ONE HUNDRED COPIES OF 
 
 "LUCA SARTO" 
 
 HAVE BEEN AUTOGRAPHED 
 
 FOR HERBERT FLETCHER 
 
 AND HIS FRIENDS BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 OCTOBER, 1921
 
 
 LUCA SARTO
 
 "What think you of 
 
 it. Madrmoist 
 building" " 
 
 le? Is it not a
 
 LUCA SARTO 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 A HISTORY OF HIS PERILOUS JOURNEY 
 INTO FRANCE IN THE YEAR FOUR 
 TEEN HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-ONE 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES S. BROOKS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1920 
 
 OF CALIF
 
 Copyright, 1920, by 
 THE CENTUBY Co. 
 
 Published, February, 1920
 
 TO 
 JAMES C. BROOKS 
 
 2125637
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 THREE TAPS UPON THE BOARDS ... 3 
 
 I THE WAY THE FOOLERY STARTS 1 1 
 
 II STAIN OF BLOOD 24 
 
 III A MOUNTAIN JOURNEY 35 
 
 IV THE KING S FAVOR 45 
 
 V FROM OUT THE DARK 54 
 
 VI A TREASURE IN THE CUPBOARD ... 63 
 
 VII I AM SUMMONED TO THE KINO . 73 
 
 VIII THE SPIDER 82 
 
 IX LADIES 93 
 
 X CABBAGE IN THE DISH 107 
 
 XI WHEN THE CAT s AWAY 114 
 
 XII I POLISH MY SWORD AND Go A-JouR- 
 
 NEYING 122 
 
 XIII MAISTRO TAKES PASSAGE WITH ME . . 134 
 
 XIV AN INN AT THE CROSSROADS .... 141 
 XV MAISTRO AGAIN 147 
 
 XVI WE TRAVEL SOFTLY . .- . . . .152 
 
 XVII A NEST IN A CAT S EAR 166 
 
 XVIII A HINT FOR MY TOMBSTONE . . . 180 
 XIX IF ADAM HAD KEPT His RIB . . . . 184 
 XX WHAT COMES OF DRINKING FROM Too 
 
 MANY BOTTLES 196
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXI THE POOL OF FRANCE 204 
 
 XXII MAGGOTS OF THE BRAIN 219 
 
 XXIII How THE SMUDGE WAS BLOWN TO Louis 232 
 
 XXIV I AM ASSAILED BY THE LITTLE PINK GOD 242 
 XXV THE DAY OF WONDERS 252 
 
 XXVI THE GOSSIP OF THE TREES .... 258 
 XXVII HERE ARE Two MEN DEAD . . . .263 
 XXVIII THE WIND SHIFTS UNTIL IT BRINGS 
 
 THE RAIN 272 
 
 XXIX THE DICE STILL FALL TO THE DEUCE 
 
 SPOTS 279 
 
 XXX HERE is THE VILLAIN 290 
 
 XXXI AT THE FOOT OF THE WINDING STAIR 
 WAY 296 
 
 XXXII AN ANSWER TO THE RIDDLE .... 312 
 
 XXXIII WHO TRAVELS FAR WILL DISAPPEAR . 324 
 
 XXXIV I TRY A FALL WITH THE KING . . -331 
 XXXV How THE KING S PRAYERS WERE AN 
 SWERED 344 
 
 XXXVI A SONG FOR Two VOICES WITH AC 
 COMPANIMENT 354
 
 LUCA SARTO
 
 THREE TAPS UPON THE BOARDS 
 
 ANIGHT of May in the year fourteen hun 
 dred and seventy-one begins these adven 
 tures in France ; not my first adventure, or my last ; 
 but of interest, for therein I bandied words with a 
 king, and later tripped his royal legs when it 
 served me. I descended, too, into the dungeons 
 at Loches, where his enemies were rotting and I 
 was to have been of them had his purpose carried. 
 And here am I safe in Italy, albeit even after 
 these ten years the dungeon s smell still festers 
 in my nostrils. Few men besides myself have 
 gone down the winding steps, have seen the cage 
 where Cardinal Balue whines all day and night, 
 have felt the damp of underground, and still have 
 returned to the upper world to breathe the wind 
 of it. 
 
 I issued from these adventures with credit. 
 And yet there was one rogue in France, a certain 
 Tristan, the King s headsman, a dirty fellow 
 flecked with warts, who rolled me in the mire 
 and soiled my lace, and he to my shame still lives. 
 
 3
 
 4 Luca Sarto 
 
 Of others who gainstood me, there are two, as I 
 recall, dead by my sword. But my memory in 
 petty matters is not precise. I keep no tapster s 
 score with chalk. 
 
 In these adventures, while I do profess me to 
 God that I tell the general truth, yet I 11 not 
 haggle on all lesser points. There is a prudish 
 scholar who strains upon minutiae, measuring his 
 facts, as it were, with so careful thumb that he be 
 smirches them. Such will plot a city to an inch, 
 as if it were a book for pilgrims. Or he wracks 
 himself whether there were five buttons precisely 
 on the King s shift, and whether his poke hung 
 by a silken thread and the color of it. Or if a 
 slightest point in history is forgotten whether 
 it was of a Tuesday that the Queen came of a 
 jaundice he squints within a dozen folios for 
 a certain reckoning. When the body is dead and 
 wrapped, it s best to go off on other business and 
 not pry within the cerecloth. 
 
 Counter to him, there is the writer who tosses 
 you a sentence with no slightest heed to its truth 
 or falsity. If there is a jig and cadence in the 
 words, it is enough. It matters not to him how 
 he mislead you by his looseness. He flavors a 
 lie, as it were with tiny pinch of truth, as salt
 
 Three Taps Upon the Boards 5 
 
 from can, to give it the taste and tang of verity. 
 If such a writer is set upon by two men, he puts 
 it roundly five, not braggingly to swell himself, 
 but for the deeper zest of him who reads; for the 
 blood stirs more when the odds are great. 
 
 I who write these memoirs am of neither kind. 
 When the matter is of import, I shall hold to the 
 hair-line, so that a scholar may gloss his approval 
 in the margin. Yet in trivial matter I shall allow 
 myself a touch of fancy. It may gratify me, 
 now and then, to throw in an extra oath to spice 
 my page. Or I shall take credit to myself for 
 an instant wit, snapped to the occasion, whereas 
 in truth the words have come to me stale when 
 their use was past. 
 
 Nor shall I always hold myself to exact de 
 scription, so that you shall know the very turn 
 of road where my adventures chanced. If you 
 now enter Loches and seek the stairs where I 
 trailed the lady in the dark, you will have to put 
 a deal of questions. I would as leave a dog kept 
 barking at my heels as that you should whine 
 upon my footsteps. You will be monstrous 
 empty before you smell the bakeshop where I fell 
 upon a brawl, I ve so mixed the streets. 
 
 It were nature, maybe, that you go poking to
 
 6 Luc a Sarto 
 
 the dungeons to find the iron grating that the 
 King looked through when he badgered Jacques; 
 yet there too I shall twist you up. To this very 
 day I can see his grinning face between the irons. 
 Wit enough had King Louis wit to spare until 
 he tried it on Mademoiselle Diane. It was ash 
 then. Sarto is no youngling. His beard is not 
 raw with youth. It has sprouted beyond an easy 
 plucking. Chance these many years has been 
 up and down with him. Yet the memory of this 
 occasion sits deep, with rats gnawing in the pas 
 sage and water dripping from the walls. You 11 
 find that mine is not a tale for candle-light: For 
 if the night wind slaps a shutter while you read, 
 it will set you in a boggle and you 11 not sleep 
 thereafter. 
 
 I 11 not have my affairs like a shrine for 
 mumbling pilgrims. If you think I have left 
 a sign post, it s up awry, purposely to lead you 
 off. I 11 not be held to petty inquisition, like a 
 peddler in a fair with cloths to sell. But in the 
 bigger reckoning you can swear upon me as on 
 a Bible. 
 
 Sarto has read the chroniclers Froissart for 
 one for it is fitting that a man who would write 
 his own memoirs should ground himself in gen-
 
 Three Taps Upon the Boards J 
 
 eral history. And yet although there are 
 cunning facts to be got from him on the whole he 
 likes not this Froissart. For he writes too much 
 of war. One would think that the fair lands 
 of Europe, to a finger s space, had been bruised 
 and trenched with strife. And yet with a song 
 water is carried from the well and cattle low in 
 peace and on many a twilight the quiet kettle 
 sings. The country songs are naught to Frois 
 sart, nor the greetings at the crossroads, nor the 
 friendly cackle at the wayside booth where cross 
 and saint are sold. Tra-la la-la-la! Youth 
 comes wooing across the fields, and there was 
 never yet a comely lass who was not kissed in 
 moonlight. Her lips, since the first winking of 
 the stars, have been an eager target. Her smile 
 spins the lonely compass into port. Pilgrims limp 
 upon the windy hills and count her kiss the 
 journey s end. But Froissart is blind to all this 
 sweeter traffic of the earth. He writes of broil 
 alone crackling bombards and conspiracy and 
 siege. Only when the city tumbles does he find 
 his satisfaction. 
 
 Sarto is of better guidance. Ladies are fairest 
 in the spring jewel and brooch, silk and velvet, 
 an inch of stocking, a bare shoulder in the candle-
 
 8 Luca Sarto 
 
 light. If Sarto does not give these space to your 
 content, he 11 eat sop for a month in penance. 
 
 And here he is writing of a France that rumbled 
 with the quarrels of Burgundy and Brittany, also 
 of the white-faced, thin-shanked Guienne a 
 shriveling, this Guienne, though begot of a king 
 and born four-posted in a palace with a queen in 
 labor all these, mark you, quarreling against 
 King Louis ; until later the smudge blows to open 
 war. And yet Sarto does not prate too long of 
 conspiracy. He throws off, as it were, the cover 
 from the pot and shows you how the mess seethes 
 and boils, but then he claps it on again and does 
 not scald you with the heated fumes. 
 
 For this is no prattle of the great. Not one 
 man shall I lug across my pages because there are 
 orders on his breast, or because his stocking is 
 held by a king s garter. Louis the king I must 
 have, for he is a part of my plot. But these 
 others God s patience no! I ll not have 
 Dunois, although he is a gallant soldier and 
 would grieve on reading my book to think I d 
 slighted him. For he holds me as a friend. 
 
 And I 11 not have Commines, despite that he 
 admires me, and when I saw him last he drank 
 a health to me it was a rare vintage yet de-
 
 Three Taps Upon the Boards 9 
 
 spite his greasy compliment I mistrust him much. 
 He shifts his allegiance too often. First he s 
 lapped and petted by the Duke of Burgundy. 
 Then like a shrewd wanton he sells his favors to 
 the King. He turns east or west, or north or 
 south, and like a windmill he obeys the quick ad 
 vantage of the wind. Charles the Bold, too a 
 forthright fellow with a roaring voice and thick 
 strong legs him I shall leave among the Switz- 
 ers. We shall hear him bawling, but at a dis 
 tance. 
 
 Nor is a woman s smile a passport to my notice. 
 Now and then, as it pleases me, I may throw a 
 lively wrench across my page, just to pass my cup 
 or strap my boots. Or if she be worthy I 11 kiss 
 her behind a curtain. But she will be no more 
 than a trinket and bauble in my book. Of ladies 
 I shall show you only one. 
 
 In this tale I shall please myself. If I wish a 
 man to limp, he 11 limp at a nod from me. When 
 I want a villain, I 11 draw him black beyond the 
 use of nature. Fore God, I 11 smutch him deep, 
 that you be in no doubt. You know me now. 
 
 We shall see, when all is done, how a man fled 
 wisely from his enemies, the Orsini; how he 
 came to France; how later, in good time, he
 
 io Luca Sarto 
 
 wooed and kissed a lady; how, after a night that 
 was candled by stars and danger, the morning 
 sun was witness to their betrothal. I end with 
 priest and blessing. No need of candle then. 
 
 And therefore, if you are not content with what 
 I shall play before you, good e en to you before 
 we start. I 11 have no one sitting by, yawning 
 between his fingers and gazing around empty upon 
 the walls. To any such his twenty centimes will 
 be returned at the wicket. A common juggler 
 will keep him best from nodding. 
 
 Are you set and are you hushed? I 11 now 
 tap thrice upon the boards, as is the players 
 custom, and draw the curtain.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE WAY THE FOOLERY STARTS 
 
 I LL start my history in the murk. A May 
 night begins it a wet night with water 
 in the gutters and rain against the stones. 
 There was a shrill wind this night, the last of the 
 noisy brood of March, which rattled the doors 
 upon the street and slapped the shutters where 
 it found them loose. One would think that the 
 wind had been bibbling since the noon and was 
 now abroad like a drunken reveler on a night of 
 carnival. Were any traveler still upon the street 
 he might expect the swaggering fellow to pluck 
 his coat-tails and swish them in his eyes, or to 
 push him from the wall if he turned a comer 
 sharp. Whereat, the wind went off with saucy 
 tune in search of other winds as drunken as it 
 self, to play their pranks together until the dawn. 
 Yet it was no night for revelry other than the 
 wind s, for it was cold and sharp with dampness. 
 To the west, although the sun had been down 
 but a little while, the sky was already blanketed 
 
 ii
 
 12 Luc a Sarto 
 
 for the night, as if it had gone to bed for warmth 
 and had drawn the gray covers to its chin. 
 
 Into Rouen there had come jolting this night a 
 traveling carriage, while as yet it was hardly dark. 
 It was a lumbering vehicle, slopped with mire, 
 and was hung on straps to ease it in the ruts. In 
 front was a box for the one who drove, with space 
 for another servant at his side. It was a noisy 
 hulk upon the cobbles, and the rumble of it was 
 loud enough to draw a deaf grandam from the 
 settle. As for the passengers it carried, if you 
 had looked hard at it through the dusk you would 
 have seen women s faces at the window, peering 
 out curiously now as they rattle through the town. 
 Mademoiselle Diane Motier and Madame Corday 
 are journeying from Boulogne to Paris, and they 
 will spend the night here at Rouen. 
 
 If you will now take a map and will lay your 
 finger on the English Channel at the strait of 
 Dover, you will find Boulogne. This is where 
 the journey had begun two days since. Beauvais 
 lies on the direct road to Paris, and the carriage 
 in order to make Rouen had been forced to sheer 
 off the shorter road. It cost a day, for the roads 
 were heavy, yet Mademoiselle and Madame 
 had insisted, although it appeared that both of
 
 The Way the Foolery Starts 13 
 
 them were in haste to arrive at Paris and chafed 
 even on a change of horses. When the driver 
 had pointed out how it cranked their course, 
 Mademoiselle had answered shortly that a view 
 of the cathedral was worth the time. There was 
 a holy nail to kiss. 
 
 In Rouen, Jocelyn s inn is of best repute. It 
 is not of fair prospect, being set on a narrow 
 street. It is not the fellow of an Italian inn, 
 yet will do for France. A serving man ran off 
 to fetch Jocelyn, leaving a wench to undo the 
 ladies wraps. There hung a map upon the wall. 
 Mademoiselle drew Madame to it. She sunk 
 her voice so that it fell short of the wench s ear. 
 "See," she said, "how the road from west Nor 
 mandy comes in!" 
 
 And Madame nodded to it. "I trust he comes 
 to-night," she said. "I shall fret until our news 
 is handed on." 
 
 "Ay, Madame," Mademoiselle replied. "We 
 fetch yeast for the cooking. It will stir our raw 
 ness and blow the cover from the pot." 
 
 To this Madame agreed, but put her fingers on 
 her lips, for the wench hung near with itching ears. 
 
 At last, when the inn was settled for the night, 
 there did come a man off the west Norman road.
 
 14 Luca Sarto 
 
 He beat upon the door, although the hour was 
 late and lights were out. Jocelyn, who kept the 
 inn, turned twice in his bed before he gave heed, 
 disjointing the racket from his dreams. Then as 
 the thumping on the door kept up and the whole 
 inn was being roused, he put his fat legs outside 
 the coverings, muttering the while whether honest 
 men could still be up at such an hour. But it was 
 a fellow from the stable who made answer to the 
 summons, blinking through a crack of the out 
 side door and rubbing his knees together to get 
 warmth in them, for they showed beneath his shift 
 and were pimpled with the cold. The wench, 
 too, who had undone the ladies wraps, put her 
 head from an upper window, with her hair loose 
 upon the casement, and her garment clutched at 
 the throat against the rawness. 
 
 So the horseman came in. And Mademoiselle 
 met him on the stairs with a candle, wearing such 
 shift as ladies wear in their own rooms, yet stock 
 inged and in full modesty. Behind her on the 
 landing stood Madame Corday. Mademoiselle 
 shaded the light against the gust and gave a 
 cry of eagerness when she saw him. It appeared 
 to the wench, who lagged behind a curtain and 
 later gossiped of the affair, that she had been
 
 The Way the Foolery Starts 15 
 
 expecting him. But the wench saw little and 
 would not have known the man again, for her own 
 attire was scant, and the wind so twitched her 
 garment from her legs that she dodged behind 
 a door when he came up the stairs. The two 
 ladies and this man were closeted an hour. When 
 he left, it was without turning his head upon the 
 stairs a parting most unlike a lover, the wench 
 thought, for her head had been busy with the 
 matter and she could find no other explanation. 
 
 He came down three steps at a time and jerked 
 his cap close upon his ears. But he did not so 
 much as look back upon Mademoiselle, though 
 she was a pretty picture on the landing, with the 
 candle held above her head so that her arm was 
 bare and with one toe peeping from her sandal 
 like an adventuring mouse. 
 
 He slammed the outside door. Back again 
 he went on the road to western Normandy. It 
 was strange business, and late for the nunnery 
 bell gave the hour. It was the same wench who 
 let him out she had smocked herself the while 
 and she gossiped of it with Jules the stable boy 
 over the embers of the kitchen fire, but both were 
 doubtful as to the meaning of it. If the man 
 had been her lover, it was a cold greeting for his
 
 16 Luca Sarto 
 
 journey. He had but kissed her fingers, which 
 is a slim ritual for love. And a lover does not 
 thump and bawl before a door until he rouse the 
 house. Rather, he comes softly and taps only 
 with his finger tips. These thoughts from the 
 wench, who knew love, in a fashion. Jules had 
 given the man a change of horses and took in 
 payment a silver coin. He and the wench 
 fumbled it in the light that came off the hearth, 
 but it was unknown to them. 
 
 Mademoiselle made no mention at breakfast 
 of the night s interruption, although Jocelyn 
 hinted for an explanation as he served them. "A 
 noisy night, my lady," he said. "I had just 
 dropped off And much more as he fetched 
 the dishes. Sharp after breakfast, Mademoiselle 
 and Madame cloaked themselves for the journey. 
 The driver asked them if they wished to visit 
 the cathedral, to which Mademoiselle said, "To 
 Paris, with all speed!" 
 
 It was two nights beyond Rouen that Made 
 moiselle s carriage entered Saint Denis, which is 
 a mere speck upon the map, a thumb s distance 
 out of Paris. 
 
 The inn of best commodity in Saint Denis is 
 called the Seven Stars. On the steps of the inn
 
 The Way the Foolery Starts 17 
 
 was the landlord, holding down his apron lest the 
 win-d snatch him naked, and tilting his head to 
 meet the blast. At the first rumble of the wheels 
 inside the yard he had kicked a blaze upon the 
 hearth, for the loudness of the wheels bespoke 
 wealth, as traveling carriages are rare. Mayhap 
 it was some one of the court. At this pleasing 
 thought, his mind sought out a very bottle in his 
 cellar. It was to be hoped that the spiders had 
 been diligent, for a cobweb would pop the price 
 to silver. 
 
 Yet now his hopes went down, for he got no 
 further than to say that there had gone a stew 
 upon the fire, by r Lady, that would "make a 
 traveler s tongue waggle with hunger," when 
 Mademoiselle hushed him with a request for only 
 a change of horses. At this the driver blurted 
 that horses legs would serve their present pur 
 pose better than a leg of lamb, no matter what 
 the garnish. It was an old and sorry jest that 
 was stale in Paris. 
 
 Once Mademoiselle put her head to the win 
 dow of the carriage. The landlord was bustling 
 in the yard. "What is the time*?" she asked. 
 
 "An hour, full, beyond sunset. It s a thievish 
 hour, good lady. We ve most uncommon beds."
 
 1 8 Luca Sarto 
 
 How far do you make it to Paris to the 
 Porte Saint Honored" 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle, it is a sorry bit. Two 
 hours at best with sloughs that make it bad by 
 night. It is shorter by day and safer from the 
 thieves. Just last week," he persisted, "a trav 
 eler s throat was cut." 
 
 He said this last with a gesture toward the 
 glow of the hearth fire, for he had craftily set 
 the door ajar. Comfort is a fair siren. 
 
 Mademoiselle s mind was set on Paris, and 
 she waved him off. The harnessing was done. 
 The driver cracked his whip and scattered the 
 stable boys. Out they swept from the yard. 
 
 The night had fallen black. The only light, 
 except for a rare window, came from the lantern 
 between the wheels. 
 
 They were well on their way to Paris before 
 either spoke. Madame Corday first. "Diane," 
 she said, "John of Bourbon must sit late for us 
 to-night." 
 
 "Ay, Madame. But it will be less than an 
 hour now." 
 
 "And Duke Francis," Madame Corday con 
 tinued; "do you think by now he has our mes 
 sage?"
 
 The Way the Foolery Starts 19 
 
 "Brittany, Madame, is far off, yet it s likely." 
 
 There was silence for a moment. 
 
 "Diane, we move on ice." 
 
 "We must take care, then, that we do not 
 slip." This from Mademoiselle. 
 
 They entered Paris by the Porte Saint Honore, 
 a gloomy pile with not a light upon its face. 
 And yet the gate was not closed. It gaped 
 blackly. One would have thought the hulk were 
 sound asleep and that its jaw had fallen open. 
 
 A king s archer, who had been screening him 
 self from the wind behind a buttress, ordered 
 them to stop. He mounted the step and thrust 
 a lantern inside the carriage with a demand for 
 papers. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Diane Motier and Madame 
 Corday, " he read, scratching his head to stir his 
 ingenuity, for he was an imperfect scholar. "You 
 and you !" pointing with his dirty finger. "And 
 you travel from Boulogne to Paris, with a stop at 
 Rouen. Motier Motier 1 ?" He repeated the 
 name slowly, as though it stirred his memory. 
 Then he turned his back and bawled to the 
 guardroom. 
 
 Another archer appeared, but of better rank, 
 and shoved the other from the steps. This second
 
 2O Jjuca Sarlo 
 
 archer looked at the papers paused a bit, then 
 smirked with a show of manners. "Mademoiselle 
 and Madame are safe returned, I trust," was all 
 he said. He held up the light and thrust it in 
 their face*. He then peered into the corners of 
 the carriage, withdrew his light and clambered 
 from the step. "It is enough," he said. "Drive 
 
 on! 
 
 If Mademoiselle had turned sharply as her 
 hones started and had lookrd through the win 
 dow at the back, she would have noticed that this 
 archer, who but a moment since had grinned his 
 farewell to her, was now nowhere to be seen. 
 Light came from the guardroom door, yet the man 
 was not in the range of it. 
 
 There was, however, a new shadow from the 
 lantern betwren thr whirls, a daub of black upon 
 the pavement, as though somr one wrrr swinging 
 by the knres, head down, from the straps beneath. 
 
 Yet Mademoiselle was unaware that she hail 
 taken on another passenger. 
 
 The carriage had gone scarcely two hundred 
 paces ancl had come to the thicker mesh of 
 streets when on a sharp turn a wheel sunk into 
 a deeper rut than common in the cobbles. Partly 
 it was the jolt and |>artly it was the weight of
 
 The Way the Foolery Starts 21 
 
 the rogue who swung beneath, but whichever 
 was the cause the great strap snapf>cd and the 
 carriage pitched ufxm its side. 
 
 Madame Corday was the first on her feet. 
 "God s wounds!" she cried; "here is bad busi 
 ness! Then in a lower tone to Mademoiselle, 
 "John of Bourbon will fret for our coming." 
 
 Marcel the driver was nosing at the wheel. 
 Mademoiselle called to him. "Marcel," she 
 asked, "what is the time of night ?" 
 
 "Oh, lady, as shrewdly as I can guess it lacks 
 three hours of midnight." 
 
 "And how far do you make it to the Hotel 
 Bourbon? Is it fit going afoot?" 
 
 Marcel scratched his head. "No, lady, it s 
 half the width of Paris. It would not be safe." 
 He hesitated and glanced along the dark house 
 fronts. "It s likely that there is a leather mer 
 chant hereabouts. If I had a leather thong I 
 could mend the strap." 
 
 "Marcel," said Mademoiselle, "we are pushed 
 for time-. How long will it take?" 
 
 "A half hour, lady." He wrung the water 
 from his hat. "Fie, what a night! I must find 
 a place for Madame and Mademoiselle to sit." 
 He called the lackey to him. "Stand you here,
 
 22 Luca Sarto 
 
 boy! There is a glimmer down the lane. Some 
 one is not yet a-bed. If the house looks well, 
 I 11 ask for shelter." 
 
 The ladies waited under the cover of a pent 
 roof, hard against the wall. It was plain they 
 chafed at the delay. Mademoiselle s restless toe 
 kept tapping at the pavement. "Madame," she 
 said, "John of Bourbon will fret at our delay." 
 
 Madame nodded, but held her tongue. 
 
 It was several minutes before Marcel returned, 
 and then he brought a man with him. By the 
 lightness of his step he was young, by the flash of 
 the lantern he was handsome no mincing pretti- 
 ness for kissing in the moonlight, but a bold, 
 straight nose and a cheek that was browned in the 
 sun. He was wrapped in a great cloak against 
 any further discovery of his person. He came in 
 front of the ladies, and after the briefest glance 
 bowed low to Mademoiselle. "Ah, Madame and 
 Mademoiselle are good to a poor artist." It 
 was a pleasant voice touched with an accent that 
 was not French. "They honor my poor roof. 
 Perchance the name of Luca Sarto is known to 
 you*? It is my own, Mademoiselle. I am an 
 Italian artist living now in Paris paintings 
 goldwork a poet, in a fashion, when the wind is
 
 The Way the Foolery Starts 23 
 
 south. Ah, I hoped that Mademoiselle had 
 heard of me. My thanks, dear lady. So foul a 
 night the wind ! It races to catch the winds of 
 winter. Mother of God, it s ill that you stand 
 here in the rain. Hell itself blows raw in March. 
 Come, my fire blazes ! You will see how snug it 
 is inside." 
 
 Then, as the ladies hesitated, "Come," he 
 added. "It s on these windy nights that witches 
 are abroad. They ride on goats to a devil s sab 
 bath. It s an ill sight to catch one against the 
 moon. Will Mademoiselle be careful of the 
 pools in our broken pavement!" 
 
 With another courtly bow he led the way, and 
 Madame and Mademoiselle followed. 
 
 But presently Madame Corday plucked Made 
 moiselle s sleeve and drew her back. "Will John 
 of Bourbon wait 1 ?" she whispered. 
 
 "Ay, Madame, he will. Our message cracks 
 his enemies. But keep silent before this Italian !" 
 
 Meanwhile, lest you be curious to know 
 whether the rascal who swung upon the strap 
 broke his neck in the jounce, I 11 tell you short 
 that his neck did not so break. In the bawling 
 and pickle of the accident he got off in the dark 
 ness and no one even saw him go.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 STAIN OF BLOOD 
 
 HERE is a leap. I choose to draw your notice 
 back to Italy and to recite those things that 
 concern me in a proper order. And first, as you 
 know, it is Luca Sarto who writes, which should 
 be enough for introduction, as the meanest pilgrim 
 into Rome has stood agape before my canvasses. 
 But how comes it that to France I went adven 
 turing? France is a far-off land, and the Alps 
 stand between. Nor has it gold to offer like the 
 kingdoms of the East. 
 
 It was a quarrel to avenge a comrade that 
 sent me traveling. Giovanni, who is one of the 
 Orsini, had murdered my friend Andrea. And 
 I, coming on Giovanni in my anger when his 
 fingers were still red, slew him in payment. As 
 the Orsini are powerful, a pother was raised, and 
 I fled to France. Yet, of a truth, in me was a 
 wandering spirit apt for pretext. It is cobblers 
 only that can always sit at home. There is 
 nobler itch in Sarto. If a man were not made 
 
 24
 
 Stain of Blood 25 
 
 to walk about and see the whole fair earth, of 
 what use is such cunning jointry in his legs ? 
 Yet I was a fugitive with a warrant over me. 
 
 Now mark the exact manner of this quarrel 
 and flight! 
 
 In the spring of fourteen seventy-one my 
 revered friend Francesco della Rovere was car 
 dinal-priest of Saint Pietro in Vincoli, yet his am 
 bition still ranged. The title and the office were 
 but a ladder for his eager foot. In years he was 
 fifty-seven twenty-eight years older than myself 
 a man of learning, and heads wagged yet over 
 his "Precious Blood," recently put forth. Such 
 things are far from me. I read its title page, 
 then went out and hummed a tune. But schol- 
 ards liked it and bleared their eyes on it. 
 
 In the spring of fourteen seventy-one, infirmi 
 ties were coming hard on the Pope, Paul II. 
 Whereat talk buzzed concerning his successor. 
 With this buzzing, lay heed to this, Cardinal 
 Rovere s ears were tickling, for his ambition lay 
 that way. 
 
 Rovere had a nephew, Andrea of my own age. 
 He was in the lust of youth, and it was a gay and 
 painted world he saw. His throat was dry, his 
 ear alert for the flapping of a petticoat. And for
 
 26 Luca Sarto 
 
 a time I followed his lead. If a pretty woman 
 smiled I pushed for an advantage. The dainty 
 creatures are prudes at noon, yet by persuasion in 
 the dusk they mend their stiffness. Nor did I 
 spare the bottle. This is a time to be slighted 
 over, for in it I became a toss-pot. And yet, in 
 this respect, I was much like other men. 
 
 This young Andrea was a man much gone in 
 drink, with lewdness in his eye a man apt for 
 tryst and whistle, pudgy of wit in the dawn, and 
 yet with a wineish sparkle when the lights were 
 lit. But still some fascination held me to him. 
 
 And now a word of these Orsini. A mere flick 
 of notice, for of all the Roman families this is 
 the best known and the strongest. If you go 
 back a thousand years you 11 find the Orsini in 
 high office, both of church and state. And al 
 ways you will find them proud of race, insolent, 
 and pricking for quarrel. So, when Cardinal 
 Rovere s name was hummed about as a successor 
 to Pope Paul, they showed a deal of scorn that 
 one who had been a poor Franciscan, and whose 
 family came from nothing, should have such 
 soaring thoughts. Was Peter s chair, they said, 
 no better than a roadside bench for the sunning 
 of a beggar monk? One of the Orsini, they
 
 Stain of Blood 27 
 
 thought, would wear better the triple crown. 
 Any bachelor of the family could stretch his toe 
 with easier grace for a pilgrim s kiss. 
 
 Consider Andrea now, Rovere s nephew, a 
 young blade who tried to put himself in fashion, 
 who tagged his cuffs with lace and dangled on 
 society my friend, God help him ! With what 
 slight the Orsini looked on him whelped, they 
 sneered, at a peddler s bench ! Andrea bore it by 
 biting on his nails, yet his spleen mounted. 
 
 Andrea and I and many others, including cer 
 tain of the Orsini, and, in particular, this Gio 
 vanni, prefect of Rome, had gone to dine on 
 invitation at the vineyards at Trastevere. To 
 me the Orsini made a show of warmth, for they 
 smirk and fawn on genius. But to Andrea 
 they were, as usual, sullen, as if a common fellow 
 had got in to breathe their air. As this cool 
 ing did not freeze him, presently they fell to an 
 amused contempt a lifting of the eyebrows. 
 Such banter and wit as they passed him across 
 the table stung with deep malice. Andrea had 
 borne their scorn before, but to-night it chafed 
 him beyond the common. Presently his noisy 
 tongue broke loose. He cried out to Giovanni 
 that when Cardinal Rovere had been made pope,
 
 28 Luca Sarto 
 
 Giovanni would find himself without an office, 
 for he Nephew Andrea coveted the post of 
 prefect. 
 
 It was a fool who made the boast. Wit must 
 be met by wit, not anger. Finally I plucked him 
 to his chair. Giovanni reddened, bit his lip, but 
 lapsed to sullenness. Thus went a stormy eve 
 ning. At last I prevailed on Andrea to leave. 
 First he swore an oath he would not; then fore 
 God, he would, for there were swine at table, he 
 said. So he left, but in going he let slip an hour 
 and place where he had appointed a meeting with 
 some woman. He shook his fist toward Gio 
 vanni. "I go to better company," he said. I 
 clapped him on the mouth and led him off. It 
 was a scowling room we left. 
 
 We came into Rome, traversing the Ponte 
 quarter. Here Andrea said he was not returning 
 to his house, as he was going elsewhere for his 
 amusement. At the word he was gone, and I 
 came on alone. I was three quarters out of 
 liquor and steady in the legs and wit, and I kept 
 a tolerable course across the city. It was early, 
 as it had passed midnight by not more than an 
 hour. There were several hours to rustle in, if 
 one had the mind, before the crowing of the cock.
 
 Stain of Blood 29 
 
 And now I was coming near where lived a cer 
 tain courtezan named Fulvia. Another hundred 
 steps, it was so near, would have brought me to 
 the lights, when behind in the darkness I heard 
 horses. 
 
 I stepped aside and drew me close, and as the 
 horsemen passed I peered at them. One was 
 Giovanni, the same with whom Andrea had quar 
 reled. Me he saw not. He stopped at Fulvia s 
 door and ran in. I paused. At the window 
 were lights, and there was a sound of merriment. 
 Then I went in, for I had no quarrel with 
 Giovanni. 
 
 On the threshold I met Messer Gabino. He 
 is one who admires me much, and so he stopped. 
 "Sarto," he cried, and loosed a stream of praise 
 upon me for a Madonna that I had then but fin 
 ished. But I hushed him up, for repetition makes 
 praise tiresome. As I was poking here and there, 
 to see what company was about, again I saw 
 Giovanni. He was .in earnest talk with one they 
 call Jacopo, but, as I approached, he masked his 
 mouth with his hands and looked hard through 
 me. Jacopo I knew, and, knowing, liked him 
 not, for he is a rogue who sells himself when vile 
 work is needed. He has been a glove that has
 
 30 Luca Sarto 
 
 kept blood from staining many a gentleman s 
 hand. And you have an enemy, he 11 find 
 occasion, if you but whisper the name and meet 
 his price. 
 
 "Oh, ho," I thought, and knew that mischief 
 was afoot. But not deeply did I mark it then, nor 
 harness it with Andrea, for such things are fre 
 quent, and one cannot always be starting with 
 excitement. 
 
 I sat down and ordered red wine and a board 
 of chess men. I was puzzling on the moves that 
 check the rey and was pushing my castles here 
 and there, mumbling to myself, when a bit of easy 
 lace and powder perched on the arm of my chair. 
 
 "Monsieur," she said, and put her fingers in my 
 beard to get my attention. 
 
 "Honey love," I answered roughly, "I m hard 
 in thought." And I pushed her off. 
 
 But she was a pretty painted thing with bare 
 white shoulder. God knows I am no churl. I 
 took her on my knee. "What now, my dear*?" 
 I said, when I had made her comfortable. 
 
 But she was serious. "Monsieur," she whis 
 pered in my ear, "I fear that there is trouble for to 
 night." 
 
 "And how?" I asked.
 
 Stain of Blood 31 
 
 Whereupon she told me that she had shared a 
 bottle of wine with Jacopo but a half hour since 
 and that Giovanni had come by. He had dropped 
 the name of Andrea while talking with Jacopo, 
 and then had named a street and house. This 
 was in low talk, and yet she had heard. "There 
 will be foulness on the streets to-night," was her 
 ending. 
 
 I jumped up, everything sorting with what she 
 had said, and ran out. There might still be time. 
 I knew the house where Andrea had gone, and 
 it was there I went. There were no lights show 
 ing, nor had I thought there would be. There 
 was no need of taper for his entertainment. I 
 had no desire to thump upon the door, and rouse 
 him from his punkling. Nor did I wish to wait 
 like a footman. I was irresolute on the step, 
 when I heard the sound of voices at a distance on 
 the river bank. I saw men moving there. 
 
 On the chance that they might be Giovanni 
 and his crew, I drew my sword for readiness and 
 slipped along in the shadow of the buildings in 
 their direction. I came quite close and peered 
 upon them, undiscovered, from a recess. A white 
 horse stood with hind quarters to the water, and 
 on the very margin were three men. As I looked,
 
 32 Luca Sarto 
 
 one of them pointed to the stream, where a dark 
 object showed in the shallow water. It was 
 Giovanni who turned and faced me. "It s ill, 
 Sarto," he said, "that you come here to-night." 
 
 "It s ill," I cried, "when three curs pitch upon 
 one man. Do I see Andrea s body*?" 
 
 "The fellow s insult stung," said Giovanni. 
 
 "You pestered him and got your due." 
 
 Giovanni grinned. "And Andrea got his," he 
 said. "But make way, Sarto! I ve no quarrel 
 with you." 
 
 "So?" I cried. I stepped forward quickly 
 and slapped his cheek. 
 
 Giovanni angered and cried out. "I ve given 
 one swimming lesson here to-night, Sarto, but I 11 
 give another while my hand is in." 
 
 He drew his sword and lunged upon me. I 
 parried the thrust. Then I drove against him 
 until I forced him to the water s edge. There 
 was never yet an Orsini that could fight with 
 Sarto, and I struck him down. His two com 
 panions had gone running at the first touch. This 
 happened near the bridge of Saint Angelo, where 
 scavengers discharge refuse in the river. 
 
 Near by was a boat tied to the bank, and on
 
 Stain of Blood 33 
 
 top of a load of timber lay a fellow upon his 
 back. I shook him and found that he was awake. 
 He was a boatman and had been crouching there 
 against discovery. I questioned him. He had 
 been awakened, so he said, by the coming of a 
 man. First this man had looked all about as 
 though to make sure that no one was near. Then 
 the man made a sign. Whereupon from a narrow 
 street alongside the Hospital of San Girolamo two 
 men led a horse. Across the crupper hung the 
 body of a man, the head dangling one way, the 
 feet the other. Backing the horse to the river, 
 two of the men took the body, head and feet, and 
 with a great swing flung it far out into the stream. 
 It was a dirty bit of work, he said, but so often 
 such things happened on the bank that it would 
 not have disturbed his rest. As long as a body 
 is fresh dead, he said, it mattered not. 
 
 Now things came tumbling in my brain. Gio 
 vanni and Jacopo had come on Andrea somewhere 
 on the streets, and my friend was dead. But 
 Giovanni was dead, too. The anger of the 
 Orsini would not soon cool. I had lighted a hot 
 fire. It would singe me if I stayed about. I 
 must set upon my travels.
 
 34 Luca Sarto 
 
 I went to Cardinal Rovere Andrea s uncle 
 and burst upon him as he was bent upon his 
 writing. With my grief I wracked his ears. It 
 was in the dawn that I hurried out of Rome, 
 bound for France.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A MOUNTAIN JOURNEY 
 
 IN the dawn we set out for France I and my 
 faithful servant Michel. I had ample gold to 
 meet the cost of the journey and I took also cer 
 tain drawings of my goldwork, on the chance that 
 I might set up a shop in Paris. These drawings 
 I wrapped in an extra shift, together with hose, 
 against breakage and raveling. I tossed the 
 bundle to Michel to tie upon his saddle. The 
 gold I secured myself. Also I took a letter 
 which Cardinal Rovere had written for me to 
 King Louis XI of France. "King Louis," he 
 had said, "is a niggard to the arts, but he has a 
 long nose- for the Papacy. Doubtless a rumor 
 has already got to France how Paul declines in 
 health, and the same rumor sets me up. You 
 may be sure that Louis will not skimp his wel 
 come." It seemed sound reasoning, and I stuffed 
 the letter carefully in my boot. 
 
 I mounted and beckoned to Michel to follow 
 me. Knowing his honesty, I told him what had 
 
 ?5
 
 36 Luca Sarto 
 
 chanced the night before. He gave a long 
 whistle. "The Orsini? His kinsmen will be 
 testy. Will they not follow us?" 
 
 "It s likely enough," I answered. "We 
 must n t lag. When danger clucks at the reins, 
 it s well to trot." 
 
 Michel rode for a while in silence. But if a 
 tongue is hung for babbling like Michel s, it 
 needs but a jounce to start it. "Master," he 
 said, "where is this Paris where we go? I ve 
 heard of the place, but I know not where it is." 
 
 "Dunce!" I said, and gestured loosely to the 
 north and west. "Have you no learning? It s 
 beyond Milan and beyond Bern two weeks at 
 least. It s hard against the western ocean. 
 Methinks it s on the sea." 
 
 As yet scarcely any one in Rome was abroad 
 for the day. We had now come to the edge of 
 the city and were passing a chemist s shop, where 
 a fellow was taking down the shutters for the 
 day. "Michel," I said, "see if they keep flint- 
 wort in the shop and bring out six ounces of it! 
 It s chillish, mayhap, in France, and the apothe 
 caries there may not have these simples." 
 
 We were a mile beyond the shop when I no 
 ticed that one of the coins which Michel had
 
 A Mountain Journey 37 
 
 taken in change was clipped. I showed it to him 
 upon my palm. "Michel," I said, "the dishon 
 est whelp has cheated you." 
 
 Michel was hot with anger and he fumbled with 
 his dagger. "I 11 score him off," he blurted. 
 
 "Peace, gull !" I said. "It s a good mile back. 
 I can repair the loss. I 11 pass the coin at 
 dinner." 
 
 We trotted on. 
 
 It s a lean journey into France. On the 
 fourth night we came to Milan. God knows that 
 I am no centaur. We had come pelting here so 
 fast that I was horse-sore. Rubbed myself with 
 greasy stuff to ease my joints. Tossed all night. 
 Up early next day, fretted with my bed. To lay 
 my peevishness for I had been snapped at all 
 night by bugs I bought myself a red brocade 
 fresh from Constantinople, much the fashion. I 
 wound it about my waist and let the tasseled 
 ends hang down along my leg. I tricked myself 
 dainty and walked around the town. Sarto is a 
 pretty figure. A lady smiled at me from a case 
 ment, but her nose was snub and I kept upon 
 my way. Here at Milan we lay off a day, while 
 I bought myself a sword of the Negroli. No 
 tidings of the Orsini.
 
 38 Luca Sarto 
 
 The next night we lay on the shore of Como, 
 having tiaveled in a drench all day. I hung my 
 garments at the kitchen stove and put my boots 
 beneath the oven, rousing out a sleepy cat. "Has 
 the flood come again?" I asked. "Forty such 
 days and we d need an ark." 
 
 The inn-keeper was gloomy. "It drowns our 
 crops," he said. "There s a usurer, a Jew, lately 
 buried in consecrated ground. It s rained since 
 they laid him in." 
 
 "You 11 get no sun until he s rotted," I an 
 swered. 
 
 But the inn-keeper brightened. "It is not so," 
 he said. "There is a party formed to-night to 
 dig up the corpse and toss it across the fence. To 
 morrow the wind will shift." 
 
 He set out spaghetti and tomatoes. I threw 
 back my head and made a meal. 
 
 I know not how many days lie between Milan 
 and Bern, but I do know that these long days in 
 the saddle were not to my stomach. They 
 pinched my eagerness and set me gazing with 
 sullen thoughts across my horse s tail toward 
 Rome, which is the city of my heart. Had 
 Paradise been beyond a forward turn with angels 
 piping, I would still have been indifferent.
 
 A Mountain Journey 39 
 
 Gaston de Foix in his book commends men to 
 riding. Whoso rides, he says, flees from the seven 
 deadly sins and comes to Paradise. If this be 
 so, Sarto is now seven jouncing days at least on 
 the road to his salvation. 
 
 The country of the Switzers is awesome. The 
 mountains peep at heaven. There s snow laid 
 by to stock the winter for a thousand years. 
 Michel is a sorry gawk with craning up his 
 neck. 
 
 It was after many days with sweat and dirt 
 upon them, and flea-bit nights, that we came to 
 the monastery of Father Paul. This merits more 
 than a word. It stands in a high valley. Long 
 before sight of it, I knew its nearness by the 
 clappering of its bell. For an hour I had trav 
 eled at the sound. The bell was of marvelous 
 soft tongue. Such clappering puts me in a pious 
 mood. There was an older time, far back, when 
 men were not mad with whirl and stir. It was 
 in such quieter age these bells were cast. 
 
 A sweeter mood came on me. I crossed my 
 self and clucked to my horse, for we were at last 
 come upon the level of the monastery, with a 
 brawling stream below us. We now went all 
 four ways upon the crooked road. It was nearly
 
 4-O Luca Sarto 
 
 sunset, and my shadow galloped on ahead, im 
 patient of my pilgrim s pace. 
 
 There was the sweat of a weary day on me, 
 scarce dried now in the colder evening wind. I 
 knew what foul inns are commonly met in this 
 mountain country. And here was a smoke arising 
 from the kitchen chimney of a monastery. Spits 
 and kettles were down helow hissing with the 
 dinner, and smell of stew and herb. Plates were 
 set up to warm. There were sheep, too, upon the 
 hillside, and to my mind came a hot fancy of a 
 leg of lamb with taste of caper. Also, where 
 thistles grew so thick, there must be a drink con 
 cocted of them. It s no true monk, who cannot 
 distil nectar from a wayside weed. His thirsty 
 legs have searched the mountains. Man is di 
 vine, God knows, yet when twilight falls it s his 
 belly that sings praise the loudest. When the 
 night creeps up, I make a steaming dish my altar. 
 If there be any Pater Noster, it is short. And if 
 the meat is savory lest my spoon be hurried I 
 hold the Nunc Dimittis off an hour. 
 
 I followed my shadow through the convent gate. 
 
 A monk appeared, with Deo Gratias at sight of 
 me; for it is the pleasing custom on the alighting 
 of a stranger, to offer thanks that it is permitted
 
 A Mountain Journey 41 
 
 to serve his needs. Then he ran off to find the 
 abbot; not fast, for fatness had left him but a 
 waddle. It was good token of the food. 
 
 The monks were just back from the fields and 
 now had gone to the refectory. They are the 
 white monks, called the Cistercian. The refec 
 tory was quite distant, yet I could hear the 
 jostling of their knives and the Latin that was 
 read to them. 
 
 A brother hospitaller now led off my horse, 
 also Michel and his. As for myself, Father Paul 
 sent greetings, with request that I seek him, 
 where he pruned his hedges. 
 
 Now it lies in the heart of this history that 
 King Louis of France was a spider, and that he 
 practiced later his spider s ways on Sarto. That 
 Sarto came off safe was the result of his wit and 
 skill, but also it resulted from his knowledge of 
 spiders. This knowledge Sarto got from Father 
 Paul while he pruned his hedge. Of the garden 
 spiders, he learned, it s the young only that spin 
 their webs by day. When paunched and wise 
 with years, they spin in the dark, secretly, that 
 their victims may be unaware what snares are laid 
 across the thoroughfares of night. 
 
 This from Father Paul. Before this lesson, I
 
 42 Luca Sarto 
 
 had looked upon the spider withoat abhorrence of 
 its villainy, but merely as a nasty bug with 
 wonder, chiefly, why Noah had let it on the ark. 
 If Noah had been more careful on the sailing day 
 what animals were coming up the plank, there s 
 many a pest would have been drowned. A cer 
 tain pest that bit me in the inns is horrid witness 
 to Noah s lack of care. 
 
 I found Father Paul beside his hedge, but, be 
 fore I could utter a word of food or bed, he drew 
 me to his rosemary and bade me see the enginery 
 of his spiders. They spin before dusk, the 
 younger ones, and every day for many years 
 Father Paul had watched them, cramming his 
 head with minute observation. 
 
 "Your banded spider," he began, holding me 
 empty-stomached to his words, "fills a space of 
 about four palms width." Whereat he stretched 
 forth his brown hands. "At random, it appears 
 to spin, darting here and there, touching one point 
 and then another. And yet, behold its web, 
 made to a nicety and planned, Mon Dieu, with 
 deadly certainty." 
 
 And yet, athwart my zeal for knowledge, there 
 came from an open kitchen door the sound of 
 frying onions. At this my attention sagged.
 
 A Mountain Journey 43 
 
 Here was a siren. There was need of thick 
 stuffing for the ears to keep such temptation from 
 their crannies. And though to Father Paul s 
 words I tried to lash myself, like Ulysses to his 
 mast, still it was kitchenwards I cocked my ear. 
 Though I had been born brother to Ulysses, such 
 sounds had set me wavering. 
 
 But thus much I learned: The spider that is 
 crafty spins his web by night, and behind its ran 
 dom masonry is premeditated guile. 
 
 You will mark later how Louis, King of 
 France, spread his web. 
 
