Cadets of Gascony: Two stories of old France

IT was at the corner of the Rue Gogard that I saw her first. You may, perhaps, recall the place, if you know Montauban. A great barrack of a building, time-stained and neglected, blocks the way as one turns into it from the Rue Pluvois. Before the house is a high wall, pierced by a single gateway. The door is of oak, four inches thick and heavily barred with iron,--Vincennes has few stronger,--wherefrom it may be seen that he who built the structure was a man who had his enemies.

The door held my eye, as I turned the corner, by its very massiveness, and just as I reached it, it was flung open with a crash, and a girl rushed into the street. She stopped as she saw me standing there, and my hat was sweeping the pavement as I caught her eyes on mine.

“You seem a man of honor,” she said, and pressed her hand against her breast as though to calm the beating of her heart.

“A thousand thanks, Mademoiselle,” I answered, and I saw that even the stark emotion which possessed her could not bemask the beauty of her face. “Believe me, I shall be most happy to prove it.”

“You have a sword?” she asked, still eying me with attention.

I threw back my cloak and touched the hilt.

“And know how to use it?”

“Try me, Mademoiselle,” I said simply.

The color swept back into her face and her eyes narrowed with sudden resolution.

“Then follow me, Monsieur,” she said, and turned back through the gateway.

I was at her heels as she ran across the little court and plunged into a dark doorway beyond. I paused an instant to draw my sword, dropping my cloak that it might not cumber me, and then clattered up the stair behind her. It was dark and narrow and of many turnings, so that she, who knew the place, had reached the top while I was stumbling along midway, cursing the darkness. But she awaited me, and as I reached her side held out her hand to me. My own closed over it in an instant and found it soft and warm and trembling. Here was an adventure after my own heart, and I had had so few adventures!

“Cautiously, Monsieur!” she whispered, and led the way along a narrow hall to the right. The darkness was absolute, the atmosphere close and stifling. I began to wonder if I had walked into a trap, but that warm little hand in mine reassured me. Besides, who could know my errand from Marsan, and, not knowing it, who would set a trap for so small a bird as I? Then, suddenly, as we turned a corner, I heard the sound of angry voices and saw a light streaming redly through an open doorway. In a moment we had reached it, and I paused in astonishment as I saw what lay within.

There was a great fire blazing on the hearth, which threw into sharp relief a bed with disordered hangings, an open desk with papers overflowing from it to the floor, a chair overturned, even the faded tapestry upon the walls. But it was at none of these I looked, though I found them all bit into my memory afterwards. It was at a man bound to a chair, at two others who were glancing hastily through the papers they were pulling from the drawers of the desk, at a fourth who was making an iron turn white in the glow of the fire. The man in the chair was watching the door with agonized eyes, but of the faces of the others I could see nothing, for they were masked.

Even as I stood there, palsied by astonishment, the man at the fire drew forth the iron and turned with it sputtering in his hand.

“Come, M. le Comte,” he said, “I think this will answer,” and he advanced towards the prisoner.

But the girl was through the doorway ere he had taken a second step.

“You curs! You cowards!” she screamed, and ran at him as though to wrench the hissing iron from his hands.

Her voice had loosed the chains which bound me, and I sprang after her, drew her back with one hand, and while the man stood for an instant agape at this intrusion, ran him through the breast. As he felt my sword in his flesh he raised his hand and threw the iron full at me, but I stepped aside and avoided it, and he fell in a heap on the hearth. The others were upon me almost before I could turn, and with the suddenness of their rush drove me into a corner, where, in truth, I was very glad to go and get my back snugly against the wall. The moment I felt their blades against my own I knew I had swordsmen to deal with. For a breath I held them off, then I saw them exchange a glance, and as one knocked up my blade, the other ran me through the shoulder. It had been my heart, but that I sprang to the right. In the instant that followed I saw my chance and thrust full at my opponent, who had left his breast uncovered, but my point rang against a net of steel and the blade shivered in my grasp.

“Well thrust,” he said, laughing harshly. “’Tis a pity so pretty a swordsman must die so young. Come, Gaspard, let us finish,” and he advanced to thrust again. I had my poniard out, but knew it would be of little service.

And then, as I steeled myself for this last attack, commending my soul to the Virgin, I saw a white arc of sputtering iron sweep through the air and hiss deep into the cheek of the man in armor. He fell back with a terrible cry, and, dropping his sword, clapped his hands to his face. The other stood for an instant dazed, then, with an oath, caught up his companion and plunged into the darkness of the hall without. I heard his footsteps echoing along it for a moment, then all was still. Only the girl stood there with the bar of iron still in her hand.

“I thank you, Mademoiselle,” I said. “In another moment I had been beyond assistance.”

She smiled at me faintly, tremulously, and cast the iron down upon the hearth. Plainly, she was not used to scenes of violence, and had small relish for them.

“Come,” I continued, “let us release the prisoner,” and with my poniard I cut the ropes which bound him. He arose from the chair unsteadily, stretched his limbs, and looked at me with a good-humored light in his eyes.

“In faith, Monsieur,” he said, “you arrived most opportunely. I admit I have no appetite for white-hot iron. I am a man of the pen, not of the sword. Accept my thanks,” and he bowed with a certain dignity.

I bowed in return, not to be outdone in courtesy; then, of a sudden I felt my strength drop from me, and sat down limply on the chair from which I had just released him.

“Oh, you are wounded!” cried the girl. “See, uncle, here in his shoulder,” and before I could prevent it she had sunk to her knees beside me and was tearing away my doublet. In a trice my shoulder was bare, and she examined the wound with compressed lips, touching it with intelligent fingers that bespoke her convent training.

“It is nothing,” I protested weakly. “A mere flesh-wound. Do not trouble about it, I beg of you, Mademoiselle. I shall be better in a moment.”

But the man interrupted me.

“Nonsense!” he said curtly, and he too looked at the wound. “Claire,” he added, “bring a basin of water and clean linen. We will soon repair this damage.”

I followed her with my eyes as she ran to do his bidding. So her name was Claire, and I repeated it over and over to myself, as a man rolls wine in his mouth to get the full flavor. She was soon back, and the wound washed clean and deftly bandaged.

“There,” he said at last, “I think that will do. I do not believe the hurt a dangerous one, Monsieur, but you would best consult without delay a more skilful surgeon than either Claire or I. One thing more I can do for you,” and he opened a cupboard in the wall and brought out a flask of wine. “Drink this,” he said, and handed me a glass brimming over. I drained it at a draught--how good it tasted!

“A thousand thanks,” I said. “I am quite myself again. I trust Mademoiselle will pardon my momentary weakness.”

She smiled happily as she looked at me.

“Oh, yes, Monsieur,” she answered softly; “I think I could find it in my heart to pardon a much more serious offence,” and her face grew rosy with sudden blushes, in fear, doubtless, that she had said too much. I could guess that she had seen little of the world, and that its strangeness frightened her.

Her companion forestalled me before I could find words for a reply.

“May I ask the name of our rescuer? We shall wish always to remember it with gratitude.”

“Paul de Marsan,” I answered simply.

He started, and I saw the girl’s face turn white.

“Liege to the Comte de Cadillac?” he asked quickly.

I bowed.