The House of the Wolf

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"We are going, little one," Diane murmured reassuringly. But I
noticed that the speaker's animation, which had been as a soul to
her beauty when she entered the room, was gone. A strange
stillness was it fear of the Vidame? had taken its place.

"The Abbess of the Ursulines?" Bezers continued thoughtfully.
"SHE brought you here, did she?" There was surprise, genuine
surprise, in his voice. "A good soul, and, I think I have heard,
a friend of yours. Umph!"

"A very dear friend," Madame answered stiffly. "Now, Diane!"

"A dear friend! And she spirited you hither yesterday!"
commented the Vidame, with the air of one solving an anagram.
"And Mirepoix detained you; respectable Mirepoix, who is said to
have a well-filled stocking under his pallet, and stands well
with the bourgeoisie. He is in the plot. Then at a very late
hour, your affectionate sister, and my good friend the Coadjutor,
enter to save you. From what?"

No one spoke. The priest looked down, his cheeks livid with
anger.

"From what?" Bezers continued with grim playfulness. "There is
the mystery. From the clutches of this profligate Mirepoix, I
suppose. From the dangerous Mirepoix. Upon my honour," with a
sudden ring of resolution in his tone, "I think you are safer
here; I think you had better stay where you are, Madame, until
morning! And risk Mirepoix!"

"Oh, no! no!" Madame cried vehemently.

"Oh, yes! yes!" he replied. "What do you say, Coadjutor? Do
you not think so?"

The priest looked down sullenly. His voice shook as he murmured
in answer, "Madame will please herself. She has a character, M.
le Vidame. But if she prefer to stay here--well!"

"Oh, she has a character, has she?" rejoined the giant, his eyes
twinkling with evil mirth, "and she should go home with you, and
my old friend Madame d'O, to save it! That is it, is it? No,
no," he continued when he had had his silent laugh out, "Madame
de Pavannes will do very well here--very well here until morning.
We have work to do. Come. Let us go and do it."

"Do you mean it?" said the priest, starting and looking up with
a subtle challenge--almost a threat--in his tone.

"Yes, I do."

Their eyes met: and seeing their looks, I chuckled, nudging
Croisette. No fear of their discovering us now. I recalled the
old proverb which says that when thieves fall out, honest men
come by their own, and speculated on the chance of the priest
freeing us once for all from M. de Bezers.

But the two were ill-matched. The Vidame could have taken up the
other with one hand and dashed his head on the floor. And it did
not end there. I doubt if in craft the priest was his equal.
Behind a frank brutality Bezers--unless his reputation belied
him--concealed an Italian intellect. Under a cynical
recklessness he veiled a rare cunning and a constant suspicion;
enjoying in that respect a combination of apparently opposite
qualities, which I have known no other man to possess in an equal
degree, unless it might be his late majesty, Henry the Great. A
child would have suspected the priest; a veteran might have been
taken in by the Vidame.

And indeed the priest's eyes presently sank. "Our bargain is to
go for nothing?" he muttered sullenly.

"I know of no bargain," quoth the Vidame. "And I have no time to
lose, splitting hairs here. Set it down to what you like. Say
it is a whim of mine, a fad, a caprice. Only understand that
Madame de Pavannes stays. We go. And--" he added this, as a
sudden thought seemed to strike him, "though I would not
willingly use compulsion to a lady, I think Madame d'O had better
come too."

"You speak masterfully," the priest said with a sneer, forgetting
the tone he had himself used a few minutes before to Mirepoix.

"Just so. I have forty horsemen over the way," was the dry
answer. "For the moment, I am master of the legions, Coadjutor."

"That is true," Madame d'O said; so softly that I started. She
had scarcely spoken since Bezers' entrance. As she spoke now,
she shook back the hood from her face and disclosed the chestnut
hair clinging about her temples--deep blots of colour on the
abnormal whiteness of her skin, "That is true, M. de Bezers," she
said. "You have the legions. You have the power. But you will
not use it, I think, against an old friend. You will not do us
this hurt when I--But listen."

He would not. In the very middle of her appeal he cut her short
--brute that he was! "No Madame!" he burst out violently,
disregarding the beautiful face, the supplicating glance, that
might have moved a stone, "that is just what I will not do. I
will not listen! We know one another. Is not that enough?"

She looked at him fixedly. He returned her gaze, not smiling
now, but eyeing her with a curious watchfulness.

