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Digitized by 
 
 the Internet 
 
 Archive 
 
 
 
 in 2014 
 
 
 
 
 https://archive.org/details/saintmartinssummrafa 
 
Speeding at a Gallop Down the White Road That Led to 
 the River (page 76) 
 
Sty* HiHtnrual Stomanraa of 3&afa?l &ahatmt 
 
 SAINT MARTIN'S 
 SUMMER 
 
 McKINLAY, STONE & MACKENZIE 
 NEW YORK 
 
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. 
 
TO 
 
 HAROLD LEE 
 
 IN SOME EARNEST 
 OF MY REGARD FOR HIS ATTAINMENTS 
 OF MY GRATITUDE FOR HIS ENCOURAGEMENT 
 AND OF MY AFFECTION FOR HIMSELF 
 I INSCRIBE 
 THIS TRAGI-COMEDY 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I. The Seneschal of Dauphiny 3 
 
 II. Monsieur de Garnache 19 
 
 III. The Dowager's Compliance 35 
 
 IV. The Chateau de Condillac 45 
 V. Monsieur de Garnache Loses his Temper 58 
 
 VI. Monsieur de Garnache Keeps his Temper 80 
 
 VII. The Opening of the Trap 94 
 
 VIII. The Closing of the Trap 112 
 
 IX. The Seneschal's Advice 123 
 
 X. The Recruit 132 
 
 XI. Valerie's Gaoler 142 
 
 XII. A Matter of Conscience 153 
 
 XIII. The Courier 168 
 
 XIV. Florimond's Letter 180 
 XV. The Conference 192 
 
 XVI. The Unexpected 213 
 
 XVII. How Monsieur de Garnache left Con- 
 dillac 227 
 
 XVIII. In the Moat 248 
 
 XIX. Through the Night 261 
 
vHi CONTENTS 
 
 XX. Florimond de Condillac 269 
 
 XXI. The Ghost in the Cupboard 280 
 XXII. The Offices of Mother Church 291 
 
 XXIII. The Judgment of Garnache 304 
 
 XXIV. Saint Martin's Eve 326 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S 
 SUMMER 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE SENESCHAL OF DAUPHINY 
 
 MY Lord of Tressan, His Majesty's Seneschal of 
 Dauphiny, sat at his ease, his purple doublet 
 all undone, to yield greater freedom to his vast bulk, a 
 yellow silken undergarment visible through the gap, 
 as is visible the flesh of some fruit that, swollen with 
 over-ripeness, has burst its skin. 
 
 His wig — imposed upon him by necessity, not 
 fashion — lay on the table amid a confusion of dusty 
 papers, and on his little fat nose, round and red as 
 a cherry at its end, rested the bridge of his horn- 
 rimmed spectacles. His bald head — so bald and 
 shining that it conveyed an unpleasant sense of na- 
 kedness, suggesting that its uncovering had been an 
 act of indelicacy on the owner's part — rested on the 
 back of his great chair, and hid from sight the gaudy 
 escutcheon wrought upon the crimson leather. His 
 eyes were closed, his mouth open, and whether from 
 that mouth or from his nose — or, perhaps, conflict- 
 ing for issue between both — there came a snorting, 
 rumbling sound to proclaim that my Lord the Sen- 
 eschal was hard at work upon the King's business. 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Yonder, at a meaner table, in an angle between two 
 windows, a pale-faced threadbare secretary was per- 
 forming for a yearly pittance the duties for which 
 my Lord the Seneschal was rewarded by emoluments 
 disproportionately large. 
 
 The air of that vast apartment was disturbed by 
 the sounds of Monsieur de Tressan's slumbers, the 
 scratch and splutter of the secretary's pen, and the 
 occasional hiss and crackle of the logs that burned 
 in the great, cavern-like fireplace. Suddenly to these 
 another sound was added. With a rasp and rattle 
 the heavy curtains of blue velvet flecked with silver 
 fleurs-de-lys were swept from the doorway, and the 
 master of Monsieur de Tressan's household, in a well- 
 filled suit of black relieved by his heavy chain of office, 
 stepped pompously forward. 
 
 The secretary dropped his pen, and shot a fright- 
 ened glance at his slumbering master; then raised his 
 hands above his head, and shook them wildly at the 
 head-lackey. 
 
 "Sh!" he whispered tragically. "Doucement, Mon- 
 sieur Anselme." 
 
 Anselme paused. He appreciated the gravity of the 
 situation. His bearing lost some of its dignity; his 
 face underwent a change. Then with a recovery of 
 some part of his erstwhile resolution : 
 
 "Nevertheless, he must be awakened," he an- 
 nounced, but in an undertone, as if afraid to do the 
 thing he said must needs be done. 
 
 The horror in the secretary's eyes increased, but 
 Anselme's reflected none of it. It was a grave thing, 
 he knew by former experience, to arouse His Maj- 
 esty's Seneschal of Dauphiny from his after-dinner 
 
THE SENESCHAL OF DAUPHINY 5 
 
 nap; but it was an almost graver thing to fail in obe- 
 dience to that black-eyed woman below who was 
 demanding an audience. 
 
 Anselme realized that he was between the sword 
 and the wall. He was, however, a man of a deliberate 
 habit that was begotten of inherent indolence and 
 nurtured among the good things that fell to his share 
 as master of the Tressan household. Thoughtfully he 
 caressed his tuft of red beard, puffed out his cheeks, 
 and raised his eyes to the ceiling in appeal or denunci- 
 ation to the heaven which he believed was somewhere 
 beyond it. 
 
 "Nevertheless, he must be awakened," he re- 
 peated. 
 
 And then Fate came to his assistance. Somewhere 
 m the house a door banged like a cannon-shot. Per- 
 spiration broke upon the secretary's brow. He sank 
 limply back in his chair, giving himself up for lost. 
 Anselme started and bit the knuckle of his forefinger 
 in a manner suggesting an inarticulate imprecation. 
 
 My Lord the Seneschal moved. The noise of his 
 slumbers culminated in a sudden, choking grunt, and 
 abruptly ceased. His eyelids rolled slowly back, like 
 an owl's, revealing pale blue eyes, which fixed them- 
 selves first upon the ceiling, then upon Anselme. In- 
 stantly he sat up, puffing and scowling, his hands 
 shuffling his papers. 
 
 "A thousand devils! Anselme, why am I inter- 
 rupted?" he grumbled querulously, still half-asleep. 
 "What the plague do you want? Have you no 
 thought for the King's affairs? Babylas" — this to 
 his secretary — "did I not tell you that I had much 
 to do; that I must not be disturbed?" 
 
6 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 It was the great vanity of the life of this man, who 
 did nothing, to appear the busiest fellow in all France, 
 and no audience — not even that of his own lackeys 
 — was too mean for him to take the stage to in that 
 predilect role. 
 
 "Monsieur le Comte," said Anselme, in tones of 
 abject self-effacement, " I had never dared intrude had 
 the matter been of less urgency. But Madame the 
 Dowager of Condillac is below. She begs to see Your 
 Excellency instantly." 
 
 At once there was a change. Tressan became wide- 
 awake upon the instant. His first act was to pass one 
 hand over the wax-like surface of his bald head, 
 whilst his other snatched at his wig. Then he heaved 
 himself ponderously out of his great chair. He donned 
 his wig, awry in his haste, and lurched forward 
 towards Anselme, his fat fingers straining at his open 
 doublet and drawing it together. 
 
 "Madame la Douairiere here?" he cried. "Make 
 fast these buttons, rascal! Quick! Am I to receive a 
 lady thus? Am I — ? Babylas," he snapped, inter- 
 rupting himself and turning aside even as Anselme 
 put forth hands to do his bidding. "A mirror, from 
 my closet! Dispatch!" 
 
 The secretary was gone in a flash, and in a flash 
 returned, even as Anselme completed his master's 
 toilet. But clearly Monsieur de Tressan had awak- 
 ened in a peevish humour, for no sooner were the 
 buttons of his doublet secured than with his own 
 fingers he tore them loose again, cursing his major- 
 domo the while with vigour. 
 
 "You dog, Anselme, have you no sense of fitness, 
 no discrimination ? Am I to appear in this garment of 
 
THE SENESCHAL OF DAUPHINY 7 
 
 the mode of a half-century ago before Madame la 
 Marquise? Take it off; take it off, man! Get me the 
 coat that came last month from Paris — the yellow 
 one with the hanging sleeves and the gold buttons, 
 and a sash — the crimson sash I had from Taille- 
 mant. Can you move no quicker, animal? Are you 
 still here?" 
 
 Anselme, thus enjoined, lent an unwonted alacrity 
 • to his movements, waddling grotesquely like a hasten- 
 ing water-fowl. Between him and the secretary they 
 dressed my Lord the Seneschal, and decked him out 
 till he was fit to compare with a bird of paradise for 
 gorgeousness of colouring if not for harmony of hues 
 and elegance of outline. 
 
 Babylas held the mirror, and Anselme adjusted the 
 Seneschal's wig, whilst Tressan himself twisted his 
 black mustachios — how they kept their colour was 
 a mystery to his acquaintance — and combed the 
 tuft of beard that sprouted from one of his several 
 chins. 
 
 He took a last look at his reflection, rehearsed a 
 smile, and bade Anselme introduce his visitor. He de- 
 sired his secretary to go to the devil, but, thinking 
 better of it, he recalled him as he reached the door. 
 His cherished vanity craved expression. 
 
 "Wait!" said he. "There is a letter must be writ- 
 ten. The King's business may not suffer postpone- 
 ment — not for all the dowagers in France. Sit 
 down." 
 