 It was only a few days after leaving the mon 
 astery of Father Paul that we turned an elbow of 
 the mountains and saw the country of France 
 stretched below us in the sun. Besanc/m Dijon 
 -Tonnerre Joigny a few cities out of many 
 Sens still we plodded on. 
 
 "Michel," I said, "where does this Paris skulk 1 ? 
 It is a foolish thing that a city should set itself 
 so far off when idle land is nearer Italy." I bade 
 him look to my doublet. "I m fouled like a 
 thief. I m falling into tatters. My purse grows 
 limp like a dog s ear." 
 
 And now at last we came to Paris. So low 
 were our fortunes fallen by this time that we were
 
 44 Luca Sarto 
 
 forced to range a bout the city to find lodging 
 inside our means. Finally, when it was already 
 dark on the second day of search we took a room 
 in a poor lane along the river. "We 11 sell our 
 horses on the morrow, Michel, and get me a 
 cloak and doublet. I cannot go to King Louis 
 like a beggar. Good e en, my lad. To-night 
 I 11 sleep."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE KING S FAVOR 
 
 ON the third day after my arrival in Paris I 
 sought King Louis. I was amazed by the 
 foulness of the palace, for my expectation was 
 tuned by the magnificence of Rome. I handed 
 Cardinal Rovere s letter to a chamberlain with a 
 request that he give it to the King to read. The 
 chamberlain, who was a dirty fellow, bespittled 
 down his front, tapped the letter questioningly. 
 There was not much silver in my poke, but I rat 
 tled it. "If I get a fair answer," I said, "we shall 
 all profit." The chamberlain grinned and bore 
 the letter off. 
 
 I set myself to wait upon a bench that ran 
 along the wall. There were a dozen others, 
 mean fellows for the most part. However, as 
 I was myself smirched with travel, despite my 
 new cloak and doublet, I may have appeared no 
 better; although I could have smelled no worse. 
 Indeed, as every one but myself was old and 
 broken, we looked not unlike a row of pensioners 
 
 45
 
 46 Luca Sarto 
 
 outside a holy-house; needing to complete the 
 picture only pans and baskets for the bread and 
 broken meats to be given out. It was a rare 
 occasion when our members changed. At such 
 times, when one moved out or another in, it was 
 as if a slight ripple went over our company, which 
 otherwise was as scummed and stagnant as a pool. 
 
 At intervals an attendant appeared, and just 
 so often I complained of the delay. It s the 
 squeaky wheel that gets the grease. 
 
 For three mornings I sat there until my legs 
 twitched with impatience, and then my answer 
 came. The chamberlain entered the room as I 
 was nodding. 
 
 "Luca Sarto?" he asked. 
 
 "What few bones are left," I replied. "The 
 meat s gone off." 
 
 "A message from the King." At this he 
 handed me a scroll. 
 
 He smirked and displayed his yellow teeth. 
 
 "Methinks," I answered sourly, "I m bid to 
 dine. I m smutched for company, but I accept." 
 The message, however, was above my hope. 
 
 There was much flourish at the start of the 
 scroll, which I mumbled through, but the kernel 
 was this: On me an artist of whom he heard
 
 The King s Favor 47 
 
 great things, and also a friend of Cardinal 
 Rovere to whom he sent his kindest greetings 
 (amico nostro carissimo} on me the King was 
 pleased to confer a building known as the Palais 
 Saint Louis, as a workshop and a lodgment, in 
 the hope that I migfyt consider Paris as my home. 
 And for the ovens and jewels that I would need 
 in my work as goldsmith, his treasurer would 
 give me gold. 
 
 I turned to the chamberlain for an explanation 
 of my sudden fortune, for it was even beyond 
 my hope. His grin was proof that I had come 
 into the favor of the King. 
 
 "This Palais Saint Louis ?" I asked; "what is 
 it?" 
 
 "An ancient building," he replied, "that even 
 now was the home of Oliver de Bourges." 
 
 "Do I move in on top of this Oliver*? Are we 
 to sleep two a-bed?" I asked. 
 
 "You 11 not see Oliver. He has gone off." 
 
 The chamberlain now gave me a purse. Yet 
 itch was so written on his face, that I gave him 
 back two pieces from it. Also I gave coins to 
 the pensioners on the bench, as a comrade should 
 who has come to fortune. I left them grinning 
 on their palms.
 
 48 Luca Sarto 
 
 The chamberlain and I set out together to find 
 my new home. However, as my stomach was 
 queasy for food I had been rumbling like a 
 wagon on a bridge we went by way of a certain 
 bakeshop where, that morning when I had lacked 
 their price, I had seen dajnties displayed. I 
 have a tooth for sweets and I stuffed me full. 
 
 Around the corner from this bakeshop is the 
 Rue Saint Honore, a broad street with merchants 
 wares upon it. Being now so opulent I went into 
 one shop to inquire for a cloth that hung in the 
 window it was a fine red that would have set 
 me off but the chamberlain was so sour upon 
 the delay and fretted so while I squinted on the 
 fabric, that I marked the place for a later visit, 
 and came off. 
 
 I did, however, leave my measure for a pair of 
 boots. " Fore God," I said, for the chamber 
 lain was biting on his nails and spitting them 
 about, while he nagged me to hurry, " fore God, 
 you d have me barefoot on the cobbles. It will 
 take but a moment to get the markings of my 
 foot." 
 
 We soon turned down the Rue de la Petite 
 Maison, at the end of which we found the Palais 
 Saint Louis. It is a narrow street with Gothic
 
 The King s Favor 49 
 
 buildings falling forward on it. I ve seen dogs 
 run as devious a course, thrusting their noses into 
 courtyards and down steps to cellar doors, sniffing 
 for the city s offal. Of a truth, to get the smell 
 of the street a dog s nose is not needed on a 
 wettish night. 
 
 I found, however, the Palais Saint Louis con 
 formable to my needs, though large beyond 
 necessity. Of chief value was a great room on 
 the ground level, where already I marked the 
 place where my ovens would stand. Beyond this 
 room lay others suitable for my bedroom and for 
 that of Michel. Were other servants needed, or 
 artizans for my work, they might perch upstairs. 
 Having expressed my satisfaction to the chamber 
 lain, who all this while tagged me at the elbow, 
 I arranged with him to send to the sty where 
 Michel was to be found. 
 
 The rest of the day I went about in the busi 
 ness of getting ovens made. It is cunning work 
 as a slattern will foul them. Also, I sought out 
 jewels and metals and what prices were asked. 
 Here the King s treasurer was of service and 
 helped me to a number of rubies and emeralds of 
 good quality. Nor did I forget how smirched 
 I was. I had pinched myself when I bought
 
 50 Luca Sarto 
 
 the cloak and doublet, so I gave them to Michel. 
 To replace them I went among the better shops 
 and ordered new clothes of a plum color. Also, 
 I bought the red fabric that I told you of edging 
 the merchant off a bit and left it to be cut and 
 fitted to me. It would set me off on Sundays. 
 
 So tricked, I would walk jaunty again. A 
 sloven coat begets a sloven mood, and if one 
 would bear a swashing havior, he must be dressed 
 to fit. An oath, too, has little fierceness, if there 
 is not a fresh feather in the hat; so I bought me 
 one of flaring yellow and tipped it across my 
 shoulder. So dressed I sought a mirror. "Sarto, 
 you dog," I thought, "you ve looks. Faith, 
 you ve looks." 
 
 On my return from the shops, Michel informed 
 me that the same chamberlain who had lodged 
 me had come again, and he had removed certain 
 clothes and propepty of Oliver de Bourges, the 
 former tenant. 
 
 "Was Oliver with him," I asked, "in the 
 packing*?" 
 
 "No," Michel replied. "It was a cart load, 
 all tumbled in. Oliver, they say, has gone from 
 town."
 
 The King s Favor 
 
 "Then it was hardly manners," I said. "They 
 had best waited for his return. But I am glad 
 the gear is gone." 
 
 It was this same night that I heard again of 
 Oliver. Having finished my ovens at the twi 
 light, I dismissed the workmen and bade Michel 
 to clear the rubbish while I was gone for dinner. 
 There is a cook-shop in the Rue Saint Antoine, 
 and the old cook set out a gammon of bacon 
 before me. 
 
 My stomach is commodiously good, although I 
 am not one to glut myself with rumps and 
 pinions. (Too much meat sets me to dream.) 
 Yet this night my work had so hungered me that 
 I put the gammon in a sorry plight. I am par 
 tial to salt cates, and I had these too. At the 
 next table were Frenchmen. Mark this! Here 
 was I, hungry like a gourmand, yet nice in my 
 eating. Yet these Frenchmen, although they 
 dressed in fashion, did smear their fingers in their 
 sauces. And they ate so immoderately that the 
 sound of it went about the room. 
 
 I was fretting with their manners, when I 
 chanced to overhear their talk. 
 
 "Oliver is monstrous sour," said one.
 
 52 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Ay, and with good cause," said a second. 
 
 "The Italian had best look to himself," said 
 the third. 
 
 I put down my knife and listened. By bad 
 luck the last speaker s next words were fouled 
 by his food. Then I heard again. 
 
 "Oliver is a rare swordsman, and the King s 
 disfavor, they say, has put him in a temper." 
 
 The talk sheered off to other matters. Pres 
 ently they paid their reckoning and left the cook- 
 shop. 
 
 "So so," I thought, "I have already made an 
 enemy. I must look sharp lest this fellow, whose 
 name is Oliver, catch me unaware." 
 
 I made an end of my food, wiped my teeth 
 upon a napkin, paid down my money, and came 
 away. 
 
 When I returned, I found that Michel had 
 cleared the disorder of the room and had lighted 
 a fire. The night had fallen wet and cold, but 
 it was snug within. Bidding Michel to employ 
 his leisure in arranging the kitchen and putting 
 away the food that I had bought for it was my 
 intention to eat but one meal a day outside I 
 set myself on a bench, unbuttoned myself, and 
 stretched my feet to the fire-dogs.
 
 The King s Favor 53 
 
 I had not gone beyond a yawn or so a half 
 hour maybe when of a sudden there was a loud 
 rattling at the street door. "A visitor!" I cried, 
 and reached for my slippers which, for my com 
 fort, I had put off. "Michel, see who knocks!" 
 
 I drew my sword and laid it in reach across 
 the table.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 FROM OUT THE DARK 
 
 IT was a servant who appeared in the doorway, 
 and with him came a breath of damp wind that 
 teased the candle. His haste broke his errand 
 to bits in the telling. His mistress, he stam 
 mered, the Lady Diane Motier, in returning to 
 Paris from a journey, had met with accident in 
 the near-by Rue Saint Honore. Would I give 
 her shelter until her carriage could be fixed*? 
 
 I threw a cloak about me and bade the fellow 
 show the way. At the door Michel stopped me. 
 He coughed and plucked my sleeve. Then, put 
 ting his head close to mine, he whispered, "Master, 
 have a care! Remember what you heard in the 
 cook-shop!" He slipped my knife within my 
 belt. I laughed at his warning and tweaked his 
 ear, but I kept the knife, as it was now two hours 
 beyond the sunset and the streets were dark. 
 
 At the corner of the Rue Saint Honore the 
 carriage stood disabled, having pitched against 
 the curb when a strap was broken. The travelers 
 
 54
 
 From Out the Dark 
 
 were ranged in a row beneath a pent roof two 
 ladies and one other servant. Folk, too, were 
 coming from their homes, buttoning themselves 
 on their steps, and gaping as if it were a cart and 
 players. 
 
 I pushed my way to the younger lady and, 
 making a deeper bow than common that she 
 might know my gentle condition, I offered my 
 shelter. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," I said, "hell itself blows raw 
 in March. The four blessed angels that hold the 
 winds have all let go. Come, ladies, my fire 
 blazes!" 
 
 I gave my name, too, and was pleased, al 
 though not surprised, that Mademoiselle had 
 heard of me and my goldwork. My fame, it 
 seems, had been of longer breath than I and had 
 passed before me on the mountain slopes. Then 
 setting the servants at their task and telling them 
 where they could find a leather merchant for a 
 thong was needed to splice the strap I led the 
 ladies off. 
 
 In the blaze of my fire I first saw my guests. 
 Madame Corday was the elder a woman of forty 
 with a nurse s figure, although cord and artifice 
 had done their best well enough, maybe, in
 
 56 Luca Sarto 
 
 her looks, but not one to hold a bachelor s gaze. 
 The other was the Lady Diane Motier, possibly 
 of twenty years, but seemingly no older than 
 our sixteen-year Italian women. I have seen since 
 her portrait by Ghirlandajo in the gallery at 
 Amboise. To this I prefer my own memory as 
 she sat in my firelight. It will suffice that her 
 hair was yellow like ripened straw, her eyes 
 blue, and her profile delicate beyond the nicety 
 even of Italian words. "God," I thought, "she 
 is a comely creature." And I smoothed my 
 doublet. 
 
 Michel now laid a cloth and put on a salad. 
 To my right I put the Lady Diane, for so the 
 firelight fell best upon her face. I let Madame 
 Corday drink her wine in shadow. 
 
 By the way the ladies attacked the salad, it 
 appeared they had had no dinner. In conse 
 quence I sent Michel to rummage in the pantry 
 and to bring out such cold meats and pasties as 
 he found. Meanwhile, as the ladies were so 
 content with their feeding, I held quiet until a 
 lull should come. Once only Madame Corday 
 spoke. It was of some incident in their journey. 
 At this Mademoiselle laughed. It was a pretty 
 sound and served as music to the feast. But
 
 From Out the Dark 57 
 
 furthermore, it recalled to me a memory from 
 Italy. A flick and word upon it. 
 
 I have painted the saints, but I am no hooded 
 Puritan. It is enough and too much that Savo 
 narola, like a dull gray thread, should cross the 
 gay woof of life. I painted a Madonna once 
 by flaring light. (It was in Italy several years 
 before these French adventures and in spring 
 time, when thoughts fly out the window.) And 
 there came from the night outside a woman s 
 laugh set to the sound of a tinkling cithern. And, 
 God s wounds, while on the street below pleasure 
 went laughing on its way, I forgot it was the 
 gray-clad woman that I painted: So with colors 
 I tipped my brushes, and my Madonna s lips 
 I parted with the laughter that I had heard upon 
 the street. 
 
 And now this French girl s laugh has recalled 
 the other. In that there is no special wonder. 
 But mark this, for here is a strangeness beyond 
 the six days usage! This French girl s face 
 resembles the Madonna that I painted. Her hair 
 was the same color of ripened straw, and her eyes, 
 also, were blue. Smile if you will at such a fancy, 
 and yet set it not aside, for it will happen that 
 consequence will come from it. Should you for-
 
 58 Luca Sarto 
 
 get it, later in the pinch of danger, you will be 
 turning back to these early pages for a clue. 
 
 And now there came a lull. 
 
 "You have lived in Paris but a few days, 
 Monsieur Sarto," Mademoiselle began. "You 
 see that we know of your affairs." 
 
 I bowed at her speech with modesty that my 
 poor reputation, after jolting through the coun 
 try s dust, should find in Paris here so fair a 
 hostel as this lady s thoughts. "Ah, Made 
 moiselle," I concluded, "in Paris I am misprized 
 and underset, because the French still look at art 
 with lack of relish. In Rome every one knows 
 me. All who walk the streets nudge one another 
 as I pass. Look at Sarto, they say, who goes 
 to dine with the Cardinal. 
 
 The Lady Diane smiled at my outburst, but 
 she spoke with pique at the disfavor I had shown 
 to France. "And now it is feared you are too 
 well known in Rome," she said. 
 
 "A point, Mademoiselle! I cried. "Your 
 rapier touches me. I see you know what took me 
 out of Italy. Cardinal Rovere and I are friends. 
 I could not do less than avenge his nephew. 
 Michel, you 11 pass Mademoiselle the pasty." 
 
 Then I turned the talk, for blood is a bad ap-
 
 From Out the Dark 59 
 
 petizer for food. By way of compliment for in 
 me lies a weakness for a pretty phrase I told 
 her that I had fetched the same sword along, and 
 that the use of it was hers for the asking. Such 
 offers, of course, are the coinage of courtesy. 
 They are as far from real intent as fish from nuts. 
 
 The Lady Diane became grave, and I thought 
 that she looked at me in searching fashion. 
 "Monsieur," she asked, "is now for the first time 
 in France?" 
 
 "My very first," I answered. 
 
 But Mademoiselle tossed her head as if to dis 
 miss a thought. There was, too, an exchange of 
 glances between her and Madame Corday. For 
 a moment I paused, it perchance this secret 
 commerce might bring forth words. But issue 
 having failed, I spoke again. 
 
 "I can offer you but meager hospitality, yet 
 Michel toasts cheese to a turn. Will Madame 
 have a bit*? I ve been here but a bare three days, 
 and it takes longer than that to set up even a 
 bachelor." Then I added: "By chance you 
 may know Oliver de Bourges. The house was 
 his." 
 
 "His!" exclaimed Madame Corday. "That 
 sets the matter right. I thought I knew this
 
 60 Luca Sfirto 
 
 room. I was here once, Diane, as you know, 
 when Oliver lived here. It was six years ago." 
 
 "Is this Oliver," I interposed, "so fierce*? He 
 has sworn he will pink me for usurping him. In 
 fact, when your servant came rattling my door, I 
 thought it might be Oliver to begin a quarrel." 
 I pointed to my sword. "If he proves a ruffler, 
 here is my answer." 
 
 Madame Corday s face clouded, and she 
 pointed to the door, which was open to the night. 
 Before I closed it I peered into the street and lis 
 tened, for a sharp-set ear is worth a suit of chain. 
 There was no sound but the fall of the rain, ex 
 cept it was the watchman s round, and his whin 
 ing cry, "By Christ s Sepulchre, all s safe." 
 Then I came back to the table. 
 
 Madame Corday turned to the Lady Diane. 
 "You have heard of this room?" Whereat the 
 girl nodded, yet, chiefly, her assent was but curi 
 osity for what Madame Corday was about to say. 
 
 Again spoke the woman in the shadow. "To 
 this room, Diane, I came one night, six years ago, 
 to meet your brother and Oliver." 
 
 Then the woman in the firelight: "It is 
 strange, that on this night of all others we should 
 happen to be here again." But quickly the
 
 From Out the Dark 61 
 
 shadowed woman silenced her. For myself, I 
 wondered what, unchecked, she would have said. 
 Their words had been commonplace enough, yet 
 something lurked in the unspoken shadows. It s 
 a plague to feel that something is in the air and 
 that you know not what it is. Here was Madame 
 Corday shaking her finger and shuffling with her 
 feet. 
 
 "This night of all others." Mademoiselle had 
 stressed the words. But I knew nothing of the 
 horseman who had gone riding from Rouen, nor 
 of Duke John who was sitting late in Paris, nor 
 of the King s archer who swung between the 
 wheels. These things, had I known it, were the 
 first patter of a storm. 
 
 Mademoiselle was the first to speak. "So 
 Oliver has threatened you?" Then in a moment: 
 "Why should the King of France be so careless 
 of offending Oliver? There are other buildings 
 suited to your lodgment. It s plain why the 
 King honors you. You are an artist, and, what s 
 more, a friend of Rovere. But the King stirs 
 Oliver against you. I have myself no answer, 
 Monsieur Sarto, but we move in dangerous times." 
 
 We fell to silence. Suddenly Madame Corday 
 spoke. "Did Oliver ever visit you, Monsieur
 
 62 Luca Sarto 
 
 Sarto?" Whereat my answer "no" served as 
 kindling to her thoughts. Presently she asked, 
 "Did Oliver himself move his gear*?" She 
 seemed tense for my answer. 
 
 "Of a truth, Madame, I m told he was not in 
 Paris at the time. Oliver had not so much as a 
 servant present." 
 
 Madame Corday was about to reply then 
 hesitated. At last, as though with effort, she 
 spoke. "Monsieur Sarto, I am about to ask an 
 unusual request. I wish to visit the room that 
 was once Oliver s bedroom. I wish to go alone." 
 
 "Assuredly, Madame," was my reply, and yet 
 my lifted eyebrows must have showed surprise. 
 
 With a feeling of the greatest curiosity I lighted 
 a taper, and stepped to the door of the anteroom 
 that leads to my own room. "It is the second 
 room beyond," I said. 
 
 Madame Corday held out her hand for the 
 light. "I must go alone," was all she said. 
 
 I allowed her to pass, and she drew the door 
 closed behind her, although it nearly caught my 
 intruding nose. I turned with a question upon 
 the Lady Diane, who stood within the firelight. 
 
 It was fear of a certainty, it was fear I saw 
 upon her face.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A TREASURE IN THE CUPBOARD 
 
 WELL, Mademoiselle," I cried, "what is this 
 business?" But the Lady Diane stood 
 listening without reply. 
 
 "It concerns me or my brother," she said at 
 length. She paused. "It concerns, maybe, the 
 night six years ago when Madame Corday came 
 here of a visit. That happened before I came 
 to Paris. I am of Burgundy." 
 
 "What does Madame seek?" I persisted. 
 
 "That s what I m trying to think," she re 
 plied. "Something of Oliver s left in the mov 
 ing; some paper of import, it is likely. But I 
 know not what." 
 
 We were standing meantime with our eyes on 
 the door through which Madame Corday had gone, 
 as though it were a curtain of a raree-show that 
 was about to start. Yet it was more than a penny 
 curiosity that held us. It was plain that Made 
 moiselle was as puzzled as I. But presently a 
 lock of hair slipped off her ear and dangled pret 
 tily. 
 
 63
 
 64 Luca Sarto 
 
 I turned upon my heel. The fire was burn 
 ing ill, for the wet wood steamed at the ends. 
 Rain, also, splattered down the chimney. To 
 mend the trouble, I lifted a log from the box, and 
 was about to throw it on. I stopped half way. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," I said, "perhaps you heard a 
 sound*?" I rested the log upon the hearth, and 
 waved a gesture toward the street. 
 
 She turned her regard as I indicated. There s 
 rain outside," she replied, "and I get the sound 
 of some one in the street. Naught else." 
 
 My own ear had caught the sound. There 
 were light steps upon the flags before the door. 
 I would not have thought of it except that 
 Madame Corday had wrought upon me by her 
 dark behavior. She had stirred me, not exactly 
 to a boggle God s face, Sarto is not one to go 
 pale if there comes a squeaking in the night yet, 
 of a truth, her strange actions had set me on my 
 edge. 
 
 I told Michel to stop his clatter with the dishes, 
 and I listened. Then putting my ringer on my 
 lips, I went a tip-toe to the street door and put 
 my ear upon it. 
 
 On a sudden I jerked it open. 
 
 I know not what I had expected. Oliver
 
 A Treasure in the Cupboard 65 
 
 maybe. But I was mistaken. As the door flew 
 open, a man, who had been crouching there, 
 pitched forward on his face. He was dressed as 
 a king s archer, but was so slopped with mud that 
 the original cloth scarce showed. He sprawled 
 upon the floor, and his bonnet rolled off. It wa? 
 when he tried to raise himself that his troubk 
 appeared. His legs wobbled and there was a 
 silly grin upon his face. He leered at me and 
 Mademoiselle. He was soused with drink. 
 
 Once up, he lifted a finger and waggled it at 
 us. His speech was thick. Michel had set down 
 the dishes and needed but a nod to seize the 
 fellow. I held the door open and he pitched 
 him to the gutter. 
 
 I turned to offer amends to Mademoiselle. 
 She stopped me at the first word. "Monsieur 
 Sarto," she said, "perhaps you noticed that the 
 fellow was an archer of the King." 
 
 "A sot is a sot, dear lady. This is not a tavern. 
 He mistook the door. He 11 have no memory of 
 the place to-morrow." 
 
 Michel rested his pan of dishes on the table. 
 "Master," he said, "may I speak a word 1 ? The 
 fellow was as sober as myself." 
 
 "Eh?"
 
 66 Luca Sarto 
 
 "There was no smell of liquor on his breath." 
 
 "There is proof at hand," I cried. "If drunk, 
 he 11 still be lying in the gutter." 
 
 I ran to the door and looked out. By the 
 light from the doorway I saw that the gutter was 
 empty. If drunk, the fellow had been spry, for 
 there was no sound of him. He had cleared the 
 corner like a hound. Yet what did it matter? 
 He was meddling on my doorstep and he had met 
 a just reception. 
 
 I set the bolts. If there were other rufflers on 
 the street, drunk or sober, they had best stay out. 
 
 The fact that the fellow had made off al 
 though it seemed a good riddance troubled 
 Mademoiselle. And for reasons not known to 
 me, she fretted with it. She gave me no more 
 than a monosyllable, and sulked by the fire against 
 all my efforts. 
 
 This lady s eyes are blue. Heigho! Tra-la! 
 Cuckoo, jug-jug! Sarto, you fool, methinks the 
 spring is here. 
 
 It was scarcely five minutes before Madame 
 Corday reappeared. She came empty-handed and 
 bore a look of annoyance. 
 
 "Madame," I asked, laughing, "did you find a
 
 A Treasure in the Cupboard 67 
 
 treasure 1 ? Shall we search the cupboard now*?" 
 
 But Madame would not share my jest. She 
 offered no word of explanation, nor could I see 
 that she exchanged any sign with the Lady Diane. 
 
 And now Mademoiselle was obviously fretting 
 at her delay. Twice she looked from the win 
 dow. "What think you, Madame?" she asked, 
 "It grows late." 
 
 But their servant came at last to the door. 
 The carriage had been fixed. It was but man 
 ners that I accompanied the ladies down the lane 
 and put them inside it. As I was shutting the 
 door of the vehicle, Mademoiselle stayed me. 
 
 "Your servant seems a shrewd fellow," she 
 said. "Do you think the archer was sober?" 
 
 "It s likely enough," I replied. 
 
 She paused. "Monsieur, it was a jest, me- 
 thinks, when you offered us your help?" 
 
 "Dear lady, I spoke no jest. Once this might 
 have been a jest, but time has made it serious." 
 
 "One short hour?" she answered, smiling, but 
 she was not displeased. 
 
 She extended her fingers, and I kissed them. 
 "For what you have done to-night, thanks," 
 she said. "I shall keep your kindness in my
 
 68 Luc a Sarto 
 
 memory." She hesitated. "Later I shall ask 
 occasion to thank you better." She closed the 
 door and the vehicle started. 
 
 The Rue Saint Honore still showed a few 
 lights, and I waited to see the carriage out of 
 sight. At the corner where there would be the 
 last of it, was a glare from a window. Perchance, 
 if Mademoiselle were gracious enough to wave 
 her kerchief I would see it when they turned. 
 
 The Carriage neared the corner and came in the 
 flare of light. It turned and made off to the left. 
 But no kerchief showed. I observed, however, 
 that at a distance behind the carriage and in the 
 shadow of the buildings, the figure of a man 
 followed after. Presently it came under the 
 light. All cats may be gray at night, yet, of a 
 sureness, it was the muddled archer, for I saw 
 his bonnet bobbing on his head. 
 
 The carriage and the archer passed from 
 sight, leaving me biting my lips with indecision. 
 But there was naught that I could do. I could 
 not overtake them. Nor could I find them, as I 
 knew not the way they went. Furthermore, 
 there were two servants on the carriage, if the 
 archer contrived mischief. So I came away. 
 
 Michel was waiting outside my door. It
 
 A Treasure in the Cupboard 69 
 
 seemed that he had been puzzling with the thought 
 of the intruder. As I came up, he stood with 
 his back close against the door. "It s so," he 
 said, "that one gets protection from the rain." 
 
 "What of it?" I asked. 
 
 Michel shrugged his shoulders. "Did you 
 mark," he asked, "that the fellow fell forward on 
 his face?" 
 
 "And what of it?" I asked. 
 
 "This, Master; that if the fellow were standing 
 here to keep dry, he would have fallen on his back 
 when yon jerked the door open." 
 
 "So? What is your thought upon it?" 
 
 "I think, Master, that the fellow came to 
 listen." 
 
 "Why should a king s archer spy on Sarto?" 
 
 A shrewd look came to Michel s face. "May 
 hap," he said, "it was on Mademoiselle he came 
 to spy." 
 
 But I was not minded to discuss the matter 
 further and, although he was bursting with his 
 theories, I dismissed him for the night. He 
 turned on the threshold. "Master," he said, 
 "may I have another word?" 
 
 I nodded. "Be brief!" 
 
 "You 11 hear of this mademoiselle again," he
 
 70 Luc a Sarto 
 
 said. Then he scratched his head and went off 
 mumbling to himself. 
 
 When he was gone, however, my mind did re 
 vert to the strange things that had happened in 
 the evening. Putting aside further thought of 
 the muddied archer, whose coming I still could not 
 but think was a piece of chance quite unrelated 
 either with myself or these lady visitors, I quested 
 back to the other events. 
 
 Was it not an ill fortune that the King by his 
 gift of the Palais Saint Louis had roused a ruffler 
 against me? Oliver, I had been told, was a man 
 of consequence. He controlled a faction much 
 needed by the King. Yet it was said that the 
 King grudged him his favors, and would over 
 throw him when matters ripened to occasion. 
 There were many buildings in Paris suited to my 
 purpose, and yet I had got Oliver s. Was it the 
 King s purpose to set us snapping at each other ? 
 If matters came to violence, how would it affect 
 the issue*? If I were struck down unaware, it 
 would give the King the chance to weep upon my 
 wrongs, and also a proper pretext to throw Oliver 
 out of favor. Nor would the King grieve if I 
 killed Oliver. Both sides of the coin were heads. 
 Ah, me! The question was too deep. Or were
 
 A Treasure in the Cupboard 71 
 
 the Orsini concerned to pitch me in a brawl"? 
 
 I was curious to learn what Madame Corday 
 had sought in Oliver s bedroom. A chair had 
 been moved from the wall, and a tapestry was 
 awry. But there were no other marks of search. 
 I might as well have looked for Prester John, for 
 my quest was without results. 
 
 "It was six years ago," I mused, "when this 
 Madame Corday paid her former visit! That 
 brings it to the year fourteen sixty-five." 
 
 Fourteen sixty-five? Great things had hap 
 pened in that year in France, the whifT and scent 
 of which had crossed the Alps. It had been the 
 time of the Common Weal, when the great vassals 
 of Louis had rebelled. It had been a year of 
 broil. The battle of MontPhery had been fought 
 outside Paris, with Count Charles of Burgundy 
 against the King July 16, 1465. Later there 
 had been a peace cobbled between Louis and 
 the barons. So far my ponderings got, and no 
 further, except that the Lady Diane was a Bur- 
 gundian, and that Burgundy had always felt 
 sourness toward the King. 
 
 I put out all the candles save one. Then I 
 laid aside my jacket of blue sarcenet, which I had 
 bought of a shopkeeper on the Seine, and, setting
 
 J2 Luca Sarto 
 
 myself on the bench, with feet to the fire-dogs, I 
 lost myself in thought. 
 
 My thoughts at night fly back to Italy. Me- 
 thinks that when a flight of birds goes off within 
 the twilight, it is the thoughts of exiles winging 
 home. I sat thus during a candle inch. Then I 
 took down my copy of "La Vita Nuova." It is 
 not a smeared and printed book from Mainz, but 
 is copied fair in cloister, and enlumined like a 
 psalter. I read until Paris sank to the monotone 
 of the rain for the wind had fallen. And so 
 until the taper flickered and it was midnight. 
 Then I closed the book, and put it carefully under 
 my extra quilt on the shelf, so that it would be 
 safe from dust, and groped my way to bed. 
 
 I dreamed that I painted in a stone room, with 
 flaring light, and heard through the night a 
 woman s laugh that was made of the metal 
 whereof the stars are compounded. But through 
 my dreams there was a kind of fear, impalpable 
 and strange. I cannot tell you more, except that 
 the woman s laughter, on a sudden, turned to ice, 
 and that I awoke clammy at the change. The 
 bells of Notre Dame were ringing across Paris at 
 the time, and one was cracked and flat. Then I 
 slept again.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 I AM SUMMONED TO THE KING 
 
 IT was late when I awoke. The storm had 
 cleared and sunlight slanted between the 
 buildings. Here was May come at last. A south 
 wind brought rumors of the fragrant earth. 
 
 As I had now my ovens set up and had 
 bought the hammers that my work required, 
 I was desirous of making some beautiful orna 
 ment which I might present to the King. It 
 would serve as a mark of gratitude and might 
 bring me such favorable notice as would better 
 my fame and fortune. I would show these 
 Frenchmen that an artist had come among them. 
 
 I had brought with me from Italy a quantity 
 of drawings and sketches and several small models 
 in wood. These I laid out before me. As I 
 owned only ten pounds of silver, scarcely two 
 pounds of gold, and not more than six stones of 
 any fineness, I was required to choose a design 
 that did not fall beyond my poverty. With 
 free range, my choice would have been a silver 
 
 73
 
 74 Luca Sarto 
 
 chalice with a figure of Apollo on the top, and a 
 scroll of oak leaves around the side. However, 
 it would have taken not less than thirty pounds 
 of silver, which was so far beyond my means that 
 I unwillingly gave up thought of it. Then I be 
 thought me of a great salt-cellar for the King s 
 table. It would have been of rare beauty, for 
 I had spent much time upon the drawings, and its 
 making would have gained me great honor. Yet 
 in my haste in leaving Italy I had neglected to 
 bring a certain fine hammer and, although I had 
 inquired, it was not to be found in Paris. So I 
 gave up thoughts of the salt-cellar. 
 
 Having cast about among my drawings, I 
 finally settled upon a reliquary. It would be 
 three thumbs in length and my two pounds of 
 gold would answer for it. I had a composition 
 for the cover which would set off my ruby to ad 
 vantage. 
 
 Having made this choice, I laid out a flat piece 
 of gold of a size that would do for the lower 
 part of the box, and took the hammers that 
 were suited. Then I put on my apron and went 
 to work. Within half an hour my hammer was 
 making as merry a tune as ever gladdened a gold 
 smith.
 
 I Am Summoned to the King 75 
 
 And yet, strangely enough, my mind was ab 
 sent from my task. It was on Mademoiselle. 
 My window being open, I had heard a lout go by, 
 humming a song, "Vrai Dieu d? Amour " which 
 was then sung all about the streets of Paris. I 
 caught the lilt from him and I tapped my ham 
 mers to it. But of my task I thought not, nor 
 of Oliver, nor the King, nor of politics. 
 
 If, indeed, I had been asked about French 
 politics, in my few days stay in Paris, I could 
 have told no more than that there was a stoop- 
 shouldered king on the gilt throne of France, by 
 the name of Louis the Eleventh, and that some 
 where in Burgundy, in revolt, was a Duke Charles, 
 the son of Philip the Good, who sent night 
 mares across the kingly dreams. Duke Charles 
 was greatly feared by the people of Paris, and 
 tremulous were their nightcaps pillowed all about 
 the city. I have heard servant-women telling 
 children that they must cease their cries or Charles 
 the Rash would get them, as though he were a 
 bear from the mountains. 
 
 If it interest you to know more of politics, 
 there went a tale about, that since last winter, 
 when the Dauphin had been born, Louis s brother, 
 the Duke of Guienne, who till then had pranked
 
 76 Luca Sarto 
 
 himself as next succeeding to the crown of France, 
 had grown monstrous peevish. That Tc Deum, 
 with all its joyful bells a-ringing, had been a 
 doleful sound to him. And now gossip had it 
 that Louis must look sharp, or else this brother 
 would fall off and join issue with the dreadful 
 Charles. This thought sent a shudder to the 
 narrowest alleyways, as all remembered the slim 
 months of siege, when Paris walls had been in 
 vested roundabout, and all the hunger of that time. 
 Other gossip, too, there was, playing with repu 
 tations its untiring game of racquets, howbeit my 
 pen is not nibbed for such sportive stuff. Among 
 this gossip there was a rumor that Oliver de 
 Bourges had paid his addresses to the Lady Diane 
 Motier and had been rejected. 
 
 To write of bigger matters: England lay to 
 the north, fretting with her York and Lan 
 castrian wars. Edward now, Henry now, for 
 King turn and turn about as battles shifted. 
 Edward was married to the sister of Burgundy. 
 Henry s wife was a kinswoman of King Louis. 
 But it was a snivelling England, from whose coat- 
 of-arms there had recently been snatched the 
 fleurs-de-lis pinned there by Henry in the days of 
 Agincourt an England that was impatient, there-
 
 / Am Summoned to the King 77 
 
 fore, to roam again the French fields, to gather 
 once more the French posies. A pretty taste had 
 England for a boutonniere of lilies. 
 
 Italy? Who need write what all are sure to 
 know? Paul II was Pope, but declining to his 
 death. Rovere and the Orsini scowled at one 
 another when they met, and bit their thumbs. 
 Naples was, as ever, turbulent. There a man s 
 life, at most, was valued as the breath of a lame 
 horse. But Lorenzo empurpled Florence. 
 
 But what were such things to me? My ovens 
 and my hammers absorbed my attention. Per 
 haps I would have given more thought to French 
 politics had I known how soon and how deeply 
 I would be enmeshed in its intrigue. Of Paris 
 that lay beyond the Rue de la Petite Maison I 
 knew nothing, except that it was bright by day and 
 black by night. And yet I was on the threshold 
 of things to come. 
 
 At midday a king s servant from the King, 
 mark you, that same Louis the Eleventh, whose 
 back was as crooked as his purpose came to my 
 door and drew from his cloak a lead figure of a 
 saint. I looked at it scornfully, for I thought it 
 was the fellow s own, a trifle for a lackey s prayers 
 and kitchen piety. What was my surprise, when
 
 78 Luca Sarto 
 
 he explained that it belonged to his master ! This 
 gave it importance, and I regarded it with closer 
 attention. 
 
 "See," he said, "it is twisted. His Majesty 
 wishes you to repair it and to return it to him 
 yourself in his cabinet this night." 
 
 When he had gone, I took the image in both 
 my hands, and then and there I straightened it. 
 One twist and it was done. Thereat I ran to the 
 door, and I bawled up the street. The lackey 
 had been too quick. Already he had skipped from 
 sight, and my shouts served but to draw upon me 
 frowns from my neighbors across the way which, 
 rest you, I answered fittingly. So I came back, 
 and thrust the figure down upon my bench, and 
 put my cunning on my nicer work. All day I 
 went hammering on. If I cast a thought upon the 
 leaden saint, face downward in the litter, it was 
 with wonder that so paltry a mannikin had been 
 given to my care. 
 
 And yet I was somewhat glad. It gave me 
 occasion of paying my respects to the King, and 
 something might lie beneath. It s well to heed 
 the slightest breath of potentates. 
 
 So, as the day advanced, I fell more to thinking 
 on the King and what my summons boded. Per-
 
 / Am Summoned to the King 79 
 
 haps, beneath so sour a rind, the melon might be 
 sweet. 
 
 I ate an early supper, and at nineteen of the 
 clock, while there was yet an hour of dusk till 
 candle-time, I set out with Michel upon my 
 summons. By God s mercy, my new clothes had 
 come home before twilight, and Sarto was a pretty 
 sight. I wore my plum doublet with black 
 scarf and hose, and a yellow feather in my hat. 
 
 It is brief time that King Louis spends in 
 Paris, as Plessis-lez-Tours in the country of the 
 Loire is his favorite seat. When he does honor 
 Paris, his palace is the Hotel des Tournelles. It 
 was toward this we went. 
 
 Michel kept in front and made question of the 
 way. He has little French, but he speaks it loud 
 and waves his arms like Dutch windmills. If at 
 first he gets no proper answer, he bawls his mes 
 sage down his victim s ear. Those he questions, 
 though perhaps they get no notion what he wants, 
 yet give him an answer quick, lest they be struck 
 in the gust. It is best to start him off, they think, 
 although wrong. Therefore it was roundabout 
 we went. It was early, so I cared little. 
 
 The streets were mostly narrow and winding. 
 In the doorways men sprawled after supper,
 
 80 Luca Sarto 
 
 breathing the evening air. Some jigged children 
 on their knees. Here and again, a woman, sweat 
 ing with the kitchen, gave a finger to a child that 
 clung about her skirt. A youth went by, smooth 
 ing his upper lip, with thoughts upon a wench. 
 
 There was no sound of music. In Rome, on 
 such a night, there would have been a strum and 
 tinkle up from every street. Sarto s voice is rough 
 and his fingers are not apt upon the frets, but on 
 such a night in Italy there would have a love- 
 tune upon his lips, did he sing it to a fish-wife. 
 In Paris the ballad-mongers must be sure to starve, 
 for the people are most unmusical and disjoint 
 of tune. 
 
 We had walked for half an hour and the streets 
 were almost dark. We had got beyond the place 
 where men lay out, and had come into a tangled 
 nest of streets, the river lying close upon our 
 right. Here was a touch of Naples, for a drunk 
 ard slept in a gutter, and once there were cries 
 from a basement entry. In such circumstance, 
 Sarto turns the corners wide and keeps his fingers 
 on his hilt. Michel s prattle fell off. He was 
 content, now, to keep behind my cloak. 
 
 Soon we came upon an open square and were 
 before the Palace of the Towers. At the gate
 
 I Am Summoned to the King 81 
 
 were Scotch guards in kilts. I poked Michel in 
 his ribs to keep him from laughing outright. 
 Then we went within. We traversed a passage, 
 while three Scotsmen whined my name to those 
 in front. Michel was now told to wait and I was 
 sent forward into a vestibule of the King s apart 
 ment. By the light from a single taper, I could 
 see that the furnishings were crude, befitting a 
 merchant s dwelling. 
 
 Ten, fifteen minutes passed, a good half hour, 
 then a door was opened and I was told to enter. 
 It was a Gothic room into which I came. The 
 lights were shaded with hangings, so that its re 
 moter parts lay in obscurity. In the draught from 
 the door these hangings swayed, and their shadows 
 played at cat and mouse. On the walls were 
 tapestries depicting the Crusades. Beyond was 
 an altar with its figures and vessels, which were 
 of a rough workmanship that made my fingers itch. 
 I stood for a moment, thinking I was its only 
 occupant, and my eyes traveled to the details of 
 the room s carved panels, when I was startled by 
 a sharp-pitched voice from the darkness.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE SPIDER 
 
 IF you never met a king, you will to-night. But 
 I 11 not dress him up in jewels and velvet. 
 It s the king of fustian that I give you. If he 
 washed his ears, he would be a sweeter trencher 
 comrade. 
 
 "Luca Sarto," the voice said. I squinted into 
 the darkness, and I saw an old man in an arm 
 chair, leaning forward with his chin on his hand. 
 I dropped at once to my knee. "Your Majesty," 
 I said. 
 
 In my life I have come face to face twice with 
 King Louis the Eleventh. Twice I have meas 
 ured my wit against his, and this first encounter 
 was to help me face the dangers of the second. 
 
 During several minutes I awaited his speech. 
 He was heavily set in a Spanish chair, and it was 
 the only handsome thing about, except the tracings 
 of the vaulted roof. The chair-back was covered 
 with elfs, or angels maybe, though they had no 
 
 harps. Their mouths were open as in a choir. 
 
 82
 
 The Spider 83 
 
 It was woolen knitted stuff that Louis wore, 
 black cloth and frayed fur on the edge. On his 
 feet were pointed slippers, with flaps curled back 
 ragged. He wore a cap pulled tight upon his 
 ears. His scraggy hair escaped. On the vizor 
 of this greasy cap was a row of lead saints, like 
 politicians awaiting audience on the porches of 
 the Vatican and yet one was gone. 
 
 There was an angel on the chair-back that did 
 not sing, but grinned on Louis. Godamercy, 
 there was fair excuse. It gives me trust that there 
 is humor up in heaven. If there are laughter and 
 merry tunes above, I may take the church s hood 
 myself. 
 
 The lead figures on his cap recalled my errand, 
 and I took my saint from its wrappings. The 
 King held it before him, and his lips mumbled 
 a prayer. Some mumbling, too, I did myself, 
 thinking it of advantage to my soul that, my 
 prayers should ascend in a king s company. 
 Here, at least, God lends a generous ear. 
 
 These images made me curious, and it puzzled 
 me why the King carried them so. I learned 
 later that his fits of cruelty are often followed by 
 a kind of fear, at which times he kneels before 
 his saints in ecstasy.
 
 84 Luca Sarto 
 
 When the King s muttered words had ceased, 
 I looked up, squarely in his eyes, for he was re 
 garding me closely. The King s eyes see every 
 thing, like a weazel s in a hole. His scrutiny was 
 but momentary, unless he had been at it during 
 his prayer, for presently he smiled almost good 
 naturedly. 
 
 "This is mean work, Sarto, that you have done 
 for me. It stains an artist s fingers." 
 
 My answer came quick: "Not when it is done 
 for the King of France." 
 
 He smiled at this, and sucked his teeth for a 
 shred of food. "That is a courtier s answer," he 
 said. "I looked for something more honest." 
 
 I raised my eyes inquiringly. 
 
 "I would have been better pleased had you 
 told me that lead is vile stuff. Your honesty 
 would have showed in that." He squinted 
 shrewdly. 
 
 "I m told, Sarto, that you are a clever artist, 
 the cleverest in Rome. You make pretty little 
 salt-cellars and finger rings for ladies." He 
 laughed sarcastically. "Do I look, think you, 
 like a patron of the arts ?" 
 
 "By Saint Sepulchre," I thought, "no!" and 
 flushed with anger. And yet I said: "You
 
 The Spider 85 
 
 look, sire, more likely to favor a friend of 
 Cardinal Rovere, than one solely an artist." 
 
 The King was pleased at this and laughed. 
 "Then you are not surprised to be called here to 
 night." 
 
 "No, your Majesty." 
 
 The King now tapped an impatient cane until 
 I had found a stool. First he paid me compli 
 ment that I was countryman to the man he called 
 his master, Francesco Sforza. "The wisest of all 
 rulers," he said. And one of his precepts was 
 this : Strike no retainer until necessity push 
 hard, then strike with steel, so that he will not 
 rise again. Louis smiled, for he was now far 
 beyond such a primer lesson. In this contrivance 
 Louis was himself a tome of strange matter, but 
 with a print that was hard to read. 
 
 Of the present Pope, Paul II, he spoke. He 
 was a triend of France, free of alliance with Eng 
 land and Burgundy. But he had been ill. "Has 
 he fully recovered?" asked the King. "No?" 
 "Blessed saints!" he cried. "Why should 
 friends I ve need of fall into a rheum, when so 
 many else might be snuffed out without a loss?" 
 
 Then he spoke of my friend, Cardinal Rovere, 
 of whose ambition he had heard the babble.
 
 86 Luca Sarto 
 
 How would he regard Guienne s marrying Marie 
 of Burgundy the Princess who had been hawked 
 for highest bidding before all the princes of the 
 Continent to which marriage Louis was op 
 posed, for reasons of succession? Burgundy and 
 Guienne conjoined would have disrupted France. 
 How strong was Rovere in the papal college? 
 How greatly would he value French influence to 
 ward his election? French gold would crook the 
 stiff knees of opposition. On this tune he played 
 long. It was roundabout with repetition until 
 I fretted. 
 
 And then he thought to set a buzz of ambition 
 in my brain, that so he might enlist my services 
 twixt Tournelles and Vatican. "A cardinal s 
 hat is not beyond hope," he said. 
 
 Thus did the King ply me with questions, and 
 I talked to the limit of prudence. But his flat 
 tery did not intoxicate me. Mine is not a tongue 
 that is greased for indiscretion. There is not so 
 much blab in Sarto as might fill even a quarter 
 pot. A man s best use of tongue is at his meals, 
 and then partnered with his teeth. Let both of 
 them sit idle when the rump s gone off. It s 
 wench s business then and empty gossipry. 
 
 Concluding with me, King Louis gave me
 
 The Spider 87 
 
 thanks, profusely, as though I had told great 
 matter. And then to clap the whole, he gave me 
 a finger ring. Of this, hereafter. But what 
 sweetened things he said, is my own concern 
 ment. 
 
 Then I arose but, as by an afterthought, he 
 held me. "Ah, I had forgot," he said. "The 
 Lady Diane tells me that you sheltered her last 
 night." He paused and put therein a smile, as 
 it were a sweetmeat for my pains. "She and 
 Madame Corday must have found the roads out 
 side very heavy. Did they speak of the success 
 of their excursion 1 ? Let me see, where was it they 
 went Rouen 1 ? If so, they would have entered 
 Paris by the Porte Saint Honore, which is near 
 your shop. Boulogne did they mention such a 
 city ? Did they consort there with our English 
 friends?" 
 
 Now I did know that Mademoiselle had entered 
 Paris by the Porte Saint Honore. And yet I 
 stayed my tongue. On the instant there came to 
 me the thought of how the king s archer had 
 pitched forward on his face. "God s blood," I 
 thought. "Michel was right. He came to spy 
 on Mademoiselle." 
 
 Now, Mademoiselle was naught to me, or
 
 88 Luca Sarto 
 
 nearly naught for I do confess that her beauty 
 had stirred me. And yet she had been my guest. 
 If she held a secret from the King, I could be 
 false-mouthed on what I knew. For if there 
 is a fit occasion Sarto can lie like a village sign 
 post. 
 
