Under the Red Robe by Stanley John Weyman (trending books to read .txt) 📖

‘I asked for some yesterday, and you would not bring it,’ I grumbled. ‘However, better late than never. Bring it now. If I must hang, I will hang like a gentleman. But depend upon it, the Cardinal will not serve an old friend so scurvy a trick.’

‘You are to go to him,’ he announced, when he came back with the water.

‘What? To the Cardinal?’ I cried.

‘Yes,’ he answered.

‘Good!’ I exclaimed; and in my joy and relief I sprang up at once, and began to refresh my dress. ‘So all this time I have been doing him an injustice,’ I continued. ‘VIVE MONSEIGNEUR! Long live the little Bishop of Luchon! I might have known it, too.’

‘Don’t make too sure!’ the man answered spitefully. Then he went on, ‘I have something else for you. A friend of yours left it at the gate,’ and he handed me a packet.

‘Quite so!’ I said, leading his rascally face aright. ‘And you kept it as long as you dared—as long as you thought I should hang, you knave! Was not that so? But there, do not lie to me. Tell me instead which of my friends left it.’ For, to confess the truth, I had not so many friends at this time and ten good crowns—the packet contained no less a sum—argued a pretty staunch friend, and one of whom a man might reasonably be proud.

The knave sniggered maliciously. ‘A crooked dwarfish man left it,’ he said. ‘I doubt I might call him a tailor and not be far out.’

‘Chut!’ I answered—but I was a little out of countenance, nevertheless. ‘I understand. An honest fellow enough, and in debt to me! I am glad he remembered. But when am I to go, friend?’

‘In an hour,’ he answered sullenly. Doubtless he had looked to get one of the crowns; but I was too old a hand for that. If I came back I could buy his services; and if I did not I should have wasted my money.

Nevertheless, a little later, when I found myself on my way to the Hotel Richelieu under so close a guard that I could see nothing in the street except the figures that immediately surrounded me, I wished that I had given him the money. At such times, when all hangs in the balance and the sky is overcast, the mind runs on luck and old superstitions, and is prone to think a crown given here may avail there—though THERE be a hundred leagues away.

The Palais Richelieu was at this time in building, and we were required to wait in a long, bare gallery, where the masons were at work. I was kept a full hour here, pondering uncomfortably on the strange whims and fancies of the great man who then ruled France as the King’s Lieutenant-General, with all the King’s powers, and whose life I had once been the means of saving by a little timely information. On occasion he had done something to wipe out the debt; and at other times he had permitted me to be free with him, and so far we were not unknown to one another.

Nevertheless, when the doors were at last thrown open, and I was led into his presence, my confidence underwent a shock. His cold glance, that, roving over me, regarded me not as a man but an item, the steely glitter of his southern eyes, chilled me to the bone. The room was bare, the floor without carpet or covering. Some of the woodwork lay about, unfinished and in pieces. But the man—this man, needed no surroundings. His keen pale face, his brilliant eyes, even his presence—though he was of no great height, and began already to stoop at the shoulders—were enough to awe the boldest. I recalled, as I looked at him, a hundred tales of his iron will, his cold heart, his unerring craft. He had humbled the King’s brother, the splendid Duke of Orleans, in the dust. He had curbed the Queen-mother. A dozen heads, the noblest in France, had come to the block through him. Only two years before he had quelled Rochelle; only a few months before he had crushed the great insurrection in Languedoc: and though the south, stripped of its old privileges, still seethed with discontent, no one in this year 1630 dared lift a hand against him—openly, at any rate. Under the surface a hundred plots, a thousand intrigues, sought his life or his power; but these, I suppose, are the hap of every great man.

No wonder, then, that the courage on which I plumed myself sank low at sight of him; or that it was as much as I could do to mingle with the humility of my salute some touch of the SANG FROID of old acquaintanceship.

And perhaps that had been better left out. For it seemed that this man was without bowels. For a moment, while he stood looking at me, and before he spoke to me, I gave myself up for lost. There was a glint of cruel satisfaction in his eyes that warned me, before he opened his mouth, what he was going to say to me.

‘I could not have made a better catch, M. de Berault,’ he said, smiling villainously, while he gently smoothed the fur of a cat that had sprung on the table beside him. ‘An old offender, and an excellent example. I doubt it will not stop with you. But later, we will make you the warrant for flying at higher game.’

‘Monseigneur has handled a sword himself,’ I blurted out. The very room seemed to be growing darker, the air colder. I was never nearer fear in my life.

‘Yes?’ he said, smiling delicately. ‘And so—?’

‘Will not be too hard on the failings of a poor gentleman.’

‘He shall suffer no more than a rich one,’ he replied suavely as he stroked the cat. ‘Enjoy that satisfaction, M. de Berault. Is that all?’

‘Once I was of service to your Eminence,’ I said desperately.

‘Payment has been made,’ he answered, ‘more than once. But for that I should not have seen you.’

‘The King’s face!’ I cried, snatching at the straw he seemed to hold out.

He laughed cynically, smoothly. His thin face, his dark moustache, and whitening hair, gave him an air of indescribable keenness.

‘I am not the King,’ he said. ‘Besides, I am told that you have killed as many as six men in duels. You owe the King, therefore, one life at least. You must pay it. There is no more to be said, M. de Berault,’ he continued coldly, turning away and beginning to collect some papers. ‘The law must take its course.’

I thought that he was about to nod to the lieutenant to withdraw me, and a chilling sweat broke out down my back. I saw the scaffold, I felt the cords. A moment, and it would be too late!

‘I have a favour to ask,’ I stammered desperately, ‘if your Eminence will give me a moment alone.’

‘To what end?’ he answered, turning and eyeing me with cold disfavour. ‘I know you—your past—all. It can do no good, my friend.’

‘No harm!’ I cried. ‘And I am a dying man, Monseigneur!’

‘That is true,’ he said thoughtfully.