 Babylas obeyed him. Tressan stood with his back 
 to the open door. His ears, strained to listen, had 
 caught the swish of a woman's gown. He cleared his 
 throat, and began to dictate: 
 
8 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "To Her Majesty the Queen-Regent — " He 
 paused, and stood with knitted brows, deep in 
 thought. Then he ponderously repeated — "To Her 
 Majesty the Queen-Regent — Have you got that?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur le Comte. 'To Her Majesty the 
 Queen-Regent.'" 
 
 There was a step, and a throat-clearing cough be- 
 hind him. 
 
 "Monsieur de Tressan," said a woman's voice, a 
 rich, melodious voice, if haughty and arrogant of 
 intonation. 
 
 On the instant he turned, advanced a step, and 
 bowed. 
 
 "Your humblest servant, madame," said he, his 
 hand upon his heart. "This is an honour which — " 
 
 "Which necessity thrusts upon you," she broke in 
 imperiously. "Dismiss that fellow." 
 
 The secretary, pale and shy, had risen. His eyes 
 dilated at the woman's speech. He looked for a catas- 
 trophe as the natural result of her taking such a tone 
 with this man who was the terror of his household and 
 of all Grenoble. Instead, the Lord Seneschal's meek- 
 ness left him breathless with surprise. 
 
 "He is my secretary, madame. We were at work as 
 you came. I was on the point of inditing a letter to 
 Her Majesty. The office of Seneschal in a province 
 such as Dauphiny is — helas! — no sinecure." He 
 sighed like one whose brain is weary. "It leaves a 
 man little time even to eat or sleep." 
 
 "You will be needing a holiday, then," said she, 
 with cool insolence. "Take one for once, and let the 
 King's business give place for half an hour to mine." 
 
 The secretary's horror grew by leaps and bounds. 
 
THE SENESCHAL OF DAUPHINY 
 
 Surely the storm would burst at last about this auda- 
 cious woman's head. But the Lord Seneschal — usu- 
 ally so fiery and tempestuous — did no more than 
 make her another of his absurd bows. 
 
 "You anticipate, madame, the very words I was 
 about to utter. Babylas, vanish!" And he waved 
 the scribbler doorwards with a contemptuous hand. 
 "Take your papers with you — into my closet there. 
 We will resume that letter to Her Majesty when 
 madame shall have left me." 
 
 The secretary gathered up his papers, his quills, 
 and his ink-horn, and went his way, accounting the 
 end of the world at hand. 
 
 When the door had closed upon him, the Seneschal, 
 with another bow and a simper, placed a chair at his 
 visitor's disposal. She looked at the chair, then 
 looked at the man much as she had looked at the 
 chair, and turning her back contemptuously on both, 
 she sauntered towards the fireplace. She stood before 
 the blaze, with her whip tucked under her arm, draw- 
 ing off her stout riding-gloves. She was a tall, splen- 
 didly proportioned woman, of a superb beauty of 
 countenance, for all that she was well past the spring 
 of life. 
 
 In the waning light of that October afternoon none 
 would have guessed her age to be so much as thirty, 
 though in the sunlight you might have set it at a little 
 more. But in no light at all would you have guessed 
 the truth, that her next would be her forty-second 
 birthday. Her face was pale, of an ivory pallor that 
 gleamed in sharp contrast with the ebony of her lus- 
 trous hair. Under the long lashes of low lids a pair of 
 eyes black and insolent set off the haughty lines of her 
 
io SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 scarlet lips. Her nose was thin and straight, her neck 
 an ivory pillar splendidly upright upon her handsome 
 shoulders. 
 
 She was dressed for riding, in a gown of sapphire 
 velvet, handsomely laced in gold across the stom- 
 acher, and surmounted at the neck, where it was cut 
 low and square, by the starched band of fine linen 
 which in France was already replacing the more elab- 
 orate ruff. On her head, over a linen coif, she wore a 
 tall-crowned grey beaver, swathed with a scarf of blue 
 and gold. 
 
 Standing by the hearth, one foot on the stone kerb, 
 one elbow leaning lightly on the overmantel, she pro- 
 ceeded leisurely to remove her gloves. 
 
 The Seneschal observed her with eyes that held an 
 odd mixture of furtiveness and admiration, his fingers 
 — plump, indolent-looking stumps — plucking at his 
 beard. 
 
 "Did you but know, Marquise, with what joy, 
 with what a — " 
 
 "I will imagine it, whatever it may be," she broke 
 in, with that brusque arrogance that marked her 
 bearing. "The time for flowers of rhetoric is not now. 
 There is trouble coming, man; trouble, dire trouble." 
 
 Up went the Seneschal's brows; his eyes grew 
 wider. 
 
 "Trouble?" quoth he. And, having opened his 
 mouth to give exit to that single word, open he' 
 left it. 
 
 She laughed lazily, her lip curling, her face twisting 
 oddly, and mechanically she began to draw on again 
 the glove she had drawn off. 
 
 " By your face I see how well you understand me," 
 
THE SENESCHAL OF DAUPHINY 
 
 ii 
 
 she sneered. "The trouble concerns Mademoiselle de 
 La Vauvraye." 
 
 "From Paris — does it come from Court?" His 
 voice was sunk. 
 
 She nodded. "You are a miracle of intuition to- 
 day, Tressan." 
 
 He thrust his tiny tuft of beard between his teeth 
 — a trick he had when perplexed or thoughtful. 
 "A — h!" he exclaimed at last, and it sounded 
 like an indrawn breath of apprehension. "Tell me 
 more." 
 
 "What more is there to tell ? You have the epitome 
 of the story." 
 
 " But what is the nature of the trouble ? What form 
 does it take, and by whom are you advised of it?" 
 
 "A friend in Paris sent me word, and his messenger 
 did his work well, else had Monsieur de Garnache 
 been here before him, and I had not so much as had 
 the mercy of this forewarning." 
 
 "Garnache?" quoth the Count. "Who is Gar- 
 nache?" 
 
 "The emissary of the Queen-Regent. He has been 
 dispatched hither by her to see that Mademoiselle de 
 La Vauvraye has justice and enlargement." 
 
 Tressan fell suddenly to groaning and wringing his 
 hands — a pathetic figure had it been less absurd. 
 
 "I warned you, madame! I warned you how it 
 would end," he cried. "I told you — " 
 
 "Oh, I remember the things you told me," she cut 
 in, scorn in her voice. "You may spare yourself their 
 repetition. What is T done is done, and I'll not — I 
 would not — have it undone. Queen-Regent or no 
 Queen-Regent, I am mistress at Condillac; my word 
 
12 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 is the only law we know, and I intend that so it shall 
 continue." 
 
 Tressan looked at her in surprise. This unreason- 
 ing, feminine obstinacy so wrought upon him that he 
 permitted himself a smile and a lapse into irony and 
 banter. 
 
 " Parfaitement" said he, spreading his hands, and 
 bowing. "Why speak of trouble, then?" 
 
 She beat her whip impatiently against her gown, 
 her eyes staring into the fire. "Because, my attitude 
 being such as it is, trouble will there be." 
 
 The Seneschal shrugged his shoulders, and moved a 
 step towards her. He was cast down to think that he 
 might have spared himself the trouble of donning his 
 beautiful yellow doublet from Paris. She had eyes for 
 no finery that afternoon. He was cast down, too, to 
 think how things might go with him when this trouble 
 came. It entered his thoughts that he had lain long 
 on a bed of roses in this pleasant corner of Dauphiny, 
 and he was smitten now with fear lest of the roses he 
 should find nothing remaining but the thorns. 
 
 "How came the Queen-Regent to hear of — of 
 mademoiselle's — ah — situation?" he inquired. 
 
 The Marquise swung round upon him in a passion. 
 
 "The girl found a dog of a traitor to bear a letter for 
 her. That is enough. If ever chance or fate should 
 bring him my way, by God! he shall hang without 
 shrift." 
 
 Then she put her anger from her; put from her, too, 
 the insolence and scorn with which so lavishly she had 
 addressed him hitherto. Instead she assumed a sup- 
 pliant air, her beautiful eyes meltingly set upon his 
 face. 
 
THE SENESCHAL OF DAUPHINY 
 
 "Tressan," said she in her altered voice, "I am 
 beset by enemies. But you will not forsake me ? You 
 will stand by me to the end — will you not, my 
 friend? I can count upon you, at least?" 
 
 "In all things, madame," he answered, under the 
 spell of her gaze. "What force does this man Gar- 
 nache bring with him? Have you ascertained?" 
 
 "He brings none," she answered, triumph in her 
 glance. 
 
 "None?" he echoed, horror in his. "None? Then 
 — then — " 
 
 He tossed his arms to heaven, and stood a limp and 
 stricken thing. She leaned forward, and regarded him 
 in surprise. 
 
 "Diable! What ails you?" she snapped. "Could I 
 have given you better news?" 
 
 " If you could have given me worse, I cannot think 
 what it might have been," he groaned. Then, as if 
 smitten by a sudden notion that flashed a gleam of 
 hope into this terrifying darkness that was settling 
 down upon him, he suddenly looked up. "You mean 
 to resist him?" he inquired. 
 
 She stared at him a second, then laughed, a thought 
 unpleasantly. 
 
 "Pish! But you are mad," she scorned him. "Do 
 you need ask if I intend to resist — I, with the strong- 
 est castle in Dauphiny? By God! sir, if you need to 
 hear me say it, hear me then say that I shall resist 
 him and as many as the Queen may send after him, 
 for as long as one stone of Condillac shall stand upon 
 another." 
 