 There was a chicken once, also, who lied to a 
 fox ; yet the fox, I m told, had cold fowl for 
 supper. 
 
 "Of a truth, sire," I said, "Mademoiselle ap 
 peared to have entered by the Porte Saint Honore. 
 Yet she really journeyed from the east of Paris, 
 for once she mentioned broken roads beyond Vin- 
 cennes. She said it to Madame Corday and then 
 she hushed her talk with a sidling glance at me, 
 whether I had caught the word. But I know not 
 why she came so roundabout." 
 
 "So, so," answered the King, and he pulled his 
 nose between his fingers. "Then she made no 
 mention whatever of Boulogne ?" 
 
 "No, sire." 
 
 The King sat without speech, his head bent 
 forward but waggling slightly, busy with some 
 problem. Presently he looked up and squinteJ 
 on me closely. "Sarto," he smirked, "you rui.l 
 best think again. It sorts not with what I already
 
 The Spider 89 
 
 know. Not that it matters, Monsieur, except as 
 a test of your honesty." 
 
 " As God s above, sire." I protested, and rose 
 upon my feet. 
 
 King Louis eyed me narrowly and still wagged 
 his head. "I seem to have heard," he said, "that 
 she came from Boulogne. Have a care. Master 
 Artist! It would be an ill start toward your 
 prosperity, if you minced the truth. She brought 
 an English message from the Channel. White 
 or red"? Did she talk of colors ?" 
 
 The King moved forward in the light and 
 ceased rubbing on his nose. At this I saw his 
 face. To my surprise it was sharp with eager 
 ness. "Boulogne," he muttered and kept biting 
 on his lips. 
 
 His manner gave me pause. I was following 
 a darkened course. Wit alone would not keep 
 me from the gutter. 
 
 The King was about to continue speech when, 
 with a quick motion, he put his hand to his head, 
 as though in pain. He had done this several 
 times before, but now I saw that his face was white 
 and contorted. 
 
 He grasped the sides of the chair feebly as 
 though to gain his feet and settled back. His
 
 90 Luca Sarto 
 
 excitement had given place to weariness. "Go 
 on," he said. "Tell me about the Lady Diane!" 
 Then at my indecision, he turned almost fiercely. 
 "Why do you stare at me? It s nothing. Only 
 a little dizziness the fish at dinner. Mary, 
 blessed mother," he moaned. 
 
 He seized my arm and shook it. 
 
 "Heart of me, your Majesty," I cried out, 
 "your illness frightens me, for my father was 
 once ill as you are. I 11 call Olivier le Daim." 
 
 The King tightened his hold of my arm. He 
 kicked the cushions from under his feet, and stood 
 up, hanging his weight on me. 
 
 "I have overeaten," he said. "It must have 
 been the fish and yet your father was sick in 
 this way. When was it?" 
 
 "Last winter, three days after Christmas." 
 
 "But your father?" the King whined; "has he 
 recovered?" 
 
 I did not reply. 
 
 "But he recovered?" the King persisted. He 
 dug his nails into my arm. Presently he released 
 his hold. Then hoarsely, "When did he die?" 
 
 "It was the seventh day after Christmas," I 
 said. My eyes were on Louis, for a strange con 
 fusion was coming on him.
 
 The Spider 91 
 
 For a moment there was naught. Then he 
 pitched from me, arms wide apart and shaking to 
 the fingers, his lips twitching like a palsy. His 
 legs, mark you, were bowed, or else his knees had 
 clapped. It was fearful to see them waggling in 
 their divorcement. At the room s end he jerked 
 down the hanging that blurred the light. Likely 
 enough it was a child s fear of the dark. When 
 the light came clear, it showed his shrunken figure, 
 an old man with the horror of death riding hard 
 on him. He were Turk or Saracen who had not 
 pitied him. 
 
 Forgetful of me, he drew his cap from his head 
 and placed it on the Spanish chair. He went 
 down on his creaking knees with his wrinkled 
 hands clenched before him, until his finger tips 
 were patched with red and white. His lips were 
 mumbling prayers. But he mumbled so low that 
 if the saints heard him, they must have hushed 
 the noises of heaven and cocked their ears close 
 on Paris. But so wrapped was Louis, that Sarto 
 had gone from his notice as far off as the last of 
 the Canaries. 
 
 It was thus that I left him. In all the dark 
 city of Paris, who shall say that there was another 
 so miserable? Hardly was there an alleyway in
 
 92 Luca Sarto 
 
 which, at some time that night, there were not 
 croaks of laughter and lean mirth; but within the 
 stone room of the palace, beneath its towers and 
 gargoyles, did the King whimper his fears. 
 
 Thus I learned the weakness of Louis, his 
 superstition and fear of death. It was by this 
 knowledge that I kept my bones from resting 
 until the crack of doom in his loathsome dungeons 
 of Loches. But a woman s wit served also. 
 
 And yet I had not learned all the spider s ways. 
 Father Paul, in his watchful years, had observed 
 many things he did not impart to me. It were 
 asking too much that in so short a schooling a 
 hungry man, tantalized by kitchen smells, should 
 gain acquaintance with all the wiles of the spider. 
 What I learned, served me. It saved my life, 
 wherewith my genius has been preserved. Yet 
 had I known all the webs a-weaving as I left the 
 King, in fright I had slammed the door on France. 
 
 In truth, at the time, I was not scared enough. 
 If a wooden angel on a chair-back can grin, Sarto 
 is not one to shiver. He 11 show himself at 
 least as valorous as a female angel. Yet Sarto 
 and the angel were far too lightsome. The sequel 
 of these events held storm. Will you read on a 
 bit?
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 LADIES 
 
 WHEN I came out of the cabinet, my first 
 care was for the King. Even when I was 
 well down the passage, I could hear him still mum 
 bling on his prayer. If a man has such need of 
 God, I thought, he must be suffering from a pain 
 ful rheum. It s a zeal for prayer which marks a 
 vile contagion. 
 
 In the anteroom I roused a guardsman. "If 
 there is a leech in the place," I cried, "send him to 
 the King." Then I went out, leaving a stir 
 behind me. 
 
 In the outer room I had thought to have found 
 Michel, my servant. But it seems that when he 
 did not find any one to chatter Italian with him, 
 he had slid off his stool and had gone outside. 
 I saw him in the street a hundred paces off, talk 
 ing with a man. Aside from these two there was 
 no one in sight except a beggar woman who whined 
 with outstretched hand. "Monsieur, for the love 
 of God." I gave her a coin and called Michel. 
 
 93
 
 94 Luc a Sarto 
 
 He came up, leaving his companion. He was 
 profuse with apology for having left his post. 
 But he had chanced upon an Italian fresh from 
 Rome, he said; a fellow who had been a boatman 
 on the banks. As both of them knew but a 
 pennyworth of French, they had been stifled with 
 dumbness for a week. And so, on finding each 
 other, their tongues had wagged. I asked Michel 
 who he was. 
 
 "I know not," Michel replied, "except that he 
 is monstrous f riendly,and that his name is Maistro. 
 And when he learned, Master, that it was Messer 
 Luca Sarto whom I served, he fairly tossed his 
 cap for joy. He was so homesick, he said, and 
 your name stirred his thoughts toward Italy. 
 And, Master, when I told him where we lived, he 
 offered to take me out and show me the sights of 
 Paris." 
 
 "But you don t know whom he serves ?" 
 
 "What does it matter, if he has money in his 
 poke?" 
 
 It was a shrewd answer of the varlet. 
 
 Now I was somewhat turned about in coming 
 out of the palace, and for a moment I stood won 
 dering which was the shortest way home. The
 
 Ladies 95 
 
 only mark to guide me were the towers of Notre 
 Dame, and for an instant I could have sworn that 
 they had gone off, arm in arm from their former 
 place. I set myself straight at last. "The 
 river s here," I said. "My way lies there." 
 
 I had hardly started when the beggar woman 
 to whom I had given the coin plucked my sleeve. 
 "For love of God, Monsieur," she whined. She 
 raised her mouth toward my ear. "Luca Sarto," 
 she whispered. 
 
 Now I 11 confess that in Italy even the beggars 
 know me, but it surprised me that in Paris it 
 should be so. Consequently I took her by the 
 shoulders and turned her to the light. I had 
 never seen her face before. "How is it, my 
 beauty," I asked, "that you know me*?" 
 
 But still she beckoned to me. She stood within 
 the shadow, thirty paces from the palace door. 
 Presently she whispered, "I speak to Luca 
 Sarto?" and then, "The Lady Diane wishes to 
 see you. Follow me and I 11 lead you to her." 
 She ended with her former whining tone, to cloak 
 her commerce with me. "For the love of God," 
 she said, and stretched out her hand in the pos 
 ture of a beggar.
 
 96 Luca Sarto 
 
 At this, without even so much as looking back, 
 she set off through the shadows. I waved to 
 Michel to come, and followed after. 
 
 Michel came up at a trot. "It was last night," 
 he said, "that I told you we would hear of Made 
 moiselle again." Then he followed at my heels. 
 
 We came shortly to a narrow street with bal 
 conied houses and steep roofs. Twice we ducked 
 under chains, which are strung from house to 
 house, as they are in Italy, against the chance of 
 broils. At a few only of the houses candles 
 burned in the front windows, for the edict requir 
 ing lights was neglected, so high was the cost of 
 candles. Our course was mostly north and west, 
 for the towers of Notre Dame now came behind us. 
 
 Then we came to a house better than most, if 
 one might judge by the carvings on the door. It 
 was as high as a tower, with slanting roof. Most 
 of these Paris roofs are steep-pitched, with 
 sharpened edge a-top. They are built like the 
 Spanish donkey, but larger, as if for the torture 
 of a giant. It is a pretty penance for an unbe 
 liever to set him with weighted feet to jog upon 
 the knife-back donkey. They say it brings a sin 
 ner back to Christ. 
 
 But here was the old woman knocking on the
 
 Ladies 97 
 
 door. It was opened by a man-servant. I told 
 Michel to squat upon the sill and wait for my 
 return. At the top of a second flight of stairs the 
 servant threw open a door. 
 
 It was a large room with a brisk fire upon the 
 hearth. Beside it sat Madame Corday and Made 
 moiselle. 
 
 I am an Italian, thank God. The sun has shone 
 where I have lived, and the blood is warm. Sarto 
 knows when a woman s pretty. 
 
 Mademoiselle was working on a frame on which 
 embroidery was stretched. She was clad in soft 
 blue stuff that matched her eyes. Her gown was 
 cut to a V in front, but an undermuslin spared 
 her modesty. Her hair was held in a gold band 
 and mesh. Her stockings were white with blue 
 clocks upon them. We 11 see these stockings 
 again, in other circumstance. I beg you to re 
 member these blue clocks. 
 
 Mademoiselle put down her needle as I came 
 forward and held out her hand to me. "It is good 
 of Monsieur to come," she said. 
 
 "Mademoiselle is gracious to allow it." 
 
 The Lady Diane smiled at my eagerness, then 
 her look grew grave again. It appeared that she 
 was fretted over something.
 
 98 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Perhaps Monsieur remembers that when 
 Madame and I parted from him last night he 
 made us an offer of help whenever we stood in 
 need." 
 
 "It is so, dear lady. I have dreamed of it all 
 day long." 
 
 "But we did not know how soon the time 
 would come. Perhaps Monsieur s offer was a 
 jest." 
 
 "It would be an ill jest if you did not think me 
 serious, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "A need arose to-night." She hesitated. 
 "Luca Sarto, you may withdraw your offer, and 
 we shall think naught the worse of you." 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I renew my offer. If there is 
 any service, I hold myself ready for it." 
 
 "Then, Monsieur, I 11 be plain and blunt. 
 Five nights ago Madame Corday and I left Bou 
 logne with a message of some consequence and of 
 a secret nature. You will forgive me if I with 
 hold a too precise knowledge of it. We returned 
 in haste and with what secrecy we might. Our 
 visit to you was unintentional. But despite our 
 secrecy it comes to our ears to-night that the one 
 person from whom we were chiefly concerned to
 
 Ladies 99 
 
 keep our movements hidden has come to a partial 
 knowledge of them." 
 
 Mademoiselle looked searchingly at me, as 
 though to learn whether I divined the one she 
 meant. 
 
 "By my soul, dear lady," I replied, "I know 
 the story. Let me rinish it. I know not the 
 message you brought trom Boulogne, but I can 
 hazard a guess how your coming was betrayed. 
 It was the archer who tumbled in the door. If I 
 smell the business right, the King of France is 
 the person you wished to keep in darkness." 
 
 Mademoiselle nodded. "Sarto makes a close 
 guess." 
 
 "And this very night, dear lady, I ve been 
 playing at words with this same king. Have no 
 fear of it! He got naught from me." 
 
 Thereupon I told her the events of the morn 
 ing, how the servant of Louis came with the leaden 
 image, and how I had gone upon his summons. 
 I concluded with the strange fit that had come 
 on Louis. During this narration Mademoiselle 
 watched me narrowly. She must have seen how 
 honestly I dealt with her. When I told of the 
 lies I had given Louis as to their direction into
 
 ioo Luca Sarto 
 
 Paris, she smiled doubtfully. "And did Louis 
 believe you?" she asked. 
 
 "I fear not," I answered. 
 
 "He knew our course, Monsieur, but, thank 
 God, he does not guess our message." She sat for 
 a moment in deep thought. 
 
 "Monsieur," she said at length, "this mes 
 sage that we bore to Paris we must send on to 
 others. But here s the trouble. We would be 
 detected in leaving Paris. And our servants, too, 
 are known. Meantime there is a man in the vil 
 lage of Melun, but a day s journey out of Paris, 
 waiting for our word." 
 
 "And Sarto, then, is to be the messenger*?" 
 
 "If he will." 
 
 "God knows, dear lady, I d rather draw my 
 sword. But I m but a beggar for your friend 
 ship, and I 11 take what s offered." 
 
 "Of danger there is probably nothing," Made 
 moiselle replied. "Yet the times are bad. 
 You had best take your servant, and go 
 armed." 
 
 She now took from her garment a letter and 
 handed it to me. I read the superscription. 
 "Jacques Bonnet," it went. I looked up quickly. 
 "Perhaps Sarto is mistaken as to the nature of his
 
 Ladies 101 
 
 errand. It would fit Sarto s humor sourly to play 
 postboy to some gallant." 
 
 But Mademoiselle laughed. "You may be con 
 tent. There is more of broil in the message than 
 love." 
 
 I read on: " The Inn of the Good Laborer, 
 Melun. How shall I know this man 1 ?" 
 
 "In this fashion," she said. "You will reach 
 the inn by dusk. With your dinner order a wine 
 called vin de la rose blanche. They will not have 
 it in the cellar, for a wine of such a name does not 
 exist. Yet you will protest that any other wine 
 will not serve your thirst, and you will bid them 
 look again. It will be your loud demand and the 
 outcry of it about the house, that will proclaim 
 you to Monsieur Bonnet." 
 
 "In faith," I interposed, "I 11 bawl out loud 
 enough." 
 
 "Finally," Mademoiselle continued, "Monsieur 
 Bonnet will ask you to share a yellow wine he has. 
 But do not give him the letter until you are alone 
 together. Let me impress another point. It s 
 likely enough that no danger will threaten you. 
 However, Louis may now distrust you. To make 
 it safe that the letter does not reach his hands, at 
 the first sign of danger read it and destroy it ut-
 
 IO2 Luca Sarto 
 
 terly. If then you meet Jacques Bonnet, tell him 
 this at least: that it is a white rose that blossoms 
 in the English garden." 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I ve written it on my mem 
 ory." 
 
 "And when will you start?" 
 
 "I 11 be out of Paris to-morrow morning before 
 the city stirs." 
 
 "We are deeply in your debt, Monsieur." 
 
 "And shall I see you when you return?" I 
 asked shrewdly. "It will be fitting to report my 
 success." 
 
 "Later, Monsieur. But on the day after to 
 morrow all of King Louis s Court journeys to 
 Loches, and we attend. You have spoken of his 
 strange sickness. Louis goes on pilgrimage to 
 pray for remedy to the Madonna of Saint Ours 
 which stands in the church at Loches. Once in 
 many years, they say, the statue comes to life, 
 and then her touch is healing. It s healing he 
 wants, as his trouble grows upon him. Not a nod 
 of life has he had yet, but he is to try his prayers 
 again." 
 
 She paused. "What is the color of the rose, 
 Monsieur?" 
 
 "It s white, dear lady," I replied.
 
 Ladies 103 
 
 "And you start to-morrow." 
 
 "In the dawn, Mademoiselle." 
 
 Diane searched me with her eyes. "Monsieur," 
 she said at last, "I have need of friends." 
 
 I bent and kissed her fingers. To my content 
 ment she wore no betrothal ring. 
 
 "When you have returned," I said, "I 11 come 
 to claim your friendship." 
 
 Diane smiled. "I give it to you now," she 
 said. 
 
 "Blessed lady," I cried out, "I want no Ma 
 donna for my prayers. It s you alone can heal 
 me." 
 
 But Diane checked me. "Peace," she said; 
 "it s sacrilege." 
 
 I turned toward her at the door. She had 
 taken a white rose from the table and she tossed 
 it to me. "It s a token for your luck," she said. 
 
 Then she wished me Godspeed, and I left her, 
 my wit offering me no pretext to prolong my stay. 
 Had I found my tongue, methinks she would 
 have honored my pretext, for in her eyes there was 
 a kindly look that tagged me to the door. 
 
 You have learned from this that Sarto gives a 
 quick decision. There are men who put delay 
 upon their words. They may or they may not.
 
 104 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Await the hour!" they say. "It s as the day 
 advises." If it is but a trivial meeting, these 
 men leave a starting-hole. They may be engaged, 
 they say. They must first look upon their tablets. 
 Sarto says his yes or no at once, flat, even for a 
 journey beyond the Pillars. 
 
 I had come to Diane a goldsmith. I departed 
 less the artist and more the soldier, with a tingle 
 of adventure in my blood and bravado in my 
 brain. And in my heart? Fore God, I m not 
 one of your sick-green youth who worships the first 
 woman who smiles. Women had crossed my 
 path before, and had held out to me their white 
 fingers, and made eyes through their fans, and 
 still I was single. It is enough that the Lady 
 Diane interested me. Let the gossips go no 
 further! Methinks, however and I do profess 
 it to God that Diane had most marvelous blue 
 eyes, and that her hand lay in mine at parting as 
 if it were in no hurry to be gone. Heigho for 
 love, tra-la, la-la-la. It s a sweet tune when the 
 wind is from the south in May, but Sarto is not 
 ready yet to give himself to any woman. 
 
 I puzzled, I confess, why Mademoiselle had 
 pitched on me to do her errand. "There s some-
 
 Ladies 105 
 
 thing in you, Sarto," I thought, "something that 
 fetches the ladies to you." I stroked my beard 
 and hummed the tune L Amour de Moi. 
 
 And yet from my work I was being plucked. 
 Melun was to be but the start of my travels. I 
 was venturing like a Portuguese sailor into south 
 ern seas, when it was only the northern stars I 
 knew. What an Afric coast, had I known it, I 
 had set my journey on ! 
 
 So I jigged the letter in my palm and went my 
 way. Michel slept on the doorstep, but I pried 
 him loose with my boot and put him on his feet. 
 He must have been dreaming of the archer, for he 
 was mumbling how the fellow had fallen on his 
 face. "It was a snare, Master. He came to 
 spy." And then he awoke and rubbed his eyes. 
 
 A wet scum was on the city. Down by the 
 Seine there must have been a carouse, for a 
 drunken sound came up. At the crossing of the 
 Rue Saint Roch, a comely trollop offered me her 
 company, but I waved her off. At last I came 
 home and threw my clothing right and left. 
 
 "Michel," I said, "you 11 call me at the dawn." 
 
 Michel cocked his head in surprise. 
 
 "We have an errand at Melun."
 
 106 Luca Sarto 
 
 "For Mademoiselle?" he asked, and grinned. 
 
 I swore upon him for his insolence. Then I 
 fell to bed. 
 
 The next morning we were up when it was 
 hardly light. Before Paris was astir we started 
 on horseback on the road to Melun.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 CABBAGE IN THE DISH 
 
 IF it were my desire to mystify, I would hold 
 secret a circumstance that I myself did not 
 know until long afterwards. It seems best, how 
 ever, to make but a bald narration, and not to fol 
 low the devices of the story writers, who withhold 
 the truth to tease the expectation. 
 
 The servant woman, Jeanne she who had 
 played the beggar and had been my guide had 
 gone noisily down the passage and had slammed 
 the door at its further end. It was but a pretense, 
 for presently she tiptoed back and stood at Made 
 moiselle s door again. It was thus she heard our 
 converse. . Her sharp nose scratched the key 
 hole. 
 
 Sarto has no relish for a hag s company and if 
 he wrote for his own pleasure he would bid Jeanne 
 go packing and be rid of her. She is cabbage in 
 the dish which must be eaten first, but there are 
 sweets in the pantry. You must learn first from 
 
 her how Oliver knew of Sarto s departure. 
 
 107
 
 io8 Luca Sarto 
 
 Jeanne narrowly avoided Michel who dozed 
 upon the step. She made sure that he was asleep 
 his snoring was warrant then she climbed 
 across his legs and went off in the darkness. 
 
 A man, meanwhile, sat alone near by and threw 
 dice on a bare table. His name was Gaston, if 
 it matter. To him she went. 
 
 "Sixes and sixes again!" he cried. "All the 
 saints in the devil s hatband love me." He rat 
 tled the dice before his ears. "Dance, you little 
 dears, dance ! Sixes again. It s a shame there s 
 no money on the throw. Come in, Jeanne!" 
 
 She had hurried and first she had to catch her 
 breath. "Mademoiselle sent me for Luca Sarto. 
 So I took him to her room," she said. 
 
 The man sprawled out his legs and gave her 
 close attention. 
 
 "I couldn t hear much, for I m a deaf old 
 woman." She looked at him shrewdly and shook 
 her poke. 
 
 "Here!" He threw her a coin, which she 
 clutched for the tentacles of the French palm 
 are like a crab s. "Now you can hear better," he 
 said. 
 
 "He is going to Melun with a letter to some 
 one," Jeanne replied.
 
 Cabbage in the Dish 109 
 
 "What name 1 ?" This with a more than for 
 ward squint of interest. 
 
 She paused again as though considering what 
 her information might be worth. Surely when a 
 man goes into such a stew, the price of the 
 knowledge must be high. "I am betraying my 
 mistress, whom I love," she whined. "Is it not 
 worth gold*?" 
 
 He flung her another coin. 
 
 And so he got it from her beggar lips. 
 "Jacques Bonnet," and for address, "Le Bon La- 
 boureur, Melun." And that was all he got for 
 his payment, for she was careful that the com 
 modity of her sale did not overslop its measure. 
 
 But it seemed to be enough. He left the room, 
 slamming the door behind him. 
 
 It was to Oliver de Bourges that Gaston went. 
 Oliver was gaily dressed in colors, as for a feast 
 of peacock. He had pared his nails and was mix 
 ing a pomade with his thumb. 
 
 Gaston cried out abruptly. "There s news, 
 Oliver !" And he repeated what he knew. 
 
 But it brought no gladness to Oliver. "Hell 
 fire," he snarled that handsome Oliver, who 
 loved me so much that he wished me quit of the 
 troubles of this world. "What does the fool
 
 1 10 Luca Sarto 
 
 Jacques do in Melun?" Whereat he spoke oaths 
 that would have scorched a sailor s tongue. 
 "Jacques recks not of danger. If he lurks so 
 close to Paris,, the King will spy him out. He 11 
 be taken, and then," he looked darkly at Gaston 
 "God, I can feel already Tristan s fingers on my 
 throat." 
 
 Here Gaston broke in. "Peace, Oliver," he 
 said. "You wear yourself." 
 
 But Oliver s prattle broke loose again: "I ll 
 dream of cord and ax to-night. And you, man, 
 sit as cool as a waiting-woman. We stand on a 
 tickle-edge. In sixty-five all of us went against 
 the King. Then, after the confusion that fol 
 lowed the battle of MontPhery, all of us licked 
 the King s boot. But Burgundy put less spittle 
 in the business, and with him was Jacques. Of 
 a consequence, while you and I have again come 
 to Louis s favor in which we hope to remain 
 until it pleases us otherwise Jacques consorts 
 openly with Burgundy, and snaps his fingers at the 
 King. And now Jacques comes to Melun, so 
 close to Paris. And does this with so little secrecy 
 that a serving- woman can find it out. Suppose 
 that Jacques is captured. He is put upon the 
 rack. What then, think you? Will he spare
 
 Cabbage in the Dish in 
 
 us? His love for me is not that kind. Put 
 Oliver alongside, he 11 say. Give me that 
 comfort! " 
 
 Once more Gaston broke in: "Peace, Oliver," 
 he said. "You foam like a pint pot. You are 
 more troth than brew." 
 
 Oliver brayed again: "Perhaps you have for 
 gotten the Common Weal. It s sure that 
 Jacques, to spite us for deserting him, will stir 
 the King s memory of it. Louis would be nothing 
 loath to catch me up. My credit stands on slip 
 pery soil. Why else would the King thrust me 
 from the Palais Saint Louis ? Then there is our 
 pact with England. It gets deeper as I think 
 upon it." 
 
 "Monsieur, hold yourself! Breathe awhile!" 
 
 But Oliver kept on: "Edward of England, 
 the on-and-ofF King, who itches to feel again the 
 crown upon his head, and borrows money from 
 Burgundy for this purpose, he is no friend of 
 Louis. What think you if our commerce with 
 him came out? The rot goes down deep within 
 the apple. This commerce will be known if they 
 get this Jacques and put him on the rack." 
 
 He paused for breath, then belched forth 
 again: "And now Jacques must come so close to
 
 112 Luca Sarto 
 
 Paris, and you and I must live in sweat until he 
 comes safely off." 
 
 Gaston waited until Oliver had spent himself, 
 scratching some stains upon his doublet with his 
 thumbnail. From plate to mouth, it seemed, 
 his freighted knife had often gone shipwreck on 
 his front. Then at last he spoke: "Oliver," he 
 said, "there s too much gas in you. You fizz at 
 the cork. Hold a bit! There is good comes out 
 of this. Here I have brought you word that 
 Sarto and his servant are going from Paris, to be 
 gone all night. For a week you have been fret 
 ting lest Sarto find your papers in the flooring. 
 The time fits now to bring them off. It s easy 
 to break into an empty building." 
 
 "So, so?" Oliver replied. "And are there no 
 other servants in the house*?" 
 
 "Not one. Though it s likely that when 
 Sarto returns to Paris, he will take a journeyman 
 or two." 
 
 "You speak shrewdly, Gaston. To-morrow 
 night s the very time. I 11 make the trial." 
 
 Gaston came away. 
 
 We ve eaten the cabbage. Quick! Let s 
 change the dishes!
 
 Cabbage in the Dish 113 
 
 While these things were chancing, Sarto pol 
 ished his estoc and tried its temper, unmindful 
 that his name was caught in a soldier s profanity 
 as he sat by his cups, was in the prayers of a blue- 
 eyed girl, and in the schemes of a great king, on 
 whose lips was a cruel smile. These schemes 
 must live in darkness. In fitting time I 11 put 
 a candle to them. 
 
 And so the goldsmith slept, and the kettle 
 of France simmered and brewed a peppery broth.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 WHEN THE CAT s AWAY 
 
 WHEN Giovanni s body was found upon the 
 bank, there was excitement in Rome. Al 
 though Jacopo was ready to swear against me, the 
 Orsini could not bring a charge on me in open law, 
 because of the killing of Andrea. By their influ 
 ence, therefore, they hushed the matter and relied 
 for their revenge on the chance of secret methods. 
 But it was a week before they sent a rogue named 
 Maistro into France to fall on me unaware. 
 
 Behind me, therefore, came Maistro, and his 
 was a sweaty journey, also; for day and night he 
 crowded on. Is it not enough that French rogues 
 disturb Sarto s sleep, without an Italian rogue as 
 well"? So this man came in darkness, grim upon 
 his business. 
 
 Set down my pages now and then, and turn 
 your ear eastward! You ll hear hoofs clacking 
 in the night. Soon or late Sarto \vill entertain 
 another visitor. 
 
 So into Paris this Italian varlet came. Blood 
 114
 
 When the Cat s Away 115 
 
 still was on his mood, and, "Hell s fire," he 
 snarled, "where do I find this Sarto*?" He went 
 poking into all the pot-houses, if any word might 
 drop that would set him right. 
 
 He merits a word of description, scarcely more. 
 Maistro was his name, a lithe fellow, more of 
 cat than dog, a swart face with a slash across one 
 cheek, a sullen eye except when there is a drink 
 or a wench in sight a fellow daubed together 
 out of very common clay, yet with a mind to trick 
 himself a gentleman. Being now far from Italy 
 and acquaintance to take him down, he wears a 
 sword and dagger, and a feather in his hat. 
 
 He haunted the pot-houses and, though he 
 learned naught of me, he got a pretty taste for 
 French drink. And then by merest chance, 
 Maistro fell in with Michel, as I ve told you 
 for this was the same Maistro with whom Michel 
 talked on the night of my audience with King 
 Louis. It was no wonder he tossed his cap with 
 gladness. 
 
 Now of Oliver, again ; and how he and Maistro 
 came together ! 
 
 Behind my workshop, the Palais Saint Louis, 
 there is an ancient tennis court, given now to 
 kitchen uses. This is entered from a lane that
 
 1 16 Luca Sarto 
 
 leads under an archway from the street. There 
 is a wooden gate across this lane, but a panel has 
 been kicked out, with room for squeezing through 
 if one is not too paunched. 
 
 The following night I being now gone on 
 my way to Melun when it had gone twenty of 
 the clock, Oliver de Bourges came down the 
 street. He had a servant but he left him at the 
 corner. The Palais Saint Louis was dark. 
 Jeanne was right, and Sarto had gone off. He 
 tried the front door. It was tight as a tomb. 
 Then he went to the gate at the lane. Oliver has 
 been stuffing himself with sweets these thirty 
 years, and his doublet buttons scratched in getting 
 through the panel. 
 
 He crossed the court and found a swinging 
 shutter. He clambered through. 
 
 He spat upon my ovens. Then he sought his 
 bedroom, and secured his papers. By the faint 
 light at the window he looked hard on the packet 
 to make sure that none were gone. "I dreamed 
 the King got hold of them," he mumbled. 
 
 He now returned to the room where my ovens 
 were. He itched to leave the house, yet it would 
 be worth a minute to foul my work. He lighted 
 a taper, and set it in the socket by my bench.
 
 When the Cat s Away i\J 
 
 There was a litter on it of sketches, chisels, ham 
 mers, and bits of metal. He hacked my chisels. 
 Then he put his thumb through my sketches. 
 The taper blinked and flared with the stir of his 
 dirty work. 
 
 At the last he spied a gilded model which I 
 had set to copy for my larger work. He stole it, 
 but not for gain. Rather, it was to thwart me. 
 
 Oliver chuckled at his mischief. Then he 
 opened the street door and stepped out. There 
 was a man coming down the street. Oliver 
 leaned back in the shadow to let him pass. When 
 opposite, however, this man stopped. Oliver held 
 himself against the sill while one might say a 
 Pater Noster, then becoming curious, he thrust 
 out his head. 
 
 "Good sir," he said, "perchance you 11 tell me 
 what halts you?" 
 
 "I seek the house of Messer Luca Sarto. Will 
 you direct me to it?" It was vile French he 
 spoke, and Oliver knew him to be an Italian. 
 
 It was Maistro, the rogue of the Orsini. 
 
 "Well, sir, and what then?" Oliver asked. 
 
 "I bring him a message," continued Maistro. 
 "By r Lady, I ask in all civility. If you know 
 the house, set me right !"
 
 1 1 8 Luca Sarto 
 
 Oliver thought a bit. He was in a hurry to be 
 gone, lest finding his papers be snarled in other 
 things. He might send the fellow off on wrong 
 direction, or he paused it would take little 
 time to play upon him and hear his message. It 
 might concern Sarto s trip to Melun. If so, it 
 would be worth the hearing. If a covered dish 
 is set before you, it s well at least to lift the cover 
 to see what meats are on it. 
 
 Maistro spoke impatiently: "My direction 
 said it was the first house beyond the turn. If 
 so, it must be here." 
 
 "You come right," said Oliver. "I m Sarto 
 myself." 
 
 "Sarto, Sarto? Perhaps I mistook your words. 
 Did you tell me that you are Sarto?" 
 
 "None other." 
 
 Maistro hesitated. "Methinks you speak not 
 like an Italian. I must be sure it s Sarto before 
 I speak my message." 
 
 Oliver answered him peevishly. "Have n t 
 you seen me come from my house? You may be 
 content that I m the man you seek." 
 
 Maistro put a sly question. "Name me your 
 servant, Monsieur!" 
 
 Oliver replied sarcastically, "Michel s his
 
 When the Cat s Away 119 
 
 name. Perhaps your message is to him. I 11 go 
 seek him about the house." 
 
 Maistro seemed to fumble at his purse, which 
 hung beside his dagger. Then on a sudden he 
 cried out. "By God s blood, no ! My message is 
 for Sarto." 
 
 He drew his dagger. Oliver saw its flash. 
 
 "Hold a bit," he cried. "You re mistaken. 
 I m not Sarto." And he skipped back upon the 
 step and groped for his sword. 
 
 But Maistro was not stopped by the outcry. 
 He leaped up the steps. Oliver stood in a corner 
 of the entrance, snarling with fear. "Stay your 
 self! I m not Sarto!" 
 
 But Maistro cried, "I have your word for that, 
 Monsieur." Like a cat he sprang upon him. In 
 close work a sword is useless. He drove his 
 dagger in Oliver s ribs, then stretched out the 
 body on the steps. "The Orsini send their love 
 to Sarto," he said. 
 
 He listened to make sure that no one was dis 
 turbed in the house across the way. No head 
 showed at any window. There was silence, ex 
 cept for the dripping of blood from the step. 
 
 He dragged the body to the deeper shadow, 
 keeping off lest he smirch himself. There was a
 
 I2O Luca Sarto 
 
 purse with small gold in it, a kerchief, Sarto s 
 gilded model, and the papers for which Oliver had 
 come. He took them all grinning on the model 
 for he thought it to be gold wiped his dagger on 
 Oliver s doublet and ran off in the darkness. 
 
 It was a full ten minutes later that a head came 
 out of a window across the way. "Murder! 
 Yoho! Here s dirty work!" The outcry roused 
 the street. 
 
 Presently there was a crowd about Sarto s door. 
 It pushed in so close that the foremost were 
 dabbled with Oliver s blood. 
 
 The man who had done the bawling was in the 
 center, telling what he knew. "The fellow who 
 is dead is Luca Sarto. I heard him proclaim 
 himself." 
 
 But another neighbor brought a lantern. He 
 stood over the body, and then scratched his head. 
 "On the soul of Peter, you ve misreckoned it. 
 The fellow is not Sarto at all." 
 
 "It s likely, then," said a third neighbor, "that 
 the one who said his name was Sarto was the vil 
 lain who did the murder." 
 
 "It s likely enough," the first speaker answered, 
 all blurred in his thoughts. 
 
 And so the report went out that Sarto was a
 
 121 
 
 rogue and murderer. When Sarto was not to be 
 found on the morrow, it seemed to make it sure. 
 Before night a king s writ made statement of the 
 matter, and set up a reward for his arrest. Yet 
 Sarto knew not of it, as he was at Melun. 
 
 As for Maistro, this only: He sweated until 
 he was quit of Paris and on the road toward 
 Italy. Melun is on this road. We shall meet 
 him again.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 I POLISH MY SWORD AND GO A-JOURNEYING 
 
 THE morning that followed my meeting with 
 King Louis and Mademoiselle Diane, I set 
 out with Michel, as I ve said, for Melun. Our 
 start was early. I prodded Michel and kicked 
 him, for he sleeps like a clod. I had set Made 
 moiselle s white rose in a cup, but it was wilted. 
 I kissed its petals but dropped it in the sink. 
 
 We were off before the cobbled pavement had 
 sounded the first hurry of the day. We took to 
 the country toward the southeast, through the 
 Porte Saint Antoine. 
 
 Michel on excursions is overmuch given to 
 chattering. His tongue trots with his horse s 
 legs. I silenced him by my frowns, and I put 
 him to the rear, some sixty paces, that my thoughts 
 might not be broken by his bad Italian. 
 
 Company on the road is at best of doubtful 
 value. I am a poet when the wind is south and 
 then I wish silence for my thoughts. Sometimes 
 
 122
 
 I Polish My Sword 123 
 
 I devise a measure and I weave the hills and 
 valleys into verse. Or I set a tune to a lady s 
 eyes and rhyme their color to the blueness of the 
 sky. I fling, perhaps, a sonnet to the moon, or 
 play pitch and toss with stars and planets. 
 
 On a journey I speak my fancies as they come. 
 I am not one of your dull rhymesters who scribbles 
 in a garret on thin gruel from a stewpan, and 
 comes out bleared at night. And yet I traveled 
 once with such a silly fellow. And I humored 
 him this blotter of ink, this spoiler of parchment. 
 He foamed in my ear, but I held my lips shut lest 
 I vent a sarcasm, and in mercy I wagged agree 
 ment to his nonsense and let him puff himself like 
 a crier. 
 
 No company is best. You have learned my 
 most exquisite modesty. Yet when I go alone 
 upon a journey there comes on me a most pleasing 
 conceit. If any one is near I cannot blow the 
 bubble big. I am therefore robbed, for it is the 
 greatest joy on earth when meditation blows these 
 fancies on its pipe. Alone, I am another Giotto, 
 no greater, for even then some shreds of modesty 
 hang about me. But can I tell my genius and am 
 bition to a companion 1 ? His answer, wandering 
 in the fields, might be of manure and pigs. Or he
 
 124 Luca Sarto 
 
 might keep tally on my extravagance, and betray 
 me later in company. I hold that man a traitor 
 who tells to the people of the plains the things that 
 are wrung in confidence on the soul s high slopes. 
 
 And so by preference I travel alone, granted, of 
 course, that there is no danger of brigandage or 
 encounter. 
 
 One s early mood will not hold all day. On 
 the morning ride only will be the exaltation, the 
 full pots of color ready for the brush. Such 
 frisking of the mind ceases by noon. This is to 
 be expected. One may not eat his nuts with the 
 violence with which he attacked his entree. Nor 
 does a tub fill with as great a splatter when the 
 water has risen nearly to the brim. As the day 
 falls into a placid evening, so the spirits; until at 
 last you descend from your upland the moun 
 tains of your lofty thought to some shadowed, 
 low-set village, hard by running water. It is in 
 twilight mood you complete your journey. 
 
 You throw back your head and bawl, and an 
 hostler comes to take your horse. Then you slap 
 the dust off your legs and sniff with your nostrils 
 for the kitchen. Alongside it, on the cobbles, tubs 
 are set. You roll up your sleeves and plunge 
 your arms in, and splash your face and neck,
 
 I Polish My Sword 125 
 
 while wenches look and giggle from the kitchen 
 doorway. 
 
 So much is talk. This is what I did. We 
 came to Melun well toward the end of the after 
 noon. As appeared from the stir as we entered 
 the town, it was a day of fair. For a half-hour 
 previously along the road, there had streamed off 
 past us the country people that had had their en 
 tertainment. They were older folk mostly and 
 very young children, who slept on the jouncing 
 horses. On coming to the inn I found that the 
 crowd centered on the square before it. A group 
 of men and wenches were dancing a baladine upon 
 the grass. And there were booths set up for the 
 sale of gauds and relics, together with sure nos 
 trums against the return of the plague. 
 
 I washed and beautified myself, and then, as it 
 still lagged an hour of supper, I dragged out a 
 stool, for I wished to see the manner of enjoy 
 ment of these French villagers. They were 
 country folk men from the fields. Of the 
 women there were more wives than daughters 
 red-faced, bouncing creatures that grudged not 
 their ankles to the crowd. 
 
 Now I had come pounding all day upon my 
 horse, and I was so comfortable on my stool that
 
 126 Luca Sarto 
 
 it would take a handsome jade to get me to my 
 feet. Jeanne la Pucelle herself, although she 
 beguiled a king, must have given me more than a 
 witch s wink to set me frisking to the pipes. But 
 presently I observed a comely country wench. 
 She had a fine, slim figure, bare, white shoulders 
 and a roving eye. Her foot was tapping to the 
 music. "Sarto," I thought, "there s no need to 
 sulk. Give a pleasure when you can !" 
 
 In a moment I caught her eye. "My dear," I 
 said, "the tune has started." I seized her about 
 the middle and romped with her across the grass. 
 We whirled around three times, brushing off sev 
 eral fat, slow dancers, who were jouncing up and 
 down like butter to market. The wench s hair 
 was blown across her shoulders, and she laughed 
 outright with pleasure. Invitation for more 
 glinted in her eyes, or I m a Jew, but I left her 
 when the tune was done. Nor did I consent to 
 dance again. 
 
 Presently a church bell marked the sunset. It 
 was the Angelus to close the day. Laudo Deum 
 verum , said the bell, plebem voco congrego 
 clerum defunctos ploro pestum fugo festa de- 
 coro. It is thus the church circles and protects 
 us.
 
 / Polish My Sword 127 
 
 Where a church bell rings I have observed the 
 air is sweet. Dew glistens on flower and stalk. 
 Soft showers follow on a drought. Fruits ripen 
 unblemished in the sun. No hawk disturbs the 
 barnyard. Dogs are not fretted by a windy 
 moon. Nor does witch or lightning plague the 
 night. Where a bell sounds across the fields win 
 ter s cold tooth is blunted and August veils its 
 fiery sun. 
 
 Supper was now announced to me, and I took a 
 table in a corner of the room from which I might 
 see all who entered. The other tables filled im 
 mediately, for hunger is a sharp herdsman. 
 "Boy," I said, addressing a gawk who came to 
 take my order, "it appears that trade is brisk. Is 
 it the fair that brings you all this patronage*?" 
 
 "In part, Monsieur. And yet we lie on the 
 direct road to Italy, and there is monstrous thick 
 travel back and forth. In a single day I ve 
 known three or four to pass. Melun, Sens, Ton- 
 nerre, and I know not what other towns lie on the 
 road beyond. Would Monsieur relish a roasted 
 ham? It is from our own sty." 
 
 Monsieur thought yes. 
 
 "And an artichoke in sauce*?" 
 
 Monsieur still thought yes.
 
 128 Luca Sarto 
 
 "And what will Monsieur drink?" 
 
 I looked about the room, then waited for a lull 
 in the rattling of the spoons. A fat dame, too, 
 whose shoes had been clappering on the floor with 
 dishes from the kitchen, was now, for a moment, 
 at a stand. 
 
 "Boy," I said, and I pitched my voice so that 
 all could hear, "I 11 have none of your Rhenish 
 wine. My gullet sings out for a juice called 
 vin de la rose blanche. You 11 fetch me a bottle !" 
 
 The boy scratched his head. "God spare me," 
 he said, "but I know not the name." 
 
 "What!" and I bawled so that the man at the 
 farther corner heard me "no vin de la rose 
 blanche! It s nonsense. Send the landlord in !" 
 
 Presently the fat landlord appeared, rubbing 
 his fingers on his greasy apron. He was in none 
 too good a temper for being brought away from 
 his stove. Yet he held his temper down. 
 
 "Landlord," I said, and I lifted my voice high 
 as in a passion, "in Paris they say you serve a wine 
 called vin de la rose blanche. But your boy de 
 nies your fame. Let s have no more words. 
 My throat is parched." 
 
 The landlord stupidly shook his head and was 
 about to deny the wine, when a man at a near-by
 
 I Polish My Sword 129 
 
 table put down his knife, pushed back his chair, 
 and crossed the room to me. "Will Monsieur 
 share my wine?" he asked. "Although it s 
 yellow, it is a near cousin to that you ask for." 
 Then he squinted on me, and added in a lower 
 tone, "I know la rose blanche. It s a wine that 
 all England is thirsty for." 
 
 As this sorted with what I had been told would 
 happen, I bade the landlord give convoy to my 
 dishes. He brought my meat and artichoke, his 
 broad thumb inside the sauce. Having come 
 now to the stranger s table, and put myself op 
 posite, I pledged him for his civility. Then I put 
 my attention on my roasted ham. It was proper 
 that it should be he who spoke first of my er 
 rand. However, as he held silence except for 
 his loud munching at last I became impatient. 
 
 "Monsieur," I said, and sunk my voice, "to 
 whom, think you, do I bear a letter?" 
 
 But he lifted up his hand. "There s a time to 
 come," he said. 
 
 My supper was finished with a tartlet of such 
 rare excellence that I asked the boy of what fruits 
 it was concocted, and the measure of them. And 
 I bade him commend me to the cook. Then, as 
 the stranger made no inquiry for my message, I
 
 130 Luca Sarto 
 
 thanked him for his wine, told him that he might 
 find me on the street before the door, and strolled 
 out. 
 
 The dancing was over, and the men and girls 
 their feet still frisking were singing the piper s 
 songs. Being myself full of supper, and of con 
 sequence merry of heart and in a kindly mood, I 
 joined the group, and hummed the tunes with 
 them. As the proverb says, it s a full belly that 
 cries to the head, "Sing, you rascal." Though I 
 am not compact of harmonies, yet if the lilt is car 
 ried strong by others, I 11 not go more than a 
 half tone off. The words of the song I knew not, 
 for my memory waits until a bottle has gone round 
 three times. 
 
 My friend, the comely wench, edged up to me in 
 the shadow. She was tired, poor wretch, and I 
 put my arm around her waist to steady her. Nor 
 did I refuse to kiss her between the verses. 
 
 "Maitre Jean Balue 
 A perdu la vue 
 De ses fiveches ; 
 
 It was a rollicking tune and twenty of us sang to 
 gether. 
 
 "Who is this Jean Balue ?" I asked.
 
 I Polish My Sword 131 
 
 The wench opened her eyes wide. "Have n t 
 you heard of him*? He is the wicked cardinal 
 who betrayed the King. He s buried alive in 
 Loches." 
 
 "Loches?" I said. "That s where the King 
 journeys." 
 
 "Yes," she answered. But she would not sing 
 again. 
 
 There was, I noticed, a comet hanging in the 
 east. 
 
 The venders on the square, having now held 
 their wares on sale all day to the abatement of 
 many a wallet, were loading their carts with the 
 pieces that remained. At an interval, as they laid 
 away some choice saint, they barked its merits to 
 the villagers, if perchance there still lurked an un 
 spent penny. 
 
 When I returned to the inn I was met at the 
 door by the stranger who had shared his wine 
 with me. The room was now empty, but he drew 
 me to a corner screened from the windows. 
 
 "You bring a letter," he asked, "for Jacques 
 Bonnet?" 
 
 "From whom, Monsieur*?" I asked, to test him 
 beyond mischance. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Diane Motier," he said.
 
 132 Luca Sarto 
 
 I drew the letter from my doublet and handed 
 it to him. He declined it. 
 
 "I am not Jacques Bonnet," he said. "He has 
 gone. But he left a message for you." 
 
 It was his turn to offer a letter. It was ad 
 dressed to Antoine or his successor. 
 
 "For me?" I asked. 
 
 "It is for whomever comes to him from Made 
 moiselle." 
 
 I broke the seal and read the contents. They 
 were brief. " Loches is the town, I read. 
 " The Gray Moon is the inn. " 
 
 "Here is confusion," I said, and I showed him 
 the letter. 
 
 "It s plain enough," he replied. "Loches lies 
 four days to the southwest. He tells you the inn 
 where you may find him." 
 
 "So, so? And am I to go gallivanting across 
 the country?" 
 
 The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "I m 
 but a servant in the business," he said. "Jacques 
 Bonnet is my master. It was only yesterday he 
 went to the south. But he left this letter and he 
 bade me urge its importance." 
 
 He paused and eyed me up and down. "It 
 concerns the Lady Diane," he said. "It would be
 
 I Polish My Sword 133 
 
 a sad snarl for her unless you go to Loches." 
 
 I put Diane s letter back in my doublet. "If 
 you will have horses ready in the morning, I 11 
 make the trip," was how I ended. 
 
 No sooner had I given this consent than he 
 offered me the half of a silver clasp. It was 
 hardly larger than my thumb nail. 
 
 "Monsieur Bonnet wears its fellow," he said. 
 "Wear your half upon your doublet for a sign. 
 And until you see its fellow, keep your finger on 
 your lips. Perhaps Monsieur Bonnet will not be 
 himself at the inn. If so, his servant will pro 
 claim himself." 
 
 I nodded my understanding of the matter, and 
 he went off to make arrangements. 
 
