Bardelys the Magnificent by Rafael Sabatini (best ebook reader under 100 .txt) 📖
- Author: Rafael Sabatini
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trial, and that during those days Castelroux might have succeeded
in discovering those who could witness to my identity. Conceive,
therefore, something of my dismay when on the morrow I was summoned
an hour before noon to go present myself to my judges.
From the prison to the Palace I was taken in chains like any thief
—for the law demanded this indignity to be borne by one charged
with the crimes they imputed to me. The distance was but short, yet
I found it over-long, which is not wonderful considering that the
people stopped to line up as I went by and to cast upon me a shower
of opprobrious derision - for Toulouse was a very faithful and loyal
city. It was within some two hundred yards of the Palace steps that
I suddenly beheld a face in the crowd, at the sight of which I stood
still in my amazement. This earned me a stab in the back from the
butt-end of the pike of one of my guards.
“What ails you now?” quoth the man irritably. “Forward, Monsieur
le traite!”
I moved on, scarce remarking the fellow’s roughness; my eyes were
still upon that face - the white, piteous face of Roxalanne. I
smiled reassurance and encouragement, but even as I smiled the
horror in her countenance seemed to increase. Then, as I passed on,
she vanished from my sight, and I was left to conjecture the motives
that had occasioned her return to Toulouse. Had the message that
Marsac would yesterday have conveyed to her caused her to retrace
her steps that she might be near me in my extremity; or had some
weightier reason influenced her return? Did she hope to undo some
of the evil she had done? Alas, poor child! If such were her hopes,
I sorely feared me they would prove very idle.
Of my trial I should say but little did not the exigencies of my
story render it necessary to say much. Even now, across the gap
of years, my gorge rises at the mockery which, in the King’s name,
those gentlemen made of justice. I can allow for the troubled
conditions of the times, and I can realize how in cases of civil
disturbances and rebellion it may be expedient to deal summarily
with traitors, yet not all the allowances that I can think of
would suffice to condone the methods of that tribunal.
The trial was conducted in private by the Keeper of the Seals - a
lean, wizened individual, with an air as musty and dry as that of
the parchments among which he had spent his days. He was supported
by six judges, and on his right sat the King’s Commissioner,
Monsieur de Chatellerault - the bruised condition of whose
countenance still advertised the fact that we had met but yesterday.
Upon being asked my name and place of abode, I created some
commotion by answering boldly “I am the Sieur Marcel de Saint-Pol,
Marquis of Bardelys, of Bardelys in Picardy.”
The President - that is to say, the Keeper of the Seals - turned
inquiringly to Chatellerault. The Count, however, did no more than
smile and point to something written on a paper that lay spread
upon the table. The President nodded.
“Monsieur Rene de Lesperon,” said he, “the Court may perhaps not
be able to discriminate whether this statement of yours is a
deliberate attempt to misguide or frustrate the ends of justice, or
whether, either in consequence of your wounds or as a visitation of
God for your treason, you are the victim of a deplorable
hallucination. But the Court wishes you to understand that it is
satisfied of your identity. The papers found upon your person at
the time of your arrest, besides other evidence in our power,
remove all possibility of doubt in that connection. Therefore, in
your own interests, we implore you to abandon these false statements,
if so be that you are master of your wits. Your only hope of saving
your head must lie in your truthfully answering our questions, and
even then, Monsieur de Lesperon, the hope that we hold out to you
is so slight as to be no hope at all.”
There was a pause, during which the other judges nodded their heads
in sage approval of their President’s words. For myself, I kept
silent, perceiving how little it could avail me to continue to
protest, and awaited his next question.
“You were arrested, monsieur, at the Chateau de Lavedan two nights
ago by a company of dragoons under the command of Captain de
Castelroux. Is that so?”
“It is so, monsieur.”
“And at the time of your arrest, upon being apprehended as Rene de
Lesperon, you offered no repudiation of the identity; on the
contrary, when Monsieur de Castelroux called for Monsieur de
Lesperon, you stepped forward and acknowledged that you were he.”
“Pardon, monsieur. What I acknowledged was that I was known by
that name.”
The President chuckled evilly, and his satellites smiled in polite
reflection of his mood.
“This acute differentiating is peculiar, Monsieur de Lesperon, to
persons of unsound mental condition,” said he. “I am afraid that
it will serve little purpose. A man is generally known by his
name, is he not?” I did not answer him. “Shall we call Monsieur
de Castelroux to confirm what I have said?”
“It is not necessary. Since you allow that I may have said I was
known by the name, but refuse to recognize the distinction between
that and a statement that ‘Lesperon’ is my name, it would serve
no purpose to summon the Captain.”
The President nodded, and with that the point was dismissed, and
he proceeded as calmly as though there never had been any question
of my identity.