 The Seneschal blew out his lips, and fell once more 
 to the chewing of his beard. 
 
i 4 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "What did you mean when you said I could have 
 given you no worse news than that of his coming 
 alone?" she questioned suddenly. 
 
 "Madame," said he, "if this man comes without 
 force, and you resist the orders of which he is the 
 bearer, what think you will betide?" 
 
 "He will appeal to you for the men he needs that he 
 may batter down my walls," she answered calmly. 
 
 He looked at her incredulously. "You realize it?" 
 he ejaculated. "You realize it?" 
 
 "What is there in it that should puzzle a babe?" 
 
 Her callousness was like a gust of wind upon the 
 living embers of his fears. It blew them into a blaze 
 of wrath, sudden and terrific as that of such a man at 
 bay could be. He advanced upon her with the rolling 
 gait of the obese, his cheeks purple, his arms waving 
 wildly, his dyed mustachios bristling. 
 
 "And what of me, madame?" he spluttered. 
 "What of me? Am I to be ruined, gaoled, and 
 hanged, maybe, for refusing him men ? — for that is 
 what is in your mind. Am I to make myself an out- 
 law? Am I, who have been Lord Seneschal of Dau- 
 phiny these fifteen years, to end my days in degrada- 
 tion in the cause of a woman's matrimonial projects 
 for a simpering school-girl? Seigneur du del!" he 
 roared, "I think you are gone mad — mad, mad! — 
 over this affair. You would not think it too much to 
 set the whole province in flames so that you could 
 have your way with this wretched child. But, Ven- 
 tregris! to ruin me — to — to — " 
 
 He fell silent for very want of words; just gaped and 
 gasped, and then, with hands folded upon his paunch, 
 he set himself to pace the chamber. 
 
THE SENESCHAL OF DAUPHINY 15 
 
 Madame de Condillac stood watching him, her face 
 composed, her glance cold. She was like some stal- 
 wart oak, weathering with unshaken front a hurri- 
 cane. When he had done, she moved away from the 
 fireplace, and, beating her side gently with her whip, 
 she stepped to the door. 
 
 " Au revoir, Monsieur de Tressan," said she, mighty 
 cool, her back towards him. 
 
 At that he halted in his feverish stride, stood still 
 and threw up his head. His anger went out, as a 
 candle is extinguished by a puff of wind. And in its 
 place a new fear crept into his heart. 
 
 "Madame, madame!" he cried. "Wait! Hear 
 me." 
 
 She paused, half-turned, and looked at him over 
 her shoulder, scorn in her glance, a sneer on her scar- 
 let mouth, insolence in every line of her. 
 
 "I think, monsieur, that I have heard a little more 
 than enough," said she. "I am assured, at least, that 
 in you I have but a fair-weather friend, a poor lip- 
 server." 
 
 "Ah, not that, madame," he cried, and his voice 
 was stricken. "Say not that. I would serve you as 
 would none other in all this world — you know it, 
 Marquise; you know it." 
 
 She faced about, and confronted him, her smile a 
 trifle broader, as if amusement were now blending 
 with her scorn. 
 
 "It is easy to protest. Easy to say, 'I will die for 
 you,' so long as the need for such a sacrifice be re- 
 mote. But let me do no more than ask a favour, and 
 it is, 'What of my good name, madame? What of 
 my seneschalship ? Am I to be gaoled or hanged to 
 
16 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 pleasure you?' Faugh!" she ended, with a toss of 
 her splendid head. "The world is peopled with your 
 kind, and I — alas! for a woman's intuitions — had 
 held you different from the rest." 
 
 Her words were to his soul as a sword of fire might 
 have been to his flesh. They scorched and shrivelled 
 it. He saw himself as she would have him see himself 
 — a mean, contemptible craven; a coward who made 
 big talk in times of peace, but faced about and van- 
 ished into hiding at the first sign of danger. He felt 
 himself the meanest, vilest thing a-crawl upon this 
 sinful earth, and she — dear God ! — had thought 
 him different from the ruck. She had held him in high 
 esteem, and behold, how short had he not fallen of 
 all her expectations! Shame and vanity combined to 
 work a sudden, sharp revulsion in his feelings. 
 
 "Marquise," he cried, "you say no more than what 
 is just. But punish me no further. I meant not what 
 I said. I was beside myself. Let me atone — let my 
 future actions make amends for that odious departure 
 from my true self." 
 
 There was no scorn now in her smile; only an in- 
 effable tenderness, beholding which he felt it in his 
 heart to hang if need be that he might continue high 
 in her regard. He sprang forward, and took the hand 
 she extended to him. 
 
 "I knew, Tressan," said she, "that you were not 
 yourself, and that when you bethought you of what 
 you had said, my valiant, faithful friend would not 
 desert me." 
 
 He stooped over her hand, and slobbered kisses 
 upon her unresponsive glove. 
 
 "Madame," said he, "you may count upon me. 
 
THE SENESCHAL OF DAUPHINY 
 
 This fellow out of Paris shall have no men from me, 
 depend upon it." 
 
 She caught him by the shoulders, and held him so, 
 before her. Her face was radiant, alluring; and her 
 eyes dwelt on his with a kindness he had never seen 
 there save in some wild daydream of his. 
 
 "I will not refuse a service you offer me so gal- 
 lantly," said she. "It were an ill thing to wound you 
 by so refusing it." 
 
 "Marquise," he cried, "it is as nothing to what I 
 would do did the occasion serve. But when this thing 
 is done; when you have had your way with Made- 
 moiselle de La Vauvraye, and the nuptials shall have 
 been celebrated, then — dare I hope — ?" 
 
 He said no more in words, but his little blue eyes 
 had an eloquence that left nothing to mere speech. 
 
 Their glances met, she holding him always at arm's 
 length by that grip upon his shoulders, a grip that 
 was firm and nervous. 
 
 In the Seneschal of Dauphiny, as she now gazed 
 upon him, she beheld a very toad of a man, and the 
 soul of her shuddered at the sight of him combining 
 with the thing that he suggested. But her glance was 
 steady and her lips maintained their smile, just as if 
 that ugliness of his had been invested with some ab- 
 stract beauty existing only to her gaze; a little colour 
 crept into her cheeks, and red being the colour of 
 love's livery, Tressan misread its meaning. 
 
 She nodded to him across the little distance of her 
 outstretched arms, then smothered a laugh that drove 
 him crazed with hope, and breaking from him she 
 sped swiftly, shyly it almost seemed to him, to the 
 door. 
 
18 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 There she paused a moment looking back at him 
 with a coyness that might have become a girl of half 
 her years, yet which her splendid beauty saved from 
 being unbecoming even in her. 
 
 One adorable smile she gave him, and before he 
 could advance to hold the door for her, she had 
 opened it and passed out. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE 
 
 TO promise rashly, particularly where a woman is 
 the suppliant, and afterwards, if not positively 
 to repent the promise, at least to regret that one did 
 not hedge it with a few conditions, is a proceeding not 
 uncommon to youth. In a man of advanced age, such 
 as Monsieur de Tressan, it never should have place; 
 and, indeed, it seldom has, unless that man has come 
 again under the sway of the influences by which 
 youth, for good or ill, is governed. 
 
 Whilst the flush of his adoration was upon him, hot 
 from the contact of her presence, he knew no repent- 
 ance, found room in his mind for no regrets. He 
 crossed to the window, and pressed his huge round 
 ja.ce to the pane, in a futile effort to watch her mount 
 and ride out of the courtyard with her little troop of 
 attendants. Finding that he might not — the win- 
 dow being placed too high — gratify his wishes in 
 that connection, he dropped into his chair, and sat 
 in the fast-deepening gloom, reviewing, fondly here, 
 hurriedly there, the interview that had but ended. 
 
 Thus night fell, and darkness settled down about 
 him, relieved only by the red glow of the logs smoul- 
 dering on the hearth. In the gloom inspiration visited 
 him. He called for lights and Babylas. Both came, 
 and he dispatched the lackey that lighted the tapers 
 to summon Monsieur d'Aubran, the commander of 
 the garrison of Grenoble. 
 In the interval before the soldier's coming he con- 
 
io SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 ferred with Babylas concerning what he had in mind, 
 but he found his secretary singularly dull and unim- 
 aginative. So that, perforce, he must fall back upon 
 himself. He sat glum and thoughtful, his mind in un- 
 productive travail, until the captain was announced. 
 
 Still without any definite plan, he blundered head- 
 long, nevertheless, into the necessary first step to- 
 wards the fulfilment of his purpose. 
 
 "Captain," said he, looking mighty grave, "I have 
 cause to believe that all is not as it should be in the 
 hills in the district of Montelimar." 
 
 "Is there trouble, monsieur?" inquired the captain, 
 startled. 
 
 "Maybe there is, maybe there is not," returned the 
 Seneschal mysteriously. "You shall have your full 
 orders in the morning. Meanwhile, make ready to re- 
 pair to the neighbourhood of Montelimar to-morrow 
 with a couple of hundred men." 
 
 "A couple of hundred, monsieur!" exclaimed 
 d'Aubran. "But that will be to empty Grenoble of 
 soldiers." 
 
 "What of it? We are not likely to require them 
 here. Let your orders for preparation go round to- 
 night, so that your knaves may be ready to set out 
 betimes to-morrow. If you will be so good as to wait 
 upon me early you shall have your instructions." 
 