 And what, think you, was my reason for con 
 senting to this journey? Have you no invention? 
 Must I blurt it on you? It was to Loches that 
 Mademoiselle was bound.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 MAISTRO TAKES PASSAGE WITH ME 
 
 I WAS abroad early next day and I had my 
 head in the stable yard before breakfast. 
 Two strong Norman horses were already saddled 
 for Michel and me. "Monsieur Bonnet s serv 
 ant is punctual," I thought. Then I sat on a 
 horse-block where I could look down the road, 
 until the boy should tell me that my food was 
 ready. A hostler lounged by, and I called to him. 
 
 "How far do you make it to Pithiviers 1 ?" It 
 was to be our first night s stop. 
 
 "Mor n thirty miles." 
 
 "And a good inn when you get there?" 
 
 "It s not like this, but not so bad, neither." 
 
 "And the road?" 
 
 "Fair to good." 
 
 I gave him a copper for his pains. It was 
 such a rare gift that his mouth fell open. Had 
 I desired to fee him further this vent being of 
 fered I could have put the coin upon his tongue, 
 like salts for an inward ailment. 
 
 134
 
 Malstro Takes Passage with Me 135 
 
 "Eh," I said, "here comes a traveler from 
 Paris. There s his dust at the turn. He rides 
 early." Then as he came nearer, "By the look of 
 him, he has been riding all night." 
 
 He pulled rein before the horse-block. "Break 
 fast and a change of horses!" he blurted. Then, 
 when the boy only gaped, "By Christ s blood, bid 
 them serve me quick!" 
 
 Now, although his words were mostly French, 
 yet by his manner of speaking I knew him to be 
 an Italian. And so I trailed him in. It would 
 ease me to speak to some one in my native tongue, 
 having whined through my nose a full two weeks 
 in French. I bade the boy put my dishes on 
 the Italian s table. It is not often that Sarto so 
 favors a fellow traveler. 
 
 "Melun lies on the Italian road," I said. "Per 
 haps you journey home ?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "Methinks, then, that you are of a sour home 
 sickness when you travel by night." 
 
 "My business is proper to myself alone," was 
 his sullen answer. 
 
 I picked my meat in silence. "This is an un 
 social villain," I thought. 
 
 Presently I spied Michel in the yard.
 
 136 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Michel !" I cried, and I pounded on the shutter. 
 "Michel !" At the second calling the Italian at 
 my table laid down his knife and crooked his 
 head out of the window. Michel came into view, 
 and stood with his shoulders even to the sill. 
 "You have heard my change of plans ?" I asked. 
 "We do not go back to Paris, but to the south." 
 
 Michel nodded. 
 
 "We ll start before the hour," I added. 
 
 I turned to the Italian. 
 
 "Man," I said, "what ails you 4 ?" 
 
 The fellow had risen when Michel s head had 
 appeared at the window. "God s face," he 
 groaned. He was white to his eyes, and he shook 
 so that his knees clapped. 
 
 "One would think," I said, "that you had seen 
 a ghost." 
 
 His voice quavered almost beyond control, but 
 he contrived to speak. "Who are you, Monsieur ? 
 What is your name 1 ?" 
 
 "If it may concern you, my name is Luca 
 Sarto." 
 
 When I gave it, he tottered but steadied him 
 self against the table to the slopping of the 
 cow s milk that had been put before me. He
 
 Maistro Takes Passage with Me 137 
 
 might have slopped the whole of it, for it sets 
 heavy on my stomach. 
 
 "Hold a bit!" I said. "I 11 not hurt you." 
 
 But on a sudden, as though a monstrous fear 
 had taken him, he blurted from the room. 
 
 I tapped my head as though the seat of his com 
 plaint lay there. "Michel," I said, "has he 
 slipped his keeper*?" 
 
 But Michel was deep in thought. "Michel," I 
 added, "you have never seen the fellow, have 
 you?" 
 
 "Not that I remember, Master, and yet there 
 is something in his voice." 
 
 "It was your appearance at the window that 
 first frighted him." 
 
 "Ay, Master, but he tottered when he got your 
 name. One would have said that he had seen 
 a ghost." Michel scratched his head. By this 
 plowing his memory sprouted. "Master," he 
 said, "I remember now that I have seen this man 
 before. It was he I talked with when you went 
 in to King Louis. He was to show me the sights 
 of Paris. His name is Maistro." 
 
 "Michel," I said, "see where the fellow went." 
 Whereupon I proceeded with my food.
 
 138 Luca Sarto 
 
 In a few minutes Michel returned. 
 
 "He s in the stables. And he walks up and 
 down and bites his fingers." 
 
 I pointed to the untouched dishes. "He has 
 not eaten a bite. He is crazed by lack of sleep. 
 Here, swob me off ! I m stained. Now bring 
 the horses around and we 11 start!" 
 
 I wiped my teeth upon my napkin, as is my cus 
 tom, and left the table. 
 
 The horses were ready, and the landlord stood 
 by my stirrup. My reckoning was moderate, and 
 out of a piece of silver there was enough left to 
 fee the yard. The wind of it went about, until 
 there were four to hold my bridle. 
 
 I flung the smaller coins upon the ground and 
 was laughing at the uproar, when the Italian, who 
 but a few minutes since had bolted from me in 
 such a fright, came trotting from the stable. He 
 rode a fresh horse. He came forward with a 
 shamefaced grin. 
 
 "Will Messer Sarto forgive the illness of my 
 manners*?" 
 
 "There s no need of pardon," I said, still sulky, 
 but wondering at the change that had come over 
 him. "Yet if you want my pardon, I 11 not with 
 hold it."
 
 Maistro Takes Passage with Me 139 
 
 "It was a dizziness I m subject to. Yet it 
 was engendered by finding myself in the presence 
 of the famous Luca Sarto." 
 
 "Tush, man. You slopped my doublet, yet t 
 is no matter." 
 
 The Italian turned up his eye in ecstasy. "Oh, 
 Monsieur," he said, "I ve seen your Madonna." 
 
 "So?" I asked, but thawed. 
 
 "Blessed Mary! What grace! What beau 
 ty!" 
 
 "Maistro," I said, and smiled on him, "you 
 have a most discerning eye. Shall we make on, 
 Michel?" 
 
 But still the stranger lingered. He cleared his 
 throat. "Perhaps I may ask a favor of a coun 
 tryman?" 
 
 I bowed for his encouragement. "Come, 
 come," I said, "ask your favor!" I had warmed 
 to him, for praise was welcome in this barren 
 land. 
 
 "I, too, journey to the south," he said. "As the 
 roads are dangerous, perhaps you will permit me 
 to travel in your company." 
 
 "I journey to Loches. If your road lies in that 
 direction, you are welcome to our company." 
 
 "Loches!" he exclaimed. "It s the very town.
 
 140 Luca Sarto 
 
 Messer Sarto honors me. I 11 brag of this when 
 I return to Italy." 
 
 "Ride behind with Michel, Maistro. We 11 
 make a start." 
 
 I lifted my hand in farewell to my friend, the 
 comely wench, whose head popped from an upper 
 window, and we rode out of the yard.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 AN INN AT THE CROSSROADS 
 
 THERE was much turning to leave the town. 
 The road followed in the shadow of the 
 cloister wall for a hundred paces the length of 
 a penitent s conversion but took up its winding, 
 loose practices beyond. It was a vile road, too, 
 with mud and quickset. It makes sad business 
 for a traveler when even the road knows not the 
 way, or, knowing it, is set on mischief. A village 
 madcap with his thumb against his nose is of bet 
 ter instruction. At last we came to the fields, 
 having been all four ways within a quarter mile. 
 
 Our direction was southwest. And yet if the 
 lies be believed of a certain romancing Genoese 
 mapmaker, not southwest at all. For what does 
 the fellow say but that the world s a globe that 
 it is shaped like a huge round tart and is plat- 
 tered in space. But also this tart is always spin 
 ning, and what lies eastward on the platter whirli 
 gigs to west. It is blasphemous coggery. Sarto 
 answers the fellow: Does wind blow always 
 
 141
 
 142 Luca Sarto 
 
 from the east? Does not its shifting blow con 
 fusion to his theory? Then at this, too, let him 
 scratch his head ! I jump into the air, straight up. 
 And yet in that moment does the world leap 
 eastward from me? I drop back into the self 
 same tracks. Look how a little reason shows him 
 up a fool ! This Christopher Stand-on-His-Head 
 ruffles me. Southwest we journeyed southwest, 
 I repeat from Melun. 
 
 We had food shortly before noon at an inn set 
 close upon the road. I gave my horse to a boy 
 and went inside. There was a pleasing smell com 
 ing up the hall. 
 
 "There are three of us," I called; "set the tables 
 quick!" 
 
 A little girl ran off with the message. She 
 was a pretty tot, with a smear of jam upon her 
 face, for her mouth had been too small for the 
 traffic. 
 
 I sit longer at meat than most, and when I had 
 finished, Michel and Maistro had already left their 
 table. Michel had gone to the horses. Maistro 
 was engaged upon a map with a serving lad, a tall 
 thin gawk like a shadow at sunset. It is likely 
 that Maistro did not see me. 
 
 He was asking questions about the road. "It
 
 An Inn at the Crossroads 143 
 
 lies, you say, some fifteen miles beyond Pithi- 
 viers?" 
 
 The boy wagged his head. 
 
 "And it s a mite of an inn at a four corners, and 
 no town about 1 ?" 
 
 Again the boy nodded. 
 
 "Maistro," I said, "do you seek a place to lie 
 to-night? 
 
 Maistro started at my voice. His look, I 
 thought, was thievish. 
 
 But if there was something shamefaced in his 
 action some cheat upon the landlord, whereof I 
 know not his recovery was quick. He sprawled 
 the map upon the table and weighted the ends 
 with saucers there had been fish in them and a 
 buttery mess was left. I set them beyond my 
 nose. 
 
 Maistro put one thumb on Melun and the other 
 on Loches. "Our journey lies between," he said. 
 "To make it in four days, we may lie to-night at 
 Pithiviers. But if we would be only three days 
 upon the road, there is an inn fifteen miles be 
 yond. Here!" His thumb jumped the distance 
 and squatted on the spot. "Here ! It s a third 
 of the whole. Does it meet your pleasure to make 
 the extra miles ? "
 
 146 Luca Sarto 
 
 I climbed into bed and commended myself to 
 sleep. But the wagoners were talking and sing 
 ing in the yard below. "Blessed Jesus," I said, 
 "don t these fellows know it s night? Must I 
 be pestered with them?" 
 
 Finally to mend the noise I threw up my win 
 dow. A tall fellow was singing. "Louse!" I 
 bawled. "Go off to bed!" At first he didn t 
 hear, but I caught him with a boot and scattered 
 the concert. 
 
 I closed the window and fell to sleep at once.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 MAISTRO AGAIN 
 
 SLEEP carries no dial in its wallet. I know 
 not how long I lay unconscious. I was awak 
 ened at a crash. It brought me to my feet. 
 "God s wounds!" I cried, and I fumbled beneath 
 my pillow for my dagger. 
 
 There were sounds of footsteps down the stairs. 
 I leaped to the steps, but at the bottom fell head 
 long on the chair, where it was lodged against the 
 door. Still dazed with my sudden awakening, I 
 disengaged myself. The sounds of steps had 
 ceased. 
 
 I went quietly down the stairs, wearing a shift, 
 naught else. The falling chair had aroused no 
 body. 
 
 I put my ears against all the doors. From 
 within each there came the deep and disjointed 
 melodies of noses. "There are three pipers to the 
 room, at least," I thought. "Only a treble s lack 
 ing for a choir." Coming to the end of the hall, 
 
 147
 
 148 Luca Sarto 
 
 I saw that a passage ran off to the back of the 
 building and that a taper burned in a socket. 
 
 "Maistro and Michel are sleeping there," I 
 mumbled. "I 11 tell them what s happened." 
 
 The passage fell off two steps, and but for the 
 light I would have pitched upon my head. I 
 shuffled on, masking the candle with my fingers. 
 
 I thrust my head in Maistro s room. "So, so, 
 what s this? The fellow is not a-bed." I 
 looked about. "Nor has his bed been slept in." 
 I scratched my head to stir my thoughts. It was 
 Maistro s room, for I had seen him placed. "Me- 
 thinks I have wronged a wagoner. There is an 
 other villain in the house. Maistro has spied me 
 fingering my gold." 
 
 I went into Michel s room. He was fast 
 asleep. I returned to Maistro s room and sat on 
 a stool to comb out the clutter of my thoughts. 
 There was a splotch of mud upon the floor, which 
 Maistro had scraped from his boot, but no other 
 sign of him. He had gone complete. "The 
 rogue had a gallows face," I mused. "He was 
 a sullen devil. I liked him not from the first. 
 But he has had his day s sweat for nothing." 
 
 However, as I would sleep the better for sure 
 knowledge that Maistro had run off, I went down
 
 Maistro Again 149 
 
 the stairs to the ground level. I opened the inn- 
 yard door. As I paused, I heard a horse s whinny. 
 Dimly I could see a man and horse. 
 
 "Maistro!" I cried. "Stand, you whelp!" 
 
 At the sound he leaped to his saddle. Then he 
 galloped from the yard. I pelted after, but he 
 had gone into the darkness. I could see that it 
 was the road toward Loches he took, but nothing 
 else. The clack of his horse s hoofs fell off. 
 
 I was about to go to bed being blue with cold 
 when I saw that he had dropped his wallet on 
 the stones. I carried it inside and, relighting my 
 taper from the embers on the hearth from the 
 coldness of which I judged that it was well toward 
 morning I opened up the wallet. 
 
 First there was a stinking shift, and I tossed 
 it in the fire. And sour stockings. God! Next 
 there was a bundle of letters. A name of di 
 rection caught my eye. "So, so," I said; "what 
 have I come on?" For the topmost letter had 
 the name "Oliver de Bourges." "This fellow 
 is a sorry thief, to steal such worthless stuff. 
 For one that is old in practice, it s silly business." 
 Yet it was strange, I thought, that of the thou 
 sands in Paris it chanced to be Oliver whom he 
 had robbed.
 
 150 Luca Sarto 
 
 Judge my amazement, now, when I came on my 
 own model the gilded model from which I had 
 been working on the morning when the messenger 
 had come to me from the King. 
 
 Sarto has a cunning headpiece when it s day 
 light. He can reason, then, and make a proper 
 sequence. But in the night, after he has been 
 asleep, he gets sore muddled. I sat upon the floor 
 and gazed upon the model, yet not a thought 
 would come to explain its being in the wallet. 
 
 Nor will you rightly blame me for my confu 
 sion. You yourself would not be so glib at the 
 unravelment if I had not told you about Maistro. 
 There is no cause to puff yourself. I ve made my 
 memoirs easy, so that common folk may under 
 stand. 
 
 I sought Michel. There was water in his cup, 
 and to wake him quick I threw it in his face. 
 He sat up, spluttering. 
 
 "Michel," I cried, "where have you seen Mais 
 tro before 4 ?" 
 
 He rubbed his eyes. 
 
 "I told you, Master. He was the man who of 
 fered to show me the sights of Paris." 
 
 "Yes, yes," I interrupted, "but before that." 
 
 Michel bit his thumb in thought.
 
 Maistro Again 151 
 
 "Michel," I said, "do you remember a rogue by 
 the name of Maistro, an idle varlet that hung 
 about the banks *?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 "This is the same rascal." 
 
 "It s likely to be so, Master. But what does 
 the varlet here in France*?" 
 
 "That s the riddle," I answered. "But he at 
 tacked me for my purse." 
 
 I pushed Michel back to bed and left him. 
 Then I returned to my own room. I balanced the 
 chair upon the steps, for I was somewhat wrought 
 upon by the night s events. Then I fell asleep.
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 WE TRAVEL SOFTLY 
 
 WAS awakened by the singing of the stable 
 boys. Also a fly had a part in it, for with 
 all the fair world to sit upon, he chose my nose. 
 The chair was still balanced on the steps. I 
 counted my possessions. My money and the let 
 ter that I bore to Jacques Bonnet were safe. 
 
 At breakfast, to please the varlet, I had Michel 
 sit with me, and I told him what had befallen in 
 the night. We were at meat when word came 
 from the stable that the door had been broken and 
 that Maistro s horse was gone. It capped my 
 story. "It s a lesson," I said. "We 11 take no 
 more vagrants in our company. It s lucky our 
 skins are whole." 
 
 We were on the road before the dew had lost its 
 whiteness. The sun was warm and the sky was 
 clear. A pleasant wind blew across the earth and 
 taught the valley the music of the hills. A shal 
 low stream gossiped of its gay youth upon the 
 mountains. A dog barked far off, and across the 
 
 152
 
 We Travel Softly 153 
 
 fields came the song of women at their planting. 
 And the God Pan sat in a thicket and cocked his 
 ear to all these tunes. His reed lay idle for the 
 shaggy fellow stored the music in his memory. 
 
 Orleans lay twenty miles ahead. It would 
 fall right for noonday food. As for the night, I 
 had been told that the town of Saint Dye lay half 
 way to Blois. 
 
 In the morning a band of players and jugglers 
 went by us. They were evil looking fellows. 
 Since the snows were off the ground they had been 
 sleeping in the fields, except on a few nights when 
 barns and out-buildings were near at hand. As 
 for inns, it would damn their reputation to let 
 them in. There were twenty of the villains, 
 mostly walking, although two or three rode mules. 
 One fellow in the company with a feather in his 
 cap could have spoken Herod with the best. 
 There were two or three boys to speak the wom 
 en s parts. 
 
 Behind came a wagon with a Hell s Fire but 
 half concealed beneath a cloth. Its red mouth 
 gaped in a manner to set me thinking of my sins. 
 A great tongue waggled as if the beast were hun 
 gry. "There is meat to gorge it," I thought, 
 "among these actor folk." And I flecked my
 
 154 Luca Sarto 
 
 horse with the whip to keep him at his gait, for 
 the beast had theology and shied at the sight of 
 hell. 
 
 It was nearly noon when we came in sight of 
 Orleans. It was the biggest city we were to see 
 indeed, there is nothing grander in France unless 
 it be Paris and my curiosity was stirred as we 
 came near. It was outside of Orleans that the 
 maid Jeanne had led the Dauphin s army. Later 
 she set him on his throne and brushed off his en 
 emies. It makes Sarto blush that a woman should 
 do what a man could not. Unless the whole be 
 a piece of coggery, there was witchcraft at the bot 
 tom of it. Yet she must have been a comely lass, 
 and it s a pity how she ended. 
 
 Orleans is a walled city, but at this noon hour 
 there was no one at the gate to challenge us. As 
 we jogged up, a man was pegging a placard on 
 the wall. There were large words at the top. 
 
 " Reward! Stay a bit!" I said. "Let s see 
 what s offered ! " And I drew in my horse to 
 read. 
 
 "Michel !" I cried, amazed, "I ve had no drink 
 to-day. Read the words yourself and see if you 
 make the same. The town s bewitched." 
 
 Michel pressed close. I pointed my finger at
 
 We Travel Softly 
 
 the sign. "Look, Michel ! Oliver de Bourges is 
 dead, and this board says that it is I who killed 
 him." 
 
 Michel opened his eyes with astonishment. 
 "Peace of God," he blurted, then sat numb with 
 his jaw fallen. 
 
 I read aloud the placard to the end. This is 
 how it ended: " Therefore, for the apprehension 
 of this monstrous villain, by name Luca Sarto, the 
 gracious King, having at heart the safety of his 
 beloved people, is pleased to offer a reward of 
 twenty crowns etc., etc." 
 
 "Eh, Michel," I said, when I had finished read 
 ing, "what think you of it*?" 
 
 Michel sat biting his thumb, too amazed to 
 speak. Then after a pause: "Master," he said, 
 "if there s roguery abroad to lie about us so, me- 
 thinks we stand specially in danger before this 
 placard." 
 
 There was truth in what he said. Already two 
 or three passersby were gawping at us from a dis 
 tance. "We 11 come away and think what s to 
 be done," I said. 
 
 A hundred paces inside the wall a signboard 
 hung above a door with a tankard scrawled on it. 
 We hitched our horses and went in.
 
 156 Luca Sarto 
 
 A boy came from the kitchen. "You 11 fetch 
 whatever may happen to be on the stove," I said, 
 "except pork." He clattered off. 
 
 "Master," said Michel, "when was this murder 
 done?" 
 
 "Two nights ago," I said. "Pull your chair 
 up close, Michel, and I 11 tell you more than 
 you ve dreamed of." 
 
 Michel hitched himself nearer and sat with his 
 mouth wide open. 
 
 "It was Maistro who killed Oliver," I said. 
 "When Maistro ran off last night he left his wal 
 let. In it were papers he had stolen from Oliver. 
 That s how I know he killed him. But this mat 
 ters not. The King is mistaken, and the reward 
 is set for me." 
 
 "Master," said Michel, "methinks the placard 
 gave the color of your doublet." 
 
 "So it did." 
 
 "I saw doublets hanging in a window across the 
 way. If one could be bought to fit 
 
 "You are a shrewd varlet, Michel. I 11 make 
 the purchase as we go out." 
 
 We found a brown garment in sufficient con 
 trast from my own. The tailor smoothed my 
 shoulders and pronounced me perfect. "Stand
 
 We Travel Softly 157 
 
 off a bit, Michel," I said, "and look me up and 
 down !" 
 
 "If you bought a cap, Master, to match the 
 doublet, you would be set up complete. Made 
 moiselle would blink twice at seeing you." 
 
 "Hush, Michel!" I said, and cuffed him. 
 You talk too much. It was the cackling goose 
 that the fox caught for his supper." 
 
 I laid by my cap reluctantly with its yellow 
 feather, stroking it in my fingers. 
 
 The tailor had another cap at hand, and he 
 told me its virtues. I slapped my silver on the 
 counter and we came out. 
 
 A crowd had gathered about the placard and a 
 priest was reading it aloud. Except for him, not 
 a man could read. If a man in France so rouses 
 himself that he has a desire to know what s writ 
 ten, he goes bawling for a priest, then twirls his hat 
 and cocks his ear. Not a letter can he get him 
 self. 
 
 As I did not trust entirely to my change of 
 doublet, I thought it best to pass not too near 
 the crowd. Therefore we turned sharply to the 
 left into the narrow streets. The priest was in 
 toning the words as if they had been the Beati 
 tudes, pronouncing my name and misdeeds in a
 
 158 Luca Sarto 
 
 villainous minor. I was myself almost persuaded 
 that I was a rascal. But I was soon beyond the 
 sound of it. 
 
 I observed now that one of my horse s shoes was 
 loose, for it clappered on the stones. I bawled 
 out to a man for direction to a smithy. He 
 pointed to the next turning. 
 
 But when we came to it, I swore an oath. It 
 was plastered with a placard. 
 
 "Here s work for you," I bawled within. 
 "We re in a monstrous hurry." 
 
 The smith sopped his sweat and said. "In your 
 turn, Monsieur. There s one before you." 
 
 "Who s he?" I asked. 
 
 The smith pointed to the placard. "It s a 
 man who goes on the King s errand. It was he 
 put up the placard." 
 
 I cast my eye suspiciously around the smithy. 
 "And where is he now?" I asked. 
 
 "He went off to get his food, but he gave me sil 
 ver to hurry with his work." 
 
 "I 11 not be put off," I cried. "Here s double 
 the amount he gave. Shoe me first!" 
 
 The smith caught the glint of silver, then 
 agreed.
 
 We Travel Softly 159 
 
 "Did this king s messenger," I asked, "tell you 
 where he was traveling?" 
 
 The smith paused a bit and wiped his nose. 
 "Blois and Loches," he said, and went on hammer 
 ing at my horse s shoe. 
 
 Presently Michel and I were on our way again. 
 "We ve put this fellow behind us, at least," he 
 said. "We 11 see no more placards to-day." 
 
 We were an hour outside the city and were trot 
 ting side by side, when a thought came to me. 
 "Michel," I said, "methinks it s odd that Mais- 
 tro should kill Oliver." 
 
 "It is, Master." 
 
 "And it s odd," I continued, "that Maistro 
 broke into my room at the inn at Pithiviers." 
 
 "So it is." 
 
 "And, Michel, the placard said that Oliver was 
 killed on the steps of the Palais Saint Louis. 
 That s very odd, too." 
 
 "And so it is," said Michel, scratching his head. 
 
 "And then, do you remember how the fellow 
 was scared at sight of me when he heard my name, 
 on our first meeting him at Melun?" 
 
 "That I do, Master." 
 
 "Well," I said, "do you smell nothing?"
 
 160 Luca Sarto 
 
 Michel shook his head. 
 
 "Dunce," I said. "Your nose is stopped. I 
 smell this. Both of these attacks were meant for 
 me." 
 
 "Blessed Mary," said Michel with a stupid look. 
 
 "And there s more than that," I said. "It s 
 the Orsini who sent him on his dirty work. The 
 fellow s an Italian. He had just come from 
 Rome when you saw him first. And when he had 
 struck down Sarto, as he supposed, he was fleeing 
 to Italy. Melun s on the road. So when he saw 
 me, whom he thought he had just killed, it put 
 him in a blather as though he had seen a ghost." 
 
 "As God s above," said Michel. 
 
 "But he steadied himself," I continued, "when 
 he found that his work had not yet been done, and 
 so contrived an excuse to join us." 
 
 We jogged awhile in silence. "Then you 
 think," said Michel, "that we shall meet Maistro 
 again?" 
 
 "We shall," I answered him. 
 
 We came into Saint Dye at sundown. It was 
 to have been our lodgment for the night. 
 
 There was no placard on the post before the 
 inn. 
 
 But luck had set against us. We had our
 
 We Travel Softly 161 
 
 fingers in the food, when we saw a traveler draw 
 rein before the door. He rode a roan mare and 
 he held a packet against her neck. "It s the 
 family shirts, fresh washed," I thought. Then I 
 put my hand on Michel s arm and stayed his at 
 tention from his meat. "Michel," I said, "see 
 how he is pegging something on the post." But 
 Michel was rapt upon his rump and did not 
 heed me, for a hungry belly has no ears. 
 "Michel!" I said again, and I shook him by the 
 shoulders; "it s the same rogue who pegged the 
 placard outside Orleans." I craned forward from 
 the window. "This jest grows stale," is how I 
 ended. 
 
 I put the reckoning on the table, and stood in 
 the shadow of the inn door. Some few villagers 
 had come up. By the empty way they stared I 
 could tell that not a man could read. "Michel," 
 I said, "we must be off before a priest appears." 
 
 Michel moaned for the remnant of his rump 
 and sucked his greasy fingers, but I hushed him. 
 We took to the road again. I was in a surly 
 mood to have my night so broken in. 
 
 "Master," said Michel, "where do we spend 
 the night 4 ?" 
 
 "We can at least crawl beneath a hedge."
 
 162 Luca Sarto 
 
 The night was wrapped in clouds, until not a 
 star showed through. Nature had counted the 
 travelers still abroad and, checking them not be 
 yond her fingers, had thought it was a proper 
 thrift to hang out no lamps. 
 
 Woods lay upon the left, for the wind stirred 
 them. It is music beyond the skill of man, either 
 on reed or string. The sweet fluting soothed my 
 anger. 
 
 And all this hour we had seen no light, nor any 
 outline of a house. 
 
 We had now come two hours beyond Saint 
 Dye. "We 11 cabin ourselves," I said, "beneath 
 the first straw rick. We had best be on the look 
 out." 
 
 Michel stayed me. "Master," he said, "some 
 one comes behind." 
 
 I cocked my ear. There was a sound upon the 
 road of horse s feet. "So, so ! There s another 
 traveler. Perhaps the wretch will tell us where 
 to sleep." Yet in precaution I faced about and 
 drew my dagger. The rider came up with a clack. 
 
 "If you have love for a fellow man," he cried, 
 drawing in his horse, "you 11 tell me if Blois is 
 near."
 
 We Travel Softly 163 
 
 "Love will not get you there to-night. It s 
 three hours ahead." 
 
 The stranger tapped a packet which he bore 
 before him on the horse. "I am on the King s 
 errand." 
 
 Michel plucked my doublet from behind. But 
 I, too, smelled a rat. 
 
 "King s errand or no king s errand, you can not 
 get there to-night. Do you know the roads?" I 
 asked. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "What do you bear in your packet*?" 
 
 "I am not a scholar," he answered. "It s 
 words." He rubbed his head. "I have taken 
 not the time to read the thing entire. But there 
 has been dirty business done in Paris, and I give 
 notice for the catching of the villain. I travel for 
 the King." He twitched his mustachios and 
 puffed himself. 
 
 "How are the villains complexioned*?" I asked. 
 
 "God help me," he said, "it goes beyond my 
 learning. I know not." 
 
 "Stranger," I said, "you had best stay the night 
 with us. We shall cast about for a rick." 
 
 "But I travel in a hurry," he objected.
 
 164 Luca Sarto 
 
 "If you are a king s messenger," I said, "it s 
 well that you know that there is a slough beyond. 
 It would bog you. You had best stay with us." 
 
 He grumbled, then yielded to us. 
 
 We rode our horses through a hedge and 
 tethered them beneath a tree. There was a dry 
 rick near by. On its far side I dug a hole in the 
 straw. "I play the host," I told the stranger. 
 "This is your room. I 11 put you so that you are 
 shielded from the wind. You 11 pardon the lack 
 of candles." He grinned at my jest and snuggled 
 in the straw. 
 
 I drew Michel off in the darkness. 
 
 "Master," he asked, "shall I stick him?" 
 
 "Fool!" I said. "No! Would you stir more 
 hornets ? Bunk alongside the fellow. Be his 
 friend. But if he gets up to stir around, hum a 
 tune!" 
 
 I prepared my own bed on the other side of the 
 rick, that side nearest the horses. I could have 
 slept at once, but I pinched myself. Presently 
 the stranger snored. 
 
 I rose quietly. I found his horse tethered be 
 neath a tree. The packet was still tied upon the 
 saddle. "This will pay him for not easing his 
 horse at night," I thought. I untied the packet
 
 We Travel Softly 165 
 
 and removed it. Then I loosed the tether and 
 led off the horse. There was another rick in the 
 field. I scatched a hole in it and thrust inside 
 the packet, ramming straw above it. 
 
 Next I led the horse to the road and slapped 
 her smartly on the rump. She trotted off, but 
 turned to look at me. I pelted clods at her until 
 she was gone from sight. "There will be no 
 placards, now, in Blois and Loches. I 11 sleep the 
 better for it." 
 
 The stranger was still snoring. 
 
 I lay back tired. I was cramped and sore. 
 The straw pricked me through my clothes. 
 There s no content for travelers. A friendly 
 witch, they say, carried Habakkuk from Judea to 
 Babylon. Saint Ambrose on a sabbath morning 
 was lifted in a peaceful trance from Milan to 
 Tours for Saint Martin s funeral. Would to 
 God a comely witch would take me on her broom 
 stick down to Loches and save me further bounc 
 ing. 
 
 I drew the straw around me and fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A NEST IN A CAT S EAR 
 
 THERE was a pother in the morning, as you 
 may be sure. To breed confidence in my 
 integrity, I upbraided the messenger for his man 
 ner of tethering his horse, showing him, as he 
 stormed, the Italian method. My teaching fell 
 to nothing, for he was distracted by his loss. As 
 for Michel, he played a cunning part in the farce, 
 being so full of grief at the fellow s mischance 
 that a tear stood on his nose. Michel has it in 
 him to be a mummer. He could play Hecuba 
 and snivel with the best, if he were dressed in 
 woman s clouts. 
 
 The messenger delayed us an hour with his 
 silly search, but found neither horse nor packet. 
 I had done my work completely, and he could 
 have leaned against the rick where the packet was 
 hidden without knowledge of it. 
 
 Finally, to end his search, I offered him the 
 hinder end of Michel s horse until we should 
 reach Blois. He still grumbled, but took my 
 
 proffer. And so we came to Blois. 
 
 166
 
 A Nest in a Cat s Ear 167 
 
 At Blois the road for Loches swerves off. At 
 the end of the bridge we begged a breakfast, and 
 while we waited I rubbed pig s grease on my legs. 
 
 As for the messenger, he thanked us for our 
 civilities, though he said the night had ruined 
 him. I never saw the fellow afterward. Then 
 we stuffed us full of curds and took the road 
 again. 
 
 I do not flaunt the things I ve seen. Yet you 
 may care to know how the Frenchmen of the Loire 
 Valley erect their homes. They build wherever a 
 hill springs up, and hard against it, so that the 
 rearward rooms are scooped from the hill itself. 
 As their bedrooms lie behind, they sleep like 
 gnomes within a cave. 
 
 It was middle afternoon when we came to 
 Loches. The castle is set on a hill above it. I 
 looked at it with no more than a careless eye, 
 scarcely marking the huge, square tower of the 
 dungeons. 
 
 I drew Bonnet s letter from my poke. 
 " Loches is the town, " I readi " The Gray 
 Moon is the inn. 
 
 I called to a country lad. "Direct me to the 
 Gray Moon!" I flung him a coin. 
 
 It was near by, around the corner, and he led
 
 1 68 Luca Sarto 
 
 the way, kicking up dust with his toes, for he 
 played that he was a cart-horse. 
 
 It was a comfortable inn, with a garden run 
 ning to the river Indre, which lies along the town. 
 There was a rumor in the place that the King 
 was already on the way from Paris, and that he 
 would arrive on the Thursday, two days off. 
 
 "And the Court*?" I asked. "Does it travel 
 with him 1 ?" For my thoughts ran on Made 
 moiselle. 
 
 "Ay, that it does." 
 
 There was a tub outside the kitchen door. 
 "Come here, my lad!" I soaped my ears and 
 hair, then put my head down inside the tub. 
 "Now then," I said, "pour the water on me!" 
 
 After this I sought a barber. He was mixing a 
 compound in a pewter pot, stirring it with a long 
 spoon and holding it to his nose. 
 
 "What s this?" I asked. 
 
 "It s a cure for the stone," he said. 
 
 He put down his spoon, and waved an instruc 
 tive finger. 
 
 "Know this!" he said. "The stone is a 
 grievous malady. And here s the cure." 
 
 "It s vile to smell," I said. 
 
 "I gather," he continued, "a good quantity of
 
 A Nest in a Cat s Ear 169 
 
 those beetles which are found in the dung of oxen, 
 also of crickets which sing in the fields. I cut off 
 the heads and wings of the crickets and put them 
 in a pot with the beetles and common oil." He 
 pointed to the mess upon his stove. "When they 
 have boiled for a day I pound them into powder. 
 Has Monsieur the stone?" 
 
 "No," I said. 
 
 He seemed disappointed. "But perhaps Mon 
 sieur has worms. I ve a sovereign remedy for 
 that." 
 
 "Barber," I said, "get your shears! My beard 
 needs trimming. I 11 sit on the bench outside. 
 There s too much stench in here." 
 
 He sighed, but brought his shears. 
 
 When he had done, he sprinkled me with sweet 
 scent and held up a glass. I commended him 
 upon my looks and came away. 
 
 From the window of my room there was a view 
 of the garden and the castle on the hill. Pres 
 ently Michel rapped. I called to him to enter. 
 
 "I ve been about the town," he said. 
 
 "So?" 
 
 "And I spied into all the drinking shops," he 
 continued. 
 
 "You are none the worse. It was thin wine."
 
 170 Luca Sarto 
 
 Michel gave me a sly look. "I thought to find 
 Maistro," he said. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "But I found him not, Master." 
 
 It was shrewd of Michel, and I praised him. 
 Then as the kitchen bell rang, I sent him off and 
 sought my dinner. A serving wench stood in the 
 hall. I gave her my boots. "Clean them and 
 grease them, my dear, and set them by my door!" 
 
 She was young and slim. I called her back. 
 "Here s for your pains, my love," I said. And I 
 offered to kiss her. We must keep the sweet crea 
 tures content. 
 
 But judge my amazement! She slapped me 
 and ran off. 
 
 I was startled. Here was something new. 
 Pest! I thought. Have my looks gone off 1 ? 
 Am I humped? Has the comet withered me? 
 But I found comfort. It was my old brown 
 doublet, bought in Orleans. Yet, the girl s wits, 
 doubtless, were somewhat touched. But I did 
 not follow her. The wench was angry. When 
 a woman blows to a tempest, it s wise to keep in 
 shelter. 
 
 She slammed the door, and, by the sound, she 
 hurled mv boots down the back stairs.
 
 A Nest in a Cat s Ear 171 
 
 I was tired. Minorites and pilgrims thrive on 
 dust and mud, but I am content at home. I d 
 rather be a Benedictine and sit in slippers with 
 my hands folded on my paunch. 
 
 In the public room, where my table was laid, 
 were country people who had brought their pro 
 duce to market a sloven company, who now 
 drank their profit in wine, not malmsey or mus- 
 cadel, but some unvintaged juice pressed from 
 near-by vineyards. I ordered the boy to change 
 my plates to a table far from their stinking com 
 pany. 
 
 Then, remembering the clasp whereby Monsieur 
 Bonnet or his servant was to know me, I fetched 
 it from my poke and pinned it on like a lady s 
 favor. I stood up and faced all ways, on the 
 chance that he or his servant was already in the 
 room. There was no response. 
 
 I now summoned the landlord and asked him 
 what wines there were in the house, fit for an 
 Italian s thirst. At this he rubbed his hands to 
 gether as if the air before him were a washing 
 sink. He was so fat a man he could have played 
 the drum upon his belly. 
 
 "Monsieur," he said, and cast his eyes slantwise 
 on the other tables, "those are cheap juices."
 
 172 Luca Sarto 
 
 Then his face lighted. "Ah, Monsieur, I have a 
 golden vintage in my cellar !" 
 
 "There s a proverb, landlord," I said, "that 
 wine in the cellar quenches no man s thirst" r 
 
 He ran off, but came again, bearing a bottle. 
 He pressed his fat knees together on it, hunched 
 himself, and pulled the cork. He wiped its mouth 
 as tenderly as a mother would a babe s, and filled 
 my glass. Then he stood off, to watch the marvel 
 of my drinking such nectar. 
 
 It was fair and middling, worth smacking the 
 lips, perhaps, if the gullet is dusty, but not a wine 
 to make an occasion of. It would do for a fourth 
 round when the singing starts. Yet there was 
 honest grape in it, and it had aged somewhat. 
 Sarto does not growl upon his food and drink. 
 If the wine is thin, he does not tell how he has 
 had it better. Or if a platter is unsavory, he does 
 not cast it at the cook. "Mine host," I said, 
 "your wine is good. Leave the bottle by. When 
 I want another, I 11 pound upon the table." 
 
 The evening wore on. No one had bespoken 
 me about the clasp. One by one the villagers 
 left with empty baskets, but full as ticks inside. 
 There were now but three of them remained. I 
 looked upon them hard and tapped my clasp in
 
 A Nest in a Cat s Ear 173 
 
 invitation. They were sottish beyond feigning. 
 One by one their chins went to their chests, and 
 their heads waggled uneasily from side to side, 
 by reason of the slop inside. 
 
 My thoughts were not sweet. Here had I 
 pelted. It would have been better manners if 
 this Jacques had been more exact to have me met. 
 Having sat for an hour beyond my meat, I con 
 cluded that the game was off for the night. It 
 was likely that he had given me four days to make 
 the trip from Melun. And four days it would 
 have been if Maistro had not lured me to the road 
 side inn to dispatch me with greater safety to 
 himself. 
 
 I swallowed the remnant of my wine, put the 
 landlord aside who vowed he had Bacchus s own 
 bottle in the cellar, and passed into the lower hall 
 to bed. At the end of ten steps I was confronted 
 by one of the countrymen. He stopped short 
 before me. 
 
 "By sailor s pox," he said, "I have lost it." 
 
 "Lost what?" I asked. 
 
 He drew me away from the door. Then, 
 screened from sight, he put his fingers to his lips 
 and, plunging his hand into his cloak, brought out 
 the other half of the clasp I wore.
 
 174 Luc a Sarto 
 
 "If it s lost, there s an end on it," he said 
 loudly. "How the old woman will storm!" 
 Thereat, in opposition to his words, a grin went 
 paddling around the margin of his mouth. 
 
 He moved away, leaving me perplexed. His 
 steps were dying in the upper hall. 
 
 I followed. At the top of the stairs I lighted a 
 taper and, protecting the light with my fingers, I 
 hastened down the bare hall. I came on him 
 again. He motioned me not to speak. 
 
 I followed him down a rear staircase to the 
 kitchen. Here in a reddish light from embers on 
 the hearth, Michel was conjugating "amo" to a 
 wench s ear, which was close-set for fullest knowl 
 edge. In such matters, I fear, Michel is a cun 
 ning schoolman. He was already in the perfect 
 tense, for his arm was about her waist, with plus 
 quam perfectum still to come. 
 
 Without heeding his pot-and-kettle love, we 
 passed through to the stable yard. In the sudden 
 darkness I bumped against a cart. There was a 
 snickering from the stable door. Fore God 
 I began, and peered hard to see from whom the 
 sound had come. "I 11 teach you manners." 
 Dimly I could now see the outline of a row of 
 men on the rim of the horse trough. The snick-
 
 A Nest in a Cat s Ear 175 
 
 ering ceased. There was one of better manners 
 who, in a squeaking voice, most unnatural and 
 like a woman s, begged pardon for the slight. 
 And now, that I come to think of it, it must have 
 been Maistro himself, in falsetto for disguise. 
 
 My guide and I came to the street before the 
 inn. At the turn he set his ear back upon the 
 yard. There was a stir inside. 
 
 "Monsieur Sarto," he said in a low tone, "did 
 you mark the fellows on the trough 1 ?" 
 
 "I marked their lack of manners," I answered. 
 
 It s queer that there were five of them, when 
 there were but two hostlers in the stable." He 
 shook his head in thought. 
 
 He pulled my sleeve. "We ve other business. 
 Let us hurry!" 
 
 At a trot he led me down the street. It was a 
 laggard pace. He was a sorry runner, short of 
 breath, and continually sniveling at his nose. 
 
 Above us on the hill were the lights of build 
 ings. He jerked his thumb in their direction. 
 "It s the castle," he panted. "Mother of God 
 protect us from the dungeons !" He crossed him 
 self and hurried on. Through an atmosphere 
 that was as thick as seven veils, I saw blurred 
 lights aloft and the bulk of towering buildings.
 
 176 Luca Sarto 
 
 Fog is like a gossip s tongue for stretching things. 
 Loches, in truth, is a mighty pile, but through the 
 murk and scum it stood like a Tower of Babel to 
 threaten heaven. 
 
 We had come at farthest the length of a 
 longish church two hundred paces when a 
 cross street slanted into the darkness. There was 
 a flare of light from a lantern overhead. I looked 
 back toward the inn. 
 
 In the glow from the door I saw a man run from 
 the yard. Close upon him came two others. He 
 was urging them with oaths. 
 
 I laughed aloud. "The fellow is an Italian of 
 my acquaintance." I was for standing to him, 
 and I peered about for the advantage of a step. 
 
 But my guide would have none of it. "Later," 
 he whispered. "When your message has been 
 given there will be time." 
 
 "You make Sarto out a coward," I said, but I 
 gave up to him. 
 
 We slipped into the darkness of the cross-lane, 
 and came before a building with a flight of steps 
 before it. There was a bakeshop below. Up 
 these stairs we bolted. The door at the top was 
 locked, but flew open when we kicked. 
 
 But we were too late. Our pursuers had heard
 
 A Nest in a Cat s Ear 177 
 
 the rummage, and they came running around the 
 corner. I drew my sword, and stood on the top 
 most step. "Maistro," I cried, "perhaps you will 
 be the first to mount the steps." He had come 
 pelting to the foot, but paused when I made a 
 stand. "Perhaps the Orsini," I sneered, "send a 
 message by their lackey. If so, I 11 take it now." 
 
 He stood snarling on the lowest step, yet durst 
 not mount. 
 
 "It were a pity," I continued, "to come so far 
 upon an errand, and yet fail in the issue of it." I 
 tapped my swordpoint on the rail. "Come up, 
 you whelp!" 
 
 Maistro put his foot upon the second step, and 
 beckoned to his underlings. 
 
 "Ha," I cried, "you come in numbers." 
 
 As I stood thus, facing the villains, I heard the 
 house door close behind me. I dared not turn, yet 
 knew that I stood alone. But I cried, "He s gone 
 to bring out cates. We 11 have a picnic on the 
 stairs. I will furnish fresh meat." At the word 
 I drove at Maistro and forced him to the lowest 
 step. Yet I was fretted why my guide had left 
 me alone. 
 
 Maistro was balked. It took a deal of courage 
 to meet my sword upon the steps. Had it been
 
 1 78 Luca Sarto 
 
 upon the level, he could have set his varlets on 
 me three ways at once. But none of the knaves 
 liked the glitter of my sword as I stood above 
 them. 
 
 "Maistro," still I taunted him "show these 
 Frenchmen what courage an Italian has! Be 
 yourself the first to come!" 
 
 He bit his nails and had no stomach for it. 
 "Five gold crowns," he cried, "for the first man 
 up the steps." 
 
 "And for the same fellow," I shouted back, "a 
 crown, also, that s cracked and bloody." 
 
 Then on a sudden one of the villains made a 
 leap. As the saints live, my sword went clean 
 through him. He tumbled off its point, and 
 rolled from stone to stone. I cried out like a 
 barber, "Who comes the next for the clipping?" 
 
 But even as I shouted, and when my sword was 
 scarcely quit of him, the other varlets pressed up 
 the steps. The first of these was Maistro. To 
 get a clearer sweep for my sword, I stepped back 
 to the sill of the door. Maistro was upon the 
 level before I lunged at him. He was a saucy 
 fellow to think he could parry my thrust. If 
 there had been a priest by, he must needs have 
 muttered quick. Maistro could have had but a
 
 A Nest in a Cat s Ear 179 
 
 short shrift. A shovel was needed for the making 
 of his bed. Short words are best. He lay dead 
 at my feet. 
 
 The other two rogues faltered. Then, as I 
 turned upon them, they bolted down. 
 
 And now, mark the ill-luck that ended the 
 fight, which else had ended to my honor. In my 
 zeal I leaped after them, but caught my foot on 
 Maistro s body as it lay on the upper step. It 
 pitched me to the street. It might have been the 
 death of me, for I fell twice my length upon the 
 cobbles.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A HINT FOR MY TOMBSTONE 
 
 I STAGGERED to my feet and bawled to the 
 rogues that I would meet them on the level. 
 But they had run off in the darkness. This, at 
 least, was a piece of luck, for I had snapped my 
 sword off short. Also, in putting my hand upon 
 my cheek to mop the sweat, I found fresh blood 
 upon it. And a pain ran through my shoulder. 
 
 "I 11 best put into harbor for a bit," I thought. 
 And I clambered up the steps. "If this Jacques 
 Bonnet is within, perhaps he will let me pass the 
 night." 
 
 The door stood ajar, and I pushed it open. 
 
 First there was an entry with stairs leading to 
 the floor above. I listened, but not a sound came 
 down. Beyond was a room with a fire upon the 
 hearth. By its light I saw a table and two chairs. 
 On the table was a bottle of wine and a remnant 
 of supper. There was a candlestick, also, but it 
 lay upon its side with a smear of grease upon the 
 
 cloth. "I ve broken up a banquet," I thought. 
 
 180
 
 A Hint for My Tombstone 181 
 
 "They have run off before the dessert came on." 
 
 Then I called, "Jacques Bonnet, here s Sarto 
 with a message for you !" but got only an echo for 
 my answer. 
 
 While I was standing thus, a wave of dizziness 
 came on me. It blinded me, and the room 
 whirled, but I held to the chair-back until it 
 passed. "Eh," I thought, "it s the clout upon 
 the head." 
 
 With such pennyworth of wit as the fit left me, 
 there now occurred to me what Mademoiselle had 
 told me about her letter, how I must read it if any 
 danger threatened me. "I m in a parlous state," 
 I thought. "I had best read it quick." 
 
 I leaned against the chair-back to steady me and 
 drew it from my poke. "Now," I muttered, "if 
 my brain holds, I 11 see what Diane has written. 
 
 " Dearest Jacques, I read, but the paper 
 twitched in my unsteady fingers. I have come 
 from the north and the white rose has bloomed. 
 From Rouen I sent word to the west to Nor 
 mandy and Brittany as I was bade. The word, 
 they say, has already gone to the south, where 
 Aragon awaits it. Now, Jacques, I send the 
 word to you for your knowledge and safety. 
 And now the time is coming when I shall come to
 
 1 82 Luca Sarto 
 
 you. Again I faltered, for the paper was a 
 
 blur before me. When the letters had returned 
 to their proper places I went forward. And this 
 time I was able to finish it. 
 
 " I came into Paris last night, aided by an artist 
 whose name is Luca Sarto. He will be the bearer 
 of this letter. My reason is that he is not a 
 Frenchman, but I have other reasons also. Poor 
 Antoine, who carried the last! Now, Jacques, 
 this is not a woman s work, and I long to be done 
 with. it. Paris is lonely, and sometimes at night I 
 hear the bells across the ciy, and I wish they were 
 the bells of Ghent, sounding the hour when you 
 will come to me. With all the love in my heart, 
 thine. Diane. " 
 
 I tossed it in the fire. 
 