And after a long pause she turned from him. "Very well," she
said softly, and drew a deep, quivering breath, the sound of
which reached us. "Then let us go." And without--strangest
thing of all--bestowing a word or look on her sister, who was
weeping bitterly in a chair, she turned to the door and led the
way out, a shrug of her shoulders the last thing I marked.

The poor lady heard her departing step however,
and sprang up. It dawned upon her that she was being deserted.
"Diane! Diane!" she cried distractedly--and I had to put my
hand on Croisette to keep him quiet, there was such fear and pain
in her tone--"I will go! I will not be left behind in this
dreadful place! Do you hear? Come back to me, Diane!"

It made my blood run wildly. But Diane did not come back.
Strange! And Bezers too was unmoved. He stood between the poor
woman and the door, and by a gesture bid Mirepoix and the priest
pass out before him. "Madame," he said--and his voice, stern and
hard as ever, expressed no jot of compassion for her, rather such
an impatient contempt as a puling child might elicit--"you are
safe here. And here you will stop! Weep if you please," he
added cynically, "you will have fewer tears to shed to-morrow."

His last words--they certainly were odd ones--arrested her
attention. She checked her sobs, being frightened I think, and
looked up at him. Perhaps he had spoken with this in view, for
while she still stood at gaze, her hands pressed to her bosom, he
slipped quickly out and closed the door behind him. I heard a
muttering for an instant outside, and then the tramp of feet
descending the stairs. They were gone, and we were still
undiscovered.

For Madame, she had clean forgotten our presence--of that I am
sure--and the chance of escape we might afford. On finding
herself alone she gazed a short time in alarmed silence at the
door, and then ran to the window and peered out, still trembling,
terrified, silent. So she remained a while.

She had not noticed that Bezers on going out had omitted to lock
the door behind him. I had. But I was unwilling to move
hastily. Some one might return to see to it before the Vidame
left the house. And besides the door was not over strong, and if
locked would be no obstacle to the three of us when we had only
Mirepoix to deal with. So I kept the others where they were by a
nudge and a pinch, and held my breath a moment, straining my ears
to catch the closing of the door below. I did not hear that.
But I did catch a sound that otherwise might have escaped me, but
which now riveted my eyes to the door of our room. Some one in
the silence, which followed the trampling on the stairs, had
cautiously laid a hand on the latch.

The light in the room was dim. Mirepoix had taken one of the
candles with him, and the other wanted snuffing. I could not see
whether the latch moved; whether or no it was rising. But
watching intently, I made out that the door was being opened--
slowly, noiselessly. I saw someone enter--a furtive gliding
shadow.

For a moment I felt nervous--then I recognised the dark hooded
figure. It was only Madame d'O. Brave woman! She had evaded
the Vidame and slipped back to the rescue. Ha, ha! We would
defeat the Vidame yet! Things were going better!

But then something in her manner--as she stood holding the door
and peering into the room--something in her bearing startled and
frightened me. As she came forward her movements were so
stealthy that her footsteps made no sound. Her dark shadow,
moving ahead of her across the floor, was not more silent than
she. An undefined desire to make a noise, to give the alarm,
seized me.

Half-way across the room she stopped to listen, and looked round,
startled herself, I think, by the silence. She could not see her
sister, whose figure was blurred by the outlines of the curtain;
and no doubt she was puzzled to think what had become of her.
The suspense which I felt, but did not understand, was so great
that at last I moved, and the bed creaked.

In a moment her face was turned our way, and she glided forwards,
her features still hidden by the hood of her cloak. She was
close to us now, bending over us. She raised her hand to her
head--to shade her eyes, as she looked more closely, I supposed,
and I was wondering whether she saw us--whether she took the
shapelessness in the shadow of the curtain for her sister, or
could not make it out--I was thinking how we could best apprise
her of our presence without alarming her--when Croisette dashed
my thoughts to the winds! Croisette, with a tremendous whoop and
a crash, bounded over me on to the floor!

She uttered a gasping cry--a cry of intense, awful fear. I have
the sound in my ears even now. With that she staggered back,
clutching the air. I heard the metallic clang and ring of
something falling on the floor. I heard an answering cry of
alarm from the window; and then Madame de Pavannes ran forward
and caught her in her arms.