 Mystified, Monsieur d'Aubran departed on his er- 
 rand, and my Lord Seneschal went down to supper 
 well pleased with the cunning device by which he was 
 to leave Grenoble without a garrison. It was an as- 
 tute way of escape from the awkward situation into 
 which his attachment to the interests of the dowager 
 of Condillac was likely to place him. 
 
MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE 21 
 
 But when the morning came he was less pleased 
 with the idea, chiefly because he had been unable to 
 invent any details that should lend it the necessary 
 colour, and d'Aubran — worse luck — was an intel- 
 ligent officer who might evince a pardonable but em- 
 barrassing curiosity. A leader of soldiers has a right 
 to know something at least of the enterprise upon 
 which he leads them. By morning, too, Tressan found 
 that the intervening space of the night, since he had 
 seen Madame de Condillac, had cooled his ardour 
 very considerably. 
 
 He had reached the incipient stages of regret of his 
 rash promise. 
 
 When Captain d'Aubran was announced to him, he 
 bade them ask him to come again in an hour's time. 
 From mere regrets he was passing now, through dis- 
 may, into utter repentance of his promise. He sat in 
 his study, at his littered writing-table, his head in his 
 hands, a confusion of thoughts, a wild, frenzied striv- 
 ing after invention in his brain. 
 
 Thus Anselme found him when he thrust aside the 
 portiere to announce that a Monsieur de Garnache, 
 from Paris, was below, demanding to see the Lord 
 Seneschal at once upon an affair of State. 
 
 Tressan's flesh trembled and his heart fainted. 
 Then, suddenly, desperately, he took his courage in 
 both hands. He remembered who he was and what he 
 was — the King's Lord Seneschal of the Province 
 of Dauphiny. Throughout that province, from the 
 Rhone to the Alps, his word was law, his name a 
 terror to evildoers — and to some others besides. 
 Was he to blench and tremble at the mention of the 
 name of a Court lackey out of Paris, who brought him 
 
ii SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 a message from the Queen-Regent? Body of God! 
 not he. 
 
 He heaved himself to his feet, warmed and heart- 
 ened by the thought; his eye sparkled, and there was 
 a deeper flush than usual upon his cheek. 
 
 "Admit this Monsieur de Garnache," said he with 
 a fine loftiness, and in his heart he pondered what he 
 would say and how he should say it; how he should 
 stand, how move, and how look. His roving eye 
 caught sight of his secretary. He remembered some- 
 thing — the cherished pose of being a man plunged 
 fathoms-deep in business. Sharply he uttered his sec- 
 retary's name. 
 
 Babylas raised his pale face; he knew what was 
 coming; it had come so many times before. But there 
 was no vestige of a smile on his drooping lips, no 
 gleam of amusement in his patient eye. He thrust 
 aside the papers on which he was at work, and drew 
 towards him a fresh sheet on which to pen the letter 
 which, he knew by experience, Tressan was about to 
 indite to the Queen-mother. For these purposes Her 
 Majesty was Tressan's only correspondent. 
 
 Then the door opened, the portiere was swept aside, 
 and Anselme announced "Monsieur de Garnache." 
 
 Tressan turned as the newcomer stepped briskly 
 into the room, and bowed, hat in hand, its long crim- 
 son feather sweeping the ground, then straightened 
 himself and permitted the Seneschal to take his 
 measure. 
 
 Tressan beheld a man of a good height, broad to the 
 waist and spare thence to the ground, who at first 
 glance appeared to be mainly clad in leather. A buff 
 jerkin fitted his body; below it there was a glimpse of 
 
MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE 
 
 wine-coloured trunks, and hose of a slightly deeper 
 hue, which vanished immediately into a pair of huge 
 thigh-boots of untanned leather. A leather sword- 
 belt, gold-embroidered at the edges, carried a long 
 steel-hilted rapier in a leather scabbard chaped with 
 steel. The sleeves of his doublet which protruded from 
 his leather casing were of the same colour and mate- 
 rial as his trunks. In one hand he carried his broad 
 black hat with its crimson feather, in the other a 
 little roll of parchment; and when he moved the creak 
 of leather and jingle of his spurs made pleasant music 
 for a martial spirit. 
 
 Above all, this man's head, well set upon his shoul- 
 ders, claimed some attention. His nose was hooked 
 and rather large, his eyes were blue, bright as steel, 
 and set a trifle wide. Above a thin-lipped, delicate 
 mouth his reddish mustachios, slightly streaked with 
 grey, stood out, bristling like a cat's. His hair was 
 darker — almost brown — save at the temples, where 
 age had faded it to an ashen colour. In general his 
 aspect was one of rugged strength. 
 
 The Seneschal, measuring him with an adversary's 
 eye, misliked his looks. But he bowed urbanely, wash- 
 ing his hands in the air, and murmuring: 
 
 "Your servant, Monsieur de ?" 
 
 "Garnache," came the other's crisp, metallic voice, 
 and the name had a sound as of an oath on his lips. 
 " Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache. I come to you 
 on an errand of Her Majesty's, as this my warrant 
 will apprise you." And he proffered the paper he 
 held, which Tressan accepted from his hand. 
 
 A change was visible in the wily Seneschal's fat 
 countenance. Its round expanse had expressed inter- 
 
24 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 rogation until now; but at the Parisian's announce- 
 ment that he was an emissary of the Queen's, Tressan 
 insinuated into it just that look of surprise and of 
 increased deference which would have been natural 
 had he not already been forewarned of Monsieur de 
 Garnache's mission and identity. 
 
 He placed a chair at his visitor's disposal, himself 
 resuming his seat at his writing-table, and unfolding 
 the paper Garnache had given him. The newcomer 
 seated himself, hitched his sword-belt round so that 
 he could lean both hands upon the hilt, and sat, stiff 
 and immovable, awaiting the Lord Seneschal's pleas- 
 ure. From his desk across the room the secretary, 
 idly chewing the feathered end of his goose-quill, took 
 silent stock of the man from Paris, and wondered. 
 
 Tressan folded the paper carefully, and returned it 
 to its owner. It was no more than a formal creden- 
 tial, setting forth that Garnache was travelling into 
 Dauphiny on a State affair, and commanding Mon- 
 sieur de Tressan to give him every assistance he 
 might require in the performance of his errand. 
 
 " Parfaitement" purred the Lord Seneschal. "And 
 now, monsieur, if you will communicate to me the 
 nature of your affair, you shall find me entirely at 
 your service." 
 
 "It goes without saying that you are acquainted 
 with the Chateau de Condillac?" began Garnache, 
 plunging straight into business. 
 
 "Perfectly." The Seneschal leaned back, and was 
 concerned to feel his pulses throbbing a shade too 
 quickly. But he controlled his features, and main- 
 tained a placid, bland expression. 
 
 "You are perhaps acquainted with its inhabit- 
 ants?" 
 
MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE 25 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Intimate with them?" 
 
 The Seneschal pursed his lips, arched his brows, 
 and slowly waved his podgy hands, a combination of 
 grimace and gesture that said much or nothing. But 
 reflecting that Monsieur de Tressan had a tongue, 
 Garnache apparently did not opine it worth his while 
 to set a strain upon his own imagination, for — 
 
 "Intimate with them?" he repeated, and this time 
 there was a sharper note in his voice. 
 
 Tressan leaned forward and brought his finger-tips 
 together. His voice was as urbane as it lay within its 
 power to be. 
 
 "I understood that monsieur was proposing to 
 state his business, not to question mine." 
 
 Garnache sat back in his chair, and his eyes nar- 
 rowed. He scented opposition, and the greatest 
 stumbling-block in Garnache's career had been that 
 he could never learn to brook opposition from any 
 man. That characteristic, evinced early in life, had 
 all but been the ruin of him. He was a man of high 
 intellectual gifts, of military skill and great resource; 
 out of consideration for which had he been chosen by 
 Marie de Medicis to come upon this errand. But he 
 marred it all by a temper so ungovernable that in 
 Paris there was current a byword, "Explosive as 
 Garnache." 
 
 Little did Tressan dream to what a cask of gun- 
 powder he was applying the match of his smug pert- 
 ness. Nor did Garnache let him dream it just yet. 
 He controlled himself betimes, bethinking him that, 
 after all, there might be some reason in what this fat 
 fellow said. 
 
26 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "You misapprehend my purpose, sir," said he, his 
 lean brown hand stroking his long chin. "I but 
 sought to learn how far already you may be informed 
 of what is taking place up there, to the end that I 
 may spare myself the pains of citing facts with which 
 already you are acquainted. Still, monsieur, I am 
 willing to proceed upon the lines which would appear 
 to be more agreeable to yourself. 
 
 "This, then, is the sum of the affair that brings me: 
 The late Marquis de Condillac left two sons. The 
 elder, Florimond — who is the present marquis, and 
 who has been and still continues absent, warring in 
 Italy, since before his father's death — is the stepson 
 of the present Dowager, she being the mother of the 
 younger son, Marius de Condillac. 
 
 "Should you observe me to be anywhere at error, I 
 beg, monsieur, that you will have the complaisance 
 to correct me." 
 
 The Seneschal bowed gravely, and Monsieur de 
 Garnache continued: 
 
 "Now this younger son — I believe that he is in his 
 twenty-first year at present — has been something of 
 a scapegrace." 
 
 "A scapegrace? Bon Dieu, no. That is a harsh 
 name to give him. A little indiscreet at times, a little 
 rash, as is the way of youth.'' 
 
 He would have said more, but the man from Paris 
 was of no mind to waste time on quibbles. 
 