 It was well the letter was no longer, for I reeled 
 when I had finished it. "Sarto, Sarto, you fool," 
 I muttered, "it s a white rose. I must tell Bon 
 net the color of it. Methinks the fire s gone out. 
 The letter s burnt. Maistro, you dog, there s 
 blood smeared on my cheek. You had best come 
 up, you whelp! It s a pretty blaze, yet how it 
 heats my head! The rose is the color of Made 
 moiselle s hand Michel, the King has fallen in a 
 fit"
 
 A Hint for My Tombstone 183 
 
 And now confusion was down on me. The 
 room turned black. Thought slipped into a mist, 
 and I knew nothing more. 
 
 With grief I write this ending, that Sarto 
 should stub his toe upon a bakeshop steps like a 
 country lout. If I had killed irtyself it would 
 have been to my dishonor. How would the Latin 
 have looked upon my tombstone*? Hie jacet 
 Luca Sarto, aurifex praestantius, qui gloriam 
 tnundi pinxit, qui stubbed his toe and broke his 
 neck.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IF ADAM HAD KEPT HIS RIB 
 
 AS some of you who read this chronicle may 
 have taken a fondness for Sarto, I 11 com 
 fort you. He lived. To this day, however, he 
 bears a scar above one eye. Yet his wits returned 
 to him, as the issue of these adventures will prove. 
 
 The fire still burned when my sense came back. 
 I looked about and was glad to see that the fur 
 niture of earth was still around me. "As I m a 
 sinner," I thought, "I had fears where I might 
 awake." 
 
 I stirred myself and sat up. I am not a leach. 
 I profess neither physic nor anatomy. It will 
 suffice that there was a monstrous thumping in my 
 head. 
 
 I pulled myself stiffly to the hearth and put my 
 face in its light. On the stones were the charred 
 remnants of the letter, but as yet they recalled 
 nothing to me. 
 
 There was a bottle on the table. The wine, if 
 
 any were left, would revive me. The bottle was 
 
 184
 
 // Adam Had Kept His Rib 185 
 
 half full. After drinking, I leaned my head 
 against the chimney and let my wits come in. 
 "So?" I thought. "I had a letter by me. There 
 was matter in it about a rose. I burned it." I 
 took a faggot from the fire and scrawled the word 
 "white" upon the stones. "It will not slip me 
 now." 
 
 My dull head was in sad disorder. I sipped 
 more wine and ate a cate that I found upon the 
 table. It was the medicine that I needed. There 
 was a clout upon a chair-back, for drying plates. 
 I sopped it in a cup of water, and I poured on 
 vinegar. Then I tied it on my head. Perhaps 
 the sourness would draw off the pain. I placed a 
 stick upon the fire, and sat with my fingers crossed 
 upon my knee. "While my disorder lasts," I 
 moaned, "I 11 not be so skillful in a fight as a 
 Frenchman even, God pity me." 
 
 And then I laughed, but it was mirth as sour 
 as vinegar. The last part of Diane s letter had 
 come back to me. She had once denied that I 
 journeyed to her lover. And yet here she bade 
 this Jacques to come to her. "By Venus," I 
 sneered, "I am a postboy. I am a good honest 
 fellow, and Mademoiselle entrusts me with her 
 love letters." It is no wonder it made me sour.
 
 1 86 Luca Sarto 
 
 A pair of black eyes in Rome would have laughed 
 at my discomfort. And a pair of brown eyes, too. 
 For somewhat of life lay behind me. I had jigged 
 to more than one tune of love. 
 
 I was fast coming into an ugly mood. I sopped 
 the bandage again, and sulked against the bricks. 
 
 And now I heard a creaking in the ceiling over 
 head. "Soft," I said, "perhaps the lover s up 
 above. I must con my lesson." I listened. But 
 if you wait for a sound and hold your breath, it 
 hangs off to make you fret. Finally there came 
 another creaking. 
 
 This was followed by a sound from the stairs 
 boots a-tiptoe and steel against the rail. I con 
 cealed myself behind the angle of the chimney- 
 piece. My broken sword mocked me. My bad 
 wrist, also, pled for peace. 
 
 A man had come to the doorway a French 
 man, for his clothing was of the mode of Paris. 
 The chimney corner lay in shadow and, though 
 he gazed hard at it, he did not see me. Then he 
 bent over the fire, so that his face was in its glow 
 and quite distinct. 
 
 The face puzzled me. It was familiar, yet I 
 could not place it. No matter! This was the
 
 // Adam Had Kept His Rib 187 
 
 fellow to whom I must repeat the pretty story of 
 the ringing bells. And he might give me for my 
 pains a silver coin, or say, "Good fellow," or pat 
 my shoulder. It s a pity that Sarto is not a 
 lackey to enjoy being fawned on. 
 
 The word "white" that I had scrawled upon 
 the stones had caught his eye. Then it came to 
 me why his face was familiar. He resembled 
 Diane. "Eh," I thought, "is it possible 4 ? Per 
 haps the man is her brother." 
 
 I leaned back against the chimney and laughed 
 aloud. It cost me an ugly bruise. He jumped 
 to his feet and leaped on me. The impact threw 
 me to the floor and his knees well nigh knocked 
 the breath from me. Then he shook me and 
 asked me who I was. "You have a rare good 
 humor," he said, as I lay there under his knees. 
 
 "A rare good thought came to me," I replied. 
 "I have been journeying four days to find 
 Jacques Bonnet, and now, Jacques Motier, I find 
 that my message is for you." 
 
 "You have a message for me 4 ?" He was eager 
 all at once. 
 
 "When you climb down off my stomach, I 11 
 have better breath to talk." I had been so
 
 1 88 Luca Sarto 
 
 pummeled that I ached. I stretched myself and 
 smoothed me off. "Now then," I said. "I m 
 listening." 
 
 He squinted at me sharply. "Whose message 
 do you carry?" 
 
 "I ll tell you when you match this clasp." 
 
 "You re a careful messenger." He displayed 
 its mate. "You have a letter for me?" 
 
 "I had one. It s burned now as crisp as 
 Judas. It was from your sister, Mademoiselle 
 Diane." 
 
 "Diane? Pardon my laggard greeting. My 
 servant misreported you, distrusting the ruf- 
 flers that came behind." 
 
 I delivered my message. I told him of the 
 white rose that was blooming in its English gar 
 den, feeling like a fool at uttering such silliness. 
 Like all Italians, I was ignorant of the trivial 
 history of England, and what the white rose meant 
 to them. One cannot know what is happening in 
 all the petty corners of the world. 
 
 But at the first word Motier gave a cry of joy 
 and hurled his hat to the ceiling. 
 
 "May the saints bless the English !" he cried. 
 
 I was confused. "Why does Mademoiselle tell 
 you that a rose is white?" I asked.
 
 // Adam Had Kept His Rib 189 
 
 "Because it is not red," Jacques answered. 
 Then he shifted from the subject, leaving his 
 riddle unanswered. 
 
 "There is a man lying dead upon the steps," he 
 said, "and we had best make speed upon our busi 
 ness. When does my sister come to Loches*?" 
 
 "She comes in the train of Louis." 
 
 "So? It s in a day or two." Then again: 
 "In this letter from my sister, did she write of a 
 Norman messenger*?" 
 
 "It s likely enough. I have forgotten it in my 
 dulness." 
 
 "And perhaps she mentioned Aragon?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "And of course Burgundy was not forgotten 4 ?" 
 
 "My recollection s blurred. Yet I follow you 
 not, Monsieur." 
 
 Motier waved me off and fell to muttering. 
 It was half aloud, and yet I could not hear 
 all. "Guienne the King s brother. Aragon 4 ? 
 It s sure he 11 come. Charles, of course. Then 
 Brittany, if things sort right for him. Then- 
 let s see ! Ha ! Bourbon. Now ! No matter 
 how the wind shall blow, the King will get the 
 smudge of it. Stay ! In two days Diane arrives. 
 It is timed to the day. We had best travel be-
 
 190 Luca Sarto 
 
 fore the smudge sets in. You, sir. What do I 
 call you?" 
 "Luca Sarto." 
 
 "Well then, Luca Sarto, we lie deep in your 
 debt." He cast his eye sharply on me. "I must 
 see my sister when she arrives. How shall I con 
 trive it*?" He rubbed his chin in thought. "My 
 face looks best by candle-light in Loches. If the 
 broad sun fell on me, it would endanger my com 
 plexion. I 11 be blunt, Monsieur. Will you 
 bring my sister to me, at a place that I shall 
 specify 1 ?" 
 
 "If Mademoiselle permits," I answered. 
 "Do you know the roads about Leches ?" 
 "I know the road to Blois, naught else." 
 He shook his head. "It s the road that the 
 King must travel." Then he pounded with his 
 fist. "Listen!" he said. "Four miles out of 
 Loches on the road to Montrichard, there is a stone 
 bridge with pointed arch and a friar s lodge on it. 
 A quarter mile beyond this bridge, there is a low 
 building that was once a farmhouse, but is now 
 deserted. Bring my sister there at dusk on the 
 night following her arrival. The stir of the 
 King s arrival will come to me, so I will know the 
 dny."
 
 // Adam Had Kept His Rib 191 
 
 He paused and looked at the window where a 
 streak of dawn came through. "Eh," he said, "I 
 thought I heard a cock. Loches is no place for me 
 in daylight. You will keep appointment with 
 me?" he asked. 
 
 "If Mademoiselle will be persuaded." 
 
 "Bid Diane wear garments fit for traveling." 
 
 He waved me good-by and was gone. His feet 
 sounded lightly on the outside steps. 
 
 I grinned at his departure. Here had I been 
 fretting how I might meet Mademoiselle, and 
 Jacques had furnished me a way. Yet I groaned 
 what a rueful lover I would be. My jauntiness 
 had fallen off. There was not so much frisk in 
 me as in an old hound. And here was a bump on 
 my head as though all the learning of Pavia sat 
 within. 
 
 Presently I thought how Maistro lay upon the 
 steps. "It was in defense," I thought. "I have 
 a witness that I was set upon. Yet there would 
 be no pleasure in coming before a magistrate. 
 I d best be away from this before the town 
 awakes." 
 
 The dawn was up, but no one was about. 
 Maistro s body lay as I had left it. I walked to 
 the Gray Moon.
 
 192 Luca Sarto 
 
 A boy was sopping up the night s disorder, and 
 making a bad business of it. 
 
 Now, I am scarcely ever merry in the morning. 
 Until the ninth hour you d think me a Scotsman. 
 But this morning I was particularly grumpy. I d 
 had no wink of good sleep. I d been trounced 
 and rolled about and sat upon. Each several rib 
 had its own complaint. 
 
 "Boy," I called out sourly, "if you have 
 swine s grease and isinglass, or any kind of pil 
 grim s salve, mix it quick, or I 11 fall apart! I 
 squeak like a dry wheel. A dozen rogues have 
 sat on me and jounced me up and down." 
 
 I trailed him to the kitchen, cuffing him for 
 smirking at my lameness. We stirred the embers 
 and set a suet on them. The cook had been 
 awakened by the clatter and she put her head in 
 side the door, but I told her to go about her busi 
 ness and mind her pans. Then I peeled my cloth 
 ing and set the boy to rubbing in the grease. The 
 boy beat my clothes while I washed. I nearly 
 flooded the kitchen with the splash, yet it refreshed 
 me. "And now, my pretty dear," I said, "set me 
 out my breakfast !" 
 
 My bath had made me new. For my greater 
 ease I lay back full length upon the settle. I was
 
 // Adam Had Kept His Rib 193 
 
 as happy as a turtle in the sun. Part of the time 
 I watched the brew upon the stove, and found 
 uses for the pans and hooks that hung above me 
 from the beams. But the cook was of a tidy 
 figure, and most of the time I watched her ankles 
 as she whisked about. 
 
 I ve puzzled how it is that cooks, only by look 
 ing on the cover of a pot, can tell when a topmost 
 succulence is reached. A man keeps lifting up the 
 lid to see the bubbles at their work, and he pulls it 
 raw off the fire. It takes a woman s fingers, too, 
 to pinch out salt. A man tilts the can so that the 
 food s a brine. These things lie deep in nature. 
 There was a good cook spoiled when Jeanne d Arc 
 took to horse. Had she kept to her woman s task, 
 it had been a quieter France. It was a peppery 
 broth she stirred, and many kecked on the eating 
 of it. 
 
 My errand at Loches was done. It was a 
 simple errand, and I wondered why such mystery 
 had surrounded it. It was left to conduct the 
 Lady Diane to her masquerading brother and then 
 I would go free. 
 
 And now, suddenly, I saw clearly what had 
 been but glimmering the night before the mean 
 ing of the letter that I had carried between brother
 
 194 Luca Sarto 
 
 and sister. The brother was in arms against the 
 King, a man attainted, who would be turned over, 
 if captured, to Tristan, the King s headsman. 
 Him I had not met. Yet the strands of his life 
 and mine were destined to cross. A sad snarl, 
 this. And Diane was a spy, living within sight 
 of the Tournelles, reporting the French and 
 English plans to Normandy and Brittany. The 
 white rose was the House of York; and rumor 
 had it that York was the friend of Burgundy. 
 Of York was Edward. Had he won in battle 
 and was he again King of England? If this were 
 so, I had thrust myself dangerously into poliics. 
 
 From my window I looked over the brown- 
 tiled roofs of the town, and beyond, at the gray 
 walls of the dungeon, heavily set on the hill. 
 Even in the morning sunlight the walls were grim 
 and terrible. I did not wish to play the game of 
 politics. It led too certainly to the gallows. 
 
 I had seen Montfaucon, aforetime, on the Rue 
 Saint Denis. On its gibbet, in the dusk and in 
 distinct, I had caught a glimpse of a man s form 
 swinging in the wind light-footed in a hangman s 
 galliard. Then toward me the wind blew, and 
 again I knew the presence of this crow s meat 
 dancer.
 
 // Adam Had Kept His Rib 195 
 
 At this recollection with the sweat on me I 
 was hot for washing my hands of the whole miser 
 able business. If the Lady Diane had other bits 
 of shady work, I thought, she would have to find 
 another agent. She had written "Poor Antoine," 
 of her former messenger. I did not care to have 
 it become "Poor Sarto." 
 
 It would be an even world of work and pleasure 
 were it not for women. Aforetime, when I was 
 fashioning a button to surmount the Pope s crown, 
 I was tricked of a month by a nimble glance. 
 And here am I on this earth s raw edge, because, 
 again, a woman has but grinned upon me. Would 
 to God that Adam had been more wakeful in the 
 night, that, so, he might have kept his rib. There 
 would have been peace, then, upon the world. 
 
 Chrysostom voiced our general wisdom. 
 Woman, he said, was a necessary evil, a natural 
 temptation, a desirable calamity, a deadly fas 
 cination and a painted ill. 
 
 But Diane I do confess me and acknowledge 
 it Diane has most marvelous blue eyes.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 WHAT COMES OF DRINKING FROM TOO MANY 
 BOTTLES 
 
 THIS is a vile chapter, for I choose to tell 
 what happened to Michel on this same 
 night. If you are nice you may skip it. You 11 
 not miss much, for I am not in it except at the 
 very end. 
 
 You last saw Michel sitting in the kitchen with 
 the cook. She had given him a plate of sugar 
 tarts and had poured the remnant of a dozen cups 
 of wine together. It was a sop that was mixed 
 with red and white, but Michel has the gullet of 
 an hostler and he sipped it like a vintage. Then 
 she raked the embers of the fire and poked them to 
 a blaze. Michel made room upon the settle. 
 "Honey dear," he said, "come rest yourself!" 
 She was not a Venus in the daytime, but in the 
 glow she seemed to his peasant s eye a lovely 
 vision. 
 
 In the corner of the hearth there stood a swab- 
 stick. On the shelf was a row of plates and 
 
 196
 
 Drinking from too Many Bottles 197 
 
 trenchers, serving both as memory of former feasts 
 and as promise for the future. The roofing beams 
 were weathered black, and all about were dripping 
 pans, skewers, trivets, pot-hangers, and other 
 witch s things, ready for the magic of the caldron. 
 Here sat Michel and his fair Hecate by his side, 
 and he was full of comfort. 
 
 Mark how the fellow brags and lies! "My 
 pet," he said, "I was once a sailor on the seas, and 
 was captured by Tunis pirates. Six of the 
 villains pitched on me as I lay asleep. But did I 
 yield*? My dear, you do not know me. When 
 the fight was done, I threw five of their bodies 
 overboard. The captain I made my servant. 
 Another tart, my love!" The cook s eyes were 
 filled with admiration what God this were to find 
 alightment here in Loches. Michel is a gaudy 
 flash and quick to catch a woman s eye. 
 
 By my grateful belly, Sarto loves a kitchen. 
 Of all the house, it is the heart and central 
 warmth. The other rooms are cold suburbs 
 round about windy places outside the walls. 
 Here in the kitchen I 11 plant myself. I 11 sniff 
 the spices and look upon the peppers hung up to 
 dry. Devil take my history! You ll wait for 
 my plot. I 11 roost here upon the settle and take
 
 198 Luca Sarto 
 
 my ease. Outside it is a night to sway a gibbet, 
 but it is snug upon the hearth. Outside it is a 
 mad world, with trees pitching in the wind, and 
 ships in danger, but the kitchen fire burns bright. 
 Let blasts shake the hilltops, and wreckage strew 
 the shore ! I m as peaceful as a cabbage. What 
 do I care for Louis, or Tristan, or the Pope? My 
 story s naught. 
 
 But it was not for me to sit in comfort. Michel 
 was the only wooer of the wench. It was brawl 
 that was to come my way. Above the bakeshop, 
 as I ve told you, I was to pass the night, sore hit. 
 But Michel sat in the kitchen warmth, with his 
 arm about the cook. 
 
 Once an hostler put in his head, and sulked that 
 his wooing was done by proxy. The tarts and 
 remnant of the wine were his upon a usual night. 
 His the place upon the settle. When he turned 
 his back, Michel stuck out his tongue. It was a 
 stroke of humor, and the cook was set in giggles. 
 Then I came through the kitchen, following the 
 fellow who had shown me the clasp. 
 
 And now arose a clatter in the yard, men run 
 ning. It was Maistro and his whelps starting 
 after me. "Devil take the pother, my love!" 
 Michel cried out. Yet he sat not down at once,
 
 Drinking from too Many Bottles 199 
 
 although the wench tucked her dresses beneath her 
 snug, as invitation that he pull up close. He 
 poked his nose out of doors, to see in the name of 
 Satan where the din had gone. 
 
 There was running here and there, and shouts 
 of this and that. Then the stir was hushed. 
 Michel went back to Dame Venus of the kitchen, 
 and, as appointed, moored alongside. This is a 
 servant s brain. Note his want of wit! All this 
 rummage of the stable yard had come beneath his 
 nose, and not one whiff of truth had he sniffed in. 
 Such a nose could be smeared in garlic and still 
 the mouth below would murmur of the breath of 
 roses. 
 
 Shall Sarto keep such kitchen company"? Devil 
 take my story ! I stain it with such a fool. But 
 is not writing one s adventures like eating a din 
 ner? One s own circumstance whets the appe 
 tite and is pleasant writing. It is a choice rump 
 upon the platter. A pretty woman, or one with 
 spark and challenge, is a sugar pasty for a dou 
 ble helping. But when an untoothsome person 
 comes within my plot, I m loath to take him on 
 my spoon. He s a stew that s burned. And 
 yet for a proper meal all foods must end to 
 gether. The lentils must be gone when the rump
 
 2OO Luca Sarto 
 
 is done. The black bread must finish with the 
 tarts. In brief, one must eat in order, and the 
 foods, both sour and sweet, must keep an even 
 progress and sit as companions on the knife. 
 
 And here s Michel, like a cup of cold stale por 
 ridge. I 11 gulp him quick, and eat my pasty 
 later. 
 
 It was a good half hour later that he dropped 
 the wench s hand. He jumped up and jerked her 
 head as it lay upon his shoulder. It had come to 
 him at last that somewhere in the night outside 
 was his master, and that the men had run off to 
 no good purpose. It was a startled Venus that he 
 left, for he gave no word of explanation. 
 
 He rushed headlong through the dark. All the 
 town was quiet. As for me, I lay as I was left, 
 and there was no wink of light to guide his steps. 
 
 Now, on these streets there was another man, 
 and, swack, on a turn, Michel came against him. 
 The other man, thus jolted, at first was hot with 
 anger, and he was near to stabbing Michel. But 
 Michel, thinking the man was myself, cried out 
 my name. It saved his life but put things in a 
 new pickling. 
 
 It was Tristan, the headsman of the King. 
 Here he was, newcome from Paris, a day ahead of
 
 Drinking from too Many Bottles 201 
 
 the King. Of Tristan, this: He was some ten 
 years rotted from his full maturity. If the fleas 
 had stomachs they had leaped off him. 
 
 Tristan, when he heard my name, stayed his 
 arm, for what should Sarto be doing here, that a 
 running man should seek him in such a fright. 
 Here was strange matter to be learned. So he 
 bowed low to Michel and craved his pardon. He 
 knew a place, close by, where wine was to be had. 
 He took his arm and led him off, Michel still 
 breathing hard, but wondering what golden land 
 it was where encounter could so end. 
 
 Tristan set out wine enough to put Michel in a 
 blather. Messer he called Michel, and Monsieur, 
 and pried his tongue with flattery until he had him 
 in full trot. 
 
 Michel did not know many of my plans, but he 
 spoke all he knew: How I had pricked his sides 
 one morning: How we had mounted horse while 
 it was dawn: How the Lady Diane was con 
 nected with these things : How, finally, some one 
 here in Loches was waiting for our message. 
 
 So what he wanted, Tristan got. Here was 
 new trouble brewing for the King, and parcel of 
 it were Sarto and Diane. It was late when 
 Tristan left Michel, who was now on his back
 
 2O2 Luca Sarto 
 
 beneath the table. It was so that Circe left her 
 swine. 
 
 All day I lay at the Gray Moon, recovering 
 from my jounce. As often as the hour came 
 round, the cook s shoes came slapping up the steps. 
 She spooned me bitter stuff from a leather cup. 
 It was hard to swallow with my gullet on the level, 
 yet by care I got not much of it on the blanket. 
 At noon she brought up a custard. Ordinarily I 
 esteem that whey is not man s food, yet on this 
 occasion I found it of so pleasing a sweetness that 
 I flung by the spoon and drained the bowl. Then 
 I wiped my mouth on the edge of the blanket and 
 lay back somewhat mended from my complaint. 
 
 In the afternoon I sent out Michel to inquire of 
 the smith whether he could fit me a new blade to 
 my hilt. By good luck the smith owned a Spanish 
 blade, and though he was shrewd in his price, he 
 made good work of it and returned it to me the 
 following morning. Michel brought back word 
 that King Louis and his Court were expected late 
 to-night. 
 
 When at last darkness came, I saw from my 
 window that the royal castle of Loches was lighted 
 to its battlements. It was not lavishly set with 
 tapers, as though Louis wished radiance for his
 
 Drinking from too Many Bottles 203 
 
 guests within and a show of cheer for the beggars 
 without. But at its narrow windows, thin and 
 haggard lights stood like prisoners in the gray of 
 the inner walls, looking upon the free air. But 
 from the dungeon tower no lights showed, for 
 hope there was snuffed and dead. 
 
 And all evening I watched the castle, wonder 
 ing which candle lighted Mademoiselle to bed.
 
 A 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE POOL OF FRANCE 
 
 ND now I have written how a. goldsmith 
 came from Rome, how he met a lady and fell 
 somewhat a victim to the glance of her blue eyes, 
 how he went on journey for her, and now waits in 
 Loches hot with impatience for her coming. 
 
 Of the Lady Diane again: And my story runs 
 back to that first night in Paris when I had shel 
 tered her upon my hearth. 
 
 Busy days are long. Have you forgotten so 
 soon how Mademoiselle departed from me at the 
 Palais Saint Louis, and how a king s archer fol 
 lowed in the dark? That night Mademoiselle 
 dropped a stone in the still pool of France from 
 which the waves went to the four margins. 
 We 11 watch her as she drops it, and later we 
 shall see the waves make off. 
 
 John of Bourbon set late in Paris, playing at 
 chess. Opposite was Sir Gilles, pulling at his 
 hangnails with his teeth, as he waited for his turn. 
 Bourbon put his slim white fingers on the roc, 
 then squinted close upon the board. "I check 
 
 204
 
 The Pool of France 205 
 
 your rey," he said. Gilles s claw hung above 
 like a hawk before it strikes. "Not so, my lord. 
 I meet it with a chivaler." He went back to his 
 feast upon his fingers. 
 
 Bourbon and Gilles both deserve a word. Of 
 Bourbon first. He was John, the second of the 
 name, and by hereditary right he held as appanage 
 broad lands to the south of Paris, of which the 
 central province was the Bourbonnais. Friend of 
 the King, foe of the King, as occasion served. He 
 had fought the old king, Charles, in the uprising 
 known as the Praguerie, now some thirty years 
 gone. Also he had fought the old king s son, this 
 present Louis, in the war of the Common Weal. 
 But. he had schemed with him too, cheek to cheek, 
 when advantage lay that way. They were then 
 dear cousins to each other, with interchange of 
 gifts upon a holiday. When snug at home, 
 Bourbon lived at Orleans or at Bourges 
 or perhaps at Moulins, for he had at all these 
 places, castles of uncommon strength, as had been 
 tested by force of arms. Yet now he sits in Paris. 
 He thinks it safer in these dizzy times to keep a 
 glance on Louis. As for his age, it was hard on 
 seventy, for his white hair hung shaggy on his 
 head and chin.
 
 206 Luca Sarto 
 
 Of Gilles next. He was a fox, whom nature 
 had fashioned outwardly as a man. For thirty 
 years he has served Philip of Burgundy and his 
 son Charles, and he is now upon that business. 
 No matter what the pretext that he gives for be 
 ing here in Paris, you may be sure to what end he 
 works. You 11 observe how his long nose comes 
 forward in the taper s light ! The nostrils quiver 
 like those of an animal that lies in wait. 
 
 And Mademoiselle came from the night and 
 stood beside John of Bourbon s chair. 
 
 "Duke John," she said, and waited below the 
 sconce, so that the light fell on her face. 
 
 "Ha, chick, my dear," he cried, and he held 
 out both his hands to her, "what brings you here 
 at such an hour of night*?" 
 
 "My lord," but her look fell on Gilles, who 
 had propped his upper teeth against his thumb, and 
 sat with mouth open and drooping eyes, impatient 
 at the delay. He had the better of the Duke by 
 two pouns and a chivaler, and so he scowled at 
 the interruption. 
 
 Bourbon caught Mademoiselle s glance. 
 "Gilles," he said, and wagged his thumb across 
 his shoulder. Gilles needed but the hint. He 
 went off softly, with his skirts closely about him.
 
 The Pool of France 207 
 
 Then Mademoiselle spoke simply as befits a 
 weighty message. "Edward reigns in England." 
 
 "By Grace of God," Bourbon cried, and came 
 upon his feet, scattering the chess men. 
 
 "Duke John," she asked, "is it well for us?" 
 
 "It is well, my child." 
 
 "And on the road it was at Rouen where we 
 passed the night a man came to meet us from 
 Duke Francis of Brittany. To him also I gave 
 the message. Is it well, my lord*?" 
 
 "Ay, it is." Then he stood pondering, pulling 
 his white beard through his fingers. 
 
 "What comes of this, Duke John*?" she asked. 
 
 "Some say," he answered, "that we verge 
 toward another Common Weal." On a sudden he 
 cried out. "Gilles, Gilles !" 
 
 Gilles came at a trot, lifting his eyebrows when 
 he saw how the chess board was overturned. 
 "Gilles!" Duke John cried out. "Here s news. 
 Edward reigns in England." 
 
 "So*?" Gilles answered. "Then, by the grace 
 of heaven, we may leave these silly puppets where 
 they lie and consult on worthier things." 
 
 Duke John laid his open palm upon the table. 
 "It s so we stand," he said. "Burgundy, me- 
 thinks, is this long thin finger in the middle.
 
 208 Luca Sarto 
 
 Bourbon is the finger next to it. Brittany is the 
 other side. Aragon is the little finger." He 
 wiggled each in turn. "Of these we re sure. 
 But the thumb ha, Sir Gilles the thumb is 
 Guienne. See how it lies apart from us! If we 
 could but fold it in our palm. So! And bring 
 these fingers tight against it then, fore God, we 
 could strike a blow for France." 
 
 Bourbon lifted his fist at arm s length above 
 him, and struck it against the table. "It s so 
 we d strike." 
 
 It was thus that Mademoiselle dropped a stone 
 into the pool of France. Now we shall see the 
 waves go circling off. 
 
 The first wave without Diane s intention- 
 splashed upon Louis. He sat sulking, this same 
 night, on a map of France, with fingers chiefly on 
 the parts that lie to the north and east. Now a 
 hunger had come on him as he worked, and to ease 
 it he laid out before him divers pasties. These he 
 was breaking in his fingers and was thrusting them 
 in his mouth, sprinkling his map with crumbs. 
 
 Louis put his thumb on Ghent. "It s here," 
 he mused, "that Burgundy sits and his precious 
 daughter Marie, for whom my brother Charles is
 
 The Pool of France 209 
 
 sighing. Love, I m told, comes hottest in the 
 spring. Therefore, until the season s past, I 11 
 bait the hook with a Spanish flirtation. I must 
 provide him this amusement, for the Burgundian 
 marriage would wreck me. If I can hold him a 
 bachelor until the autumn, the season will help to 
 cool him." 
 
 He finished his thoughts, then brushed off the 
 crumbs vindictively as though they were the 
 armies of Burgundy. He blew them beyond the 
 Rhine, horse and foot. 
 
 To him, as he was thus employed, there came 
 the archer who had followed after Mademoiselle. 
 Louis brayed when he saw him. "Patch," he 
 cried, "you break up my meditation." But he 
 smiled when he saw how the fellow was smirched. 
 "There s mud on you. It speaks of haste," he 
 said. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Diane has returned to Paris." 
 
 "Well, Louis cares not. He s not a lover of 
 the lady. It s Oliver will fee you for the news." 
 
 "And she passed an hour with this new Italian, 
 Luca Sarto." 
 
 "Still Louis cares not. Her conduct is for her 
 priest."
 
 2io Luca Sarto 
 
 "Then, sire, she went to John of Bourbon." 
 
 "Ha, is it so*?" Louis squinted and made a 
 mouth. "When was this*? To-night 4 ?" 
 
 "It s but a half hour since." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Nothing, sire." 
 
 Louis s palm nursed his cheek, then his head 
 went down in thought. His eyes became narrow 
 slits, like the iris of a cat s eye when it comes into 
 the light. Louis was himself coming into the 
 light. He waved the archer off, then chewed his 
 upper lip. "I may be starting on a shadow," he 
 muttered. He smoothed the map and stared on it. 
 "Mademoiselle goes to Boulogne. So I am in 
 formed. It s but a finger length across the chan 
 nel. Burgundy s wife is English, sister of this 
 ambitious Edward. But Sarto is a Roman. And 
 last comes Bourbon." He hummed a broken 
 song, as measure to his thoughts. 
 
 He scowled and brooded on these things, then 
 fell to whining on another tune: How his sleep 
 was broken : How he rose dizzy in the morning. 
 "By the Holy Blood," was how he ended, "if the 
 Madonna of Saint Ours would come to life and 
 heal me, I d whip Bourbon and Burgundy, both 
 of them, out of France."
 
 The Pool of France 211 
 
 He sneezed, but staunched himself upon his 
 sleeve. The water splashed from the pool of 
 France must have wet his feet. 
 
 Let s leave him here, sniffling on his complaints, 
 and see how the other waves came to shore ! 
 
 I have told you that the horseman who kissed 
 Diane s fingers on the landing of Jocelyn s inn at 
 Rouen, went riding to the west. He sweated all 
 the way to Rennes. Mountain and lowland, day 
 and night, and here was Brittany at last. 
 Rennes is the capital, and it measures to the dig 
 nity of the dukedom. The horseman arrived in 
 the morning, and his horse drooped in the court 
 yard. "What ho !" the man called out. "Where 
 shall I find my Lord Francis of Brittany*?" 
 
 Francis of Brittany had risen for the mass, and 
 now he came forth from sacrament. There was a 
 blare of gay voices in his company, for it was to 
 be a day of hunting. "My lord," cried one of 
 them, as they came down the steps, "here is a man 
 who bears a message for you." 
 
 "From where*?" 
 
 "From England, so he says." 
 
 "So! Move off a bit! I 11 see him here." 
 
 In this slight privacy the messenger gave his 
 news.
 
 212 Luca Sarto 
 
 Francis tossed his cap. Then he sobered. 
 "To stall !" he called. "The hunt has been 
 broken up. Yet I 11 give you sport to-morrow. 
 There is an old gray fox in Paris we 11 run to hole. 
 Hear my news, gentlemen ! Edward has come to 
 the English throne. It is the signal for revolt in 
 France." Whereat he rode by himself out of the 
 clamor. 
 
 He sat with his counselors in a smudge of talk. 
 It was two hours at the least, but you will hear 
 only the end of it. "Sire," said one in conclusion, 
 "we 11 front ourselves with Charles of Guienne. 
 It will win the opinions of all France if our cause 
 is topped by the brother of the King." Many 
 words before ! These are enough. 
 
 Bordeaux is the capital of Guienne. It is off a 
 bit, but Sir Gilles has already started, primed for 
 argument. This had been compacted between 
 him and Bourbon before the dawn. Gilles spoke 
 not only for his master, Charles of Burgundy, but 
 for Bourbon as well : And now for Brittany also. 
 
 This Charles of Guienne, whose name and help 
 Burgundy, Bourbon, and Brittany now sought, was 
 a smallish youth who had a pipe by way of throat, 
 suited rather to canzonet than the call of battle. 
 It was in moonlight and at a lady s window that
 
 The Pool of France 213 
 
 it was pitched the best. His face was white, and 
 his chin would have still been smooth if the razor 
 had idled for a week. He was also thin of chest 
 and shank. Nature, some twenty years since in 
 the making of him, had cheated him of the 
 rougher fibers. Had she been setting up a 
 scholard, she could not have pinched him more. 
 Yet mark his rank! Charles, Duke of Berry, 
 Count of Angouleme, sometime Duke of Nor 
 mandy while the King s favor lasted and now, 
 as a sop from this same king, he is Duke of 
 Guienne. Lastly, this Charles is a brother of the 
 King next in line to be king himself, until the 
 Dauphin had been born. He sulked at the Te 
 Dcuni in Notre Dame when the royal infant was 
 baptized. Also, if his own desire be the parent 
 of the future, Charles is to be the husband of 
 Marie of Burgundy. Thus lay his intent. It 
 was not so much to take the lady to wife, as that 
 he might ally himself with the house of Bur 
 gundy. Guienne and Burgundy, so conjoined, he 
 thought, could shake the universe. Yet the 
 jiggling of the planets would have been slight, if 
 Burgundy had laid off the job. 
 
 Sir Gilles came from Paris and, stained as he 
 was, he sought the palace.
 
 214 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Sire," he blurted to Charles of Guienne when 
 he stood before him. "Sire, this north wind 
 brings good news. Your friends are agreed to 
 set you on the throne of France. We 11 brush 
 this spider off." For so he had fashioned his 
 message. 
 
 But Charles held out, and whined that the 
 times were disjointed for the undertaking. For 
 this lordling was hot and cold, feverish in prepara 
 tion, yet too chilly to draw the sword. Sir Gilles 
 met him with large phrases. "The sun, the 
 moon, the stars were dimmed for a proper 
 sovereign," and other celestial foolery. Charles 
 brightened on the words and stroked his silk mus 
 tache, but withheld consent. 
 
 Sir Gilles took a turn around the room, tapping 
 his cane upon the stones. "My lord," he said, 
 "you force me to play my ace." He paused, and 
 then, "My Lord Duke of Burgundy s daughter, 
 the Princess Marie, is now come to the age of 
 marriage." 
 
 "Ha, so*?" This from Guienne, but the fire 
 showed at last in the smudge. 
 
 "It s so, indeed," said Gilles, "and the Duke 
 looks all about for a proper husband for his 
 daughter."
 
 The Pool of France 215 
 
 Guienne cocked his ear upon the words. Gilles 
 continued. "But the Lady Marie is nice. She 11 
 not have herself set up for highest bidding. Ah 
 me, youth goes to youth." 
 
 "Ay, it does," Guienne answered. He sighed 
 and rolled his eyes up ceilingward. 
 
 It was Gilles s turn again. "My lord," he 
 said, "I 11 not mince it. The Princess shows some 
 favor to yourself. Of course, it s not beyond 
 what is proper to a maiden." 
 
 In such fashion did Gilles set himself to fan 
 the blaze. 
 
 It was in the dawn that Charles of Guienne 
 gave his consent to rise against the King. Yet 
 chiefly his thoughts ran how by this he might take 
 Marie to wife. 
 
 Sir Gilles cooled himself outside, for it had been 
 hot work and he had wracked himself for compli 
 ment and trope. There was a pale light of day 
 upon the city, but a scud of cloud lay along the 
 horizon. Gilles saw it and smiled. "The wind 
 from the north," he muttered, "fetches us a 
 storm." 
 
 And did a wave cross the pool to Burgundy"? 
 You know not the man, to think he had been sleep 
 ing. These four days he had been dropping
 
 216 Luca Sarto 
 
 pebbles of his own, wherefrom the ripples by now 
 swept in a wide circumference. "Charles, Duke 
 of Burgundy, of Brabant, of Limburg, and of 
 Luxemburg; Count of Flanders, of Artois, of 
 Burgundy, of Hainault, of Holland, of Zeeland, 
 and of Namur; Marquis of the Holy Empire; 
 Lord of Friesland, of Malines. . . ." So had he 
 been proclaimed when Philip, the old Duke. died. 
 
 But a wave from Diane s stone did wash south 
 until it lapped the Pyrenees. Sir Gilles was not 
 needed there, for Aragon was apt for revolt, 
 fretted by an old discontent. 
 
 So it was that in May of the year fourteen 
 hundred and seventy-one, the pool of France was 
 stirred. To change the figure, the thumb at last 
 lay curled inside the fingers to strike a blow at 
 Louis. 
 
 Now mark what happened further ! 
 
 Charles of Guienne gave his consent at dawn. 
 On the night that followed a beacon flared from 
 the roof of the Cathedral of Rennes. The fire lay 
 in the gutter to the east and north, and three men 
 brought the faggots up the stairs to feed it. 
 
 Such country folk near by as watered their 
 cattle after dark saw the flame and afterwards 
 they made of it a family riddle around the candle.
 
 The Pool of France 217 
 
 But those who lived farther off on the road to 
 Fougeres and on the highlands beyond, saw it also 
 and thought it to be a planet hanging on Leo s tail. 
 These sucked astrology from it and wondered 
 what is boded. Perhaps, they thought, these 
 lights were somehow compounded with the comet 
 in the east. 
 
 And other flames followed across the hills 
 from top to top, as though the older gods were once 
 more being worshiped in the night. Before the 
 dawn set in, the flaming signal had gone beyond 
 Alenqon so that the breakfast curds as far to 
 the east as Mortagne had rumor and gossip for 
 their sauce. 
 
 And all this night Duke Charles of Guienne 
 chewed at his lips and twitched his toes in ner 
 vousness, but feared to sleep. Louis s face, he 
 thought, would have appeared to him through the 
 curtains of his bed. Gilles s eye was on him, for 
 the fox sat by lest he repent of his decision. In 
 the morning Charles soused the redness from his 
 eyes and swore brave oaths upon his sword. 
 Gilles saw him at it, and grinned and went his 
 ways. 
 
 And from the court of Aragon thirty men on 
 horseback took out the word, and blew it forth
 
 218 Luca Sarto 
 
 upon their shouts until the valleys woke and 
 prattled of it. Harness was buffed that day, and 
 pikes were tipped. 
 
 But Charles of Burgundy foamed all night, and 
 chattered of arms and war. In the morning he 
 sent extra posts to Lille and Louvain and as far 
 south as Arras. 
 
 And when, think you, was this rummage this 
 smudge of fire and outcry blown to Louis ? 
 
 From Evreux, when darkness was still thick, a 
 horseman of King Louis went riding to the east. 
 Such was the murk and such was his speed that 
 you would have said he was not of God s creation, 
 but was got by the devil out of darkness. Speed, 
 thou galloping toe of Satan! The Majesty of 
 France has need of the word you bring. 
 
 These fires were of a Sunday night. It was 
 Monday in the dawn that the King s horseman 
 rode from itvreux. It was Monday in the dusk 
 of evening that the horseman splashed in the mud 
 of Paris. The towers of the palace hung over 
 him. "By the blood of Christ," he bawled, "lead 
 me to the King." 
 
 But they mocked him for his sweat. Louis 
 was already two days on the road to Loches.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 MAGGOTS OF THE BRAIN 
 
 THERE are many maggots of the brain, but 
 chief of them are fear and hate. 
 
 I choose now to write of Louis s journey to 
 Loches. Only a brief account is needed. We 
 shall see royalty jouncing on a mule. 
 
 Louis was in distemper all the way, whining first 
 on his disease, then grumbling against his cousin 
 Charles of Burgundy, who, "by Holy Mary," so 
 he said, "fretted him worse than ever haircloth did 
 a saint." 
 
 Many of his lords and men went with him, and 
 rode mules also. Nearest to the King always was 
 Olivier le Daim, with a grin and whisper between 
 them. Olivier does not come within the scope of 
 my book, yet he so sits in the spotted sunlight of 
 royalty that he merits a word. He was the 
 King s barber, a fellow who being at first privy to 
 his beard, had come at last to be privy to his coun 
 sels. He bore before him on his mule the strops 
 
 and razors of his craft, and also a lesser case for 
 
 219
 
 22O Luca Sarto 
 
 the lozenges and oils he ministered to the King 
 when his illness came on him a fellow with a 
 soapy smell upon his fingers. When the time 
 comes round for spooning out his nostrums, Olivier 
 solemnly drops his jaw. "Sire," he says, "my 
 wisdom tells me that you may have the stone. If 
 so, here s lotion to allay it." Or again: "Your 
 Majesty must guard yourself against the heat. 
 Here are red juniper berries graines de gcnievres 
 rouges to mend you." Or the ring of Saint Zan- 
 obius was offered, and the blood of Cape Verde 
 turtles. Thus, the farce. 
 
 As for the rest of the traveling company, they 
 sorted as they might fifty of them at least, with 
 many servants in the dust behind. 
 
 They were beyond Versailles, when it was seen 
 that Duke John of Bourbon was not in his accus 
 tomed place, which was off the rump of Louis s 
 mule. Louis himself sobered when he noticed 
 this, but waved off the thought. "Duke John," 
 he said, "sent word that he was of a sudden ill. 
 He 11 join us at Loches." Louis said this twice, 
 so that those near him might hear. But he took 
 to whispering with Olivier, with his hand before 
 his mouth. 
 
 They lay at Chartres in accommodation near the
 
 Maggots of the Brain 221 
 
 Cathedral. It was a common inn, but swept 
 clean forward of the kitchen door. The rooms 
 and passages were sprinkled with scent as 
 prevention against the plague for they say it first 
 lodges in the nose. Sweet scent cast in sinks and 
 privies wards off the plague better than the kill 
 ing of a hundred Jews. 
 
 All evening Louis praised the liquor and made 
 a crony of the tapster but emptied his pot half 
 tasted when the fellow s back was turned. 
 
 "My dear gossip," said the King, "have you 
 not a bit of the holy cross in the cathedral here*?" 
 
 "Ay, sire, we have." 
 
 Louis fumbled at his poke and pinched out 
 three copper coins. These he weighed in his 
 palm, but tossed back two of them. "Take this, 
 my friend," he said. "Commend me to the 
 priests. Bid them pray for me." Then he 
 added: "Your wine is of a sunny vintage. My 
 cup is thirsty." 
 
 At bedtime he put his nose at the door for air. 
 A clear wind blew off the hills. "Olivier!" he 
 called, and his face clouded. "See ! There s a 
 comet in the sky." 
 
 But Olivier had comfort. "Vir sapiens a 
 wise man," he said, "is master of the stars."
 
 222 Luc a Sarto 
 
 Then as Louis still fretted, he added shrewdly : 
 "Look, sire! The comet hangs in the east. It 
 points disaster to Burgundy." 
 
 Louis slammed the door and shuffled off to bed. 
 
 The Lady Diane waited on the Queen that night 
 and handed her the sleeping robe. And it seems 
 that the Queen was much distressed. She wrung 
 her hands when Diane wished her good night. 
 "Mistress Diane," she said, "bad times. The 
 King fears them." And Diane, knowing about 
 the fires on the Norman hills and what they boded, 
 held her peace. But the Queen s kiss burned her 
 cheek. While the redness was still upon her face, 
 the Queen held her by the wrist and gazed at her. 
 At this there was much fear in Diane, and coming 
 down from the Queen s apartments she steadied 
 herself against the rail. 
 
 It was at Chartres, too, that there came to the 
 King a legate from the Pope. And to one who 
 peeped upon the document over the King s 
 hunched back there would have been seen in flour 
 ished letters the name of Luca Sarto an ominous 
 message, for the Pope had been moved by the Or- 
 sini to summon Sarto home for punishment. The 
 Orsini, it appeared, distrusted Maistro s accomp 
 lishment. They were making sureness doubly so.
 
 Maggots of the Brain 223 
 
 Now Louis would by preference have offended 
 one of his lead saints rather than the Pope. In 
 consequence, he feigned to be aghast at Sarto s 
 misdemeanors and dismissed the legate with the 
 assurance that Luca Sarto would be arrested and 
 sent to Rome. 
 
 Then he pondered by himself. It could be 
 done by indirection. First Sarto should be flat 
 tered as a device for future favors with Rovere, 
 if Pope Paul died and Rovere succeeded him in 
 the office. Yet Paul s letter assured Louis of his 
 health and strength. It was this lie that turned 
 Louis to his decision, for he thought it better to 
 gain a present favor than to play upon the future. 
 All of which Pope Paul knew when he wrote, for 
 he lied, being at the time in a sore state and near 
 his end. 
 
 Sarto s arrest might be worked by stealth ; might 
 be made in Italy even, where, with the trappings 
 of pretended honor, he could be sent on embassage, 
 and so betrayed, and no King s hand showing. 
 And so events might proceed so that all would be 
 accomplished and good-will gained on both sides. 
 And this would be needful, for who could know 
 how the papal coin might fall? Would it not in 
 duce quiet sleep within the royal nightcap, if
 
 224 Luca Sarto 
 
 on both sides the tossed-up coin were heads ? 
 
 But Louis planned too soon. It was a foolish 
 hunter who sold the bear-skin before he had killed 
 the bear. 
 
 Then Louis concluded his reply. "And might 
 the saints," so ran the letter, "protect his holiness 
 from the guile of his enemies, and spare him long 
 for the glory of Christendom." To which was 
 set the crabbed signature of Louis of Valois. 
 
 And, mark you, all of these schemes against me 
 are to be in his head when I shall see him next. 
 Yet, when that time comes, he 11 smirk on me, and 
 I 11 know naught of the deviltry inside him. 
 Had I passed a month with Father Paul, and sat 
 by him as he pruned his hedges, I had known 
 better the way of spiders. "They spin in the 
 dark," he said, "and lay their snares across the 
 thoroughfares of night." 
 
 Of meaner matters, this which also concerns 
 Sarto. You will recall the servant woman, 
 Jeanne, who put her waxy ear to Diane s door, 
 when she and Sarto planned the trip to Melun. 
 For two days she had been itching with the secret. 
 And now at last for she traveled with the Court 
 as a tire woman she found occasion to limp to 
 Louis. He had just dismissed the papal legate.
 
 Maggots of the Brain 22$ 
 
 Jeanne stood in the hallway, blowing with ex 
 citement. Louis frowned when she entered, pull 
 ing his legs inside the covers, for he still lay a-bed. 
 She blurted her secret to him, how Sarto had gone 
 off on Diane s bidding, and also how Oliver de 
 Bourges was stirred when he heard of it. But she 
 told the story with more detail, as a king s gold 
 would weigh more heavily in the palm. She 
 stood in the doorway, twisting her lean fingers in 
 her skirt. 
 
 You may be sure that Louis s love for Sarto and 
 Diane did not increase when he learned the things 
 they had practiced beneath his nose. Yet he was 
 in no suspicion that in this secret commerce there 
 was a larger danger to himself. He knew nothing 
 as yet of the flames of Normandy. For wry 
 winds upon the Channel held back the news from 
 England. However, in the actions of Mademoi 
 selle there was always food for thought. There 
 had been already a stew in the King s brain that 
 morning. Perhaps Jeanne added a pinch of pep 
 per to it. 
 
