In gathering up my cloak and doublet and other effects to bear them off to the kitchen, the host would have possessed himself also of my sword. But with a laugh I took it from him, remarking that it required no drying.
As we mounted the stairs, I heard something above me that sounded like the creaking of a door. The host heard it also, for he stood suddenly still, his glance very questioning.
“What was that?” said he.
“The wind, I should say,” I answered idly; and my answer seemed to reassure him, for with a “Ah, yes – the wind,” he went on.
Now, for all that I am far from being a man of tremors or unwarranted fears, to tell the truth the hostelry of the “Star” was beginning to fret my nerves. I could scarce have told you why had you asked me, as I sat upon the bed after mine host had left me, and turned my thoughts to it. It was none of the trivial incidents that had marked my coming; but it was, I think, the combination of them all. First there was the host’s desire to separate me from my men by suggesting that they should sleep in the hayloft. Clearly unnecessary, when he was not averse to turning his common room into a dormitory. There was his very evident relief when, after announcing that I would have them sleep one in my room and one in the passage by my door, I consented to their spending the night below; there was the presence of those two very ill-looking cut-throats; there was the attempt to carry off my sword; and, lastly, there was that creaking door and the host’s note of alarm.
What was that?
I stood up suddenly. Had my fancy, dwelling upon that very incident, tricked me into believing that a door had creaked again? I listened, but a silence followed, broken only by a drone of voices ascending from the common room. As I had assured the host upon the stairs, so I now assured myself that it was the wind, the signboard of the inn, perhaps, swaying in the storm.
And then, when I had almost dismissed my doubts, and was about to divest myself of my remaining clothes, I saw something at which I thanked Heaven that I had not allowed the landlord to carry off my rapier. My eyes were on the door, and, as I gazed, I beheld the slow raising of the latch. It was no delusion; my wits were keen and my eyes sharp; there was no fear to make me see things that were not. Softly I stepped to the bed-rail where I had hung my sword by the baldrick, and as softly I unsheathed it. The door was pushed open, and I caught the advance of a stealthy step. A naked foot shot past the edge of the door into my room, and for a second I thought of pinning it to the ground with my rapier; then came a leg, then a half-dressed body surmounted by a face – the face of Rodenard!
At sight of it, amazement and a hundred suspicions crossed my mind. How, in God’s name, came he here, and for what purpose did he steal so into my chamber?
But my suspicions perished even as they were begotten. There was so momentous, so alarmingly warning a look on his face as he whispered the one word “Monseigneur!” that clearly if danger there was to me it was not from him.
“What the devil–” I began.
But at the sound of my voice the alarm grew in his eyes.
“Sh!” he whispered, his finger on his lips. “Be silent, monseigneur, for Heaven’s sake!”
Very softly he closed the door; softly, yet painfully, he hobbled forward to my side.
“There is a plot to murder you, monseigneur,” he whispered.
“What! Here at Blagnac?”
He nodded fearfully.
“Bah!” I laughed. “You rave, man. Who was to know that I was to come this way? And who is there to plot against my life?”
“Monsieur de Saint-Eustache.” he answered.
“And for the rest, as to expecting you here, they did not, but they were prepared against the remote chance of your coming. From what I have gathered, there is not a hostelry betwixt this and Lavedan at which the Chevalier has not left his cutthroats with the promise of enormous reward to the men who shall kill you.”
I caught my breath at that. My doubts vanished.
“Tell me what you know,” said I. “Be brief.”
Thereupon this faithful dog, whom I had so sorely beaten but four nights ago, told me how, upon finding himself able to walk once more, he had gone to seek me out, that he might implore me to forgive him and not cast him off altogether, after a lifetime spent in the service of my father and of myself.
He had discovered from Monsieur de Castelroux that I was gone to Lavedan, and he determined to follow me thither. He had no horse and little money, and so he had set out afoot that very day, and dragged himself as far as Blagnac, where, however, his strength had given out, and he was forced to halt. A providence it seemed that this had so befallen. For here at the Etoile he had that evening overheard Saint-Eustache in conversation with those two bravi below stairs. It would seem from what he had said that at every hostelry from Grenade to Toulouse – at which it was conceivable that I might spend the night – the Chevalier had made a similar provision.
At Blagnac, if I got so far without halting, I must arrive very late, and therefore the Chevalier had bidden his men await me until daylight. He did not believe, however, that I should travel so far, for he had seen to it that I should find no horses at the posthouses. But it was just possible that I might, nevertheless, push on, and Saint-Eustache would let no possibility be overlooked. Here at Blagnac the landlord, Rodenard informed me, was also in Saint-Eustache’s pay. Their intention was to stab me as I slept.
“Monseigneur,” he ended, “knowing what danger awaited you along the road, I have sat up all night, praying God and His saints that you might come this far, and that thus I might warn you. Had I been less bruised and sore, I had got myself a horse and ridden out to meet you; as it was, I could but hope and pray that you would reach Blagnac, and that–”
I gathered him into my arms at that, but my embrace drew a groan from him, for the poor, faithful knave was very sore.
“My poor Ganymede!” I murmured, and I was more truly moved to sympathy, I think, than ever I had been in all my selfish life. Hearing his sobriquet, a look of hope gleamed suddenly in his eye.
“You will take me back, monseigneur?” he pleaded. “You will take me back, will you not? I swear that I will never let my tongue–”
“Sh, my good Ganymede. Not only will I take you back, but I shall strive to make amends for my brutality. Come, my friend, you shall have twenty golden Louis to buy unguents for your poor shoulders.”
“Monseigneur is very good,” he murmured, whereupon I would have embraced him again but that he shivered and drew back.
“No, no, monseigneur,” he whispered fearfully. “It is a great honour, but it – it pains me to be touched.”
“Then take the will for the deed. And now for these gentlemen below stairs.” I rose and moved to the door.
“Order Gilles to beat their brains out,” was Ganymede’s merciful suggestion.
I shook my head. “We might be detained for doing murder. We have no proof yet of their intentions – I think – ” An idea flashed suddenly across my mind. “Go back to your room, Ganymede,” I bade him. “Lock yourself in, and do not stir until I call you. I do not wish their suspicions aroused.”
I opened the door, and as Ganymede obediently slipped past me and vanished down the passage “Monsieur l’Hote,” I called. “Ho, there, Gilles!”
“Monsieur,” answered the landlord.
“Monseigneur,” replied Gilles; and there came a stir below.
“Is aught amiss?” the landlord questioned, a note of concern in his voice.
“Amiss?” I echoed peevishly, mincing my words as I uttered them. “Pardi! Must I be put to it to undress myself, whilst those two lazy dogs of mine are snoring beneath me? Come up this instant, Gilles. And,” I added as an afterthought, “you had best sleep here in my room.”
“At once, monseigneur,” answered he, but I caught the faintest tinge of surprise in his accents, for never yet had it fallen to the lot of sturdy, clumsy Gilles to assist me at my toilet.
The landlord muttered something, and I heard Gilles whispering his reply. Then the stairs creaked under his heavy tread.