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 the sunlit dome of glass overhead.
“Ah-h!” he gasped. It was a long-drawn sigh of regret, of conclusion, or of weary impatience. “There is no one in Toulouse who will swear to your identity monsieur?” he asked.
“I am afraid there is not,” I replied. “I know of no one.”
As I uttered those words the President’s countenance changed as abruptly as if he had flung off a mask. From soft and cat-like that he had been during the past few moments, he grew of a sudden savage as a tiger. He leapt to his feet, his face crimson, his eyes seeming to blaze, and the words he spoke came now in a hot, confused, and almost incoherent torrent.
“Miserable!” he roared, “out of your own mouth have you convicted yourself. And to think that you should have stood there and wasted the time of this Court – His Majesty’s time – with your damnable falsehoods! What purpose did you think to serve by delaying your doom? Did you imagine that haply, whilst we sent to Paris for your witnesses, the King might grow weary of justice, and in some fit of clemency announce a general pardon? Such things have been known, and it may be that in your cunning you played for such a gain based upon such a hope. But justice, fool, is not to be cozened. Had you, indeed, been Bardelys, you had seen that here in this court sits a gentleman who is very intimate with him. He is there, monsieur; that is Monsieur le Comte de Chatellerault, of whom perhaps you may have heard. Yet, when I ask you whether in Toulouse there is any one who can bear witness to your identity, you answer me that you know of no one. I will waste no more time with you, I promise you.”
He flung himself back into his chair like a man exhausted, and mopped his brow with a great kerchief which he had drawn from his robes. His fellow judges laid their heads together, and with smiles and nods, winks and leers, they discussed and admired the miraculous subtlety and acumen of this Solomon. Chatellerault sat, calmly smiling, in solemn mockery.
For a spell I was too thunderstruck to speak, aghast at this catastrophe. Like a fool, indeed, I had tumbled into the pit that had been dug for me by Chatellerault for I never doubted that it was of his contriving. At last, “My masters,” said I, “these conclusions may appear to you most plausible, but, believe me, they are fallacious. I am perfectly acquainted with Monsieur de Chatellerault, and he with me, and if he were to speak the truth and play the man and the gentleman for once, he would tell you that I am, indeed, Bardelys. But Monsieur le Comte has ends of his own to serve in sending me to my doom. It is in a sense through his agency that I am at present in this position, and that I have been confounded with Lesperon. What, then, could it have availed me to have made appeal to him? And yet, Monsieur le President, he was born a gentleman, and he may still retain some notion of honour. Ask him, sir – ask him point-blank, whether I am or not Marcel de Bardelys.”
The firmness of my tones created some impression upon those feeble minds. Indeed, the President went so far as to turn an interrogative glance upon the Count. But Chatellerault, supremely master of the situation, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled a pitying, long-suffering smile.