 After Jeanne was gone, Olivier entered with a 
 fresh-aired shift. The King muttered. "Oli 
 vier, there s trouble breeding in our realm." 
 Then when the shift was on him: "If my
 
 226 Luca Sarto 
 
 brother Charles be concerned, I 11 take him by 
 the gizzard and twist him until he bawls for 
 peace." Louis bit his nails and spat them on the 
 floor. Then, when the water was hot, he held his 
 cheek sidewise to be soaped and scraped. 
 
 It was at night as they neared Vendome that 
 Louis first saw a smudge of light in the west the 
 fires, maybe, that burned above Le Gault. It was 
 a dim blur, as though nature, having squandered 
 her pigments in the sunset, grudged now a further 
 cost. A pale light hung above the trees. Louis, 
 at the sight of it, turned sidewise on his mule until 
 the beast stopped and fell to nibbling at the grass. 
 Olivier was close, as usual. "Sire," he said, "the 
 hills to-night are strangely candled." 
 
 Louis turned on him. "Do you think? he 
 whined, but broke off. Then he spoke in Olivier s 
 ear, but aloud so that all heard. "It s likely that 
 Burgundy sets the taper. We 11 singe his beard 
 with it, before it burns to socket." Then he sat 
 with his eyes intent upon the light. "Pest," he 
 .said. "I ve taken a grievous time for pilgrim 
 age. Blessed Mary, be gracious to thy servant 
 and show thy mercy !" After which he kicked his 
 mule and hurried on his cap spread before him 
 on the horn of the saddle, with its saints to com-
 
 Mayyots of the Brain 227 
 
 fort him. And the light burned an hour upon 
 the hills and went out. 
 
 They stopped for the night at Vendome. After 
 dinner Louis found Diane alone. "Mademoi 
 selle," he said, "a word with you." He took her 
 ringers and bent his stiff old back until he kissed 
 them. "Diane," he said, "Oliver de Bourges was 
 killed in Paris the night before we left. Has the 
 rumor reached you"? " 
 
 "Ay, sire, it has." 
 
 "On the steps of the Palais Saint Louis," he 
 added. Louis squinted at her closely. "Sarto, 
 it s said, was missing in the morning." 
 
 Diane shivered but kept silent. The King took 
 her by the wrist. "This Italian killed Oliver." 
 
 "Sire," Diane answered, "I cannot believe it." 
 
 "So?" said Louis. "On what persuasion?" 
 
 Diane paused. Louis prodded for an answer. 
 "Come, lady, Sarto is a gallant fellow. I would 
 gladly be persuaded. The evidence against him is 
 hot. If you know aught to cool it, you 11 speak." 
 
 "Sire," said Diane, "Monsieur Sarto was not 
 that night in Paris." 
 
 "So"? What was Sarto s errand out of Paris ?" 
 
 Louis took her fingers. "Why, look you, Mad 
 emoiselle, how you tremble !" Then a sly expres-
 
 228 Luca Sarto 
 
 sion came on his face. "Be of comfort, lady! 
 We 11 find a way to clear Sarto of the charge." 
 He went off abruptly, humming a tune. 
 
 They lay the next night at Plessis-lez-Tours. 
 It was the farthest they had traveled in a day. It 
 was easily seen that the King chafed for speed, for 
 at noon he bolted his food, and called the others 
 from their tables before they had hardly got their 
 fingers on their meats. One of the lords who rode 
 at the tail of the procession whispered to Diane as 
 he sucked a bone of a fowl, "The candle on the 
 hills that lighted the King to bed last night threw 
 bad shadows on his dreams." Diane made no re 
 ply. She had had bad dreams herself, as a con 
 sequence of the King s talk with her. 
 
 Plessis-lez-Tours is a royal seat much favored 
 by the King. It lies on the edge of the city of 
 Tours and is a considerable park. They were ad 
 vancing through this with such speed as was left 
 in the mules and had already spied the turrets of 
 the castle, when Louis reined in. "Fellow," he 
 called. An archer who stood alongside the road 
 came up. "How goes our remedy for poaching*? 
 the King asked. "Does the evil abate?" 
 
 The archer waved his hand toward the dusk of 
 the trees, and smirked as he answered. "Your
 
 Maggots of the Brain 229 
 
 Majesty," he said, "we ve hanged as many as 
 forty of the varlets. Did the wind come out of 
 the north " He made a sour face and stopped. 
 "There, sire, is one of them, hanging from that 
 oak as thieving a rascal as ever poached his din 
 ner." 
 
 It had been a hard day, and the King grunted 
 with stiffness as they helped him off his mule. All 
 fell to bed when supper had been eaten. 
 
 The Lady Diane waited on the Queen as usual. 
 When she had set the light and had laid a brevi 
 ary on the stand for the Queen sleeps ill and 
 reads at night she hung the royal garments at 
 the window. Then she stopped with the other 
 ladies at the foot of the bed if perhaps the Queen 
 had a last word. The Queen dismissed the others, 
 but retained Diane. She bade her bring a stool 
 alongside the bed. Then she lifted herself on her 
 elbow and listened until the footsteps of the others 
 died away. 
 
 "Diane," she said at length, "the King mis 
 trusts you. Peace until I finish. For myself, I 
 do not know whether you be compacted with our 
 enemies, but I love you, dearie, and I would not 
 see harm come to you. Therefore I bid you to be 
 gone from our Court !" She kissed Diane on the
 
 230 Luca Sarto 
 
 forehead. Then as Diane was about to speak, she 
 interrupted her: "Before we depart from Loches 
 for Paris, you must leave us. When that time 
 comes I shall provide you safe conduct. In the 
 meantime, you 11 scheme as little wickedness to 
 ward us as you may." 
 
 Diane tried to answer, but the Queen was firm 
 in dismissing her. Diane felt her way along the 
 hall and down the stairs. But when in bed, she 
 stared upon the darkness until the third hour. 
 
 The branches scratched against the wall and 
 the wind moaned in the forest. 
 
 When she found that she could not sleep, she 
 came from her bed and sat upon the stone seat at 
 the window. The sky was blurred, and rain fell 
 in her face. And as the night was, so was her 
 heart. And presently in her distress, Diane held 
 out her arms to the darkness. "Jacques, 
 Jacques," she whispered, "I ve need of thee, my 
 brother. My heart is lonely. Come to me, 
 Jacques, and take me with you!" 
 
 Then she sat quiet and almost content, with her 
 arms extended on the casement, her palms open to 
 the rain, as though Jacques were somewhere in the 
 darkness and he had heard her prayer. 
 
 But toward morning earlier than the first
 
 Maggots of the Brain 231 
 
 streak of it the wind shifted, twisting and break 
 ing the clouds. An old moon, ragged like a beg 
 gar, threw a tattered light across the park. 
 
 Diane s head had fallen on her hands, but the 
 light roused her. Moonlight was chasing the 
 shadows across the lawn. It touched with silver 
 the edge of the grove beyond. It climbed slowly 
 up the trunks of the trees. It lighted their 
 branches to the top. 
 
 But Diane sat frozen at what she saw. From 
 a tree a poacher s body hung, dangling and tossing 
 in the wind. Now the branch sagged until the 
 toes came almost to the ground, and seemed to 
 stretch to feel it. Then the branch sprang up and 
 spun the body round. 
 
 Diane did not cry aloud. But she drew her 
 arm across her eyes and tottered from the window. 
 She threw herself face down upon her bed and lay 
 shivering. She tried to weep but could only moan 
 brokenly. For it seemed to her that the body was 
 the body of Jacques, caught in an act of treason, 
 that it was thus he had come to her, to bear her off. 
 For had she not held out her arms to the night for 
 him, and the wind had seemed to answer? Yet 
 the wind had mocked her. 
 
 When at last the light of day came, she slept.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HOW THE SMUDGE WAS BLOWN TO LOUIS 
 
 THE next day the King was closeted until 
 noon with his council on news that came 
 from England. For at last Louis had heard that 
 Henry VI was dead in the Tower of London and 
 that Edward had been again proclaimed king 
 Burgundy s Edward, whose very armies had 
 drawn their pay from him. For a new insurrec 
 tion in France, this might be the signal. Bur 
 gundy was already in arms, but Guienne was 
 waspish and disaffected. And had not the Duke 
 of Aragon long been casting eyes on Roussillon*? 
 If this proved to be the blossom time for general 
 revolt, the saying held that weeds on their bur 
 geoning are shallow rooted. And thus the very 
 wisdom of the streets advised instancy. "My gar 
 den grows foul with briars," Louis had brayed 
 when he broke the meeting up. "This brother 
 of mine this sprout, this stem, this weed that 
 runs so full of sap, chokes the fair lily of our 
 
 France. By God, I 11 break him at the root." 
 
 232
 
 How the Smudge was Blown to Louis 233 
 
 It was past midday when they took the road to 
 Loches. And Diane went with them fearfully. 
 
 Toward night they came up the hill through the 
 town of Loches. Louis, who rode ahead, turned 
 in his saddle and craned his neck until he saw 
 Diane. Then he called to her over the heads of 
 those who were between. "Mademoiselle, me- 
 thinks you have never seen our pretty castle. 
 Yonder is a tower of it." 
 
 Now the tower to which he pointed was the 
 great dungeon. And when he had spoken, he sat 
 twisted on his mule, with his knuckles supporting 
 him against the creature s back. "Go long, you 
 pig!" he said, as the animal stopped. And then: 
 "What think you of it, Mademoiselle 1 ? Is it not 
 a pretty building?" 
 
 Diane could say no more than, "Ay, it is," but 
 she brooded afterwards on what the King had 
 meant, for Louis was not a lady s man to trick 
 words idly. 
 
 It was the journey s end. All sought their 
 rooms in the castle. 
 
 Mademoiselle tells me that she had scarcely 
 bathed and smocked herself when her serving var- 
 lets brought in her chest of clothes. With them 
 came her tire woman, a pert wench whose name
 
 234 Luca Sarto 
 
 was Marie. The varlets had offered to flirt with 
 her upon the stairs, but she had snubbed them, for 
 she had a lover in the guard. She bade them 
 loosen the straps of the chest. Then she laid out 
 Mademoiselle s garments, shaking and smoothing 
 them. 
 
 Mademoiselle s choice fell on a blue garment. 
 It was contrived to the figure, but flared out be 
 low the waist. Sarto s no sempstress, so he 11 
 not describe it. Marie by going round about 
 snapped on the buttons and the hooks that made 
 it fast. Then she stood off. "It s marvelous 
 sweet," she said, but she crossed herself. "In 
 this blue gown, Mademoiselle, you are like the 
 blessed Madonna herself." 
 
 Diane took up the candle to light her in the hall. 
 Its light fell again across her face. 
 
 Marie looked at her and gave a little cry. "Ah, 
 lady," she said, "the Madonna is not more beau 
 tiful." 
 
 Diane wondered at her, but as dinner pressed 
 she left her. 
 
 Diane met the Queen upon the stairs, and they 
 sought the hall together. "You are attired in 
 blue, to-night. It s a color the King much ad 
 mires." This from the Queen.
 
 How the Smudge was Blown to Louis 235 
 
 Louis dined alone. 
 
 With his knife he traced the plan of Beauvais 
 upon the cloth and set the pepperpot to be the 
 citadel. The river s here, he said. He laid a 
 spoon to mark it, then fell to scheming for the 
 town s defence. 
 
 But presently he sneezed, drenching the citadel 
 with wind and rain. Olivier came at a trot. 
 "Sire," he said, "a murk comes off the river. It s 
 vile in the blood. You must put your legs to 
 night in mustard water." Louis cried "Pish !" 
 But Olivier was firm. He sat nodding for a min 
 ute on Louis s tongue, then stirred a fiery salve 
 and sent him off to bed. 
 
 Beauvais was abandoned to his enemies. 
 
 The following morning the King awakened 
 cured but in ill humor. A servant brought to him 
 a basin of water for washing and drew aside the 
 window hanging, whereat the King squinted in the 
 light. He drew himself to a sitting posture on his 
 four-post bed and wrapped the covering close 
 about him. Miserable and poor, the king, with 
 the searching light across his tumbled bed, his thin 
 hands holding the clothing to his throat and his 
 shoulders drawn forward by the chill. 
 
 For his breakfast, which was brought on pewter
 
 236 Luca Sarto 
 
 service, he had little appetite, and he poked his 
 food with his fingers. Dio, this King with his 
 fingers poked his food. When these became wet 
 and sticky, he wiped them on his nightcap, which 
 by its looks had served a week of breakfasts. 
 Meantime the thoughts that chased across his 
 brain were unpleasant, and they left on his face 
 the furrows of their evil course. 
 
 "Francois !" he called. 
 
 A fellow who was bearing off the ewer stopped 
 and turned. 
 
 "Francois, Tristan waits without. Bid him 
 enter." Louis moved the bolster at his back and 
 squirmed until he found comfort. His sharp 
 knees brought the blanket to a point. 
 
 Tristan entered and fumbled with his cap be 
 fore the door. He was a shabby fellow with a 
 dirty cloak thrown about his shoulders and with 
 stable dung clinging to his feet. He was thin- 
 thatched a-top, and no bat, however blind, would 
 have tried to go a-nesting there. His face was 
 ugly, all crease and seam, with a drunkard s nose 
 smoldering in its midst. If his red nose had been 
 set at the window of a tavern, it would have 
 served as a beacon for lost travelers. Or it would 
 have admirably furnished the swinging board be-
 
 How the Smudge was Blown to Louis 237 
 
 fore the door, seeming to speak thus : "Good sirs, 
 here is the sign of the fiery nose. There s strong 
 drink inside." 
 
 This was Tristan, sketched to life, the heads 
 man of the King. I do pray me to God that I 
 live to pay him for his dirty attentions to me, soon 
 to come. 
 
 "Tristan," the King began. The fellow 
 shifted to the other leg. "Tristan, you bore me 
 news last night that you had traced Jacques Mo- 
 tier to his place of hiding on the Montrichard 
 road." 
 
 "It was quite by chance, sire. I had just come 
 from pumping a servant of Luca Sarto dry, when 
 by good luck and luck it was whom should I 
 see but Jacques Motier. So I followed him." 
 
 Tristan was prepared to run on. Somewhat 
 slighting the King had been on past occasions, but 
 now would be amends. He would again be "dear 
 friend Tristan." He had favors to ask. With 
 Jacques trapped in his hiding, the King would be 
 in a giving mood. 
 
 But Louis broke him short. "Peace, Tristan. 
 I ve got the tale by heart already. Listen to 
 me ! Tristan, I now bid you to arrest this Motier 
 and to bring him to me here at Loches. God s
 
 238 Luca Sarto 
 
 love, old crony, I d like to go for him myself. It 
 will be sport for you. And you will put him in 
 the empty dungeon below Balue s cage. Then 
 come and tell me, Tristan, whether it be day or 
 night." 
 
 Tristan grinned. Here was a promise of a 
 golden dawn. "Sire," he said, "methinks there 
 will be work for me anon. I grow rusty for want 
 of practice." 
 
 "It s likely enough, my dear headsman, but 
 wait the event. We 11 fill the tub with water 
 when the rat is inside our trap." 
 
 He waved Tristan off, then called him back. 
 
 "Tristan," he said, "my dearest friend, I ve 
 heard it was a brave mouse that nested in a cat s 
 ear. Luca Sarto sleeps at the Gray Moon. You 
 may pick him up as you go along. I 11 
 make a mouthful of the pretty creature." 
 
 Tristan rubbed his hands with pleasure, then 
 backed himself to the door and out. There was 
 one smell the less within the room. 
 
 And now there was a noise in the hall outside 
 The servant Francois thrust in his head, eager with 
 news. 
 
 "Your Majesty, here s a horseman says he must 
 see you on the instant."
 
 How the Smudge was Blown to Louis 239 
 
 This horseman was the same whom we saw but 
 two days since at the gate of the Tournelles, newly 
 arrived from Brittany, bawling for the King. 
 And now at last he told his message. "Sire," he 
 began, "Brittany is in arms." And so rattled to 
 the end how there were flames upon the hills, 
 and how the villages from Rennes to Rouen were 
 stirred. But he got no further, for Louis kicked 
 off the sheet and thrust out his legs. 
 
 "Francois," he cried. "Fetch in my gear! 
 There s man s work to-day. Ha, Frangois, boy, 
 you 11 help me with this shift. I 11 take Bur 
 gundy by the nose to-day. Bring in my boots!" 
 And so on, until he was dressed. And then: 
 "Bid my lords come in!" 
 
 He ranged about the room until all his lords 
 were set. 
 
 Louis was in high glee now, and he roared upon 
 them what plans lay to his purpose. Meanwhile 
 a secretary sat upon a stool. The fellow had no 
 time for nibbling at his quill, for Louis kept him 
 scratching. When all was done, the secretary 
 read out the proclamation that Louis had com 
 posed. The lords nodded their approval. The 
 paper ran to many words. I 11 give but the ker 
 nel of it.
 
 240 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Be it proclaimed in Paris, Orleans, Tours, and 
 in such other cities as We shall designate, that We, 
 Louis by the grace of God, King of France, in 
 our mercy for our people and in recognition of our 
 duty to hold our realm inviolate do order the 
 mayors of these cities forthwith to summon all 
 nobles and not nobles, holding any lands by hom 
 age or fealty to the Crown, to be ready in arms on 
 the first day of June following, on pain of im 
 prisonment and confiscation of goods. By these 
 same letters patent all officers of Ourself are for 
 bidden to admit of any excuse or certificate from 
 any persons whatsoever holding lands or tenures 
 by homage or fealty of the Crown; and that who 
 soever shall refuse to obey the summons shall be 
 looked upon as enemies to Us, and be punished as 
 rebels and traitors to their country." 
 
 Louis twitched with impatience until the secre 
 tary had read it through. Then he cried out. 
 "Ha, my lords, methinks this Charles of Bur 
 gundy has worn too long Edward s garter on his 
 leg. With your help I 11 pluck it off. As for 
 my brother Charles, God s word, I 11 take him by 
 the nose, until he bawls for mercy." Then he 
 broke up the meeting and packed them off. 
 
 You think, perhaps, that Sarto is no better than
 
 How the Smudge was Blown to Louis 241 
 
 a chronicler, a rascal who is always peeping in at 
 holes and cudgeling his invention to find matter 
 for his gossip. Here, you think, he pretends to 
 have seen the King without his shift, that common 
 folk will marvel at his closeness to the great. If 
 you do think that Sarto brags, you do him injus 
 tice. I tell these things as they happened, with 
 word of witnesses. 
 
 Then the King s gleeful mood fell sour. Fear 
 pinched him, and disease. 
 
 Here had he come to Loches to pray to the Vir 
 gin to help him to mend his health. Even though 
 war was in the field, it was well to take occasion 
 to kneel to her. He could squeeze the time be 
 tween his appointments and urge the Virgin to be 
 spry. If she could mend him from the stone, it 
 would be the worse for Burgundy. 
 
 And who could tell when the miracle might 
 happen that had been foretold"? Who could say 
 when the Madonna might come to life and make 
 him whole by the touch of her blessed hands ? 
 
 So Louis rose and washed himself and sought 
 the church of the Madonna of Saint Ours. 
 
 These events happened on the first morning 
 after his arrival in Loches.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 I AM ASSAILED BY THE LITTLE PINK GOD 
 
 ON this same morning I set out from the Gray 
 Moon inn, where I had been housled on the 
 previous day, to find Mademoiselle. 
 
 But first I rubbed the smouches off my old 
 brown doublet and set a gay primrose on my front. 
 The chemist had sweet scent of a sharp and pleas 
 ant odor. I bought an ounce. My shift was in 
 its second week, so I soused it. 
 
 I stopped for my sword. Thinking it might 
 advantage the smith among his customers to 
 know for whom he had done the work the ar 
 morers of Milan would have boasted of it I gave 
 him my name. But the fool wiped his nose along 
 his arm and knew not of me. 
 
 "I m told," I said, "that there was a brawl on 
 the streets two nights ago." 
 
 The smith paused with uplifted hammer. 
 "The rogues got their just pay to an even cen 
 time," he said. "They set on an honest stranger 
 who had passed his evening in the inn. There 
 were witnesses that he fought in self-defense."
 
 / Am Assailed by the Little Pink God 243 
 
 I passed on, eased of the fear that Maistro s 
 death might plague me. 
 
 The town runs up hill. On top stands the sul 
 len castle. I was admitted without parley. 
 
 At the end of a winding ascent the road 
 sheered to the dungeons, but at the turn there was 
 an opening in the wall. A garden lay inside with 
 the Collegiate Church of Saint Ours beyond the 
 trees. Inquiry had told me that Mademoiselle 
 would be at service, so I turned in. 
 
 The garden sits on the brow of a pleasant hill 
 above the sunny valley of the Indre. Cattle fed 
 across the sleepy meadows and gathered in the 
 shadow. White-legged washerwomen, far dis 
 tant, soaped their linen and scrubbed them on the 
 stones in the shallow stream. Their cries and 
 friendly chatter came upward in the wind. I 
 marked the progress, also, of a donkey driver, far 
 below me on the road, whose song "L* Amour de 
 Moi" for I knew its tune came to me now and 
 then as the breeze shifted. 
 
 The De Profundis Clamavi had ceased by the 
 time I reached the door of the church, and there 
 was a sound of movement within. The service 
 was at an end. 
 
 As I wished to meet the Lady Diane privately,
 
 244 Luca Sarto 
 
 I went aside about an hundred paces, where I 
 could see her when she came out. Presently she 
 appeared at the church door, nodding to her ac 
 quaintance. She was clad in usual blue with a 
 jeweled cap on her head. Her beauty out-topped 
 my recollection. It had increased, like usury, its 
 sum and total. She needed neither firelight nor 
 candle. Her hair was yellow like ripe straw and 
 was gathered in a gold mesh set with turquoise. 
 
 She caught my eye at once and started in some 
 fright. Then of a sudden, leaving her compan 
 ions, she turned into the shrubbery toward the 
 palace buildings. When she had gone a minute s 
 distance I followed after her. "Mademoiselle 
 Diane !" I called, when I had come close. 
 
 She turned at the sound. "What does Luca 
 Sarto here 1 ? I pray you do not bring bad news." 
 
 "Your brother sends word that he prospers." 
 
 "Mary be praised!" she replied. Then fear 
 came on her face. "My brother 1 ?" she asked. 
 "What do you know of him*? I sent you to find 
 Jacques Bonnet." 
 
 "It s so you did, dear lady. But you put too 
 low a value on Sarto s wit. Your brother is here 
 in Loches." 
 
 "In Loches," she repeated in despair. "He is
 
 I Am Assailed by the Little Pink God 245 
 
 not in the castle? He is not in the dungeons?" 
 
 "No, no, Mademoiselle. Your brother is free." 
 
 She sighed with relief. "And does he bid me to 
 come to him?" 
 
 "To-night, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Then God be praised." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," I said, "this place is public. 
 If we may seek a spot off the path, I 11 tell you 
 these things from the start." 
 
 We went through the taller grasses, Diane in 
 front, and came upon a bench that was screened by 
 shrubbery. "Know then " I began, and told her 
 all. "And so," was how I made an end, "your 
 brother Jacques bids me to bring you to him to 
 night. It s four miles on the road to Montri- 
 chard." 
 
 During my narration Diane had watched me 
 closely. When I told about the fight on the 
 bakeshop steps and the bruises I took in my fall, 
 moved by a sudden sympathy, she put her hand 
 upon my arm. Tears came to her eyes. 
 
 "Ah, Sarto," she said, "you prove yourself my 
 friend." 
 
 "Dear lady," I began, but fell to stammering. 
 
 Her fingers lingered for a moment and were 
 gone like a fleeting pleasure.
 
 246 Luca Sarto 
 
 "And does my brother," she asked, "bid me 
 come to him merely for a parley, or do we jour 
 ney off together?" 
 
 "Your brother bids you dress for travel." 
 
 "Then the Blessed Virgin is good to me," said 
 Mademoiselle. She pointed to the distant pal 
 ace. "I 11 be quit of this place forever. My life 
 has been unhappy here and in Paris." 
 
 Mademoiselle lapsed into silence. At length 
 she spoke again : "Two of your enemies, Sarto, are 
 now dead Oliver and Maistro only one is left." 
 
 "Of whom do you speak, Mademoiselle ?" 
 
 Diane turned on me a searching look. "Do you 
 not know," she said, "that King Louis is your 
 enemy 1 ?" 
 
 "Then, Mademoiselle, he shows it strangely." 
 I displayed the ring upon my finger which he had 
 given me in the Tournelles. "See this!" I said. 
 "And is not the Palais Saint Louis the gift rather 
 of a friend?" 
 
 But Mademoiselle was disturbed. "Luca 
 Sarto," she said, "if I had known on the night 
 that I sent for you in Paris that you would grow 
 to be my friend, I would not have sent for you." 
 
 "You speak a riddle, Diane." 
 
 "If I had known that it was my friend that I
 
 / Am Assailed by the Little Pink God 247 
 
 would entangle in these plots, I could not have 
 done it." 
 
 "Plots, Diane ! You did but send me on an er 
 rand. I would have done more than you asked 
 and thanked you for the opportunity." 
 
 Suddenly Diane faced me. Her eyes were full 
 of trouble. "Have you thought, Sarto, who I 
 am, and into what dangers I have led you? I 
 have paid you ill." 
 
 "Peace, Diane. I am no youngling. I have 
 eyes and ears. I knew that night in Paris that the 
 King had you under watch. When the archer fell 
 in the door, it showed it clear. And when you 
 summoned me to bear your message, do you think 
 that I did not know its import? The white rose 
 is the color of England, lady. I have not 
 smutched myself with much knowledge of the is 
 landers, but I knew that much. So when Made 
 moiselle confessed herself of Burgundy, I knew 
 the meaning of the message that I carried." 
 
 "And do you not see, therefore, how Louis is 
 your enemy?" 
 
 "Two and two are four, Diane. But fear not! 
 So long as Pope Paul totters and Rovere is likely 
 to the office, so long am I safe with Louis." 
 
 "It is not so, Sarto. Trust not to Rovere now !
 
 248 Luca Sarto 
 
 With a storm blowing up from the four corners of 
 France, Louis will snap at all who have opposed 
 him. As for his gifts when Louis smiles most, 
 he is the most to be feared. It is I, Sarto, who 
 have meshed you in these plots. Do you not hate 
 me for it?" 
 
 I laughed aloud. "Hate you, Diane?" I cried. 
 
 "God knows that I love you. Dear lady Diane 
 
 I would go down into yonder dungeon for your 
 
 smile. Heaven is the color of your eyes. Such 
 
 as I am, Diane, I offer you myself." 
 
 She had dropped her head and sat silent at my 
 outburst. Her arm hung idle at her side, and 
 with my fingers I touched her wrist. At the touch 
 she looked at me. Then as my fingers lingered, 
 she closed on them and carried my hand to her 
 breast. She smoothed back the fingers with a 
 marvelously soft touch. Then she put my hand 
 by. "Not now, Luca Sarto. There may come a 
 time later when I 11 hear your message, but in 
 these dangerous days be content to be my friend." 
 
 "My thoughts, Diane, fly in the wind like 
 smoke from a winter s chimney. But I 11 bank 
 my fire." 
 
 She stretched out her hand to me and touched 
 my cheek.
 
 I Am Assailed by the Little Pink God 249 
 
 I was startled by the snapping of twigs. Diane 
 had. heard it too, and we both turned together. 
 Behind us, fifty paces off, stood King Louis, strok 
 ing his chin to keep from smirking. 
 
 I arose in a rage, but Diane stayed me. 
 "Sarto," she said, "it is his Majesty. Doff your 
 hat!" She herself made a low curtsey. I swal 
 lowed my anger and followed suit. 
 
 Louis, by his grin, was in a pleasant mood. 
 "Diane," he said, "my dear, I m sorry to have 
 frightened you. I crave your pardon. It s so 
 sweet a day. The sunlight makes me young my 
 self. Mademoiselle, I ask a favor." And he 
 bent and kissed her hand. Then he spoke to me : 
 "Monsieur, you woo the loveliest, lady of our 
 Court a daughter in my affections. If I were 
 once more the Dauphin, I d push you as a rival." 
 He laughed with a smiling show of teeth. 
 "Tweet, tweet! The spring is here!" His 
 crooked back disappeared under the trees. 
 
 Diane fell to trembling. "Oh, fear him, 
 Sarto!" she said; "fear him when he smiles!" 
 
 "Methinks he was too far off to hear our talk, 
 Diane." 
 
 "It does not matter. Without it he knows that 
 we are intrigued with his enemies."
 
 250 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Diane," I asked, "in how great danger do you 
 stand ?" 
 
 "Danger? Twice the Queen has warned me 
 that I must be gone from Louis s clutches." 
 
 "Then your brother comes in the nick of time." 
 
 "Ay, he does. For weeks Louis has suspected 
 me. I think that even now he spreads a net for 
 his victims to-morrow perhaps even to-day. 
 But to-night I shall ride off and not return." 
 
 She thought for a moment in silence. "Are the 
 Orsini as dangerous as this Louis ?" she asked. 
 "Is not even Italy safer for you than France is 
 now*?" 
 
 I laughed, for a thought perhaps her thought 
 also had come to me. "Mademoiselle, on these 
 travels of yours, would you admit me to your com 
 pany? I care little where I journey. There is 
 nothing in the looks of this crooked Louis to hold 
 me to his Court." 
 
 "Dear friend, we travel to Switzerland. You 
 are welcome to go with us." 
 
 "God be praised!" I cried. "And do we start 
 to-night?" 
 
 "An hour before the dusk," she answered, "if 
 you will come for me." 
 
 Diane arose from the bench. "I am thankful
 
 I Am Assailed by the Little Pink God 251 
 
 to have made a friend to-day, Luca Sarto." 
 
 "Diane," I answered, "you made a friend on 
 that night in Paris when you came to me for shel 
 ter. You sat in my firelight, and I dreamed all 
 the night of you. The wind has blown your 
 name to me. And it has been in the soft patter of 
 the rain. Wherever music has crossed the earth, 
 you were the melody. I love you, Diane." 
 
 I took her hand and kissed her cheeks and lips. 
 
 Then silence came on us both. I watched her 
 as she went lightly through the shrubbery, whose 
 branches leaned forward to caress her. I heard 
 the wind from the forest, felt the morning sun 
 light on my face, knew what vigor and beauty was 
 in the world, yet myself was silent. 
 
 And so I left Diane, marveling on God s mir 
 acles. I went down the hill into the town. And 
 over and over again her speech throbbed in me. 
 And a melody sang in my head, of which her name 
 was the whole. 
 
 And if you laugh, I 11 strike you dead. In my 
 own light days I d seen men thus go pale, and I 
 had tapped my head, as though their weakness lay 
 there. Yet look upon me now! Tis a strange 
 juice the pink god dips his arrows in, so to whirl 
 the brain about.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE DAY OF WONDERS 
 
 FOR the events I 11 tell you now, priests were 
 my witnesses. These are serious matters, 
 not for a skipping ear. You must not sit and 
 yawn upon the ceiling. If you cannot be atten 
 tive, it were better that you seek the jugglers for 
 your entertainment. 
 
 It is to the Day of Wonders that I come now. 
 I 11 tell the events as the priests reported them. 
 Commine s chronicle is wry and twisted from 
 the truth. 
 
 I wish, on the one hand, not to throw discredit 
 on the miracle, nor, on the other, to vouch for the 
 facts of it. I write only what the priests have 
 told me. You must judge for yourself whether 
 the Madonna really nodded in the dusk. 
 
 But first, this, in general for your instruction. 
 
 Between France and Italy there is a great differ 
 ence. In France there is a readier belief in what 
 is miraculous and beyond the common use. It is, 
 so to speak, a village country, with a credent ear 
 
 for priests. One would think that it had just 
 
 252
 
 The Day of Wonders 253 
 
 crept out of the thirteenth century, for it swears 
 by Saint Dominic and by the cloak of Benedict. 
 For all good men, both high and low and for 
 some that are not so good there are orisons daily 
 and nocturns of the psalter, matins of Our Lady, 
 and of the Holy Cross. 
 
 This is not so in Italy, either in Vatican, or pal 
 ace, or in gutter. Pious fervor of this kind would 
 not have brought to light the buried ages. That 
 was a task for wit and quick invention. Italy is 
 all agog for Greece. It is no place to peddle rel 
 ics of the church. Pagan is the persuasive word. 
 Hercules fills well the mouth when an oath is 
 needed. As for Hebrew, wherein the Scriptures 
 were written, who knows a bit*? Did the word 
 pop up in talk, it s of the Dutch Fuggers we 
 would think, lending their Jewish gold for usury. 
 We have sheered far off the thirteenth century. 
 
 But in France chapels still leap across the 
 mountains. A kiss on a holy nail dries a run 
 ning sore. Church bells ward off witches. A 
 dead Jew checks the plague. The seventh egg of 
 a black hen upon a Friday never rots. In France 
 it is still believed that women become pregnant 
 by eating lilies. As for myself, I 11 stab only 
 the Jews that cheat me. I 11 wait to see a flying
 
 254 Luca Sarto 
 
 chapel. As for the innocent creatures that feed 
 on lilies, I suspect a stealthy tread of heavy boots 
 down the stairway in the dawn. 
 
 Yet whatever be your own thought on mir 
 acles you 11 oblige me by not putting your 
 thumb against your nose. 
 
 Louis dismissed his counselors with whom he 
 had discussed the dire news from England and 
 Brittany. He was in the high humor of his ex 
 citement. Here was a time to invoke the Virgin. 
 He went from the palace and sought the Church 
 of Saint Ours. 
 
 But first, as you know, he stumbled on me and 
 Diane in the garden. He grinned with good 
 humor as he went off. "Tweet, Tweet ! The 
 spring is here!" Then to himself, when he was 
 beyond our hearing: "Tristan presently will 
 come for Sarto. To-morrow will answer for 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 Louis shook off his merry mood, and as a sup 
 pliant he knelt before the Madonna. For this 
 he had come on pilgrimage all the way from 
 Paris, if by any chance she might stir with life and 
 ease him of his complaints. The fires upon the 
 Norman hills were naught, if he had strength to 
 stamp them out.
 
 The Day of Wonders 255 
 
 He held his arms aloft. They were yellow, 
 for his sleeves fell back. And he prayed that she, 
 as in the days foregone, might come to life. A 
 white garment was upon her and over this a pale 
 blue mantel hung. A crown of gold was on her 
 head. Her hair was yellow like ripened straw, 
 and her eyes were blue. And oh that she might 
 come to life! he prayed, and that some slight 
 nodding of the head might so attest. It was in 
 the chancel that he knelt, and the priests kept 
 guard at the door so that his devotions might be 
 undisturbed. Wondrous would be this day, if 
 this should come to pass, as in the olden day, 
 when she walked forth in the market-ways upon 
 her blessed feet, and all who touched her garment 
 were made whole. "Glorify thy Son," he cried, 
 "that the Son may glorify thee." Then he 
 bowed his head, with his palms open against the 
 stones. 
 
 Thus through hours he agonized, and often 
 glanced up for any sign. But no sign came, al 
 though his eyes and brain were fevered. Day 
 went on, morning and noon, and still the King 
 was prostrate. His hands and dress were 
 smutched with the dust of the pavement, but he 
 still kept upon his prayers. "Save me, God; for
 
 256 Luca Sarto 
 
 the waters are come in unto my soul. I sink in 
 deep mire, where there is no standing: I am 
 come into deep waters, where the floods overflow 
 me. I am weary of my crying: my throat is 
 dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God." 
 
 And twilight came and shadows, nor any candle 
 was set about. And from the world outside there 
 came a darkness on his spirits, that still the 
 Madonna made no sign, nor nod nor yet a move 
 ment even of a finger. Then twilight passed, 
 and the deeper shadows crept to the King. In 
 gloom stood the Madonna, immobile. 
 
 And then, behold, there came the miracle the 
 same miracle as in those far off days when Jesus 
 blessed feet walked upon the streets of Palestine. 
 
 "Mother of God," he prayed, and his voice was 
 weak, "Blessed Mary, comfort thy broken ser 
 vant!" And when he had finished, he held his 
 arms aloft and looked upon the Virgin s face. 
 And in the darkness give heed to this in the 
 darkness he saw some slight nodding of the Vir 
 gin s head. It was indistinct and then she stood 
 stockfast again. 
 
 Up Louis arose, all cramped, but spluttering 
 with the knowledge. About him flocked the 
 priests, of whom one had also seen the nodding,
 
 The Day of Wonders 257 
 
 and they clamored of it. But this one priest 
 had entered to lay vestments on the altar, and he 
 had caught the movement by chance, yet was cer 
 tain of it. And their excitement went buzzing 
 all about and out through door and window. For 
 they took it for a sign that soon the Virgin would 
 be warm with life and would heal the sick with 
 her garment s touch. 
 
 They prayed, but in confusion. One thus: 
 "The people that walked in darkness have seen a 
 great light: they that dwelt in the land of the 
 shadow of death, upon them hath the light 
 shined." And another: "The glory of Jehovah 
 shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together; 
 for the mouth of Jehovah hath spoken it." And 
 they were amazed by what things they had seen, 
 and the babble of it went forth. 
 
 This happened at the twenty-first hour, when 
 it was already dark. 
 
 But the King, in a measure, was already 
 mended. His back was straight and his head was 
 high. At the church door he flung his crooked 
 stick across the hedge. 
 
 Then the priests set lights about the church. 
 But the Madonna stood silent in the glare nor 
 could any eye catch another nod.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE GOSSIP OF THE TREES 
 
 IT was a mad Sarto that trod the hill from his 
 meeting with Mademoiselle. Aforetime had 
 my head spun with the love of a woman, but here 
 was a difference. I trod on air and laughed at 
 the sunlight and the spring. Children romped 
 on the street. Old women crooned at the win 
 dows. I had heard the tunes before, but had 
 guessed not the happy lilt that lay within. All 
 tunes scratch on an ugly mood, but put yourself 
 in gladness and, God s Peace, it is a smiling 
 world. This is a puzzle for those not deep in 
 metaphysics. 
 
 I directed my steps toward the Gray Moon. It 
 was my intention to pack my poor belongings and 
 to furbish me a bit, before riding back to Made 
 moiselle. 
 
 Two hundred paces from the inn, Michel 
 thrust out his face from a drinking shop. He 
 was far gone with news, and in pain for delivery. 
 "Master," he stammered, "as God s above!" 
 and other oaths not to the purpose. 
 
 258
 
 The Gossip of the Trees 259 
 
 "Bide a bit, Michel!" I cried. "Hold off! 
 Breathe awhile ! Tell the matter slowly !" 
 
 "Master," he said, "an half hour since Tristan 
 called for you." 
 
 " Tristan, Michel? And where is he now 1 ?" 
 
 "Gone." But Michel wore a sly look. "I 
 think, Master, that he will return." 
 
 "It s likely," I replied. "But we leave Loches 
 to-night." 
 
 "It s none too soon, Master." Then roguishly: 
 "Does Mademoiselle go with us*?" For the var- 
 let plays on my good nature. 
 
 I curled him for his insolence, and packed my 
 wallet. Outside my window stood the towers of 
 Loches. I was the brave mouse that had nested 
 in a cat s ear. 
 
 A lover s day is long. I sat in the back room 
 of the wineshop near my inn, yet I drained but a 
 cup or two. It was a month before the close of 
 afternoon. Joshua, methinks, was tampering 
 again. The sun was stopped. At last I called 
 Michel. 
 
 "Go to the inn," I said, "and bring out three 
 horses. Pay the reckoning, and on any question 
 say, as if unwillingly, that we journey up to 
 Paris. Spread the lie around the stable."
 
 260 Luca Sarto 
 
 Michel returned in half an hour. And now it 
 came to me that for Mademoiselle s safety as well 
 as my own, I must not show myself at the castle 
 again. Tristan, the headsman, would be waiting 
 for me. 
 
 I wrote a message. "Take this, Michel, to 
 Mademoiselle. She will be waiting. Then 
 bring her to me. I shall await you on the 
 bridge." 
 
 We parted at the turn. Michel rode to the 
 castle, and I to the bridge. 
 
 As there might be an hour to wait, I led my 
 horse down to the water below the bridge and 
 tied him where he could not be seen. 
 
 I had been sitting for a half hour, my thoughts 
 on Mademoiselle and how marvelously things had 
 chanced, when there was a great rattling over 
 head. I leaped to my feet, but the sound ceased 
 suddenly, although dust filtered through the 
 planking of the bridge. "Whoever they are," I 
 thought, "they travel in haste." I peered from 
 under the bridge down the road. Although the 
 dust was thick, there were at least six horsemen. 
 "King s men I thought; "archers, by their 
 dress." They cantered sharply in the direction 
 of Montrichard and were soon out of view. "I
 
 The Gossip of the Trees 261 
 
 know not," I muttered, "the errand of these fel 
 lows, but we must journey softly for fear of their 
 return." 
 
 Then I fretted for the coming of Mademoiselle, 
 for the afternoon was wearing on. It was already 
 dusk when at last she came, and with her was 
 Michel. 
 
 I mounted and rode beside her. "At last, 
 Diane," I said, "we start upon our journey." 
 
 "May the Virgin help us on our way," she 
 answered. 
 
 "As for yonder gray towers," I continued, "I 
 shall live the happier if I never see them again." 
 
 Mademoiselle looked across her shoulder at the 
 sullen mass which even at this distance rose above 
 the trees, and she shuddered. "Let us hasten, 
 Luca Sarto! We cannot be safe until we have 
 put half of France between us and Louis s 
 dungeons." 
 
 She quickened her pace to a lively trot. As for 
 the King s troopers who rode ahead I said not a 
 word, but kept a sharp lookout in the dusk. 
 
 I 11 keep silent how the twilight fell upon the 
 world. Your hunger is for speed and action. 
 Events must stir and whirl. The sober history 
 of Luca Sarto must be gulped as if it were an idle
 
 262 Luca Sarto 
 
 tale. To spoon it out with fit description and so 
 catch the nicer flavor is too slow a feeding for your 
 impatience. I ve marked the eye of one who 
 thus races through a book, and I ve seen his eager 
 fingers twitching with the pages. I 11 set forth, 
 therefore, a lean and meager history. 
 
 The sun went through his western door and 
 left twilight on the earth. And long shadows 
 stretched across the fields to claim them for the 
 greedy realm of night. And darkness came, and 
 God hung out his lamps Vega in the east, the 
 Plowman to the north, and Bootes the Huntsman 
 with his fiery dogs in leash. But Diane rode 
 silent by my side. 
 
 Darkness came. A wind arose, and out of the 
 darkness came the gossip of the woods. But al 
 though within the castle walls talk now ran upon 
 the Virgin s nod, this great wonder was not known 
 as yet to beech and oak, or they had trafficked of 
 it in the wind. Therefore we were ignorant of 
 the rummage and excitement on the hill. 
 
 But beech and oak knew that I loved Diane, 
 and of this they gossiped across the hills.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 HERE ARE TWO MEN DEAD 
 
 IN a half hour we crossed a stone bridge where 
 frogs croaked, and we saw before us the dim 
 outlines of a farmhouse. "Diane," I said, "we 
 have come upon your brother s hiding. Wait here 
 in the shelter of this courtyard, while I poke about." 
 
 I knocked upon the door. There was no 
 response. 
 
 I knocked again more loudly. It was a sound 
 to set the echoes prattling, and yet the building 
 seemed deserted. So I put my shoulder to the 
 door and forced it open. I groped n with my 
 hands before my face. I called softly. There 
 was no reply. 
 
 The room was empty. On the floor was a pile 
 of bed-clothes in disorder. I was about to re 
 turn to Diane and tell her that we must await her 
 brother s coming, when I observed that a chair 
 was overturned and that a basin had fallen to the 
 floor. The floor was freshly wet. "Jacques is 
 clumsy," I thought. I bent over the bed-clothes. 
 
 263
 
 264 Luca Sarto 
 
 There were marks of muddy boots upon the 
 blankets. "Has there been a scuffle?" I thought. 
 "Is it possible that the King s troopers have been 
 here 1 ? Is Jacques taken? The lantern is lighted. 
 These things, therefore, have happened since the 
 dusk. But if Jacques is taken, why did not the 
 troopers return to Loches?" 
 
 I went to the window to peer out, but a heavy 
 cloth hung before it as though to conceal thr 
 lighted room from the courtyard. I called 
 Jacques s name, then I stood perplexed. 
 
 I was startled by a step behind me. I whirled 
 about. But it was Diane in the doorway. "And 
 what has chanced!" she cried, shaking with ex 
 citement. 
 
 I did not reply. If you smell a danger, prop 
 erly its concernment is your nose. It s best not to 
 lay it on the tongue at first. If there was matter 
 for alarm, it were well to have no swooning lady 
 at the start. I put Diane off without naming the 
 suspicions that I felt, and committing her to 
 silence I left the room. 
 
 Our horses were as we had left them. A dark 
 shadow on the road was Michel. I listened. 
 There was no sound from the stables. And then : 
 "I am mistaken," I thought. "There is a sound."
 
 Here Are Two Men Dead 265 
 
 At first I could not give it form. It was a grind 
 ing sound, as though a soft fabric were being torn 
 to shreds. 
 
 It came from the stables. I crossed a littered 
 yard, and came close under the square window 
 of a horse s stall. Then I laughed. Such fools 
 do night and shadows make of us. The sound 
 was a horse feeding within. I thrust my hand 
 inside the opening. A horse put his nose into my 
 palm, and one other horse at least rubbed against 
 the first to come near. 
 
 "Motier is well supplied," I thought. "He 
 has two or three horses." 
 
 So Motier was afoot. If not taken by these 
 troopers, he could not be far away. I returned to 
 the house. 
 
 Diane, with lamp in land, was examining my 
 discoveries with nearer light. 
 
 What do you make of it, Diane?" I asked. 
 
 She pointed to the heel marks on the blankets. 
 "Jacques is taken," she said. 
 
 "It is not so, Diane. While I waited for you 
 beneath the bridge, troopers went out of Loches. 
 But they went not back. If they had captured 
 Jacques, we would have seen them as they re 
 turned. See, Diane, how the blankets are thrown
 
 266 Luca Sarto 
 
 to a corner of the room ! These are the marks of 
 search, not of a scuffle. It s sure that Jacques 
 heard them coming in time to hide. They tossed 
 his blankets to find what he left behind." 
 
 "And where is Jacques now?" 
 
 "I know not, Diane. Yet I think that he is 
 near at hand. Look how he has left a hanging at 
 the window so that his light might not show to 
 the road. If he be outside, we 11 show him who 
 his visitors are." 
 
 I set the light in the center of the room and 
 pulled off the hanging from the window. "Come 
 forward in the light, Diane, so that you show to 
 the road." 
 
 It was but a moment before a face rose up 
 against the glass. Diane cried out, "Jacques, my 
 brother!" 
 
 Jacques raised a stone and smashed the glass. 
 It was good pot glass, such as the glaziers had 
 used at Chartres. 
 
 "Ha, Diane, my dear," Jacques cried, and he 
 took her in his arms. Then he stood off. 
 "Villainy s a-foot," he said. "The rascals have 
 the measure of us. Here was I sitting with an 
 ear on the road for your coming. Three times, 
 when it was dark, I went to look. It was on this
 
 Here Are Two Men Dead 267 
 
 last time that I heard the sound of horses. Does 
 Diane travel in such company*? I thought. Dis 
 trusting it, I crawled beneath a hedge. At the 
 bridge that is just below, the company halted, and 
 I heard voices bickering. Then they came for 
 ward toward this house, but monstrously quietly. 
 And mark you, Tristan was one of them. I 
 would know the man anywhere, except in heaven. 
 Four and four they went into the courtyard, and 
 no owl s look could I get of them further. And 
 by Crispin, I was as cramped under the hedge as a 
 tailor, but I durst not show my head. Yet I 
 know not how the rogues came on the place of my 
 hiding." 
 
 "Jacques Motier!" I broke in, "you had best be 
 short. We are close beset." 
 
 Motier did not heed the interruption. "Then 
 the villains came out," he continued. "Tristan 
 was in front and passed so near that I could have 
 tripped him. He was snarling to those behind for 
 their clatter on the bridge. At that he spied a 
 light in a building farther up the road. So, so, 
 he said, we may have been mistaken in the place. 
 Up they mounted and rode off, Tristan hushing 
 them. But I followed until they were safely 
 off."
 
 268 Luca Sarto 
 
 I listened with impatience. \Ye were beset 
 with danger as long as Tristan and his men were 
 on the roads. So I cut him short. "Jacques," 
 I said, "ease your tongue! Tristan will be back 
 on us. We must hurry. Have you horses?" 
 
 "One," said Jacques. 
 
 "One?" I knew that there were two horses at 
 least in the stable. "Then who owns the other, 
 Jacques?" I cried. "How many men came rid 
 ing with Tristan?" 
 
 "Eight, four and four." 
 
 "And how many rode away?" 
 
 "God!" he cried, "six!" 
 
 We were on our feet in an instant. 
 