 "Very well," he snapped, cutting in. "We will say, 
 a little indiscreet. My errand is not concerned with 
 Monsieur Marius's morals or with his lack of them. 
 These indiscretions which you belittle appear to have 
 been enough to have estranged him from his father, a 
 
MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE 
 
 circumstance which but served the more to endear 
 him to his mother. I am told that she is a very hand- 
 some woman, and that the boy favours her surpris- 
 ingly." 
 
 " Ah !" sighed the Seneschal in a rapture. "A beau- 
 tiful woman — a noble, splendid woman." 
 
 "Hum!" Garnache observed the ecstatic simper 
 with a grim eye. Then he proceeded with his story. 
 
 "The late marquis possessed in his neighbour, the 
 also deceased Monsieur de La Vauvraye, a very deal 
 and valued friend. Monsieur de La Vauvraye had an 
 only child, a daughter, to inherit his very considerable 
 estates — probably the wealthiest in all Dauphiny, so 
 I am informed. It was the dearest wish of his heart to 
 transform what had been a lifelong friendship in his 
 own generation into a closer relationship in the next 
 — a wish that found a very ready echo in the heart of 
 Monsieur de Condillac. Florimond de Condillac was 
 sixteen years of age at the time, and Valerie de La 
 Vauvraye fourteen. For all their tender years, they 
 were betrothed, and they grew up to love each other 
 and to look forward to the consummation of the plans 
 their fathers had laid for them." 
 
 "Monsieur, monsieur," the Seneschal protested, 
 "how can you possibly infer so much? How can you 
 say that they loved each other? What authority can 
 you have for pretending to know what was in their 
 inmost hearts?" 
 
 "The authority of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye," 
 was the unanswerable rejoinder. "I am telling you, 
 more or less, what she herself wrote to the Queen." 
 
 "Ah! Well, well — proceed, monsieur." 
 
 "This marriage should render Florimond de Con- 
 
28 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 dillac the wealthiest and most powerful gentleman in 
 Dauphiny — one of the wealthiest in France; and the 
 idea of it pleased the old marquis, inasmuch as the 
 disparity there would be between the worldly posses- 
 sions of his two sons would serve to mark his dis- 
 approval of the younger. But before settling down, 
 Florimond signified a desire to see the world, as was 
 fit and proper and becoming in a young man who was 
 later to assume such wide responsibilities. His father, 
 realizing the wisdom of such a step, made but slight 
 objection, and at the age of twenty Florimond set out 
 for the Italian wars. Two years afterwards, a little 
 over six months ago, his father died, and was followed 
 to the grave some weeks later by Monsieur de La 
 Vauvraye. The latter, with a want of foresight which 
 has given rise to the present trouble, misjudging the 
 character of the Dowager of Condillac, entrusted to 
 her care his daughter Valerie pending Florimond's 
 return, when the nuptials would naturally be immedi- 
 ately celebrated. I am probably telling you no more 
 than you already know. But you owe the infliction to 
 your own unwillingness to answer my questions." 
 
 "No, no, monsieur; I assure you that in what you 
 say there is much that is entirely new to me." 
 
 "I rejoice to hear it, Monsieur de Tressan," said 
 Garnache very seriously, "for had you been in posses- 
 sion of all these facts, Her Majesty might have a right 
 to learn how it chanced that you had nowise inter- 
 fered in what is toward at Condillac. 
 
 "But to proceed: Madame de Condillac and her 
 precious Benjamin — this Marius — rinding them- 
 selves, in Florimond's absence, masters of the situa- 
 tion, have set about turning it to their own best ad- 
 
MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE 
 
 vantage. Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye, whilst being 
 nominally under their guardianship, finds herself 
 practically gaoled by them, and odious plans are set 
 before her to marry Marius. Could the Dowager but 
 accomplish this, it would seem that she would not 
 only be assuring a future of ease and dignity for her 
 son, but also be giving vent to all her pent-up hatred 
 of her stepson. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, however, withstands them, and in 
 this she is aided by a fortuitous circumstance which 
 has arisen out of the overbearing arrogance that ap- 
 pears to be madame's chief characteristic. Condillac 
 after the marquis's death had refused to pay tithe? 
 to Mother Church and has flouted and insulted the 
 Bishop. This prelate, after finding remonstrance 
 vain, has retorted by placing Condillac under an In- 
 terdict, depriving all within it of the benefit of clergy. 
 Thus, they have been unable to find a priest to ven- 
 ture thither, so that even had they willed to marry 
 mademoiselle by force to Marius, they lacked the 
 actual means of doing so. 
 
 "Florimond continues absent. We have every rea- 
 son to believe that he has been left in ignorance of his 
 father's death. Letters coming from him from time to 
 time prove that he was alive and well at least until 
 three months ago. A messenger has been dispatched 
 to find him and urge him to return home at once. 
 But pending his arrival the Queen has determined to 
 take the necessary steps to ensure that Mademoiselle 
 de La Vauvraye shall be released from her captivity, 
 that she shall suffer no further molestation at the 
 hands of Madame de Condillac and her son — enfin, 
 that she shall run no further risks. 
 
30 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "My errand, monsieur, is to acquaint you with 
 these facts, and to request you to proceed to Condil- 
 lac and deliver thence Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye, 
 whom I am subsequently to escort to Paris and place 
 under Her Majesty's protection until such time as the 
 new marquis shall return to claim her." 
 
 Having concluded, Monsieur de Garnache sat back 
 in his chair, and threw one leg over the other, fixing 
 his eyes upon the Seneschal's face and awaiting his 
 reply. 
 
 On that gross countenance before him he saw fall 
 the shadow of perplexity. Tressan was monstrous ill— 
 at-ease, and his face lost a good deal of its habitual 
 plethora of colour. He sought to temporize. 
 
 "Does it not occur to you, monsieur, that perhaps 
 too much importance may have been attached to the 
 word of this child — this Mademoiselle de La Vau- 
 vraye?" 
 
 "Does it occur to you that such has been the case, 
 that she has overstated it?" counter-questioned 
 Monsieur de Garnache. 
 
 " No, no. I do not say that. But — but — would 
 it not be better — more — ah — satisfactory to all 
 concerned, if you yourself were to go to Condillac, 
 and deliver your message in person, demanding 
 mademoiselle?" 
 
 The man from Paris looked at him a moment, then 
 stood up suddenly, and shifted the carriages of his 
 sword back to their normal position. His brows came 
 together in a frown, from which the Seneschal argued 
 that his suggestion was not well received. 
 
 "Monsieur," said the Parisian very coldly, like a 
 man who contains a rising anger, "let me tell you that 
 
MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE 
 
 this is the first time in my life that I have been con- 
 cerned in anything that had to do with women — 
 and I am close upon forty years of age. The task, I 
 can assure you, was little to my taste. I embarked 
 upon it because, being a soldier and having received 
 my orders, I was in the unfortunate position of being 
 unable to help myself. But I intend, monsieur, to ad- 
 here rigidly to the letter of these commands. Already 
 I have endured more than enough in the interests 
 of this damsel. I have ridden from Paris, and that 
 means close upon a week in the saddle — no little 
 thing to a man who has acquired certain habits of life 
 and developed a taste for certain minor comforts 
 which he is very reluctant to forgo. I have fed and 
 slept at inns, living on the worst of fares and sleep- 
 ing on the hardest, and hardly the cleanest, of beds. 
 Ventregrisl Figure to yourself that last night we lay 
 at Luzan, in the only inn the place contained — a 
 hovel, Monsieur le Seneschal, a hovel in which I 
 would not kennel a dog I loved." 
 
 His face flushed, and his voice rose as he dwelt upon 
 the things he had undergone. 
 
 "My servant and I slept in a dormitory — a thou- 
 sand devils ! monsieur, in a dormitory ! Do you realize 
 it? We had for company a drunken vintner, a ped- 
 lar, a pilgrim on his way to Rome, and two peasant 
 women; and they sent us to bed without candles, for 
 modesty's sake. I ask you to conceive my feelings in 
 such a case as that. I could tell you more; but that as 
 a sample of what I have undergone could scarcely be 
 surpassed." 
 
 "Truly — truly outrageous," sympathized the 
 Seneschal; yet he grinned. 
 
32 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 " I ask you — have I not suffered inconvenience 
 enough already in the service of Mademoiselle de La 
 Vauvraye that you can blame me if I refuse to go a 
 single step further than my orders bid me?" 
 
 The Seneschal stared at him now in increasing dis- 
 may. Had his own interests been less at issue he 
 could have indulged his mirth at the other's fiery in- 
 dignation at the inconveniences he recited. As it was, 
 he had nothing to say; no thought or feeling other 
 than what concerned finding a way of escape from the 
 net that seemed to be closing in about him — how to 
 seem to serve the Queen without turning against the 
 Dowager of Condillac; how to seem to serve the 
 Dowager without opposing the wishes of the Queen. 
 
 "A plague on the girl!" he growled, unconsciously 
 uttering his thoughts aloud. "The devil take her!" 
 
 Garnache smiled grimly. "That is a bond of sym- 
 pathy between us," said he. "I have said those very 
 words a hundred times — a thousand times, indeed 
 — between Paris and Grenoble. Yet I scarcely see 
 that you can damn her with as much justice as can I. 
 
 "But there, monsieur; all this is unprofitable. You 
 have my message. I shall spend the day at Grenoble, 
 and take a well-earned rest. By this time to-morrow 
 I shall be ready to start upon my return journey. I 
 shall have then the honour to wait upon you again, to 
 the end that I may receive from you the charge of 
 Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. I shall count upon 
 your having her here, in readiness to set out with me, 
 by noon to-morrow." 
 