It was strange to find the room lately so silent become at once
alive with whispering forms, as we came hastily to light. I
cursed Croisette for his folly, and was immeasurably angry with
him, but I had no time to waste words on him then. I hurried to
the door to guard it. I opened it a hand's breadth and listened.
All was quiet below; the house still. I took the key out of the
lock and put it in my pocket and went back. Marie and Croisette
were standing a little apart from Madame de Pavannes, who,
hanging over her sister, was by turns bathing her face and
explaining our presence.

In a very few minutes Madame d'O seemed to recover, and sat up.
The first shock of deadly terror had passed, but she was still
pale. She still trembled, and shrank from meeting our eyes,
though I saw her, when our attention was apparently directed
elsewhere, glance at one and another of us with a strange
intentness, a shuddering curiosity. No wonder, I thought. She
must have had a terrible fright--one that might have killed a
more timid woman!

"What on earth did you do that for!" I asked Croisette
presently, my anger certainly not decreasing the more I looked at
her beautiful face. "You might have killed her!"

In charity I supposed his nerves had failed him, for he could not
even now give me a straightforward answer. His only reply was,
"Let us get away! Let us get away from this horrible house!"
and this he kept repeating with a shudder as he moved restlessly
to and fro.

"With all my heart!" I answered, looking at him with some
contempt. "That is exactly what we are going to do!"

But all the same his words reminded me of something which in the
excitement of the scene I had momentarily forgotten, and that was
our duty. Pavannes must still be saved, though not for Kit;
rather to answer to us for his sins. But he must be saved! And
now that the road was open, every minute lost was reproach to us.
"Yes," I added roughly, my thoughts turned into a more rugged
channel, "you are right. This is no time for nursing. We must
be going. Madame de Pavannes," I went on, addressing myself to
her, "you know the way home from here--to your house!" "Oh,
yes," she cried.

"That is well," I answered. "Then we will start. Your sister is
sufficiently recovered now, I think. And we will not risk any
further delay."

I did not tell her of her husband's danger, or that we suspected
him of wronging her, and being in fact the cause of her
detention. I wanted her services as a guide. That was the main
point, though I was glad to be able to put her in a place of
safety at the same time that we fulfilled our own mission.

She rose eagerly. "You are sure that we can get out?" she said.

"Sure," I replied with a brevity worthy of Bezers himself.

And I was right. We trooped down stairs, making as little noise
as possible; with the result that Mirepoix only took the alarm,
and came upon us when we were at the outer door, bungling with
the lock. Then I made short work of him, checking his scared
words of remonstrance by flashing my dagger before his eyes. I
induced him in the same fashion--he was fairly taken by surprise
--to undo the fastenings himself; and so, bidding him follow us
at his peril, we slipped out one by one. We softly closed the
door behind us. And lo! we were at last free--free and in the
streets of Paris, with the cool night air fanning our brows. A
church hard by tolled the hour of two; and the strokes were
echoed, before we had gone many steps along the ill-paved way, by
the solemn tones of the bell of Notre Dame.

We were free and in the streets, with a guide who knew the way.
If Bezers had not gone straight from us to his vengeance, we
might thwart him yet. I strode along quickly, Madame d'O by my
side the others a little way in front. Here and there an oil-
lamp, swinging from a pulley in the middle of the road, enabled
us to avoid some obstacle more foul than usual, or to leap over a
pool which had formed in the kennel. Even in my excitement, my
country-bred senses rebelled against the sights, and smells, the
noisome air and oppressive closeness of the streets.

The town was quiet, and very dark where the smoky lamps were not
hanging. Yet I wondered if it ever slept, for more than once we
had to stand aside to give passage to a party of men, hurrying
along with links and arms. Several times too, especially towards
the end of our walk, I was surprised by the flashing of bright
lights in a courtyard, the door of which stood half open to right
or left. Once I saw the glow of torches reflected ruddily in the
windows of a tall and splendid mansion, a little withdrawn from
the street. The source of the light was in the fore-court,
hidden from us by a low wall, but I caught the murmur of voices
and stir of many feet. Once a gate was stealthily opened and two
armed men looked out, the act and their manner of doing it,
reminding me on the instant of those who had peeped out to
inspect us some hours before in Bezers' house. And once, nay
twice, in the mouth of a narrow alley I discerned a knot of men
standing motionless in the gloom. There was an air of mystery
abroad, a feeling as of solemn stir and preparation going on
under cover of the darkness, which awed and unnerved me.