 "Hold up!" I said. "We ll post Michel in 
 front to warn us if Tristan returns. Then we 
 will smell out these two fellows that he left." 
 
 We found Michel as we had left him. There 
 were no sounds upon the road. "Sarto," said 
 Jacques, "behind the stable there is a lane that 
 leads across the fields and out on the road beyond. 
 Tie our horses there, against the chance that 
 Tristan cuts us off in front." 
 
 We brought out Jacques s horse and left him 
 with the others. And now I laughed aloud. 
 "It s two against two, you rascals. Or if there
 
 Here Are Two Men Dead 269 
 
 are three of you, let one run off and bellow for a 
 coffin maker. Come out, you pups !" 
 
 I drew my sword, a light thrusting weapon. In 
 my left hand I carried a dagger, for I fight as an 
 Italian. 
 
 Then we came from the stable. In the door 
 way of the house stood Diane, holding a lantern 
 high above her head so that it threw shadows to 
 the corners of the yard. It was a pretty staging 
 for a fight. In the lantern s light were two mov 
 ing forms. "The one to the left is mine," said 
 Jacques. 
 
 They came forward bravely. And then I 
 could have laughed, for the fellow opposite me 
 carried an old-fashioned, two-handed sword, of a 
 kind my grandfather used. It was, however, of 
 the latest mode of France, which lags somewhat 
 in these things. With such inequality there could 
 not be a pretty bout, thrust against thrust. Yet 
 there was some danger in the heaviness of his 
 strokes. 
 
 In shadow I waited his coming. 
 
 He held his sword in both his hands, the blade 
 swung aloft above his shoulder. Onward he came 
 with a smashing blow, but I jumped aside, and he 
 struck fire upon the stones. "Monsieur," I cried,
 
 270 Luca Sarto 
 
 "you re clumsy with your cleaver. You need 
 practice on an ox." Then while he recovered 
 balance, I circled round him. And so I brought 
 him to a better light, for I wished to look 
 him up and down to see what chance there was 
 that he wore chain beneath his shift. If so, it 
 would make a difference in my fence. As for me, 
 I wore no chain. 
 
 Then, in a flash, I lunged on him. I flicked a 
 button from his doublet, but could reach no 
 farther. 
 
 Then I struck him full on the breast. He 
 reeled, but the chain below saved him. "Devil 
 take your smithy s shirt," I cried, but I kept him 
 wheeling about, while I contrived attack. 
 
 And now he was in good anger that he had not 
 felled me by his heavy strokes, and he came skip 
 ping toward me. I stepped beneath an over 
 hanging gutter, and on this his blow fell. While 
 he was still tottering from the impact, I caught 
 him on the wrist. Then I pricked his ear. He 
 staggered back, but I drove against him and 
 reached his throat above the chain. He fell 
 headlong, and I leaped on him with my dagger. 
 
 It was ended. He gave a cry and rolled against 
 the wall. It was a narrow river that he crossed
 
 Here Are Two Men Dead 271 
 
 and already he was in the shade beyond, past leech 
 and priest. 
 
 Motier s fight was longer and more equal, for 
 both fought with the heavy French swords. I 
 watched its clumsy progress, until Motier with a 
 butcher s stroke quite broke the other s head. We 
 wiped our swords on the fellows cloaks. 
 
 "And now," said Jacques, "we had best be on 
 our travels. The lane brings us to the highroad 
 to the east of Tristan. We will come cranking 
 out beyond him. Montrichard lies three miles 
 beyond."
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE WIND SHIFTS UNTIL IT BRINGS THE RAIN 
 
 AND now Michel came running. "Master," 
 he blurted, "they are coming." 
 
 Jacques snarled when he heard it. "The lane 
 is our only chance," he said. 
 
 Beyond the out-buildings the lane was exposed 
 to the road, which lay parallel to us. Jacques 
 drew rein and turned to me. "Shall we make the 
 hazard?" I nodded. We were half way across 
 the open bit, when there were shouts from the 
 road. 
 
 We had been mincing until the moment. Now 
 we spurred up. Presently the lane skirted a hill 
 that was covered with woods. On a sudden 
 Jacques drew up. "We make too big a clack," 
 he said. "There s more bounce than speed in us. 
 These fellows will be on us in a mile. We had 
 best go through the woods." 
 
 "And where will it lead us?" I asked. 
 
 "Not to Louis s dungeon," he answered. 
 
 "Otherwise I know not. But we 11 contrive to 
 
 272
 
 Wind Shifts Until it Brings the Rain 273 
 
 come on the highroad near Montrichard, with 
 Tristan behind us." 
 
 We were well to the top of the hill and in con 
 cealment when we heard horses gallop past on the 
 road below. 
 
 We now proceeded with caution for perhaps a 
 mile, easy going for the most part, as we came on 
 a forest path. Then, at the foot of a decline, we 
 saw a smudge of light. It was from the fire of a 
 charcoal burner. Jacques roused him. "Per 
 haps," he said, when the fellow had come from 
 his hut and had blinked upon us, "perhaps, you 
 can put us on the road to Montrichard." 
 
 "The path goes there," the fellow grunted. 
 
 In a quarter of an hour we came again upon the 
 highroad. In the distance we saw the outlines 
 of the castle of Montrichard and below the lights 
 of the town. Jacques was in high glee. "Tristan 
 is behind us," he said. "We have traveled on a 
 wider circuit, and have come out beyond him." 
 
 "Hold a bit!" I said. "It s an even guess. 
 The villains were riding fast. Tristan may have 
 gone forward instead of back. Where there is a 
 village, there is drink. In his discontent, he has 
 gone on to a tavern. His gullet is his com 
 pass."
 
 274 Luca Sarto 
 
 "No," said Jacques, "he d think he d been mis 
 taken in our shadows. It was one man he came to 
 get. The four shadows must have bothered him. 
 When he came to the highroad without sight of 
 us, he decided that he was mistaken. He went 
 back to the farmhouse for another rummage. 
 And so we 11 go on," was how he ended. 
 
 But I took him by the shoulder. "Peace, you 
 fool!" I cried. "Let me talk! I ll go forward 
 with Michel. You and Diane hide here. When 
 we learn that Tristan is surely behind us, then we 
 can go forward safely." 
 
 Jacques grumbled, but Diane hushed him. 
 
 She and Jacques hid, and Michel and I went 
 on with caution. 
 
 It was scarcely bedtime and a few of the vil 
 lagers were still awake. I called to one of them. 
 "Is there an inn hereabouts?" 
 
 "Henri, down the road," he answered, "can 
 give you a bite and a bed." 
 
 We came upon the inn. A light flared out. 
 
 "I 11 first squint in the windows," I said. 
 "Wait here, Michel, and hold my horse!" 
 
 I peered through the shutters. Two sleepy 
 countrymen sat nodding on their cups. There 
 were no dirty cups or slop upon the other tables.
 
 Wind Shifts Until it Brings the Rain 275 
 
 Tristan and his fellows had not been here. 
 
 "Tapster," I said, "a cup of wine !" 
 
 He drew it and put it before me. "There s 
 nothing much to-night in the way of business," I 
 began. 
 
 He was a most unsocial fellow, and he only 
 grunted. 
 
 "And yet," I continued, "the King has come to 
 Loches. Monsieur Tristan of the Court and a 
 band of merry fellows are on the roads to-night. 
 If they knew the merit of this wine, they would 
 have paid you a visit." I turned to the nodding 
 countrymen. "Fresh cups for these good men," 
 I added. 
 
 They wakened, for a thirst has ears. "Tris 
 tan," said one of them, "went by a good half hour 
 since." 
 
 "So," I asked, "and which way was he going*?" 
 
 The fellow jerked his thumb to the east. 
 
 On a sudden I saw Michel waving at me 
 through the window. "Eh," I said, "perhaps I 
 hear him coming now." 
 
 I went to the door. Michel drew me to the 
 shadow, where he had already led our horses. 
 There was a sudden clatter, and the horsemen 
 passed, toward Loches.
 
 276 Luca Sarto 
 
 And now, if Jacques had kept to his hedge, 
 Tristan would have galloped by. But, mark the 
 dunce! Despite Diane s protest Jacques had 
 come out to spy about. 
 
 The end came quickly, and I was too far 
 off to be of any use. I spurred my horse and 
 bawled abuse upon the villains, but was too late. 
 Jacques was taken. D/#, such is ill luck! Had 
 I been by, things would have happened dif 
 ferently. I ve pepper in me. I would have 
 taken heavy toll. I would have killed five of the 
 varlets at least. If Jacques had had the brains of 
 a louse he would have kept to his hedge. 
 
 So Jacques was taken. Already the horsemen 
 were off a quarter mile. Diane, it seems, had 
 begged Tristan to take her also. But he had 
 thrust her off. She now sat beside the road, 
 swaying back and forward in despair. I touched 
 her arm, but had no speech for such calamity. I 
 carried her to her horse and set her on. "There s 
 hope yet," I said. "Sicker cats get well." 
 
 "Blessed Mary," she said, and fell to praying. 
 
 "Where now, Diane *?" I asked. 
 
 She pointed back to Loches. 
 
 "Our freedom lies the other way, dear lady," I 
 said.
 
 Wind Shifts Until it Brings the Rain 277 
 
 But she was firm. 
 
 It was a doleful piece of road to Loches. As 
 we entered the town we heard a soldier bawling 
 the news that Jacques was captured. 
 
 So now you see that not all toothsome is my 
 tale. Grief and stain of blood have part in it. 
 It s bitter for me to write down such a melan 
 choly end. I d rather make blythe tunes for 
 jigs. Yet there is due a straight sequence of 
 these affairs. Sarto is valiant, but he cannot fight 
 when his enemies are a good mile off. 
 
 The soldiers bawling the news had brought to 
 their doors all the village folk. They piled out, 
 buttoning as they came, with chatter like monkeys. 
 Children, too, there were, unsmocked for the 
 night, their bareness popping from their shifts. 
 One would have thought that the players had 
 come, or that performing bears were in the town. 
 
 We plodded up the hill and entered the castle 
 by the nearest gate. Here I dismissed Michel. 
 At an inner door, Marie, the tirewoman, was 
 awaiting Diane, half dressed. She was hysteri 
 cal and crying, for she had heard the news. The 
 two women departed together, and I was left on 
 the stairs. 
 
 I am not easily cast down, for a buoyant nature
 
 278 Luca Sarto 
 
 is in me. And yet I was depressed. The night 
 had fallen to such calamity, and only two men 
 were dead to pay the price. The Lady Diane s 
 tears had been purchased at too low a rate. Fate 
 had played the Jew with me. 
 
 I stood thus, undecisive, and flicked the cob 
 webs with my sword. What was there to do, 
 worthy the name of action, and of what accom 
 plishment ? Though I pondered deeply, no plan 
 of force or guile came to my brain, and my only 
 havoc was with the cobwebs. 
 
 For a long time I might have lingered, had I 
 not heard footsteps on the circular steps above me. 
 The sound was soft and even, and came winding 
 toward me. 
 
 It was an ill-shaped figure and malignant face 
 that came into view. Its expression was un 
 changed at seeing me. It was as though the man 
 had expected my coming and had waited for me. 
 It was Tristan, the headsman. The strands had 
 met. 
 
 There is a French proverb: The wind shifts 
 until it brings the rain.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE DICE STILL FALL TO THE DEUCE SPOTS 
 
 IF you have thought that Diane succumbed to 
 defeat, you 11 see how grievously you 
 reckoned. 
 
 When she had left me on the stairs and the 
 door was shut, first she hushed Marie, for the 
 wench was sobbing. "Marie," she said, "you 
 make a bad matter worse." 
 
 Marie staunched her tears upon her skirt. 
 
 "You saw my brother brought to Leches ?" 
 
 "Ay, dear lady, so I did." The waters rose 
 again, but she sluiced them on her kerchief. 
 
 "And where did they take him?" 
 
 Marie pointed through the window. "There 
 was gossip that they would put him in the dun 
 geons. Jean told me, who was on the street 
 when they came." 
 
 "Jean?" 
 
 "Jean is betrothed to me. He is in the King s 
 guard." 
 
 "Oh, I remember the man. Did the King see 
 
 my brother brought in*?" 
 
 279
 
 280 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Ay. The King was above, at a window, as 
 they passed; for Jean saw him. Tristan waved 
 his cap to the King as they went below. 
 
 "Perhaps you know where the King is now." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Is it likely that he is with the Queen?" 
 
 Marie shook her head. "I do not know, Made 
 moiselle." 
 
 Diane sat down upon a stool and clasped her 
 knees. "Hold yourself quiet, Marie! I must 
 think upon the tangle." It was a few moments 
 before she spoke, then half to herself. "My 
 only chance lies with the King. It s him I must 
 prevail on." She arose from the stool. "I must 
 seek the King." 
 
 "To-night? Now?" 
 
 "Now. On the instant." 
 
 "Shall I come with you, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Please you, no. You 11 wait here for my 
 return." 
 
 Diane cloaked herself. She turned upon the 
 sill. "Hold up your chin, Marie! The night s 
 not done." 
 
 The wench sat with her mouth open. 
 
 Diane left her so. And first she looked to see 
 whether I was still upon the landing. But I was
 
 The Dice Still Fall to the Deuce Spots 281 
 
 gone. Then with a quick step she went down the 
 stairs and into the garden. The King s palace lay 
 but a hundred paces off. A sentry stood at the 
 door. 
 
 Diane came before him. "Do you know me," 
 she asked. 
 
 "You are Mademoiselle Diane." 
 
 "I ve business with the King." 
 
 The fellow scratched his head. "But the King 
 is not here," he said. 
 
 "So?" 
 
 "It s a half hour since the King went to the 
 Church of the Madonna of Saint Ours." 
 
 "Methinks there is no service." 
 
 "Mademoiselle has not heard the news ?" 
 
 "Of what sort"?" 
 
 Dear lady, they say the Virgin has come this 
 night to life." 
 
 Diane crossed herself. The sentry also, 
 Diane lifted her head first. "Mary be praised!" 
 she said, but she was amazed. 
 
 The sentry mumbled his prayers longer than 
 she. Then he spoke again : "It happened be 
 fore the dark. It was a marvelous sight. Queen 
 of Heaven," he muttered, "save us by thy 
 mercy !"
 
 282 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Mary be praised!" Diane repeated. Then- 
 still in amazement, "The Virgin lives." After 
 ward she addressed the sentry, "So that is why 
 the King is in the Church." 
 
 "Ay, it is." 
 
 "Perhaps the Virgin has already wrought a 
 cure in him." 
 
 "They say she has, Mademoiselle. Those 
 that saw him pass say that his humped back was 
 straight." 
 
 Diane passed on her way, but she was deep in 
 thought. 
 
 It was another hundred paces to the door of the 
 church. A priest was cooling himself upon the 
 steps. "Father," said Diane, "is the King 
 within?" 
 
 "The King prays in his oratory in the crypt." 
 
 "Will you take me to him?" 
 
 The priest held up his hand. "It is forbade," 
 he said. "The King gives his thanks to God." 
 
 But as he made no move to hinder her, she 
 slipped by him into the church. She came into the 
 transept, which was dark except for a blur of 
 light from the crossing. She stumbled against 
 some stools and benches, then fumbled her way 
 toward the light. Half way up the choir was the
 
 The Dice Still Fall to the Deuce Spots 283 
 
 statue of the Madonna. Candles were set about 
 it, the soft light falling on her blue garments and 
 on her face. Diane knelt for a moment on the 
 stones in silent prayer. A priect was mending 
 the lights. 
 
 "Father," she said, "which door leads to the 
 King s oratory*?" 
 
 He pointed to the dusk. "It s the first along 
 the wall." 
 
 Diane motioned with her finger. "Is that the 
 door?" she asked. 
 
 "Ay, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "To his oratory?" 
 
 "Ay, to his oratory and to his dungeons, for 
 that matter." 
 
 "To his dungeons?" 
 
 "They say a secret passage leads beneath the 
 building." 
 
 He went on about his work. 
 
 Diane found the door in the second bay. She 
 turned its handle. Then she rattled it. It was 
 fast locked. She turned back to the priest for 
 help. By this time, however, he had set fresh 
 candles in the sconces and had gone off. She 
 heard the door slam behind him at the farther 
 end of the transept.
 
 284 Luca Sarto 
 
 Again Diane rattled the door to the King s 
 crypt. Then she put her ear to the keyhole. 
 There was no sound. Nor any glimmer of light. 
 There was a bench at hand, and Diane set herself 
 upon it. "If I but knew," she thought, "how 
 long the King stays at his prayers." 
 
 At first she was for sitting on the bench before 
 the door to await the King. Then her thoughts 
 went to the Queen, for a dim hope lay there. 
 "I 11 see the Queen first," she thought. "She has 
 been my friend. The King later." 
 
 As she passed near the Virgin, she crossed her 
 self and bowed her head in prayer. "Blessed 
 Mary," she said, "I, also, need your help. Have 
 you no cure for my calamities*?" And she 
 doubled herself again upon the pavement. She 
 raised her eyes. The Virgin was stock fast. 
 Diane s hope went down. "My prayers are not 
 as potent as the King s," she said. Two of the 
 candles, overlooked by the priest, spluttered in 
 their sockets and went out. 
 
 At the door of the church Diane paused. The 
 priest with whom she had spoken first was sleeping 
 with his head propped against the wall. 
 
 The sentry was still on duty outside the palace. 
 Diane accosted him and went inside. The
 
 The Dice Still Fall to the Deuce Spots 285 
 
 Queen, she was told, was settled for the night, but 
 would see her. 
 
 Diane came beside her bed. "Your Majesty," 
 she said, "may you have pity on me !" 
 
 The Queen lifted herself on her elbow. 
 "Diane," she asked, "what ails you*?" She took 
 her hand and drew her close until the light fell 
 on her face. 
 
 "It s Jacques, my brother." 
 
 "Ay, Diane, it s so they told me." 
 
 "I must see the King to-night." 
 
 "There s no help there, my dear. The King 
 would mock you." 
 
 "Methinks the Virgin may have softened him." 
 
 "You think that the Virgin s coming to life may 
 have changed his nature*?" 
 
 "It s sacrilege to doubt the Virgin s power." 
 
 The Queen paused in thought. "But the King 
 is not here, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "They tell me, your Majesty, that he prays in 
 his oratory." 
 
 "And I tell you, Diane, that he has gone to his 
 dungeons." 
 
 "Then I 11 seek him in his dungeons." 
 
 The Queen shook her head. "It s wasted 
 effort."
 
 286 Luca Sarto 
 
 Then on a sudden Diane cried out: "It s to 
 night that my prayers will avail. The King will 
 be most marvelously set up. The Virgin will have 
 wrought him to a giving mood. By morning the 
 ecstasy may be off." 
 
 The Queen rocked her head in thought. "The 
 chance is slim. Yet it s blasphemy to doubt the 
 Virgin s power. Pro]) me those pillows at my 
 back. Fetch me my writing desk. I 11 write 
 you a safe-conduct to the dungeons. May the 
 Holy Virgin help you !" 
 
 She wrote for a moment. "See," she said, 
 "I ve written it blank of names. It s best that 
 the guard know not who you are. Stay ! You 
 cannot go alone." 
 
 "My maid sits up for me." 
 
 "Then I 11 write the pass for two but without 
 names." 
 
 "Have you a key, your Majesty, to the King s 
 passage from his crypt*?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "It would be the better entrance, and would 
 avoid the guardroom." 
 
 The Queen thought for a moment. "A priest," 
 she said, "would have the key. Perhaps my pass 
 will persuade him."
 
 The Dice Still Fall to the Deuce Spots 287 
 
 Diane took direction and a caution that she go 
 veiled against the rudeness of the soldiers. The 
 Queen then kissed her on the cheek. "I shall 
 pray, Diane," she said, "that the Virgin may have 
 prevailed on Louis." 
 
 Diane came off, clutching the pass in her fingers. 
 
 Now the building in which Diane lodged lay 
 along the garden. Her rooms, as I ve told you, 
 were in an upper story, for the lowest story was 
 given entirely to a great hall, with kitchens and 
 larders at the end. The garden had been dark 
 when she had crossed it but a few minutes since. 
 But now rays of light fell on it from the windows 
 of the hall. 
 
 Her path took her by the windows. The room 
 lay plainly in sight. 
 
 On a sudden she stopped. Something in the 
 room had caught her eye. There was shrubbery 
 here, and she held back the branches to see more 
 clearly. What she saw froze her. 
 
 She sought her own room, running. 
 
 Marie let her in. Diane panted with fright 
 and hurry. 
 
 "Marie, you told me that your lover is a 
 guardsman." 
 
 "So he is."
 
 288 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Methinks, as I came by, I saw him in the great 
 hall below." 
 
 "So? It was but a minute after you left that I 
 thought I heard his voice and that of Tristan." 
 
 "Tristan?" Mademoiselle cried out. "The 
 headsman?" 
 
 "Ay, and Monsieur Sarto s too. I heard them 
 below." 
 
 "Listen, Marie! Jean, your lover, stands 
 guard in the hall below." 
 
 "Guard, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Peace, Marie, until I finish!" 
 
 "As God s in Heaven, lady- 
 Diane took her by the wrist and drew her to the 
 window. "Stand out there in the darkness and 
 cry in distress to your lover to come to you." 
 
 Marie stopped her whimpering. "When shall 
 I do this, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 "From the path you can see what happens in the 
 great hall. When you see me enter, count four 
 times around your fingers, then cry out!" 
 
 From the drawer of her dressing table, Diane 
 took a small knife. She put it in the fold of her 
 skirt. Then she thrust Marie before her from the 
 room. 
 
 They went down the stairs together. At the
 
 The Dice Still Fall to the Deuce Spots 289 
 
 foot was the door to the garden. Marie went off 
 in the darkness. 
 
 As for Diane, she stood a bit before the door 
 to the great hall, and listened with her ear upon 
 the crack. Then she opened the door and went 
 within.
 
 T 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 HERE IS THE VILLAIN 
 
 HE wind had shifted until it brought the 
 rain. It was Tristan whom I saw on the 
 stairs. 
 
 Sarto has lived in Naples where villains breed 
 like maggots in a cheese. And, also, he has 
 roamed a bit in these last ten years, and seen, all 
 about, a deal of rogues. And yet neither north 
 nor south has he met as dirty a piece of flesh as 
 this Tristan. 
 
 He touched my arm and pointed down the 
 steps. "I 11 follow after, Monsieur," he said. 
 He came down three steps behind me, with his 
 bad breath on my neck. 
 
 "How now, sir," I asked, when we were on the 
 level. 
 
 "It s the King," he tittered, "who sends to 
 honor you. He bids us wait in the great hall." 
 
 I looked him up and down. "The King sends 
 a strange legate. His stable will go short." 
 
 Again Tristan tittered. "Monsieur is pleas 
 ant," he said. 
 
 2QO
 
 Here is the Villain 291 
 
 We were now come to the great apartment on 
 the ground level. Through the windows on one 
 side of the room I could see the occasional lights 
 of the town of Loches, far below us. The oppo 
 site windows looked out upon a garden. 
 
 Tristan snapped his fingers. Several guards 
 men thrust their heads inside the door. I 
 squared myself to meet them and put my hand 
 upon my sword. "What means this patch 1 ?" I 
 cried. 
 
 Tristan waved the guardsmen forward. Then 
 he fell to rubbing his hands. "It means, Mon 
 sieur, that I arrest you." 
 
 "You skunk s meat," I cried out. "Do you 
 think to touch an artist?" 
 
 "Put up your sword, Monsieur! The odds 
 run against you." 
 
 For answer I edged my back against a corner 
 of the room. "Perhaps, Tristan," I cried, "you 
 will be the one to come and take it." 
 
 Tristan held off. 
 
 There were now as many as six guardsmen in 
 the doorway, with a patter of feet outside as more 
 came up. The circle was closing in. 
 
 "Tristan," I cried, "hold your army off! On 
 what charge do you arrest me?"
 
 292 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Aiding the King s enemies. It s treason, 
 Monsieur." 
 
 "Treason?" I cried. "I am not a Frenchman." 
 Tristan shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 <_?</ 
 
 "Does Louis command my arrest?" 
 
 "Ay, Monsieur." 
 
 "Sarto will not fight the whole French army." 
 I threw down my sword. "I submit. Take me 
 to the King!" 
 
 And now, although I had disarmed myself and 
 had yielded to them, three guardsmen threw them 
 selves on me. I struggled to free myself, splut 
 tering at the outrage, but went down under them. 
 Five of them at least sat upon my chest, while they 
 tied my legs with cord. Then they rolled me 
 over and bound my hands behind my back. It 
 was foul treatment. At the last they put me in a 
 great chair, and tied me in. 
 
 This disregard of ceremony angered me in 
 tensely. The ill-smelling clodpoles had mussed 
 my lace cuffs and had put their greasy hands upon 
 my face. It does not sort with my humor to be 
 seized behind and tumbled about like a perform 
 ing clown by a jack-in-office, by a dunghill 
 groom, by such a pimpled fellow as this Tristan. 
 I shall not tell what I said. It smacked of the
 
 Here is the Villain 293 
 
 wharves, and pink-and-lily youth must not read it. 
 
 Tristan laughed at my anger. He was a merry 
 fellow. And yet it was not real laughter. Tris 
 tan squeaked his mirth. It s false music. Real 
 laughter wears wrinkles on its nose and comes 
 brawling from the mouth. Tristan s laughter was 
 sour as if pickled for the winter. 
 
 Tristan felt the knotted cords and inspected me 
 closely. "You will pardon me," he said mock 
 ingly, "if I am too curious. It s a hobby of 
 mine a study of my craft." 
 
 As he spoke he played on my throat with his 
 dirty fingers. Then he held a pointed finger up 
 to me, like a master to his class. "There is much 
 difference in necks," he said, wagging his finger 
 back and forth. "Yours is good; neither so large 
 as to be annoying to a headsman it frets me if 
 the neck does not snap upon the blow nor yet 
 too small. Monsieur, it will be a pleasure. We 
 shall meet again." 
 
 Tristan now marshaled his guardsmen at the 
 door. One he set to watch me, lest I squirm from 
 my cords. Then he led the others off. I heard 
 their steps die upon the gravel path. 
 
 The next ten minutes I wriggled at my cords. 
 But the headsman had been cunning on the tying
 
 294 Luca Sarto 
 
 of them, and they did not yield. Then I tried to 
 bribe my guard. He sat stolid, nor could I get a 
 word from him. 
 
 I was puzzling on how I might tempt him, 
 when I heard a sound from the darkness of the 
 garden. Looking closely, I saw Diane Diane, 
 in the garden. Fright was on her face. She 
 stood in the shrubbery, in the window s glow, and 
 looked straight at me. But she disappeared with 
 out a word. 
 
 Then ten minutes passed, and I heard footsteps 
 in the entry. The guardsman heard it, too, and 
 he cocked his head upon its side. "Eh," he said, 
 "does Tristan return?" 
 
 But it was not Tristan. It was Diane who en 
 tered, anxious and with fear. She closed the door 
 behind her. 
 
 Diane showed no surprise at my confinement. 
 She turned upon the guardsman. "Jean," she 
 said, "Marie s gone off. I do fear that mischief s 
 come to her. 
 
 The guardsman turned his eyes on Diane, and 
 caught her fear. 
 
 And now, on the instant, there was a noise of 
 feet from the path outside. Then there was a
 
 Here is the Villain 295 
 
 woman s cry, piercing and shrill. Then a mo 
 ment stripped bare of sound. 
 
 Diane had the guardsman by the sleeve. "It s 
 Marie s voice!" 
 
 The guardsman shook her off and ran to the 
 window. 
 
 A second cry came from the darkness. "Jean, 
 Jean ." The guardsman threw down his arquebus 
 and ran from the room, shouting, "Marie, I m 
 coming." 
 
 I was alone with Diane.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 AT THE FOOT OF THE WINDING STAIRWAY 
 
 S3 it fell out that Jacques was brought to 
 Loches with a clattering escort. Men and 
 boys ran ahead of them with lanterns and 
 torches, shouting and calling the news, and night- 
 capped heads were thrust out with brawl of ques 
 tion. And the King drew back his window- 
 hangings and was amused by the carnival below 
 him. Then they swept on to the dungeons. 
 
 The approach is a grove of neglected lime trees, 
 to a wooden door in a stone wall. The great 
 keep, built years ago by Fulk the Red, is at the 
 left. At the right is the keeper s house, and be 
 yond is a tower that is smaller than the great 
 tower, but still ponderous. 
 
 These towers resemble the mountains of ice that 
 move south from the frozen seas, for the bulk 
 above the surface is less than that below. This 
 further tower holds the dungeons for political 
 prisoners. Cardinal Balue is below. Ludovic is 
 
 to come there later. As for Burgundy and 
 
 396
 
 At the Foot of the Winding Stairway 297 
 
 Guienne, Louis s sides would have shaken with 
 mirth if he could have lodged them there. Most 
 evil abodes are these dungeons the very thought 
 of them makes me keck and so they will be 
 until the finger of Time shall have wrought cran 
 nies between their stones. In the centuries to 
 come a wind will rise and lightning. And when 
 the storm abates, the French will thank God for 
 the crumbled stones upon the hillsides. 
 
 But on the night of May the seventeenth, four 
 teen hundred and seventy-one, the walls were 
 strong and dark and sullen. 
 
 Now the cavalcade came near and lanterns were 
 tossed about. And when the guardsmen came be 
 tween the lanterns and the walls their great 
 shadows out-topped the battlements. The Magi 
 cian, who once escaped from the fisherman s jug 
 in smoke, hardly grew so fast. 
 
 Motier had been put in irons. He dismounted 
 stiffly at the door in the wall, and thence he was 
 hurried to the entrance of the smaller tower, see 
 ing nothing as he went except the keeper s little 
 daughter who stood upon the doorsill and munched 
 a piece of black bread, wondering. What dreams 
 a child must have, cradled there! 
 
 The first room was a guardroom with troughlike
 
 298 Luca Sarto 
 
 bunks. As the crowd entered, heads were raised 
 and querulous voices asked in the devil s name 
 what the pother was about. Beyond was a pass 
 age, and at its end a circular flight of steps. 
 Down they went, Motier first, two guardsmen fol 
 lowing. One of them held up a lantern. At a 
 landing they passed a wooden door, studded with 
 nails and with a wicket. 
 
 "Old Bailli s wheezing again. It s down on 
 his lungs at last. In God s name why does n t he 
 die?" This from one of the guardsmen. He 
 prodded Motier with his toe. "Step a bit faster! 
 My supper s waiting." 
 
 The other guardsman spat upon the wall. "Ti 
 lump de lump lump!" he sang contentedly. 
 
 They came to another landing. The first 
 guardsman pointed his thumb toward the wicket 
 in the door. Then he smirked. "It s Balue s," 
 he said. "Mark what will happen !" 
 
 He put his lantern on the floor and set his 
 mouth to the opening. "Yo, ho !" he called. 
 
 There was no sound in answer. The guards 
 man called again: "What ho, Master Balue!" 
 Then he grinned like a showman before he pulls 
 the curtain, and he put his fingers on his lips lest 
 any one should speak and spoil the comedy.
 
 At the Foot of the Winding Stairway 299 
 
 A moan came from the wicket. Presently an 
 old man s face showed at the opening. The eyes 
 blinked in the light. The skin was as white as 
 the under side of a mushroom, and it hung flabby 
 on his cheeks. The voice left was but a squeak. 
 "Sirs," it said, "has my time run out? Has the 
 King softened toward me? I beseech you tell him 
 it was not. I who betrayed him at Peronne." 
 
 Motier had shrunk back against the wall at the 
 first sight of the face, and had turned his head. 
 His stomach sickened. 
 
 The musical guardsman recalled the words of a 
 popular song. He spat again and sang it. It 
 was the song the wench and I had sung at Melum. 
 
 "Maitre Jean Balue 
 A perdu la vue 
 De ses fiveches ; 
 
 Down they went again. At the third turn 
 they came to the lowest level. One of the guards 
 men put an iron key in a lock and pushed the door 
 open. 
 
 There was a smell came out as though Time 
 itself had died and rotted there. The fellow set 
 the light upon the floor, and Motier looked about
 
 300 Luca Sarto 
 
 him. It was a bare stone room, four paces square. 
 The stones were a bit green and water dripped 
 from the vaulting. In the corner was a plank set 
 at a slant for bed and pillow. There was also a 
 wooden table and a stool. Of the table one leg 
 had rotted and fallen off, so it was crutched 
 against the wall. Half way up this wall there 
 was a narrow window, buried in three feet of stone 
 thickness like a fat man s eye; for the tower was 
 set on the slant of the hill, and a level that was 
 far below ground on the one side was thus open 
 to daylight on the other. Such was the width of 
 the window, however, that the light pinched itself 
 to wriggle through. 
 
 So far, the room was like any other dungeon. 
 Now mark a difference ! At the side farthest from 
 the entrance there was another opening. It was 
 the width of a stride, and was closely guarded by 
 iron bars, or rather by an iron gate, for there were 
 hinges. It was black beyond. 
 
 Motier pointed to this. The guardsman 
 grinned but said nothing. Motier crossed the 
 room and squinted through. The darkness was 
 absolute. 
 
 "Where does it lead*?" he asked.
 
 dt the Foot of the Winding Stairway 301 
 
 The guardsman put the lantern and some dishes 
 on the table, and wiped an iron spoon on his 
 stocking. "It s time for gruel," he said. 
 
 As Motier did not come at once, he became im 
 patient. "Come!" he cried. "There will be 
 time to look later. All day to-morrow, and next 
 year, with no one to interrupt." 
 
 He shook with his own humor. Then, when 
 Motier had pulled the stool to the table and had 
 seated himself, he slipped an iron ring over his 
 ankle and clasped it. To the ring was attached a 
 chain, spiked to the stone floor. 
 
 With a tart good night, he swung the door 
 closed behind him and was gone, leaving Motier 
 to eat his supper in the darkness. 
 
 Jacques s nights had been passed in cities, 
 where sound is always rising, or in the fields, where 
 the air is alive with the rustle of growing things, 
 of insects, or wind, or distant dogs barking. But 
 about him now was silence, except for the one 
 sound of dripping water at first only a single 
 dripping, slow and regular. Then from the pass 
 age outside there came an answering drip. Then 
 into this mesh of sound came the echoes, and with 
 them strange fantasies, rising and falling, and yet
 
 302 Luca Sarto 
 
 always the same the scurry of syncope, phrases 
 from the dance and then the whole fury and 
 clamor of it fell to monotone and dirge. 
 
 So, under that hill of stone, there was one who 
 crouched in terror, while the towers stood above 
 ragged in the night, and the moon came from 
 among the clouds and sent silver shadows across 
 the world. Alas, moonlight shines upon a tomb 
 even while the worms are at their feast below. 
 
 And now I write of a cat and mouse, and how 
 the cat playfully cuffed the mouse with a velvet 
 paw. 
 
 After the road had cleared of the procession, the 
 King waited at the window long enough to see 
 Diane and me pass. Then he went by himself 
 and thanked the Blessed Mary for her benefits. 
 
 And now he went to the church again. It is 
 distant from the palace an English arrow s flight, 
 but from the dungeons the space a bombard carries. 
 As he entered, the priests and acolytes, with ex 
 citement sprung from the Virgin s nod yet strong 
 upon them, were pattering all about, laying hands 
 on this and that, finding pretext to be around and 
 observe the issue. 
 
 To them the King came and he packed them on
 
 At the Foot of the Winding Stairway 303 
 
 their ways, and paused until all of them were 
 gone, both lean and fat, and their excitement like 
 smoke had gone thin into the air outside. 
 
 But when alone, he knelt not before the row of 
 candles, nor anywhere. 
 
 The crypt door is in the second bay. Beyond 
 are stone stairs descending, with a lantern at the 
 top. Down these steps the King went, first fast 
 ening the door behind him and rattling it to make 
 sure. He knew these steps, but he held the light 
 above his head and reached out with his hand. 
 
 At the bottom was his oratory. At one end was 
 a daub of Saint Francis, and beneath it was a 
 shabby altar. But the King did not go to this. 
 His business was of another kind. First he took 
 from the folds of his cloak a poniard, and set his 
 thumb against the point to test its sharpness. The 
 King took down, also, a sword which hung from a 
 peg, and flourished it. His wrist, although not as 
 limber as a younger man s, was skillful. 
 
 Then having pulled his garments about him, he 
 jerked his cap over his eyes, opened a second 
 door, and passed from sight. " He moved with the 
 stealth of a cat who goes hunting in the night. 
 
 Once out of the crypt, the King was in a vaulted 
 passage, which led at a downward slant beneath
 
 304 Luca Sarto 
 
 the length of the church. To blurt my knowledge 
 for I know not how to whet the appetite by 
 withholding sweets to blurt my knowledge and 
 set forth at once the very cake of my narration, it 
 was to the dungeons that this passage led, and it 
 was with Motier that the King had commerce. 
 For him the haste, the poniard, and the grin. 
 
 Many times before had the King s shadow 
 slipped along these walls and vaults, for this un 
 derground approach appealed to his love of the 
 grotesque. He was by instinct a masquerader. 
 As a young man, before his father, the old King, 
 died, he frequented the low resorts of Rouen and 
 Tours, in the guise of a drunken reveler, to learn 
 the rumors of the city: or he sat in the corner of a 
 wineshop and watched the traffic of the place, 
 listening to the chatter that arose from the cups. 
 Or he made himself a crony, passing for a mer 
 chant in his gray fustian doublet. 
 
 To-night, however, he was not a masquerader. 
 He was the King. He had captured a man who 
 had eluded him for years. Motier was in the 
 counsel of Charles of Burgundy. He was in com 
 munication with the English, who had used Calais 
 aforetime as a spring-board into France. There 
 was much to be learned from such a man as to
 
 dt the Foot of the Winding Stairway 305 
 
 when the run and leap might be expected. He 
 would see him on the night of his capture. It was 
 better than a raree-show better certainly than an 
 evening bobbing over dull papers with the papal 
 legate. He struck his sword against the solid 
 wall, and grinned at its strength. Then he 
 walked on, humming a song he had heard once, a 
 humorous thing about a cat and a mouse. 
 
 "And I cuff your ear, and I cuff your nose. 
 Yo ho, ding ding, hi diddley Ohs !" 
 
 There came a massive door before him. He 
 unlocked it and pushed it open and left it so. A 
 rat ran under his kingly feet. It recalled a second 
 verse of the song, and he sang it with spirit, for a 
 fine humor was on him. At the end of each line 
 his high cracked voice trolled the refrain: "Yo 
 ho, ding ding, hi diddley Ohs!" Such an ear has 
 this King, such a voice, and such a merry heart 
 when mischief s up. 
 
 He was now below the walls of his dungeons, 
 and close to the room where Motier was impris 
 oned. Then presently there was an iron grating, 
 and he looked through. The grating was that 
 which guarded Motier s cell. 
 
 At the sound of the footsteps and the glimmer
 
 306 Luca Sarto 
 
 of light, Motier had leaped to his feet. He saw 
 the King looking between the iron bars. 
 
 The King began drily. "Good evening, 
 Jacques Motier! We have not met for several 
 years." 
 
 "The King of France!" Motier exclaimed. 
 
 "And of Burgundy, too!" the King added. 
 "Don t forget to mention Burgundy, young man, 
 or I shall be offended. Times have changed since 
 Philip died, my dearly beloved cousin (as the 
 treaties say), who I can only hope went to heaven. 
 And would that his son Charks would go, too 
 and speedily." 
 
 He unlocked the gate and entered, cautiously, 
 with a measuring and careful eye to the chain on 
 the prisoner s ankle, keeping beyond its length. 
 
 He put the light on the stones, well out of 
 Motier s reach, then straightened himself with 
 grunts, for his regal back was cramped. The hand 
 that did not nurse his back rested with finger tips 
 upon the wall. Below his fingers were rough 
 characters hacked in the stones. The King felt 
 the unevenness and turned, squinting on it. 
 
 "Nessun maggior dolore, 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 
 Nella miseria
 
 At the Foot of the Winding Stairway 307 
 
 Dante," he said. "Dear me, I must have had 
 an Italian locked in here. Sarto s another, who 
 will be down presently. What a comfort our 
 poets are!" 
 
 There was a smirk upon his face as when a 
 clown has done his trick. "Yet Dante s rare," he 
 said. "Mostwise my prisons are filled with Sun 
 day stuff. I ve alleluias on these walls to fill a 
 church. My dungeons cry out to God." There 
 was still a grin upon his mouth, although he 
 crossed himself upon the word and threw his eyes 
 for a moment upward. 
 
 "If I had known that you were coming! Your 
 visit is unexpected. It s mischance I ve no room 
 prepared. Those that overlook the garden are 
 taken. Yet it galls me to play so poor a host. 
 Balue, also, came upon me so. But I fixed him 
 up a cage, and there the fine fellow sings happily 
 all the day, although they say his teeth fall out. 
 Humor my mood, Jacques ! I m so glad to see 
 you." 
 
 His mouth was a dirty channel to pass such a 
 stinking flood. Here s how Jacques answered 
 him: 
 
 "You re the same sly cat you always were." 
 
 But Jacques, although his tongue was brave,
 
 308 Luca Sarto 
 
 was frightened. If he spoke with courage, it was 
 because some former thoughts had left stinging 
 words convenient to his tongue. Any present 
 mintage would have had a tremor in it. For 
 Jacques had had a sickish time, squatting a half 
 hour in the dark. And now had come this Louis 
 like a foul dream to plague him further. 
 
 Louis smiled. "Oh!" he said, "so Jacques is 
 Louis s mouse. I 11 take care to play the part. 
 It s my velvet paw to-night, Jacques. I but cuff 
 you with it. My humor will be sterner in the 
 morning. Enough of this ! It s ill that the 
 Majesty of France should bandy words with his 
 liegeman." 
 
 "Liegeman!" Jacques tone was sour. 
 "Liegeman! My hand has been given to Bur 
 gundy, who is fellow to yourself. Burgundy does 
 not doff to France." 
 
 This Jacques, I confess, gets metal in him. 
 There s Italian fiber in this fellow. Mark how 
 he reviles the King! 
 
 "Majesty of France !" he snarled. "It s soiled 
 cloth, Louis. You fit it vile." 
 
 But Louis was not roused. It would appear he 
 liked the taunt. It was candied marchpane on his 
 tooth.
 
 dt the Foot of the Winding Stairway 309 
 
 "This Burgundy that you brag of, Jacques, is 
 my cousin. By way of manners only, I 11 ask you 
 of his health. Yet if it break, Louis will sleep 
 as sound." 
 
 "Burgundy!" answered Jacques, "the Duke of 
 Burgundy remembers how your uncle, Louis of 
 Anjou, sent home his kinswoman, Catherine, and 
 vilely broke his betrothal to her." 
 
 Louis smiled. "My compliments," he said, "to 
 my uncle in refusing alliance with Jean sans 
 Peur." 
 
 "Alliance!" Jacques retorted; "was not your 
 father called in derision the King of Bourges - 
 King of a muddy town, who dared not ride beyond 
 Touraine, lest his enemies pull his nose?" 
 
 There was a pause as long as a Pater Noster, 
 then Jacques spoke again. 
 
 "Why have you brought me here? It will be 
 a dark message that I take back to your cousin 
 Charles of Burgundy." 
 
 "I 11 find another messenger to save you 
 trouble." Then with a change of humor and 
 more directly: "They say that Lord Howard 
 and his English sit at Dover. Eh? What are 
 they waiting for?" 
 
 "Does Louis name me counselor?"
 
 310 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Burgundy is to raise an army. That cousin of 
 mine, Jacques, asking your pardon, is a fool. If 
 the English wait on him, they 11 sit at Dover until 
 the spring. The English are hard of learning. 
 He 11 keep a trollop s faith with them. I 11 pass 
 these things. They concern you only a very little. 
 My guests hear slight rummage from the world 
 outside. It s a sweet cloister I ve set you in. 
 
 "Gruel*?" Louis had noticed the dishes. 
 "What a flavor! Blessed Madonna, I love a car 
 rot. We 11 pamper you. If your teeth last, 
 we 11 have you fat. Balue s, most unconsiderate, 
 fell out. And we 11 have no questions asked 
 until to-morrow. My curiosity must wait on 
 your digestion. I ve playthings in a room above. 
 The best playtime is in the morning. We 11 have 
 the pretty playthings out to-morrow. Good 
 night and sweet dreams!" 
 
 The King took up the light. He was so game 
 some that his back forgot to ache. Then he 
 paused. Something outside had struck his ear. 
 
 "I came down to-night to press matters a little, 
 Jacques. No matter. I ve changed my mind. 
 To-morrow will do. You 11 tell me what I want 
 when I get the playthings out."
 
 At the Foot of the Winding Stairway 311 
 
 Again he paused and cocked his head, with a 
 step nearer to the door. 
 
 "You 11 like this room in the morning, Jacques. 
 If the day is bright, a shiver of it sticks in the 
 window, although it is not enough to waken you. 
 It s snug for sleep. Eh 1 ? Eh? What is that? 
 Did you hear a sound?" 
 
 A tenseness had come on Louis another mood 
 of cat. 
 
 Outside was a low footfall. Some one was on 
 the circular stairs, descending step by step. Then 
 there was a fumbling with the lock 
 
 I 11 write no more to-night. Shall I sit up till 
 dawn, while my head wags for sleep, just because 
 you are curious who is on the stairs? Maybe it s 
 Tristan, maybe it s myself, or Olivier le Daim, or 
 Charles of Burgundy, or Judas Iscariot, or the 
 Pope. 
 
 To-morrow I 11 tell who it was. Snuff out 
 your candle ! Let s go to bed !
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 AN ANSWER TO THE RIDDLE 
 
 THE guardsman ran bawling from the room. 
 I was alone with Diane. 
 
 She had followed to the window and had 
 screened her eyes to see into the darkness. Then 
 she ran to me. Kneeling she cut my cords. 
 
 "Be quick!" she cried. "It s all a trick. I 
 have thrown them off." 
 
 "What would you have me do*?" I was eager 
 at her words. 
 
 "Do? Escape get away to Italy any 
 where." 
 
 "What of you, Diane? Do you come too?" 
 
 "No. I am safe here. The Queen protects 
 me. She will send me with an escort into Bur 
 gundy. But enough evil for my sake has come to 
 you. Drop through that window ! To the town ! 
 By daylight you must be thirty miles off. Be 
 quick! The guard will return!" 
 
 "I 11 not be thrust off. I have not stolen a 
 spoon," I said. "Think on these things better. 
 We 11 find some contrivance for your brother." 
 
 312
 
 An Answer to the Kiddle 313 
 
 Diane had taken me by the arm to force me 
 out, but I set myself a post. 
 
 "Have you any plan, Diane?" 
 
 "Ay, Sarto, but you have no part in it." 
 
 "By God, young woman, you 11 tell me of your 
 plan! If there is betterment in it, we ll play it 
 out together." 
 
 "It is my plan, Sarto, to find the King, to ask 
 for Jacques s life. This morning there would 
 have been no hope in it, but to-night the King 
 will be of soft resolution now that the Virgin has 
 come to life. I can win him best alone. Your 
 going too would muddle it." 
 
 "And where will you find the King?" 
 
 "He has gone to his dungeons. I shall follow 
 him there." 
 
 "To-night?" 
 
 "Now. Before his ecstasy passes." 
 
 "You could not get to the dungeons, dear lady. 
 The guards would not admit you." 
 
 A look of triumph came on Diane s face. "I 
 have a safe-conduct from the Queen." 
 
 "A safe-conduct. There s thought in that. 
 Is it made in your name?" 
 
 "It s blank. But you cannot serve me. Sarto, 
 I beg that you be off at once."
 
 314 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Does the Queen know how you would use it? 
 It s rare that she sets herself against the King." 
 
 "You waste your speech, Sarto." 
 
 Diane pulled upon my sleeve to force me to the 
 window. I sat down upon a stool. 
 
 "I 11 not be packed off so, Diane. You had 
 best tell me how I can serve you." 
 
 "Dear Sarto " she began, then her voice broke. 
 She put her hands upon my shoulders. "If you 
 bear me any love, go!" she said. "Go, in the 
 name of God !" 
 
 I put off her hands. "Mademoiselle," I cried, 
 "you waste our time for action." 
 
 Diane left me. She stood with her back turned 
 against me, and she twitched at the coverlet of the 
 table. Then abruptly she faced me. Her voice 
 was harsh. "Be off, Sarto," she said, "I 11 suffer 
 no further question. You are a fool, Monsieur. 
 I have tricked you to my purpose. Must a 
 woman speak more plainly*? You have been 
 dangling around me long enough. I want none of 
 your attentions. I am betrothed elsewhere. 
 You had best be off." 
 
 I arose from my stool and stared at her. 
 
 "Betrothed 1 ?" I said. "To whom?"
 
 An Answer to the Riddle 315 
 
 "It does not concern you, Monsieur. My word 
 is enough." 
 
 "Diane," I said, "perhaps I dream. Did you 
 tell me that you are betrothed?" 
 
