It was borne in upon me that some great personage was arriving in Toulouse, and my first thought was of the King. At the idea of such a possibility my brain whirled and I grew dizzy with hope. The next moment I recalled that but last night Roxalanne had told me that he was no nearer than Lyons, and so I put the thought from me, and the hope with it, for, travelling in that leisurely, indolent fashion that was characteristic of his every action, it would be a miracle if His Majesty should reach Toulouse before the week was out, and this but Sunday.
The populace passed on, then seemed to halt, and at last the shouts died down on the noontide air. I went back to my writing, and to wait until from my jailer, when next he should chance to appear, I might learn the meaning of that uproar.
An hour perhaps went by, and I had made some progress with my memoir, when my door was opened and the cheery voice of Castelroux greeted me from the threshold.
“Monsieur, I have brought a friend to see you.”
I turned in my chair, and one glance at the gentle, comely face and the fair hair of the young man standing beside Castelroux was enough to bring me of a sudden to my feet.
“Mironsac!” I shouted, and sprang towards him with hands outstretched.
But though my joy was great and my surprise profound, greater still was the bewilderment that in Mironsac’s face I saw depicted.
“Monsieur de Bardelys!” he exclaimed, and a hundred questions were contained in his astonished eyes.
“Po’ Cap de Dieu!” growled his cousin, “I was well advised, it seems, to have brought you.”
“But,” Mironsac asked his cousin, as he took my hands in his own, “why did you not tell me, Amedee, that it was to Monsieur le Marquis de Bardelys that you were conducting me?”
“Would you have had me spoil so pleasant a surprise?” his cousin demanded.
“Armand,” said I, “never was a man more welcome than are you. You are but come in time to save my life.”
And then, in answer to his questions, I told him briefly of all that had befallen me since that night in Paris when the wager had been laid, and of how, through the cunning silence of Chatellerault, I was now upon the very threshold of the scaffold. His wrath burst forth at that, and what he said of the Count did me good to hear. At last I stemmed his invective.
“Let that be for the present, Mironsac,” I laughed. “You are here, and you can thwart all Chatellerault’s designs by witnessing to my identity before the Keeper of the Seals.”
And then of a sudden a doubt closed like a cold hand upon my brain. I turned to Castelroux.
“Mon Dieu!” I cried. “What if they were to deny me a fresh trial?”
“Deny it you!” he laughed. “They will not be asked to grant you one.”
“There will be no need,” added Mironsac. “I have but to tell the King–”
“But, my friend,” I exclaimed impatiently, “I am to die in the morning!”
“And the King shall be told to-day – now, at once. I will go to him.”
I stared askance a moment; then the thought of the uproar that I had heard recurring to me, “Has the King arrived already?” I exclaimed.
“Naturally, monsieur. How else do I come to be here? I am in His Majesty’s train.”
At that I grew again impatient. I thought of Roxalanne and of how she must be suffering, and I bethought me that every moment Mironsac now remained in my cell was another moment of torture for that poor child. So I urged him to be gone at once and carry news of my confinement to His Majesty. He obeyed me, and I was left alone once more, to pace up and down in my narrow cell, a prey to an excitement such as I should have thought I had outlived.
At the end of a half-hour Castelroux returned alone.
“Well?” I cried the moment the door opened, and without giving him so much as time to enter. “What news?”
“Mironsac tells me that His Majesty is more overwrought than he has ever seen him. You are to come to the Palace at once. I have an order here from the King.”
We went in a coach, and with all privacy, for he informed me that His Majesty desired the affair to be kept secret, having ends of his own to serve thereby.
I was left to wait some moments in an ante-chamber, whilst Castelroux announced me to the King; then I was ushered into a small apartment, furnished very sumptuously in crimson and gold, and evidently set apart for His Majesty’s studies or devotions. As I entered, Louis’s back was towards me. He was standing – a tall, spare figure in black – leaning against the frame of a window, his head supported on his raised left arm and his eyes intent upon the gardens below.
He remained so until Castelroux had withdrawn and the door had closed again; then, turning suddenly, he confronted me, his back to the light, so that his face was in a shadow that heightened its gloom and wonted weariness.
“Voila, Monsieur de Bardelys!” was his greeting, and unfriendly. “See the pass to which your disobedience of my commands has brought you.”
“I would submit, Sire,” I answered, “that I have been brought to it by the incompetence of Your Majesty’s judges and the ill-will of others whom Your Majesty honours with too great a confidence, rather than by this same disobedience of mine.”
“The one and the other, perhaps,” he said more softly. “Though, after all, they appear to have had a very keen nose for a traitor. Come, Bardelys, confess yourself that.”
“I? A traitor?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and laughed without any conspicuous mirth.
“Is not a traitor one who runs counter to the wishes; of his King? And are you not, therefore, a traitor, whether they call you Lesperon or Bardelys? But there,” he ended more softly still, and flinging himself into a chair as he spoke, “I have been so wearied since you left me, Marcel. They have the best intentions in the world, these dullards, and some of them love me even; but they are tiresome all. Even Chatellerault, when he has a fancy for a jest – as in your case perpetrates it with the grace of a bear, the sprightliness of an elephant.”
“Jest?” said I.
“You find it no jest, Marcel? Pardieu, who shall blame you? He would be a man of unhealthy humour that could relish such a pleasantry as that of being sentenced to death. But tell me of it. The whole story, Marcel. I have not heard a story worth the listening to since – since you left us.”
“Would it please you, Sire, to send for the Comte de Chatellerault ere I begin?” I asked.
“Chatellerault? No, no.” He shook his head whimsically. “Chatellerault has had his laugh already, and, like the ill-mannered dog he is, he has kept it to himself. I think, Marcel, that it is our turn now. I have purposely sent Chatellerault away that he may gain no notion of the catastrophic jest we are preparing him in return.”
The words set me in the very best of humours, and to that it may be due that presently, as I warmed to my narrative, I lent it a vigour that drew His Majesty out of his wonted apathy and listlessness. He leaned forward when I told him of my encounter with the dragoons at Mirepoix, and how first I had committed the false step of representing myself to be Lesperon.
Encouraged by his interest, I proceeded, and I told my story with as much piquancy as I was master of, repressing only those slight matters which might reflect upon Monsieur de Lavedan’s loyalty, but otherwise dealing frankly with His Majesty, even down to the genuineness of the feelings I entertained for Roxalanne. Often he laughed, more often still he nodded approvingly, in understanding and sympathy, whilst now and then he purred his applause. But towards the end, when I came to the matter of the Tribunal of Toulouse, of how my trial was conducted, and of the part played in it by Chatellerault, his face grew set and hard.
“It is true – all this that you tell me?” he cried harshly.
“As true as the Gospels. If you deem an oath necessary, Sire, I swear by my honour that I have uttered nothing that is false, and that, in connection with Monsieur de Chatellerault, even as I have suppressed nothing, so also have I exaggerated nothing.”
“The dastard!” he snapped. “But we will avenge you, Marcel. Never fear it.”
Then the trend of his thoughts being changed, he smiled wearily.