 He bowed, with a flourish of his plumed hat, and 
 would with that have taken his departure but that 
 the Seneschal stayed him. 
 
MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE 33 
 
 "Monsieur, monsieur," he cried, in piteous affright, 
 "you do not know the Dowager of Condillac." 
 "Why, no. What of it?" 
 
 " What of it ? Did you know her, you would under- 
 stand that she is not the woman to be driven. I may 
 order her in the Queen's name to deliver up Made- 
 moiselle de La Vauvraye. But she will withstand 
 me." 
 
 "Withstand you?" echoed Garnache, frowning 
 into the face of this fat man, who had risen also, 
 brought to his feet by excitement. "Withstand you 
 — you, the Lord Seneschal of Dauphiny? You are 
 amusing yourself at my expense." 
 
 "But I tell you that she will," the other insisted in 
 a passion. "You may look for the girl in vain to- 
 morrow unless you go to Condillac yourself and take 
 her." 
 
 Garnache drew himself up and delivered his an- 
 swer in a tone that was final. 
 
 "You are the governor of the province, monsieur, 
 and in this matter you have in addition the Queen's 
 particular authority — nay, her commands are im- 
 posed upon you. Those commands, as interpreted by 
 me, you will execute in the manner I have indicated." 
 
 The Seneschal shrugged his shoulders, and chewed 
 a second at his beard. 
 
 "It is an easy thing for you to tell me what to do. 
 Tell me, rather, how to do it, how to overcome her 
 opposition." 
 
 "You are very sure of opposition — strangely sure, 
 monsieur," said Garnache, looking him between the 
 eyes. "In any case, you have soldiers." 
 
 "And so has she, and the strongest castle in south- 
 
34 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 ern France — to say nothing of the most cursed ob- 
 stinacy in the world. What she says, she does." 
 
 "And what the Queen says her loyal servants do," 
 was Garnache's rejoinder, in a withering tone. "I 
 think there is nothing more to be said, monsieur," he 
 added. " By this time to-morrow I shall expect to re- 
 ceive from you, here, the charge of Mademoiselle de 
 La Vauvraye. A demain, done, Monsieur le Sen- 
 eschal." 
 
 And with another bow the man from Paris drew 
 himself erect, turned on his heel, and went jingling 
 and creaking from the room. 
 
 The Lord Seneschal sank back in his chair, and 
 wondered to himself whether to die might not prove 
 an easy way out of the horrid situation into which 
 chance and his ill-starred tenderness for the Dowager 
 of Condillac had thrust him. 
 
 At his desk sat his secretary, who had been a wit- 
 ness of the interview, lost in wonder almost as great as 
 the Seneschal's own. 
 
 For an hour Tressan remained where he was, deep 
 in thought and gnawing at his beard. Then with a 
 sudden burst of passion, expressed in a round oath or 
 two, he rose, and called for his horse that he might 
 ride to Condillac. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE DOWAGER'S COMPLIANCE 
 
 PROMPTLY at noon on the morrow Monsieur de 
 Garnache presented himself once more at the 
 Seneschal's palace, and with him went Rabecque, his 
 body-servant, a lean, swarthy, sharp-faced man, a 
 trifle younger than his master. 
 
 Anselme, the obese master of the household, re- 
 ceived them with profound respect, and at once con- 
 ducted Garnache to Monsieur de Tressan's presence. 
 
 On the stairs they met Captain d'Aubran, who was 
 descending. The captain was not in the best of hu- 
 mours. For four-and-twenty hours he had kept two 
 hundred of his men under arms, ready to march as 
 soon as he should receive his orders from the Lord 
 Seneschal, yet those instructions were not forthcom- 
 ing. He had been to seek them again that morning, 
 only to be again put off. 
 
 Monsieur de Garnache had considerable doubt, 
 born of his yesterday's interview with the Seneschal, 
 that Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye would be deliv- 
 ered into his charge as he had stipulated. His relief 
 was, therefore, considerable, upon being ushered into 
 Tressan's presence, to find a lady in cloak and hat, 
 dressed as for a journey, seated in a chair by the great 
 fireplace. 
 
 Tressan advanced to meet him, a smile of cordial 
 welcome on his lips, and they bowed to each other in 
 formal greeting. 
 
36 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "You see, monsieur," said the Seneschal, waving a 
 plump hand in the direction of the lady, "that you 
 have been obeyed. Here is your charge." 
 
 Then to the lady: "This is Monsieur de Garnache," 
 he announced, "of whom I have already told you, 
 who is to conduct you to Paris by order of Her Maj- 
 esty. 
 
 "And now, my good friends, however great the 
 pleasure I derive from your company, I care not how 
 soon you set out, for I have some prodigious arrears 
 of work upon my hands." 
 
 Garnache bowed to the lady, who returned his 
 greeting by an inclination of the head, and his keen 
 eyes played briskly over her. She was a plump-faced, 
 insipid child, with fair hair and pale blue eyes, stolid 
 and bovine in their expressionlessness. 
 
 "I am quite ready, monsieur," said she, rising as 
 she spoke, and gathering her cloak about her; and 
 Garnache remarked that her voice had the southern 
 drawl, her words the faintest suggestion of a patois. 
 It was amazing how a lady born and bred could 
 degenerate in the rusticity of Dauphiny. Pigs and 
 cows, he made no doubt, had been her chief objec- 
 tives. Yet, even so, he thought he might have ex- 
 pected that she would have had more to say to him 
 than just those five words expressing her readiness to 
 depart. He had looked for some acknowledgment of 
 satisfaction at his presence, some utterances of grati- 
 tude either to himself or to the Queen-Regent for the 
 promptness with which she had been succoured. He 
 was disappointed, but he showed nothing of it, as 
 with a simple inclination of the head — 
 
 "Good!" said he. "Since you are ready and Mon- 
 
THE DOWAGER'S COMPLIANCE 37 
 
 sieur le Seneschal is anxious to be rid of us, let us by 
 all means be moving. You have a long and tedious 
 journey before you, mademoiselle." 
 
 "I — I am prepared for that," she faltered. 
 
 He stood aside, and bending from the waist he made 
 a sweeping gesture towards the door with the hand 
 that held his hat. To the invitation to precede him 
 she readily responded, and, with a bow to the Sen- 
 eschal, she began to walk across the apartment. 
 
 Garnache's eyes, narrowing slightly, followed her, 
 like points of steel. Suddenly he shot a disturbing 
 glance at Tressan's face, and the corner of his wild-cat 
 mustachios twitched. He stood erect, and called her 
 very sharply. 
 
 "Mademoiselle!" 
 
 She stopped, and turned to face him, an incredible 
 shyness seeming to cause her to avoid his gaze. 
 
 "You have, no doubt, Monsieur le Seneschal's 
 word for my identity. But I think it is as well that 
 you should satisfy yourself. Before placing yourself 
 entirely in my care, as you are about to do, you would 
 be well advised to assure yourself, that I am indeed 
 Her Majesty's emissary. Will you be good enough to 
 glance at this?" 
 
 He drew forth as he spoke the letter in the Queen's 
 own hand, turned it upside down, and so presented it 
 to her. The Seneschal looked on stolidly, a few paces 
 distant. 
 
 "But certainly, mademoiselle, assure yourself that 
 this gentleman is no other than I have told you." 
 
 Thus enjoined, she took the letter; for a second her 
 eyes met Garnache's glittering gaze, and she shivered. 
 Then she bent her glance to the writing, and studied 
 
38 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 it a moment, what time the man from Paris watched 
 her closely. 
 
 Presently she handed it back to him. 
 
 "Thank you, monsieur," was all she said. 
 
 "You are satisfied that it is in order, mademoi- 
 selle?" he inquired, and a note of mockery too subtle 
 for her or the Seneschal ran through his question. 
 
 "I am quite satisfied." 
 
 Garnache turned to Tressan. His eyes were smil- 
 ing, but unpleasantly, and in his voice when he spoke 
 there was something akin to the distant rumble that 
 heralds an approaching storm. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he, "has received an eccen- 
 tric education." 
 
 "Eh?" quoth Tressan, perplexed. 
 
 "I have heard tell, monsieur, of a people some- 
 where in the East who read and write from right to 
 left; but never yet have I heard tell of any — particu- 
 larly in France — so oddly schooled as to do their 
 reading upside down." 
 
 Tressan caught the drift of the other's meaning. 
 He paled a little, and sucked his lip, his eyes wander- 
 ing to the girl, who stood in stolid inapprehension of 
 what was being said. 
 
 "Did she do that?" said he, and he scarcely knew 
 what he was saying; all that he realized was that 
 it urged him to explain this thing. "Mademoiselle's 
 education has been neglected — a by no means un- 
 common happening in these parts. She is sensitive of 
 it; she seeks to hide the fact." 
 
 Then the storm broke about their heads. And it 
 crashed and thundered awfully in the next few min- 
 utes. 
 
THE DOWAGER'S COMPLIANCE 
 
 "O liar! O damned, audacious liar," roared Gar- 
 nache uncompromisingly, advancing a step upon the 
 Seneschal, and shaking the parchment threateningly 
 in his very face, as though it were become a weapon of 
 offence. "Was it to hide the fact that she had not 
 been taught to write that she sent the Queen a letter 
 pages-long? Who is this woman?" And the finger he 
 pointed at the girl quivered with the rage that filled 
 him at this trick they had thought to put upon him. 
 
 Tressan sought refuge in offended dignity. He 
 drew himself up, threw back his head, and looked the 
 Parisian fiercely in the eye. 
 