 "Ay, Sarto. You had best be off." But her 
 eyes fell before mine. 
 
 "You lie, Diane," I cried. "You are not be 
 trothed." 
 
 I put my fingers beneath her chin and held 
 up her head to mine. Tears stood in her eyes. 
 "Sarto s your lover, Mademoiselle. The only 
 one whose suit will prosper. Do you confess the 
 lie?" 
 
 Diane twisted from my grip. Then her pur 
 pose faltered. "Ay, Sarto," she said reluctantly, 
 "it is a lie." I had thought to save your life." 
 Impulsively she touched my cheek. 
 
 And now a thought that had come to me when 
 she first mentioned the safe-conduct came to me 
 again. There was shrewd contrivance in it. For 
 a few moments I ranged up and down to think 
 upon it. It was a plan to bring off Motier. But 
 at what cost 1 ? Across my brain, at this, there 
 came the beloved rumble of the Roman streets. 
 "At what cost," I thought. Then I gripped my
 
 316 Luca Sarto 
 
 resolution, and with a swing of arm waved off all 
 fear and consequence. "God s face," I thought, 
 "shall I be a frightened haggler when fate itself 
 has goods to sell? I 11 plank down the price and 
 take my purchase." 
 
 My spirits mounted and I cried aloud, 
 "Diane!" and I strode forward upon her. "Your 
 pass, Mademoiselle," was all I said, but I took her 
 by the wrist. 
 
 In affright she held the crumpled bit of paper 
 and stretched her arm behind her to guard it from 
 me. Her eyes met mine and they searched them 
 deep. Her fear was gone. "It is I, Diane," I 
 said, "who am going to find not the King, but 
 Motier. I have a plan to bring him off." 
 
 Thus we stood I a soldier, with my strong 
 arms, before this slight French girl. Quickly I 
 seized her left hand and drawing her to me, until 
 her hair touched my face, I slipped my hand along 
 her right arm. It was bare and my blood danced 
 at the touch. My hand met the fingers behind 
 her. These I clasped and drew them back, one 
 by one, until the paper fell to the stones. She 
 stood before me and when the paper fell, her fin 
 gers lay in mine. 
 
 Then somewhat of Italian burst from my lips,
 
 An Answer to the Riddle 317 
 
 wherein I called her dearest and summoned hills 
 and sun for witness. "Diane," I said, "your 
 eyes are the only stars that I need in heaven." 
 And much more I said, but I 11 not write it down, 
 lest some botcher after me translate my words 
 into some kennel language like Dutch or English. 
 And did the lady understand my Italian speech 4 ? 
 God pity her, she knew not the language, but be 
 content, she was a woman. 
 
 And time passed upon us thus, my arms about 
 Diane she standing close for shelter. Then I 
 bent down and kissed her, and she knew all that 
 was in my heart this French girl, with a light in 
 her eyes which no one shall describe. 
 
 Suddenly there came a harsh sound. Men were 
 moving in the entry outside. There was a clatter, 
 also, on the stones along the garden, and lanterns 
 moved outside the windows. 
 
 Now I have said that there were windows on 
 both sides of the room. It was to the farther 
 side I turned, to the windows that overlooked the 
 town. There was, I noticed, a narrow ledge be 
 fore the wall pitched off dizzily to the town below. 
 
 There was a sound of men coming up the steps 
 from the entry, and then a nearer sound at the 
 door. "This may be the last good-by, Diane.
 
 318 Luca Sarto 
 
 May the Virgin keep you!" I drew her within 
 my arms and kissed her lips. 
 
 There was a rattling at the door. "Quick!" 
 she whispered. 
 
 Already it seemed too late. The doorway was 
 cut off. The windows to the garden offered sure 
 capture. But below the windows that overlooked 
 the town there was the narrow ledge. 
 
 Quietly I swung open the window. Diane fol 
 lowed close. "I pray for you, Luca Sarto," was 
 her only speech. 
 
 Crouching on the sill, I kissed her finger-tips, 
 her knees and her skirt as it hung against her 
 ankles. And words came hot for utterance. 
 "Diane, my beloved." Then I dropped to the 
 narrow ledge. 
 
 And now that I have written it and you ve read 
 it, know that it is the truth. Not a word have I 
 put down but what was spoken. And much more 
 of it I d write, except that you would babble it. 
 For it would tease me like a fuzzy shift to think 
 that my words might be made a common ballad 
 and sung upon the streets. Sorry I am to have 
 written even this much, for our converse was some 
 what sweet, and in print too apt to cloy. When 
 I ve read others scenes of love, either in chronicle
 
 An Answer to the Riddle 319 
 
 or sonnet, I have wished for Spanish lemons to 
 squeeze a little sourness on the words. Yet it s 
 truth I write. 
 
 Once on the ledge, I ran along it, thus keeping 
 in the building s shadow. Momentarily I ex 
 pected to hear my pursuers. They could have cut 
 me off when I came into the open space beyond 
 the palace. But everything was quiet. It 
 seemed hardly possible that no one started in pur 
 suit; and yet it was so, by the cleverness of Diane. 
 
 No sooner had I dropped from the window than 
 Diane closed it. Then as the sounds thickened at 
 the door, she took from the table a Book of 
 Hours. When the guards were about to break 
 through the paneling, she threw this against a win 
 dow toward the garden, that is, against a window 
 opposite to the one by which I had escaped. 
 
 It broke the glass which clattered to the stones. 
 Then as the guards rushed in, she cried out excit 
 edly. "There, there, through that window! To 
 the garden !" 
 
 It was so cleverly acted and the circumstances 
 seemed to fit so nicely, that the men went in the 
 wrong direction and I was alone on the ledge with 
 the Queen s pass in my poke. 
 
 As for Diane, I 11 write you but a page.
 
 320 Luca Sarto 
 
 When the guards had run out and were beating in 
 the bush, Diane went to her room. But she did 
 not give herself to idleness or lamentation. For 
 some few minutes she knelt upon her knees, pray 
 ing to the Virgin. Then her prayer fell off, but 
 still she knelt and thought. The tirewoman, 
 meantime, wept in the corner until the stones were 
 wet. 
 
 At last Diane looked up from her prayers, and 
 on her face a new plan showed. It was a potent 
 plan, rich in promise, yet she gave no hint of it in 
 speech. 
 
 But then she clouded. "Holy Virgin," she 
 whispered, "I have not strength to do it." She 
 knelt again before her crucifix and presently her 
 purpose cleared. "Blessed Mary," she prayed 
 aloud, "forgive me for what I am about to do. 
 It s sacrilege, but it s the only way." 
 
 Her determination was made, and she arose. 
 
 "Marie," she said. 
 
 The maid held up her head. 
 
 "You had best go to bed, Marie. I ve no 
 further need of you to-night." 
 
 The maid went off. Diane set the catch behind 
 her. 
 
 Now mark what she did! First she went
 
 An Answer to the Riddle 321 
 
 a-rummage in her chest of ck>thes, and laid out 
 this and that garment. Certain gear she chose at 
 last, all of white. And yet to name the pieces is 
 a woman s task. But what does Diane with 
 these*? One would think there was to be a dance 
 or rigadoon. Yet the darkness of the castle gives 
 denial. Nor was there any squeak of viol or 
 blowing on a pipe. Too bleak and sodden was the 
 palace for any frisk of feet. If to such dull halls 
 Merriment came, she must have been a sullen 
 wench. 
 
 Yet Diane held another purpose as she clothed 
 herself. This purpose I 11 keep to myself, nor 
 will I seek to spy longer in her room. 
 
 Once in the open air, my thoughts leaped to my 
 own concernments, and the foolhardiness of my 
 errand came to me. Of my own will I was going 
 into a dungeon from which I might never return. 
 Since Dante went to hell, there had been no de 
 scent of greater hazard. Yet it served with 
 merit, for it kept Diane from the perils of the 
 guardroom and the winding steps. 
 
 I rounded the end of the building and came 
 into the garden. Off to the right a bow-shot s dis 
 tance were the lights of my pursuers as they beat 
 the shrubbery. I trotted on and passed the
 
 322 Luca Sarto 
 
 Church of Saint Ours. It showed a single light. 
 A man was crouching in the shadow. It was too 
 late to avoid him, so I passed him on the far side 
 of the path. 
 
 "Michel, you rogue," I cried, "what a scare you 
 gave me !" 
 
 I was eased to know that it was he. We sat 
 together on a stone, and I got my breath. 
 
 "Michel," I said, "I m going into the dun 
 geons." 
 
 Michel turned a scared face at me. 
 
 "And when I come out, we 11 start for Italy." 
 
 "Ay, Master, and the fly had plans also, before 
 the spider caught him." 
 
 I cuffed him and bade him hold his peace. 
 "Michel," I said, "you 11 take this gold and with 
 it you 11 buy fast horses. Four of them. 
 You 11 have them within the hour upon the bridge 
 above the Indre. Have no fear for me, but do as 
 I tell you." 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 "Within an hour four horses on the bridge." 
 
 "Ay, Master." 
 
 I looked hard at him. His head was wagging 
 from side to side most disconsolately. "Cheer 
 yourself," I said. "There was never yet a hawk
 
 An Answer to the Riddle 323 
 
 caught in a spider s web. The mesh is spun too 
 thin. I 11 flap through somehow. Now be off 
 with you!" 
 
 I watched him until he was gone from sight. 
 Then it came on me suddenly that I was unarmed. 
 
 From every point you take it, I was in a sad 
 position.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 WHO TRAVELS FAR, WILL DISAPPEAR 
 
 MY spirits sank at the odds against me. 
 Fate had thrown sixes on the hoard. 
 Should even one of my dice roll to a five or less, 
 Fate the hag would take me by the throat. Even 
 now her fingers itched for the task. I was in dan 
 ger of satisfying the proverb: Who travels far, 
 will disappear. Here would be an end of my 
 wanderings. Hereafter, the walls of Italy would 
 starve for my brush. The Sistine would go blank. 
 And yet it s not in Luca Sarto s star to be snuffed 
 out so. To him hope keeps babbling. There is 
 a firm conjunction of the planets that he shall not 
 be swung off to his Maker on a gibbet, or nibbled 
 to death by dungeon rats. 
 
 Michel had gone. I stood alone, weaponless, 
 in the darkness of the grove of lime trees. There 
 was a wind, and it moaned through the trees as 
 though nature felt kindly toward me, yet des 
 paired. 
 
 My pass was a sufficient warrant for gaining en- 
 324
 
 Who Travels Far, Will Disappear 325 
 
 trance to Motier s dungeon. Once there I would 
 flaunt before the guardsmen the King s ring, given 
 me in Paris when I had brought back the lead 
 saint. It would be potent to my purpose. Tall 
 boasting words would be needed also but I knew 
 them an insolen-t authority, a dispatch and what 
 not, as though I bore majestical royalty on my 
 tongue. I could play the part like the best actor 
 that ever ranted in an inn yard. It would appear 
 that the King had sent me from the palace to bring 
 Motier to him to be quizzed. Would not a fin 
 ger ring of the King and a safe-conduct of the 
 Queen stretch so far? A handful of gold, too, 
 would aid credulity. But if this failed despite 
 my bluster, I might still bribe the guardsman to let 
 me change places with Motier. I d tell him that 
 Motier had been captured in the dark, that no one 
 in authority had seen him yet, except Tristan, and 
 he only by a lantern. It would appear that he 
 had been mistaken in his man, that in the confu 
 sion he had arrested me. No blame, therefore, 
 would fall upon the guardsman and he d be the 
 richer by the gold. To persuade Motier to make 
 the change, I would invent some dire danger to his 
 sister. Slim of course. But I would put pepper 
 in the trial.
 
 326 Luca Sarto 
 
 As for myself at worst I would, in the days 
 to come, scratch Madonnas on the walls and die 
 of rot. 
 
 Presently I came from the denser grove. The 
 dungeon towers stood black against the clouds. 
 My thoughts went back to Father Paul. "Your 
 banded spider," he had said, "when it is old in 
 wisdom, spins its web across the paths of dark 
 ness." 
 
 I advanced through the tangle of grass toward 
 the towers. As I came near, my teeth chattered 
 with cold and fear and excitement. To hide my 
 state, I kicked loudly against an outer door, for 
 a faint heart cloaks itself in noise. Then I 
 waited. 
 
 A little fat man cautiously opened the door, and 
 stood squinting at me, holding a light above his 
 head. He was tousled and greased and foul like 
 Gluttony in the Mystery when it s acted. And 
 if it interest you, this same fat man was the orig 
 inal of my Silenus in the Pitti. I thrust the ring 
 beneath his eye, and demanded in the King s name 
 that he lead me to that abominable traitor, Jacques 
 Metier. 
 
 For a moment he hesitated. 
 
 "What, you bag of husks," I cried, "is it not
 
 Who Travels Far, Will Disappear 327 
 
 enough*?" I thrust my safe-conduct at him. 
 "It s the word of the King and the word of the 
 Queen. Let me pass!" 
 
 He wrinkled his forehead upon the paper like a 
 scholard when he sets his glosses in a text. Yet 
 slight value his glosses would have had, for the 
 paper dangled from his ignorant fingers upside 
 down, like a tavern acrobat. 
 
 At last he nodded on it and drew me to the 
 guardroom door, which being open, bad smells 
 came out. With such a breath the building must 
 have a foul indigestion. "The calomel is cure," I 
 thought, and held my nose and went within the 
 maw. 
 
 At first the fat man was for calling others to 
 consult with him. I prodded him to ease him of 
 the thought. "Make haste," I said. "The King 
 waits. If a sleek comely man comes to the gate, 
 it s what the King said, you 11 get the best dis 
 patch. He 11 have wit to recognize my ring. 
 
 The flattery served. 
 
 Beyond the guardroom was a passage, and some 
 distance in, beyond hearing unless the voice be 
 raised in fright, were circular stairs descending 
 into a well. From such a bowel, I thought, there 
 would be need of strong emetic to cast me forth.
 
 328 Luca Sarto 
 
 My guide stopped now and then and put his 
 fingers on his lips. I listened but could hear noth 
 ing. Still he would not go on. During a minute 
 we were silent, and then we began the descent 
 again. 
 
 "Sh!" he whispered, "do you hear voices ?" 
 
 There was a sound below, but I could not tell 
 whether it was a voice or only some animal in the 
 walls. Then the sound ceased. 
 
 "It is n t the first time," he cried, and shrank 
 back against the wall. "I have heard it before, 
 and so I never come here at night." 
 
 He shivered so that the lantern jiggled. 
 From below came the same monotone as before. 
 It ceased again. 
 
 And now, despite my urging, he declined to go 
 farther. Even when I tapped my toe in his fat 
 seat, as he stood below me on the stairs, it failed 
 of its intent. Through so thick a cushion my 
 message mounted dully to his head. 
 
 Then the idea occurred to me that if I played 
 upon his fears, I could persuade him to give me 
 his keys. They would be ample substitute for 
 himself. But no persuasion was necessary. At 
 the first hint, Silenus dropped his ring of keys and
 
 Who Travels Far, Will Disappear 329 
 
 sprang up the stairs. I reached out to clutch his 
 leg. 
 
 "You fool," I cried; "leave the light with me!" 
 
 I caught him by the foot. It tripped him and 
 he fell. The lantern was extinguished and it rat 
 tled down the steps. We were in pitchy dark 
 ness, broken by not so much light as issues from 
 a tippler s nose. 
 
 I could hear him above me, panting. I could 
 have struck him in my anger. "You hutch of 
 dropsies," I called, "wait for my return!" 
 
 I stood up and reached out to touch the outer 
 rounding wall. "Does Motier s dungeon lie at 
 the bottom of this shaft?" 
 
 "Ay, Monsieur, it does. It s three times 
 round, and there s the door." 
 
 With much grunting, the fat man got upon his 
 feet. He scuttled up the steps and was gone. 
 
 Step by step I descended. Once I put my fin 
 gers on a grill. I put my ear upon the opening. 
 There was no sound, until on a sudden I heard a 
 sneeze a shriveled little sneeze as though there 
 were dregs only in the pipes. It was horrible to 
 hear in that hole of darkness anything so human. 
 
 And now I went twice round the shaft as I
 
 330 Luca Sarto 
 
 judged it forty-six steps and was at the bot 
 tom. My extended fingers touched something of 
 wood, a door that blocked my further progress. 
 It was solid, without grill. Passing my fingers 
 down its surface, I came upon a chain and lock. 
 I put my ear against the door. There was no 
 sound. Then I inserted my great key, turned it, 
 pushed open the door and stood face to face with 
 Jacques Metier and the King of France.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 I TRY A FALL WITH THE KING 
 
 THERE was a lantern on the stones, its light 
 cast up as if for a play or interlude. Be 
 hind it, with its glare on him, was the King, legs 
 straddled though touching at the knees, head up 
 and eyebrows raised, jaw snapped shut, hand upon 
 his sword, face clouded puzzled by my interrup 
 tion. Motier stood new-risen from his stool, with 
 his head craned across his shoulder. His fingers 
 were clutched upon his doublet, and his face was 
 white. As for myself, judge my bafflement! 
 
 The King was the first to speak. He was grin 
 ning now. "To what do I owe this pleasure, 
 Luca Sarto"?" 
 
 Before I spoke, I went down upon my knees, 
 hat in hand. "Evil s been worked against me, 
 your Majesty. I have come to you for justice." 
 
 "Justice*?" Louis smirked. "You had best beg 
 for mercy. A gallows rope is justice." 
 
 "Sire, you are mistaken in me." 
 331
 
 332 Luca Sarto 
 
 But Louis broke in, "Save your breath, Sarto!" 
 
 I persisted, "Cardinal Rovere will take it ill if 
 mischance falls on his friend." 
 
 "I 11 act upon your hint. My legate shall be 
 instructed it was an illness took you off." 
 
 "Heart of God, your Majesty, why do you vent 
 yourself on me?" 
 
 Louis ignored the question. He stroked his 
 chin, making a wry face. "Young man," he said 
 at length, "it puzzles me how you got entrance to 
 me." 
 
 "Cardinal Rovere will be much amazed I 
 persisted. 
 
 "Hold your tongue!" 
 
 The King s grin was gone. His mouth was set 
 and hard. To no purpose had I scuffed upon my 
 knees. Foul roads there blocked my advance 
 through humility. I must go another way. I 
 rolled my eyes up ceilingward. 
 
 "King Louis," I said, "to-night the Virgin has 
 been gracious to you. For her sake will you not 
 spare your enemies ?" 
 
 Louis stood for a moment in thought, and he 
 crossed himself. Then a wolfish look came in his 
 face. "Luca Sarto," he snarled, "to-morrow I 11 
 hang you on a gibbet."
 
 / Try a Fall with the King 333 
 
 There was a slough on this road too. I must 
 go still another way. 
 
 "Motier," I said, and I pointed to the iron gate 
 that stood open across the dungeon, "where does 
 that passage lead?" 
 
 "It s so the King came in," he replied. "It s 
 an egress from the dungeons." 
 
 Louis stood against the farther wall, his cat s 
 eye on me. At the mention of the passage, he 
 stirred himself. He pointed to the stool. "Sit 
 there, Sarto ! I 11 hear you !" 
 
 As I turned half way, he made a sudden move 
 to pass me and gain the grating. I blocked his 
 approach. "Sire," I said, "Sarto will not sit be 
 fore the King of France." 
 
 Louis flashed a look of anger at me. If he had 
 intended to leave the dungeon through the grating, 
 I had cut him off. 
 
 And now I had planned to leap on Louis, but 
 on looking closely at his left hand half concealed 
 in his clothing, I saw a knife in his fingers. His 
 right hand held a sword, the point resting on the 
 stones. I had best keep off. Motier stood at my 
 elbow. 
 
 "Motier," I said, "close the door I came in by!" 
 He did so on full-stretched chain. "Now lock
 
 334 Luca Sarto 
 
 it!" He hesitated, but I swore an oath and he 
 obeyed. 
 
 "On my soul," said Louis but he was for a 
 moment puzzled "you are as careful to lock the 
 door as an old housewife. Do you fear thieves 
 in the cupboard*?" 
 
 I twitched the key in my fingers. 
 
 Louis laughed at me. "You underset my wit, 
 young man. I need no guardsman to protect me. 
 See how I guard myself!" 
 
 He advanced the point of his sword until it 
 rested against my throat. Then he pressed me 
 back against the wall, scratching my throat until 
 he had drawn blood. 
 
 "Give me the key," he said. 
 
 I tossed it to the floor. If Louis stoops to get 
 it, I thought, I shall leap on him. 
 
 Louis looked sidewise at the key as though he 
 coveted it, and at me sharply, for he had read my 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Your manners, young man, are foul," he said. 
 "Hand me the key." But I watched him nar 
 rowly, for some guile was working in him. 
 
 Then I saw his trick too late. On a sudden he 
 flicked the key with the side of his foot, and sent it 
 spinning across the stones in the direction of the
 
 / Try a Fall with the King 335 
 
 door. It jounced upon its course and slid out of 
 sight through the crack beneath. 
 
 "Messieurs," said Louis and he smiled broadly, 
 "I ve scored a goal. The game is done. I bid 
 you good night. Both of you will now lie snug 
 here until the morrow." 
 
 Louis backed carefully away from me and came 
 before the grating. His hand was on it. 
 
 "Stay, your Majesty!" I cried, for our only 
 hope of escape lay in holding him on some pre 
 text. Were the grating once shut and Louis gone 
 upon his business, our plight was desperate. 
 
 Louis hesitated. Already he was outside the 
 grill and was closing it. But the cat was upper 
 most in him. It would please him to cuff once 
 more the mice that he had caught. 
 
 During these seconds I saw but two things, the 
 King s smirk and his glittering steel. Yet my 
 thoughts leaped as in a race. Thoughts, remem 
 brances, plans, galloped through my head until it 
 spun like a chariot wheel. But from all this con 
 fusion, by a strange chance, there emerged the re 
 membrance of Louis as I had seen him first in 
 Paris, in the Tournelles, when the thought of 
 death had plagued him. Blood was wet on my 
 throat, and the King s grin was before me.
 
 336 Luca Sarto 
 
 "King Louis," I asked, "have men ever bought 
 their lives ?" I watched his face. 
 
 "With what kind of coin ?" he asked. 
 
 "The confession is long. Have you the pa 
 tience to hear it?" 
 
 "Confession, Sarto?" 
 
 "Have you patience for my confession, King 
 Louis?" 
 
 "It s meager in me, Sarto." 
 
 "Then I shall not begin." 
 
 "What would you tell me?" he asked. 
 
 "My tongue should be torn out," I cried. "It 
 is base to betray one s friends." I watched Louis 
 to see whether I had aroused any interest. 
 
 "Ah," said Louis, "do you wish to tell me about 
 your friends in Italy?" 
 
 I hung my head, then nodded. 
 
 "Then," said Louis, "make a start!" 
 
 "And you 11 hold in confidence that it was I 
 who betrayed these matters?" 
 
 "It s as you wish," he said. "Tell me quickly 
 what you will, before I tire! Perhaps it s about 
 the Pope and Burgundy. Come, young man, 
 speak while the humor is in me to listen !" 
 
 "Well," I said, "if it must be. My life s the 
 reward."
 
 / Try a Fall with the King 337 
 
 "If what you tell me is worth it." 
 
 "It s the Church things that are known only 
 if one sets his ear at a keyhole." 
 
 "How shall these things profit me*?" 
 
 "I shall tell you." 
 
 "Be on your way, Sarto! If what you tell me 
 has value, I shall set you free." 
 
 I knew that he lied. Nothing that I might be 
 tray would save me. My wits were my only 
 guard. Motier s lip curled in scorn. "You play 
 the cur," he whined, "and to no purpose." He 
 turned from me and squatted down upon the stool, 
 with his head sunk in his hands. 
 
 "I live in Rome," I began. "I am friends with 
 the churchmen." 
 
 "Ah," said Louis, "there s the wind." 
 
 "Ay, your Majesty. Once I journeyed to 
 Milan. It was Pope Paul sent me. Papal busi 
 ness, your Majesty!" 
 
 I tapped my breast to indicate that important 
 papers were on my person at the time of it. 
 
 "The Sforza live in Milan. Bona of Savoy, 
 my kinswoman, married Galeazzo Maria." This 
 from King Louis. 
 
 "I was delayed and it seemed that the night 
 would come before I reached the city. It was a
 
 338 Luca Sarto 
 
 warm summer night, with a low-hanging moon, 
 frayed and ragged a clear night, without clouds 
 no clouds for weeks, and the land steaming and 
 cracking. I traveled alone on a jaded horse. 
 Night had closed against the fields and there 
 was nothing ahead but the lights of a village, and 
 a greater light that blurred the darkness. This 
 greater light was a fire burning in a field, and a 
 crowd of men moved about it. In the red glow 
 was a scaffold of wood, and joiners were at work 
 with a tapping of hammers. 
 
 "I called to them. Who is to be the crows 
 meat 1 ? I asked. 
 
 " It s Benedetti s scaffold, they cried back. 
 He s to be hanged in the morning. The gib 
 bet s shadow lay like a cross in the road before 
 me. The tapping of hammers fell off behind. 
 
 "As I reached the city, I passed workmen with 
 tools on their shoulders, coming back from their 
 day s work. Who is Benedetti? I asked. Ben- 
 edetti was Prefect, they said; he is to be hanged 
 in the morning. They passed on laughing. 
 
 "I entered the city and came before a drinking 
 place. There were lights at the chinks of the 
 shutters and a noise within. I listened to a rat-
 
 / Try a Fall with the King 339 
 
 tie of cups. I put my head at the door. Why 
 do they hang this Benedetti? I cried. 
 
 "A drunkard s breath blew in my face. God! 
 I 11 spit on Benedetti s corpse to-morrow. 
 
 King Louis shifted his feet. "Hurry!" he ex 
 claimed. "Your story grows tiresome." 
 
 I looked at Louis. He waited expectant for 
 what I might say of Galeazzo Maria. 
 
 "Perhaps I have told enough," I said. "And 
 yet there are things to come. I 11 speak of Pope 
 Paul presently, and then, if you ve patience, of 
 your brother Charles." 
 
 "What of Charles?" 
 
 At this Motier blurted out : "Hold your peace, 
 Sarto ! Must you have others to swing upon your 
 gibbet?" 
 
 Louis made a gesture of impatience, and I con 
 tinued the narrative. 
 
 "By and by I stood before gloomy walls, black 
 and lifeless, for the ragged moon had set. A man 
 passed in the shadow of a building. Yo, ho, 
 what s this? I cried. It s the dungeons, he re 
 plied. I pulled upon a bell cord. Chains rattled, 
 and a man as gray and shabby as a rat popped out 
 his head. He snarled upon me for breaking up
 
 34 Luca Sarto 
 
 his sleep. And now, your Majesty, I come to the 
 point. Through my acquaintance with the 
 churchmen I was admitted. I wished to see and 
 speak with this Benedetti, who once had been a 
 friend of Burgundy. Burgundy ! Before the 
 body was hung up to rot, there were secrets to be 
 had." 
 
 I glanced at Louis intently. His jaw was less 
 tightly compressed. His position was unchanged 
 hand on the grating but he had lost assur 
 ance. He was held to my story, and for reasons 
 beside the prospect of learning forbidden things. 
 But my hope was still forlorn. 
 
 "An artist, sire," I said, "must know the look 
 of things. He was a little man, this Benedetti, 
 with a stooped figure and black suit. He wore a 
 cap pulled forward on his eyes. Like yours, your 
 Majesty. And his face was thin. And as the 
 priests and I stood before him, they told him he 
 must die." 
 
 "Stop!" Louis cried. "I ve heard enough!" 
 
 "Not yet," I said. "This is the very point. 
 It s what Benedetti is to say. It s treason- 
 treason plots with Burgundy and Guienne 
 against the throne of France." 
 
 Motier, still upon his stool, looked up. "You
 
 / Try a Fall with the King 341 
 
 smirch your honor, Sarto. Peace! It will not 
 save you." 
 
 The King s sword trembled. Yet I held him to 
 my tale. 
 
 "The priests told Benedetti that he must be 
 hanged at daybreak." I grasped my throat and 
 bent it forward to drive home my hideous mean 
 ing. For so they hang at Montfaucon, head for 
 ward. 
 
 "He, too, this Benedetti, spanned his throat 
 with his ringers, and pressed his nails into the 
 flesh to know beforehand what the horror would 
 be like. He was a little man, your Majesty. 
 About your size." 
 
 "Why do you tell me this?" the King cried. 
 
 "A minute more. Pie will talk presently. 
 And then you will hear about this treason of 
 Guienne. 
 
 " When is it to be? asked Benedetti. 
 
 " The scaffold is in the fields! they cried. 
 All the night the joiners have been at work. It 
 is four hours until the morning/ 
 
 "Then the terror of Benedetti was loose. He 
 buried his fingers in the flesh of his throat until 
 the color started in his face. And he shrieked 
 and fell to the floor. Then the priests kicked him
 
 342 Luca Sarto 
 
 until he rolled to the wall and lay there, panting, 
 with a dirty sweat upon him." 
 
 "Stop!" cried the King. He leaned back 
 against the stones and drew his hand across his 
 face. It was his left hand, for his sword was still 
 extended. 
 
 I went on faster and more excitedly, for I was 
 summoning a demon to my aid. 
 
 "An old man, this Benedetti, like you, and 
 hated. And he lay in his sweat against the wall 
 when they left him. In the dark." 
 
 "Stop!" The King s face was a marvel. It 
 had changed from a sneer, to interest, to anger, 
 and lastly to fear. Fear! Do you remember 
 that night in Paris when I had frightened the 
 King by talking to him of death? I bade you 
 mark it to the better understanding of my tale. 
 
 The time had come for proof. I threw my 
 arms aloft and yelled aloud. "By the teeth of 
 God, Louis, the monster Death it stands behind 
 you!" 
 
 An awful look came on Louis s face. He shriv 
 eled at the sound and his humped back shook. 
 
 But then, fore God, he did not turn as I had 
 hoped. 
 
 Had he for an instant taken his glance from me,
 
 / Try a Fall with the King 343 
 
 I had leaped on him. His knees clapped, but he 
 kept his gaze. His sword point was still level 
 with my breast. My players rant had failed. 
 
 On Louis s face there came a look of under 
 standing. "Sarto," he sneered, "there s been a 
 mummer spoilt. You speak your lines rarely. 
 You shame Cambyses." He advanced to the 
 grating. His hand was on it. He went through 
 and drew it shut behind him. 
 
 In the silence I heard Balue coughing. It was 
 a cough grown thin with damp. And the gnaw 
 ing of a rat I heard upon the stairs.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 HOW THE KING S PRAYERS WERE ANSWERED 
 
 I HAD mouthed to no avail. And now in my 
 rage I had blasphemed, had not a weakness 
 seized me and a dryness come upon my tongue. 
 The King stood beyond the grating, and on his 
 face there grew a sneer of understanding what 
 guile and malpractice I had stirred him with. His 
 eyes were shining green as the lantern fell athwart 
 them, green like a hungry wolf. And some 
 toothed and snarling words he uttered, bur I 
 marked them not, standing all limp with the blood 
 a-trickle from the scratches on my throat. My 
 tale of gibbeting now turned inward on myself, 
 and I shuddered. 
 
 It was thus for several minutes, or longer, for 
 aught I know. I shut my eyes, that so I might 
 keep out the sight of the King. I tottered against 
 the wall, and through my dullness there pierced 
 the cold and damp. 
 
 Some time passed, and now the taunting words 
 had ceased. I stood in a daze, daring not to open 
 
 344
 
 The King s Prayers Were Answered 345 
 
 my eyes. All sounds were gone, but those of rats 
 and water. Had the King spent his fit 6 ? Had he 
 gone off and left us buried*? Yet there had been 
 no rattle of the gate. 
 
 I opened my eyes. As before, there arose the 
 dungeon wall, the iron grating, and the darkness 
 beyond. 
 
 But the King! I looked and thought I 
 dreamed. This is what I saw. Marvel at my 
 amazement ! In front of me, almost in touch, on 
 his knees, I saw the King his cap of saints laid 
 before him on the stones and beside him I saw 
 Motier, both of them praying. Nor is that all. 
 Was I crazed 6 ? Had fear so shaken me 6 ? Mark 
 the greater wonder ! 
 
 The agonizing prayer of Louis had been an 
 swered. In the doorway, as I turned, the Virgin 
 stood the blessed Virgin of Saint Ours. 
 
 The day of days had come! Her nod and 
 promise were fulfilled. And this for a hunch 
 back s piping prayers. She was white garmented, 
 with a blue mantel set about her shoulders, and 
 on her head was the golden crown that I remem 
 bered to have seen before, while yet she stood in 
 lifeless stone. Thus had come the day of won 
 ders to which her former nod had made attest.
 
 346 Luca Sarto 
 
 And wondrous would be this day to all suc 
 ceeding generations, for it had come to pass that 
 again the Virgin walked on her blessed feet and 
 touched men to make them whole. 
 
 "Maria," I cried, "save me from my sins!" 
 And down I went, too, upon my knees. The Vir 
 gin spoke not a word, but she touched Louis on 
 the arm. A radiance fell about her, and she cast 
 no shadow from the lantern. 
 
 She touched Louis on the arm and with a ges 
 ture she bade him hold his peace. Then Motier 
 she touched and then myself. But I dropped my 
 eyes before her glance, down to her sandaled feet. 
 
 It was my face she touched and her fingers were 
 warm. 
 
 When I lifted my eyes she had turned away. 
 She stood at the iron grating for an instant, then 
 lifted her garment to prevent it catching on the 
 broken sill. Then she was gone from sight. 
 Louis still mumbled his prayers and rocked upon 
 the stones. 
 
 And now while the daze of exaltation was still 
 upon the others, into my senses leaped the present 
 world. And into me there came a ray of light a 
 beam from my wisdom. Be your scandal what it 
 may, I laughed but inwardly and not aloud.
 
 The King s Prayers W ere Answered 347 
 
 Then striding forward I kicked the weapons be 
 yond Louis s reach and picked them up his sword 
 and Turkish poniard. Again I laughed as the 
 light came stronger, while still, as in a fog of 
 night, these others crouched upon their knees. 
 
 I saw light, and in many guises. Of this vision 
 first. I had seen her sandals, mark you, when I 
 had bowed my head in prayer, and they were un 
 like those of the stone image in the church. Her 
 stockings were white, with blue clocks that showed 
 an inch when she crossed the sill. And I remem 
 bered that I had seen these blue clocks before, in 
 other circumstance. Nor were her fingers long 
 and thin. Nor tall her figure. So, like water 
 in the stone, reason trickled in and cracked the 
 whole. And so, I thought, where my players rant 
 hud failed, another s wit had served. Thereat I 
 would have cried aloud in glee, except that cau 
 tion silenced me. 
 
 "Rejoice, sire!" I cried. I held now all the 
 weapons. "Rejoice! Your prayers have found 
 an answer." 
 
 But the King spoke nothing. He rocked and 
 mumbled and kissed the lead saints that lay upon 
 the stones. 
 
 I gazed into Louis s face. It was the face of
 
 348 Luca Sarto 
 
 one lost in the dark ways of prayer and wonder. 
 Me he saw not, only the vision for which so often 
 he had gone on pilgrimage. The fulfillment of 
 this buried all things else. Into the ocean-sea had 
 Louis gone, beyond the furthest glimmer of the 
 Canaries. There, they say, the world slopes off, 
 and as yet there came no eastward wind of reason 
 to blow him up the steeps. It was a dark void 
 that lay about him, for the very stars were dim, so 
 far in ocean was he sundered. 
 
 I regarded steadfastly the face of this man who 
 had planned and sinned and schemed and suf 
 fered, who had looked on the mystery of death 
 and who now had seen a vision. An artist must 
 know the look of men. Some day I shall mix the 
 blacks and grays, and my fingers will fret to seize 
 my brushes, and my brain will beat and throb. 
 Then look to your laurels, O mighty Giotto, for 
 the walls of Rome shall be my witness. My 
 shadows still lie westward. All s to come! 
 
 And now I had gone poking with my dagger 
 into Louis s ribs I itched thereto but considera 
 tion came that a villain s blood should not be let 
 while he s crouched in prayer. Had once his 
 mumbling ceased I had paid him off. Any 
 pause a sneeze would have been his death.
 
 The King s Prayers Were Answered 349 
 
 And yet I feel shame that my better impulse was 
 thus fobbed. It would have been a sweeter 
 France. 
 
 Then I aroused Motier and, with the key of 
 Silenus I loosed his chains. We crossed the cell 
 to the grating through which the vision had de 
 parted. We passed through and set the bolts. 
 
 Now for the last time I looked upon the King 
 praying and wagging on his knees. And I 
 bade him keep to his prayers, for other sounds 
 would avail him nothing. Though he roared like 
 the winds from all five seas, no mortal ear could 
 hear him. It was eight hours to breakfast time, 
 when the jailor would come down with porridge. 
 If then the mists were off the King, what a blast 
 he d get when he put the black bread beneath 
 Louis s nose. 
 
 So we left him, rocking back and forth, kiss 
 ing his cap of saints. Who shall say it was not 
 the perfectest hour the King had known for many 
 a year*? 
 
 May seventeenth it was, in the year fourteen 
 seventy-one. Set it down that on that night the 
 Madonna came to life. And let this be told to all 
 who come on pilgrimage, that for the repetition of 
 the marvel their prayers be stretched from morn to
 
 350 Luca Sarto 
 
 night. But let it not be told that the Madonna 
 walked in sandals of this present mode, or that 
 she wore stockings with blue clocks upon them. 
 Had Sarto been a Frenchman, he too would have 
 kept upon his knees and mumbled and rocked him 
 self. It was his Italian nose that sniffed the im 
 position out. 
 
 Once safe through the grating, I shook Motier 
 by the shoulder and badgered him, for I could not 
 have him so amazed when work was to be done 
 and wit was needed. It was not until Diane ap 
 peared, still dressed as the virgin, and had spoken 
 to him and called him "Jacques" and "silly 
 brother," that he saw the truth, but not then 
 without a trembling. Had I not clapped him on 
 the back, he would still have gone upon his knees 
 to her. 
 
 And now, although I thirsted for the knowledge 
 of how Diane had contrived the imposition, action 
 and speed were our first necessity. 
 
 Behind us the King s candle burned. At the 
 turn I stopped. "Listen, Diane," I said. 
 "Louis still grunts his prayer to you." 
 
 "Peace, Sarto," she answered; "your raillery is 
 ill-timed. God spare me! I ve done sacrilege 
 to-night." She hurried on.
 
 The King s Prayers Were Answered 351 
 
 Before us stretched a rough stone passage, 
 strewed about with litter. Presently there were 
 steps, and then a door. Beyond was a room with 
 swept flagging, and with an altar set with figures 
 a kind of chapel. Yet on the wall there hung 
 a sword. Even if it had been Saint Michael s I 
 would have stolen it. It was a Milan blade with 
 a fine whip to it. Thus Motier and I both were 
 armed. Another door opened against circular 
 stairs, which we climbed. Here was still another 
 door, but Diane had the key. I listened like a 
 fox at the top of his hole, but hearing nothing, I 
 swung it open. We were inside the church of 
 Saint Ours. We had issued from Louis s secret 
 passage. 
 
 The church was empty but not in darkness, for 
 a dozen tapers burned about the Madonna s 
 statue. They had been set there when Louis first 
 saw the nodding in the dusk. Such miracles had 
 happened since! Silent stood the Madonna, nor 
 seemed to heed that her golden crown was gone, 
 and the azure mantel from her shoulders. 
 
 You have not found Sarto with much mumble 
 on his lips. His thoughts, for the most part, are 
 on the world. On his lips canzonets have 
 sounded oftener than anthems. His mouth is not
 
 352 Luca Sarto 
 
 solemn enough to fit an alleluia. Yet, coming 
 suddenly on the lights, the glory of it burst on him, 
 and he knelt down upon the stones. 
 
 As for Diane, she was all amazed. What 
 things she had done within the hour! It makes 
 Sarto, even, marvel how she had strength for such 
 sacrilege. For aught he knows, the azure mantel 
 had never been touched before except by the 
 hands of priests and by pilgrims lips. Yet Diane 
 had set it on herself as though her women s fin 
 gers had made the seams. 
 
 And now she put all back, placing the crown 
 upon the Virgin s head and laying the mantel on, 
 together with all else of jewels and beads. 
 Abasement and fear were on her. She kissed the 
 garment at the hem, then bowed her head against 
 the stones. "Mother of God," she cried, "Blessed 
 Virgin, visit me not with thy wrath !" And much 
 more, her words piteous. 
 
 At last I roused her. Speed was needed. 
 
 "May God forgive me, Sarto. I had not done 
 it except that the Queen told me my face was like 
 the blessed Virgin s." 
 
 "So it is, dear lady," I answered. 
 
 We went into the night, and we looked on the 
 stars we had thought we would not see again.
 
 The King s Prayers W ere Answered 353 
 
 Vega rode brightest. But also I knew the Bear 
 and the Northern Star that hangs off its points. 
 
 We dipped our fingers in the holy water at the 
 door. Then we hurried on.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 A SONG FOR TWO VOICES WITH ACCOMPANIMENT 
 
 A LTHOUGH it was late, there were still 
 JL\. lights in the windows, for all the night 
 would the wonder grow how the Virgin had been 
 seen nodding in the dusk. 
 
 At the castle gate, after a fretful minute, a 
 crutch came tapping, and a pale old man came 
 out. He put his eyes a-squint upon our pass. 
 Then with lifted voice, "C est bien" he called. 
 
 In answer from her window, his madame wife 
 tossed down a key. We went through the gate, 
 and it clattered shut. The warder climbed off to 
 bed, grunting that his beauty sleep was broken. 
 We ran down the hill. 
 
 A turn and we had come upon the bridge. 
 Michel awaited us with horses, as I had bade him. 
 
 Above us loomed the dungeons. I thought that 
 I marked the very spot upon the wall where Mo- 
 tier was kept and Balue, also, dying in his iron 
 cage. One jagged battlement stood above the 
 
 354
 
 A Song for Two Voices 355 
 
 rest, and seemed to point in defiance up to heaven. 
 
 We mounted our horses and the race began. 
 We had six hours start of Louis at the least, to 
 take no account of the time he would lose in the 
 first confusion of pursuit whether we had gone 
 east or south, and by what road. There would be 
 a brawl of question. Seven hours start. 
 
 My plan was the road that runs through 
 Bourges and Autun. The fourth day would bring 
 us to the Swiss border, where we would be safe. 
 
 We cantered off the bridge and turned our 
 horses along a woodland road. And still the wind 
 came singing through the trees. And it stirred 
 me deep that so I rode and that beside me kept this 
 woman this Diane of the blue eyes, who but a 
 few days since had stood upon the cold margin of 
 my life. Quick she had entered in, and it drove 
 me cold what speed the gods do have. It s but 
 a snapping of their fingers Poof ! and by Saint 
 Agnes, it is done. Then rapt as I was, I thought 
 of Father Paul, and smiled. It were con 
 venient to have a priest at journey s end. But 
 soft I kept my thoughts, and on we went. We 
 passed a town or so and many streams. Always 
 our road lay eastward. 
 
 But what thought this woman at my side 4 ?
 
 356 Luca Sarto 
 
 Bide a while ! The issue will show. The pasty 
 of the feast is yet to come. 
 
 Under the wheel of night, slow turning, we 
 journeyed on. And stars that had glinted first 
 above our horses ears, now rode high aloft. Time 
 and ourselves sped on. 
 
 "Father Paul," I thought. And to my lips 
 there came a song I d heard on the streets of Paris, 
 "Vrai Dieu d* Amour" with a tag of memory how 
 lads and lasses had danced to it : And how, when 
 the dance was done, their hands lay happily to 
 gether. I hummed the tune, and although I knew 
 not the words the poet had put therein, yet the 
 name of Diane fitted to the lilt, and I was in felic 
 ity. Joshua had once stopped the sun. At my 
 prayer might he not hold the stars as well and 
 stretch out this contented night to years ? 
 
 Then we clacked through a town, where a sleepy 
 dog raised his nose and howled. No challenge 
 else. We stopped but once, and this was to give 
 our horses water. I tightened my horse s girth- 
 then on, and still no time for speech with Diane. 
 
 Through the night we rode side by side. The 
 sky was set with a thousand stars. The heavens, 
 methinks, made a feast and lighted all their can-
 
 A Song for Two Voices 357 
 
 dies in our honor. And the streams and wind 
 were music for our betrothal. When wind and 
 water play in concert they shame the pipe and 
 fiddle. 
 
 And presently there came into the night the 
 spirit of morning. The stars dimmed and the sky 
 to the east was fading. The wind had fallen, and 
 the earth lay hushed. As darkness sends shadows 
 to announce its coming, and with its long dark 
 fingers seizes on the world, in similar fashion the 
 day, when it would proclaim itself, sets signal- 
 fires upon the mountain tops. And to one let 
 loose from Loches, the world seemed good and 
 pure, fresh and beautiful. 
 
 At the foot of an incline we crossed a bridge 
 above the sound of a running stream, and thence 
 our way led up hill. The horses slowed to a walk. 
 The cock gave trumpet to the dawn. The crea 
 ture stood on tiptoe to catch the sun beyond the 
 hills. And yet what were cocks and dawn to 
 me or the great round sun itself? Let the 
 world grow black or light, all s one. Nor with 
 Jacques did I feel concernment, whether he were 
 near or far. If near, let him fall back, for I had 
 words for Diane s ear alone !
 
 358 Luca Sarto 
 
 "Look, Diane," I said, "the sun will be show 
 ing soon above the hills. It is coming out of 
 Italy, and it has a welcome for us." 
 
 Diane turned and met my eyes. "A welcome 
 for you, Sarto," she said slowly, "but I am Bur- 
 gundian and I am going away from home." 
 
 "Home?" I repeated. "May not Italy be a 
 home for both of us*?" 
 
 Diane s eyes were on me still. They were as 
 blue as the morning sky. 
 
 On the brow of the hill we drew rein. Below 
 us lay a valley in misty garment. Up from the 
 horizon long threads of light were stretched like 
 Tyrian stuff, ready to weave the gorgeous fabric 
 of the day. 
 
 "Diane," I said, "this France of yours has been 
 good to me." 
 
 "Alas, Sarto, it has served you ill." 
 
 "Dearest," I said, "it has given me this night, 
 this ride, this moment, and 
 
 "And for the asking, Luca Sarto, it has given 
 you myself," she ended quietly. 
 
 I reached forth and touched her hand. "My 
 beloved," I said, "there s a priest sits waiting in 
 the mountains." I kissed her lips. A single star, 
 unfaded in the west, was witness.
 
 A Song for Two Voices 359 
 
 What has been written is but the prologue, and 
 this has now an end. I tap upon the boards and 
 close the curtain. I pack my pipes and viols. 
 My doublets, cloaks and wigs I restore to the tire- 
 ing box. I blow out the row of candles that 
 have shined in the faces of my villains and my 
 lady. Go out my door, I bid you, and seek a 
 juggler to complete your entertainment. God 
 knows my fingers are weary of the pen, and all 
 besmutched with ink. In silence I leave the com 
 pletion of my play. 
 
 Sweets and cabbage, you have them all. The 
 oven s empty. 
 
 As for the brawl in France, it was in the eve 
 ning twilight that we heard a trumpet before us 
 on the road and saw presently a gleam of metal. 
 "It s the men of Burgundy!" cried Jacques. 
 "They go to smoke out Louis from his hole." 
 For an hour the army passed us. Then we took 
 the road again. It would now be the safer trav 
 eling. But for the adventures that befell us on 
 our journey into Switzerland, not a word! It is 
 enough that I showed my usual valor, and that we 
 came safe off. And if by this omission you think 
 I ve cheated you, and that your entrance fee has 
 been falsely paid, by God I 11 stab you. You
 
 ^60 Luca Sarto 
 
 have had your money s worth and enough. 
 
 As for this smudge that was darkening France 
 and whether it smoked Louis off his gilded stool, 
 go look it up yourself! You will have a better 
 memory of it, if you blear your eyes upon a folio. 
 
 Madame Corday? On my soul I had forgotten 
 her. She traveled to Loches with Louis, but I 
 had not seen her there. She was a pleasant lady 
 but with a nurse s figure. Who knows? God 
 may have granted her a husband with a blink. 
 
 Pope Paul? He died inside a month, and Ro- 
 vere became his successor as Sixtus IV. It was a 
 golden Rome for Sarto and Diane. I painted her 
 beauty on a hundred walls. 
 
 As for Loches and the church upon the hill ! 
 To this day pilgrims broken folk with rheums 
 and gravel mumble their prayers against the 
 stones and kiss the hem of the Madonna s skirt. 
 And priests tell how the Virgin once came to life 
 and roamed the dungeons in the night. 
 
 Here I shall stop my history. I have laid 
 forth my peddler s pack of words, have weighed 
 and scrupled them like tradesmen s wares and, al 
 though there are stuffs and gauds I have not 
 shown, I shut my pack.
 
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