'll do it," he said curtly, too much of a man not to be moved, and too much of a boy not to be wounded in his pride; "that is, i'll put a message through, but i don't believe monseigneur can come!"
"ah, monsieur!" i cried, "your heart does justice to your kindly face," which made him redden, for it was his susceptibility that was touched rather than his heart, and he was still too much of a boy to relish a compliment. "fetch pen, ink, and wax, that i may write the message."
for this very purpose i had brought with me the letter monsieur de commines had written to navarre months before, and which was the cause of my journey to paris. as may be supposed, it was not one to compromise the writer, no matter into whose hands it fell. across it i wrote—suzanne de narbonne. the cross of flanders. paris; and, reversing it so that the letter and address were inside, sealed it with the king's seal as a warrant for any importunity at the door of the sick room.
"is anything known of monsieur de helville?" i asked, tying a strand of silk through the wax with hands that shook as much from dread of the answer as with fatigue.
"jan meert, the fleming, left plessis on monday——"
"i know all that, but since then?"
"nothing. monseigneur has not quitted the king's side all night. when i heard your voice i thought monsieur de helville had changed his route, and so evaded capture."
"how could he?"
"second thoughts, mademoiselle."
"when he had passed his word? i see you do not know gaspard de helville. do gentlemen in plessis break their word on second thoughts? there is the letter, monsieur, and oh, i pray you, make haste back!"
