suddenly to break upon my mind, as perchance it hath long ago broken upon the minds of those who may happen upon these pages, and whose wits in matters amorous are of a keener temper than were mine.
I who in all things had been arrogant, presumptuous, and self-satisfied, had methought erred for once through over-humility.
And, indeed, even as I sat and pondered on that June day, it seemed to me a thing incredible that she whom I accounted the most queenly and superb of women should have deigned to grant a tender thought to one so mean, so far beneath her as I had ever held myself to be.
CHAPTER XXVI.
REPARATION
Things came to pass that night as I had planned, and the fates which of late had smiled upon me were kind unto the end.
Soon after ten, and before the moon had risen, a silent procession wended its way from the château to the river. First went Montrésor and two of his men; next came the Chevalier with Mademoiselle, and on either side of them a trooper; whilst I, in head-piece and back and breast of steel, went last with Mathurin, the sergeant—who warmly praised the plan I had devised for the conveyance of M. de Canaples to Paris without further loss of time.
Two boats which I had caused to be secretly procured were in readiness, and by these a couple of soldiers awaited us, holding the bridles of eight horses, one of which was equipped with a lady's saddle. Five of these belonged—or had belonged—to the Chevalier, whilst the others were three of those that had brought the troop from Paris, and which I, in the teeth of all protestations, had adjudged sufficiently recovered for the return journey.
The embarkation was safely effected, M. de Canaples and Mademoiselle in one boat with Montrésor, Mathurin, and myself; the sergeant took the oars; Montrésor and I kept watch over our prisoner. In the other boat came the four troopers, who were to accompany us, and one other who was to take the boats, and Montrésor in them, back to Canaples. For the lieutenant was returning, so that he might, with the remainder of the troop, follow us to Paris so soon as the condition of the horses would permit it.
The beasts we took with us were swimming the stream, guided and upheld by the men in the other boat.
Just as the moon began to show her face our bow grated on the shore at the very point where I had intended that we should land. I sprang out and turned to assist Mademoiselle.
But, disdaining my proffered hand, she stepped ashore unaided. The Chevalier came next, and after him Montrésor and Mathurin.
Awhile we waited until the troopers brought their boat to land, then when they had got the snorting animals safely ashore, I bade them look to the prisoner, and requested Montrésor and Mathurin to step aside with me, as I had something to communicate to them.
Walking between the pair, I drew them some twenty paces away from the group by the water, towards a certain thicket in which I had bidden Michelot await me.
“It has occurred to me, Messieurs,” I began, speaking slowly and deliberately as we paced along—“it has occurred to me that despite all the precautions taken to carry out my Lord Cardinal's wishes—a work at least in which you, yourselves, have evinced a degree of zeal that I cannot too highly commend to his Eminence—the possibility yet remains of some mistake of trivial appearance, of some slight flaw that might yet cause the miscarriage of those wishes.”
They turned towards me, and although I could not make out the expressions of their faces, in the gloom, yet I doubted not but that they were puzzled ones at that lengthy and apparently meaningless harangue.
The sergeant was the first to speak, albeit I am certain that he understood the less.
“I venture, M. le Capitaine, to think that your fears, though very natural, are groundless.”
“Say you so?” quoth I, with a backward glance to assure myself that we were screened by the trees from the eyes of those behind us. “Say you so? Well, well, mayhap you are right, though you speak of my fears being groundless. I alluded to some possible mistake of yours—yours and M. de Montrésor's—not of mine. And, by Heaven, a monstrous flaw there is in this business, for if either of you so much as whisper I'll blow your brains out!”
And to emphasise these words, as sinister as they were unlooked-for, I raised both hands suddenly from beneath my cloak, and clapped the cold nose of a pistol to the head of each of them.
I was obeyed as men are obeyed who thus uncompromisingly prove the force of their commands. Seeing them resigned, I whistled softly, and in answer there was a rustle from among the neighbouring trees, and presently two shadows emerged from the thicket. In less time than it takes me to relate it, Montrésor and his sergeant found themselves gagged, and each securely bound to a tree.
Then, with Michelot and Abdon following a short distance behind me, I made my way back to the troopers, and, feigning to stumble as I approached, I hurtled so violently against two of them that I knocked the pair headlong into the stream.
Scarce was it done, and almost before the remaining three had realised it, there was a pistol at the head of each of them and sweet promises of an eternal hereafter being whispered in their ears. They bore themselves with charming discretion, and like lambs we led them each to a tree and dealt with them as we had dealt with their officers, whilst the Chevalier and his daughter watched us, bewildered and dumfounded at what they saw.
As soon as the other two had crawled—all unconscious of the fates of their comrades—out of the river, we served them also in a like manner.
Bidding Abdon and Michelot lead the horses, and still speaking in my assumed voice, I desired Mademoiselle and the Chevalier—who had not yet sufficiently recovered from his bewilderment to have found his tongue—to follow me. I led the way up the gentle slope to the spot where our first victims were pinioned.
Montrésor's comely young face looked monstrous wicked in the moonlight, and his eyes rolled curiously as he beheld me. Stepping up to him I freed him of his gag—an act which I had almost regretted a moment later, for he cleared his throat with so lusty a torrent of profanity that methought the heavens must have fallen on us. At last when he was done with that—“Before you leave me in this plight, M. de St. Auban,” quoth he, “perchance you will satisfy me with an explanation of your unfathomable deeds and of this violence.”
“St. Auban!” exclaimed the Chevalier.
“St. Auban!” cried Yvonne.
And albeit wonder rang in both their voices, yet their minds I knew went different ways.
“No, not St. Auban,” I answered with a laugh and putting aside all counterfeit of speech.
“Par la mort Dieu! I know that voice,” cried Montrésor.
“Mayhap, indeed! And know you not this face?” And as I spoke I whipped away my wig and mask, and thrust my countenance close up to his.
“Thunder of God!” ejaculated the boy. Then—“Pardieu,” he added, “there is Michelot! How came I not to recognise him?”
“Since you would not assist me, Montrésor, you see I was forced to do without you.”
“But St. Auban?” he gasped. “Where is he?”
“In heaven, I hope—but I doubt it sadly.”
“You have killed him?”
There and then, as briefly as I might, I told him, whilst the others stood by to listen, how I had come upon the Marquis in the château the night before and what had passed thereafter.
“And now,” I said, as I cut his bonds, “it grieves me to charge you with an impolite errand to his Eminence, but—”
“I'll not return to him,” he burst out. “I dare not. Mon Dieu, you have ruined me, Luynes!”
“Then