But I said nothing of this, and Madame d'O was equally silent.
Like most countrymen I was ready to believe in any exaggeration
of the city's late hours, the more as she made no remark. I
supposed--shaking off the momentary impression--that what I saw
was innocent and normal. Besides, I was thinking what I should
say to Pavannes when I saw him---in what terms I should warn him
of his peril, and cast his perfidy in his teeth. We had hurried
along in this way--and in absolute silence, save when some
obstacle or pitfall drew from us an exclamation--for about a
quarter of a mile, when my companion, turning into a slightly
wider street, slackened her speed, and indicated by a gesture
that we had arrived. A lamp hung over the porch, to which she
pointed, and showed the small side gate half open. We were close
behind the other three now. I saw Croisette stoop to enter and
as quickly fall back a pace. Why?

In a moment it flashed across my mind that we were too late that
the Vidame had been before us.

And yet how quiet it all was.

Then I breathed freely again. I saw that Croisette had only
stepped back to avoid some one who was coming out--the Coadjutor
in fact. The moment the entrance was clear, the lad shot in, and
the others after him, the priest taking no notice of them, nor
they of him.

I was for going in too, when I felt Madame d'O's hand tighten
suddenly on my arm, and then fall from it. Apprised of something
by this, I glanced at the priest's face, catching sight of it by
chance just as his eyes met hers. His face was white--nay it was
ugly with disappointment and rage, bitter snarling rage, that was
hardly human. He grasped her by the arm roughly and twisted her
round without ceremony, so as to draw her a few paces aside; yet
not so far that I could not hear what they said.

"He is not here!" he hissed. "Do you understand? He crossed
the river to the Faubourg St. Germain at nightfall--searching for
her. And he has not come back! He is on the other side of the
water, and midnight has struck this hour past!"

She stood silent for a moment as if she had received a blow--
silent and dismayed. Something serious had happened. I could
see that.

"He cannot recross the river now?" she said after a time. "The
gates--"

"Shut!" he replied briefly. "The keys are at the Louvre."

"And the boats are on this side?"

"Every boat!" he answered, striking his one hand on the other
with violence. "Every boat! No one may cross until it is over."

"And the Faubourg St. Germain?" she said in a lower voice.

"There will be nothing done there. Nothing!"

CHAPTER VII

A YOUNG KNIGHT-ERRANT.

I would gladly have left the two together, and gone straight into
the house. I was eager now to discharge the errand on which I
had come so far; and apart from this I had no liking for the
priest or wish to overhear his talk. His anger, however, was so
patent, and the rudeness with which he treated Madame d'O so
pronounced that I felt I could not leave her with him unless she
should dismiss me. So I stood patiently enough--and awkwardly
enough too, I daresay--by the door while they talked on in
subdued tones. Nevertheless, I felt heartily glad when at
length, the discussion ending Madame came back to me. I offered
her my arm to help her over the wooden foot of the side gate.
She laid her hand on it, but she stood still.

"M. de Caylus," she said; and at that stopped. Naturally I
looked at her, and our eyes met. Hers brown and beautiful,
shining in the light of the lamp overhead looked into mine. Her
lips were half parted, and one fair tress of hair had escaped
from her hood. "M. de Caylus, will you do me a favour," she
resumed, softly, "a favour for which I shall always be grateful?"

I sighed. "Madame," I said earnestly, for I felt the solemnity
of the occasion, "I swear that in ten minutes, if the task I now
have in hand be finished I will devote my life to your service.
For the present--"

"Well, for the present? But it is the present I want, Master
Discretion."

"I must see M. de Pavannes! I am pledged to it," I ejaculated.

"To see M. de Pavannes?"

"Yes."

I was conscious that she was looking at me with eyes of doubt,
almost of suspicion.

"Why? Why?" she asked with evident surprise. "You have
restored--and nearly frightened me to death in doing it--his wife
to her home; what more do you want with him, most valiant knight-
errant?"

"I must see him," I said firmly. I would have told her all and
been thankful, but the priest was within hearing--or barely out
of it; and I had seen too much pass between him and Bezers to be
willing to say anything before him.

"You must see M. de Pavannes?" she repeated, gazing at me.

"I must," I replied with decision.

"Then you shall. That is exactly what I am going to help you to
do," she exclaimed. "He is not here. That is what is the
matter. He went out at nightfall seeking news of his wife, and
crossed the river, the Coadjutor says, to the Faubourg St.
Germain. Now it is of the utmost importance that he should
return before morning--return here."