 "Since you take this tone with me, monsieur — " 
 
 "I take with you — as with any man — the tone 
 that to me seems best. You miserable fool! As sure 
 as you're a rogue this affair shall cost you your posi- 
 tion. You have waxed fat and sleek in your seneschal- 
 ship; this easy life in Dauphiny appears to have been 
 well suited to your health. But as your paunch has 
 grown, so, of a truth, have your brains dwindled, else 
 had you never thought to cheat me quite so easily. 
 
 "Am I some lout who has spent his days herding 
 swine, think you, that you could trick me into believ- 
 ing this creature to be Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye 
 — this creature with the mien of a peasant, with a 
 breath reeking of garlic like a third-rate eating-house, 
 and the walk of a woman who has never known foot- 
 gear until this moment? Tell me, sir, for what manner 
 of fool did you take me?" 
 
 The Seneschal stood with blanched face and gaping 
 mouth, his fire all turned to ashes before the passion of 
 this gaunt man. 
 
 Garnache paid no heed to him. He stepped to the 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 girl, and roughly raised her chin with his hand so that 
 she was forced to look him in the face. 
 
 "What is your name, wench?" he asked her. 
 
 "Margot," she blubbered, bursting into tears. 
 
 He dropped her chin, and turned away with a ges- 
 ture of disgust. 
 
 "Get you gone," he bade her harshly. "Get you 
 back to the kitchen or the onion-field from which they 
 took you." 
 
 And the girl, scarce believing her good fortune, de- 
 parted with a speed that bordered on the ludicrous. 
 Tressan had naught to say, no word to stay her with; 
 pretence, he realized, was vain. 
 
 "Now, my Lord Seneschal," quoth Garnache, 
 arms akimbo, feet planted wide, and eyes upon the 
 wretched man's countenance, "what may you have 
 to say to me?" 
 
 Tressan shifted his position; he avoided the other's 
 glance; he was visibly trembling, and when presently 
 he spoke it was in faltering accents. 
 
 "It — it — seems, monsieur, that — ah — that I 
 have been the victim of some imposture." 
 
 "It had rather seemed to me that the victim chosen 
 was myself." 
 
 "Clearly we were both victims," the Seneschal re- 
 joined. Then he proceeded to explain. "I went to 
 Condillac yesterday as you desired me, and after a 
 stormy interview with the Marquise I obtained from 
 her — as I believed — the person of Mademoiselle de 
 La Vauvraye. You see I was not myself acquainted 
 with the lady." 
 
 Garnache looked at him. He did not believe him. 
 He regretted almost that he had not further ques- 
 
THE DOWAGER'S COMPLIANCE 
 
 tioned the girl. But, after all, perhaps it might be 
 easier and more expedient if he were to appear to ac- 
 cept the Seneschal's statement. But he must provide 
 against further fraud. 
 
 "Monsieur le Seneschal," said he in calmer tones, 
 putting his anger from him, "at the best you are a 
 blunderer and an ass, at the worst a traitor. I will 
 inquire no further at present; I'll not seek to dis- 
 criminate too finely." 
 
 "Monsieur, these insults — " began the Seneschal, 
 summoning dignity to his aid. But Garnache broke 
 in: 
 
 "La, la! I speak in the Queen's name. If you have 
 thought to aid the Dowager of Condillac in this re- 
 sistance of Her Majesty's mandate, let me enjoin 
 you, as you value your seneschalship — as you value 
 your very neck — to harbour that thought no longer. 
 
 "It seems that, after all, I must deal myself with 
 the situation. I must go myself to Condillac. If they 
 should resist me, I shall look to you for the necessary 
 means to overcome that resistance. 
 
 "And bear you this in mind: I have chosen to leave 
 it an open question whether you were a party to the 
 trick it has been sought to put upon the Queen, 
 through me, her representative. But it is a question 
 that I have it in my power to resolve at any moment 
 — to resolve as I choose. Unless, monsieur, I find 
 you hereafter — as I trust — actuated by the most 
 unswerving loyalty, I shall resolve that question by 
 proclaiming you a traitor; and as a traitor I shall 
 arrest you and carry you to Paris. Monsieur le Sen- 
 eschal, I have the honour to give you good-day!" 
 
 When he was gone, Monsieur de Tressan flung off 
 
42 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 his wig, and mopped the perspiration from his brow. 
 He went white as snow and red as fire by turns, as he 
 paced the apartment in a frenzy. Never in the fifteen 
 years that were sped since he had been raised to the 
 governorship of the province had any man taken such 
 a tone with him and harangued him in such terms. 
 
 A liar and a traitor had he been called that morn- 
 ing, a knave and a fool; he had been browbeaten and 
 threatened; and he had swallowed it all, and almost 
 turned to lick the hand that administered the dose. 
 Dame! What manner of cur was he become? And the 
 man who had done all this — a vulgar upstart out 
 of Paris, reeking of leather and the barrack-room — 
 still lived ! 
 
 Bloodshed was in his mind; murder beckoned him 
 alluringly to take her as his ally. But he put the 
 thought from him, frenzied though he might be. He 
 must fight this knave with other weapons; frustrate 
 his mission, and send him back to Paris and the 
 Queen's scorn, beaten and empty-handed. 
 
 "Babylas!" he shouted. 
 
 Immediately the secretary appeared. 
 
 "Have you given thought to the matter of Captain 
 d'Aubran?" he asked, his voice an impatient snarl. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur, I have pondered it all morning." 
 
 "Well? And what have you concluded?" 
 
 "He/as! monsieur, nothing." 
 
 Tressan smote the table before him a blow that 
 shook some of the dust out of the papers that cum- 
 bered it. " Ventregris! How am I served ? For what 
 do I pay you, and feed you, and house you, good-for- 
 naught, if you are to fail me whenever I need the 
 things you call your brains? Have you no intelli- 
 
THE DOWAGER'S COMPLIANCE 43 
 
 gence, no thought, no imagination? Can you invent 
 no plausible business, no likely rising, no possible dis- 
 turbances that shall justify my sending Aubran and 
 his men to Montelimar — to the very devil, if need 
 be?" 
 
 The secretary trembled in his every limb; his eyes 
 shunned his master's as his master's had shunned 
 Garnache's awhile ago. The Seneschal was enjoying 
 himself. If he had been bullied and browbeaten, here, 
 at least, was one upon whom he, in his turn, might 
 taste the joys of bullying and browbeating. 
 
 "You lazy, miserable calf," he stormed, "I might 
 be better served by a wooden image. Go! It seems I 
 must rely upon myself. It is always so. Wait!" he 
 thundered; for the secretary, only too glad to obey 
 his last order, had already reached the door. "Tell 
 Anselme to bid the Captain attend me here at once." 
 
 Babylas bowed and went his errand. 
 
 A certain amount of his ill-humour vented, Tressan 
 made an effort to regain his self-control. He passed 
 his handkerchief for the last time over face and head, 
 and resumed his wig. 
 
 When d'Aubran entered, the Seneschal was com- 
 posed and in his wonted habit of ponderous dignity. 
 "Ah, d'Aubran," said he, "your men are ready?" 
 
 "They have been ready these four-and-twenty 
 hours, monsieur." 
 
 "Good. You are a brisk soldier, d'Aubran. You 
 are a man to be relied upon." 
 
 D'Aubran bowed. He was a tall, active young fel- 
 low with a pleasant face and a pair of fine black 
 eyes. 
 
 "Monsieur le Seneschal is very good." 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 With a wave of the hand the Seneschal belittled his 
 own goodness. 
 
 "You will march out of Grenoble within the hour, 
 Captain, and you will lead your men to Montelimar. 
 There you will quarter them, and await my further 
 orders. Babylas will give you a letter to the au- 
 thorities, charging them to find you suitable quarters. 
 While there, d'Aubran, and until my further orders 
 reach you, you will employ your time in probing the 
 feeling in the hill district. You understand?" 
 
 "Imperfectly," d'Aubran confessed. 
 
 "You will understand better when you have been 
 in Montelimar a week or so. It may, of course, be a 
 false alarm. Still, we must safeguard the King's inter- 
 ests and be prepared. Perhaps we may afterwards be 
 charged with starting at shadows; but it is better to 
 be on the alert from the moment the shadow is per- 
 ceived than to wait until the substance itself has over- 
 whelmed us." 
 
 It sounded so very much as if the Seneschal's words 
 really had some hidden meaning, that d'Aubran, if 
 not content with going upon an errand of which he 
 knew so little, was, at least, reconciled to obey the 
 orders he received. He uttered words that conveyed 
 some such idea to Tressan's mind, and within a half- 
 hour he was marching out of Grenoble with beating 
 drums, on his two days' journey to Montelimar. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE CHATEAU DE CONDILLAC 
 
 AS Captain d'Aubran and his troop were speeding 
 XJl westwards from Grenoble, Monsieur de Gar- 
 nache, ever attended by his man, rode briskly in the 
 opposite direction, towards the grey towers of Con- 
 dillac, that reared themselves towards the greyer sky 
 above the valley of the Isere. It was a chill, dull, 
 autumnal day, with a raw wind blowing from the 
 Alps; its breath was damp, and foretold of the rain 
 that was likely to come anon, the rain with which the 
 clouds hanging low about the distant hills were preg- 
 nant. 
 
 But Monsieur de Garnache was totally insensible 
 to his surroundings; his mind was very busy with the 
 interview from which he had come, and the interview 
 to which he was speeding. Once he permitted him- 
 self a digression, that he might point a moral for the 
 benefit of his servant. 
 