“You are charged, Monsieur de Lesperon, with high treason in its
most virulent and malignant form. You are accused of having borne
arms against His Majesty. Have you anything to say?”
“I have to say that it is false, monsieur; that His Majesty has no
more faithful or loving subject than am I.”
The President shrugged his shoulders, and a shade of annoyance
crossed his face.
“If you are come here for no other purpose than to deny the
statements that I make, I am afraid that we are but wasting time,”
he cried testily. “If you desire it, I can summon Monsieur de
Castelroux to swear that at the time of your arrest and upon being
charged with the crime you made no repudiation of that charge.”
“Naturally not, monsieur,” I cried, somewhat heated by this
seemingly studied ignoring of important facts, “because I realized
that it was Monsieur de Castelroux’s mission to arrest and not to
judge me. Monsieur de Castelroux was an officer, not a Tribunal,
and to have denied this or that to him would have been so much
waste of breath.”
“Ah! Very nimble; very nimble, in truth, Monsieur de Lesperon,
but scarcely convincing. We will proceed. You are charged with
having taken part in several of the skirmishes against the armies
of Marshals de Schomberg and La Force, and finally, with having
been in close attendance upon Monsieur de Montmorency at the battle
of Castelnaudary. What have you to say?”
“That it is utterly untrue.”
“Yet your name, monsieur, is on a list found among the papers in
the captured baggage of Monsieur le Duc de Montmorency.”
“No, monsieur,” I denied stoutly, “it is not.”
The President smote the table a blow that scattered a flight of
papers.
“Par la mort Dieu!” he roared, with a most indecent exhibition of
temper in one so placed. “I have had enough of your contradictions.
You forget, monsieur, your position—”
“At least,” I broke in harshly, “no less than you forget yours.”
The Keeper of the Seals gasped for breath at that, and his fellow
judges murmured angrily amongst themselves. Chatellerault maintained
his sardonic smile, but permitted himself to utter no word.
“I would, gentlemen,” I cried, addressing them all, “that His
Majesty were here to see how you conduct your trials and defile his
Courts. As for you, Monsieur le President, you violate the sanctity
of your office in giving way to anger; it is a thing unpardonable
in a judge. I have told you in plain terms, gentlemen, that I am
not this Rene de Lesperon with whose crimes you charge me. Yet, in
spite of my denials, ignoring them, or setting them down either to
a futile attempt at defence or to an hallucination of which you
suppose me the victim, you proceed to lay those crimes to my charge,
and when I deny your charges you speak of proofs that can only
apply to another.
“How shall the name of Lesperon having been found among the Duke
of Montmorency’s papers convict me of treason, since I tell you that
I am not Lesperon? Had you the slightest, the remotest sense of
your high duty, messieurs, you would ask me rather to explain how,
if what I state be true, I come to be confounded with Lesperon and
arrested in his place. Then, messieurs, you might seek to test
the accuracy of what statements I may make; but to proceed as you
are proceeding is not to judge but to murder. Justice is represented
as a virtuous woman with bandaged eyes, holding impartial scales;
in your hands, gentlemen, by my soul, she is become a very harlot
clutching a veil.”
Chatellerault’s cynical smile grew broader as my speech proceeded
and stirred up the rancour in the hearts of those august gentlemen.
The Keeper of the Seals went white and red by turns, and when I
paused there was an impressive silence that lasted for some moments.
At last the President leant over to confer in a whisper with
Chatellerault. Then, in a voice forcedly calm - like the calm of
Nature when thunder is brewing - he asked me, “Who do you insist
that you are, monsieur?”
“Once already have I told you, and I venture to think that mine is
a name not easily forgotten. I am the Sieur Marcel de Saint-Pol,
Marquis of Bardelys, of Bardelys in Picardy.”
A cunning grin parted his thin lips.
“Have you any witnesses to identify you?”
“Hundreds, monsieur!” I answered eagerly, seeing salvation already
within my grasp.
“Name some of them.”
“I will name one - one whose word you will not dare to doubt.”
“That is?”
“His Majesty the King. I am told that he is on his way to Toulouse,
and I but ask, messieurs, that you await his arrival before going
further with my trial.”
“Is there no other witness of whom you can think, monsieur? Some
witness that might be produced more readily. For if you can,
indeed, establish the identity you claim, why should you languish
in prison for some weeks?”
His voice was soft and oily. The anger had all departed out of it,
which I - like a fool - imagined to be due to my mention of the King.
“My friends, Monsieur le Garde des Sceaux, are all either in Paris
or in His Majesty’s train, and so not likely to be here before him.
There is my intendant, Rodenard, and there are my servants - some
twenty of them - who may perhaps be still in Languedoc, and for
whom I would entreat you to seek. Them you might succeed in
finding within a few days if they have not yet determined to return
to Paris in the belief that I am dead.”
He stroked his chin meditatively, his eyes raised to
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