"But is he not here?" I said, finding all my calculations at
fault. "You are sure of it, Madame?"

"Quite sure," she answered rapidly. "Your brothers will have by
this time discovered the fact. Now, M. de Caylus, Pavannes must
be brought here before morning, not only for his wife's sake--
though she will be wild with anxiety--but also--"

"I know," I said, eagerly interrupting her, "for his own too!
There is a danger threatening him."

She turned swiftly, as if startled, and I turned, and we looked
at the priest. I thought we understood one another. "There is,"
she answered softly, "and I would save him from that danger; but
he will only be safe, as I happen to know, here! Here, you
understand! He must be brought here before daybreak, M. de
Caylus. He must! He must!" she exclaimed, her beautiful
features hardening with the earnestness of her feelings. "And
the Coadjutor cannot go. I cannot go. There is only one man who
can save him, and that is yourself. There is, above all, not a
moment to be lost."

My thoughts were in a whirl. Even as she spoke she began to walk
back the way we had come, her hand on my arm; and I, doubtful,
and in a confused way unwilling, went with her. I did not
clearly understand the position. I would have wished to go in
and confer with Marie and Croisette; but the juncture had
occurred so quickly, and it might be that time was as valuable as
she said, and--well, it was hard for me, a lad, to refuse her
anything when she looked at me with appeal in her eyes. I did
manage to stammer, "But I do not know Paris. I could not find
my way, I am afraid, and it is night, Madame."

She released my arm and stopped. "Night!" she cried, with a
scornful ring in her voice. "Night! I thought you were a man,
not a boy! You are afraid!"

"Afraid," I said hotly; "we Cayluses are never afraid."

"Then I can tell you the way, if that be your only difficulty.
We turn here. Now, come in with me a moment," she continued,
"and I will give you something you will need--and your
directions."

She had stopped at the door of a tall, narrow house, standing
between larger ones in a street which appeared to me to be more
airy and important than any I had yet seen. As she spoke, she
rang the bell once, twice, thrice. The silvery tinkle had
scarcely died away the third time before the door opened
silently; I saw no one, but she drew me into a narrow hall or
passage. A taper in an embossed holder was burning on a chest.
She took it up, and telling me to follow her led the way lightly
up the stairs, and into a room, half-parlour, half-bedroom--such
a room as I had never seen before. It was richly hung from
ceiling to floor with blue silk, and lighted by the soft rays of
lamps shaded by Venetian globes of delicate hues. The scent of
cedar wood was in the air, and on the hearth in a velvet tray
were some tiny puppies. A dainty disorder reigned everywhere.
On one table a jewel-case stood open, on another lay some lace
garments, two or three masks and a fan. A gemmed riding-whip and
a silver-hilted poniard hung on the same peg. And, strangest of
all, huddled away behind the door, I espied a plain, black-
sheathed sword, and a man's gauntlets.

She did not wait a moment, but went at once to the jewel-case.
She took from it a gold ring--a heavy seal ring. She held this
out to me in the most matter-of-fact way--scarcely turning, in
fact. "Put it on your finger," she said hurriedly. "If you are
stopped by soldiers, or if they will not give you a boat to cross
the river, say boldly that you are on the king's service. Call
for the officer and show that ring. Play the man. Bid him stop
you at his peril!"

I hastily muttered my thanks, and she as hastily took something
from a drawer, and tore it into strips. Before I knew what she
was doing she was on her knees by me, fastening a white band of
linen round my left sleeve. Then she took my cap, and with the
same precipitation fixed a fragment of the stuff in it, in the
form of a rough cross.

"There," she said. "Now, listen, M. de Caylus. There is more
afoot to-night than you know of. Those badges will help you
across to St. Germain, but the moment you land tear them off:
Tear them off, remember. They will help you no longer. You will
come back by the same boat, and will not need them. If you are
seen to wear them as you return, they will command no respect,
but on the contrary will bring you--and perhaps me into trouble."

"I understand," I said, "but--"

"You must ask no questions," she retorted, waving one snowy
finger before my eyes. "My knight-errant must have faith in me,
as I have in him; or he would not be here at this time of night,
and alone with me. But remember this also. When you meet
Pavannes do not say you come from me. Keep that in your mind; I
will explain the reason afterwards. Say merely that his wife is
found, and is wild with anxiety about him. If you say anything
as to his danger he may refuse to come. Men are obstinate."

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