 "You see, Rabecque, what a plague it is to have to 
 do with women. Are you sufficiently grateful to me 
 for having quelled your matrimonial ardour of two 
 months ago? No, you are not. Grateful you may be; 
 sufficiently grateful, never; it would be impossible. 
 No gratitude could be commensurate with the bene- 
 fit I conferred upon you. Yet if you had married, and 
 discovered for yourself the troubles that come from 
 too close an association with that sex which some wag 
 of old ironically called the weaker, and of which con- 
 temporary fools with no sense of irony continue so 
 
46 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 to speak in good faith, you could have blamed only 
 yourself. You would have shrugged your shoulders 
 and made the best of it, realizing that no other man 
 had put this wrong upon you. But with me — thou- 
 sand devils ! — it is very different. I am a man who, 
 in one particular at least, has chosen his way of life 
 with care; I have seen to it that I should walk a road 
 unencumbered by any petticoat. What happens? 
 What comes of all my careful plans ? 
 
 "Fate sends an infernal cut-throat to murder our 
 good king — whose soul God rest eternally! And 
 since his son is of an age too tender to wield the 
 sceptre, the boy's mother does it in his name. Thus, 
 I, a soldier, being subject to the head of the State, 
 find myself, by no devising of my own, subject to a 
 woman. 
 
 " In itself that is bad enough. Too bad, indeed — 
 Ventregris! — too bad. Yet Fate is not content. It 
 must occur to this woman to select me — me of all 
 men — to journey into Dauphiny, and release an- 
 other woman from the clutches of yet a third. And to 
 what shifts are we not put, to what discomforts not 
 subjected? You know them, Rabecque, for you have 
 shared them with me. But it begins to break upon 
 my mind that what we have endured may be as noth- 
 ing to what may lie before us. It is an ill thing to have 
 to do with women. Yet you, Rabecque, would have 
 deserted me for one of them!" 
 
 Rabecque was silent. Maybe he was ashamed of 
 himself; or maybe that, not agreeing with his master, 
 he had yet sufficient appreciation of his position to be 
 discreetly silent where his opinions might be at vari- 
 ance. Thus Garnache was encouraged to continue. 
 
THE CHATEAU DE CONDILLAC 47 
 
 "And what is all this trouble about, which they 
 have sent me to set right? About a marriage. There 
 is a girl wants to marry one man, and a woman who 
 wants to marry her to another. Ponder the possi- 
 bilities of tragedy in such a situation. Half this 
 world's upheavals have had their source in less. Yet 
 you, Rabecque, would have married!" 
 
 Necessity at last turned his discourse to other 
 matters. 
 
 "Tell me, now," said he abruptly, in a different 
 tone, "is there hereabouts a ford?" 
 
 "There is a bridge up yonder, monsieur," re- 
 turned the servant, thankful to have the conversa- 
 tion changed. 
 
 They rode towards it in silence, Garnache's eyes set 
 now upon the grey pile that crowned the hillock, a 
 half-mile away, on the opposite bank of the stream. 
 They crossed the bridge and rode up the gently rising, 
 bare, and rugged ground towards Condillac. The 
 place wore an entirely peaceful air, strong and mas- 
 sive though it appeared. It was encircled by a ditch, 
 but the drawbridge was down, and the rust on its 
 chains argued that long had it been so. 
 
 None coming to challenge them, the pair rode 
 across the planks, and the dull thud of their hooves 
 started into activity some one in the gatehouse. 
 
 A fellow rudely clad — a hybrid between man-at- 
 arms and lackey — lounged on a musket to confront 
 them in the gateway. Monsieur de Garnache an- 
 nounced his name, adding that he came to crave an 
 audience of Madame la Marquise, and the man stood 
 aside to admit him. Thus he and Rabecque rode for- 
 ward into the roughly paved courtyard. 
 
48 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 From several doorways other men emerged, some 
 of martial bearing, showing that the place was garri- 
 soned to some extent. Garnache took little heed of 
 them. He flung his reins to the man whom he had 
 first addressed — the fellow had kept pace beside him 
 
 — and leapt nimbly to the ground, bidding Rabecque 
 await him there. 
 
 The soldier lackey resigned the reins to Rabecque, 
 and requested Monsieur de Garnache to follow him. 
 He led the way through a door on the left, down a 
 passage and across an anteroom, and ushered the 
 visitor finally into a spacious, gloomy hall, panelled in 
 black oak and lighted as much by the piled-up fire 
 that flared on the noble hearth as by the grey day- 
 light that filtered through the tall mullioned win- 
 dows. 
 
 As they entered, a liver-coloured hound that lay 
 stretched before the fire growled lazily, and showed 
 the whites of his eyes. Paying little attention to the 
 dog, Garnache looked about him. The apartment 
 was handsome beyond praise, in a sombre, noble fash- 
 ion. It was hung with pictures of departed Condillacs 
 
 — some of them rudely wrought enough — with tro- 
 phies of ancient armour, and with implements of 
 the chase. In the centre stood an oblong table of 
 black oak, very richly carved about its massive legs, 
 and in a china bowl, on this, an armful of late roses 
 filled the room with their sweet fragrance. 
 
 Then Garnache espied a page on the window-seat, 
 industriously burnishing a cuirass. He pursued his 
 task, indifferent to the newcomer's advent, until the 
 knave who had conducted thither the Parisian called 
 the boy and bade him go tell the Marquise that a 
 
THE CHATEAU DE CONDILLAC 
 
 Monsieur de Garnache, with a message from the 
 Queen-Regent, begged an audience. 
 
 The boy rose, and simultaneously, out of a great 
 chair by the hearth, whose tall back had hitherto 
 concealed him, there rose another figure. This was a 
 stripling of some twenty summers — twenty-one, in 
 fact — of a pale, beautifully featured face, black hair 
 and fine black eyes, and very sumptuously clad in a 
 suit of shimmering silk whose colour shifted from 
 green to purple as he moved. 
 
 Monsieur de Garnache assumed that he was in the 
 presence of Marius de Condillac. He bowed a trifle 
 stiffly, and was surprised to have his bow returned 
 with a graciousness that amounted almost to cordial- 
 ity. 
 
 "You are from Paris, monsieur?" said the young 
 man, in a gentle, pleasant voice. " I fear you have had 
 indifferent weather for your journey." 
 
 Garnache thought of other things besides the 
 weather that he had found indifferent, and he felt 
 warmed almost to the point of anger at the very recol- 
 lection. But he bowed again, and answered amiably 
 enough. 
 
 The young man offered him a seat, assuring him 
 that his mother would not keep him waiting long. 
 The page had already gone upon his errand. 
 
 Garnache took the proffered chair, and sank down 
 with creak and jingle to warm himself at the fire. 
 
 "From what you have said, I gather that you are 
 Monsieur Marius de Condillac," said he. "I, as you 
 may have heard me announced by your servant, 
 am Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache — at your 
 service." 
 
50 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "We have heard of you, Monsieur de Garnache," 
 said the youth as he crossed his shapely legs of silken 
 violet, and fingered the great pearl that depended 
 from his ear. "But we had thought that by now you 
 would be on your way to Paris." 
 
 "No doubt — with Margot," was the grim re- 
 joinder. 
 
 But Marius either gathered no suggestion from its 
 grimness, or did not know the name Garnache ut- 
 tered, for he continued: 
 
 "We understood that you were to escort Mademoi- 
 selle de La Vauvraye to Paris, to place her under the 
 tutelage of the Queen-Regent. I will not conceal 
 from you that we were chagrined at the reflection cast 
 upon Condillac; nevertheless, Her Majesty's word is 
 law in Dauphiny as much as it is in Paris." 
 
 "Quite as much, and I am relieved to hear you con- 
 fess it," said Garnache drily, and he scanned more 
 closely the face of this young man. He found cause to 
 modify the excellent impression he had received at 
 first. Marius's eyebrows were finely pencilled, but 
 they arched a shade too much, and his eyes were set a 
 trifle too closely; the mouth, which had seemed beau- 
 tiful at first, looked, in addition, on this closer inspec- 
 tion, weak, sensual, and cruel. 
 
 There fell upon the momentary silence the sound of 
 an opening door, and both men rose simultaneously 
 to their feet. 
 
 In the splendid woman that entered, Monsieur de 
 Garnache saw a wonderful likeness to the boy who 
 stood beside him. She received the emissary very 
 graciously. Marius set a chair for her between the 
 two they had been occupying, and thus interchanging 
 
THE CHATEAU DE CONDILLAC 51 
 
 phrases of agreeable greeting the three sat down about 
 the hearth with every show of the greatest amity. 
 
 A younger man might have been put out of counte- 
 nance; the woman's surpassing beauty, her charm of 
 manner, her melodious voice, falling on the ear soft 
 and gentle as a caress, might have turned a man of 
 less firmness a little from his purpose, a little perhaps 
 from his loyalty and the duty that had brought him 
 all the way from Paris. But Monsieur de Garnache 
 was to her thousand graces as insensible as a man of 
 stone. And he came to business briskly. He had no 
 mind to spend the day at her fireside in pleasant, 
 meaningless talk. 
 
 "Madame," said he, "monsieur your son informs 
 me that you have heard of me and of the business that 
 brings me into Dauphiny. I had not looked for the 
 honour of journeying quite so far as Condillac; but 
 since Monsieur de Tressan, whom I made my ambas- 
 sador, appears to have failed so signally, I am con- 
 strained to inflict my presence upon you." 
 
 "Inflict?" quoth she, with a pretty look of make- 
 believe dismay. "How harsh a word, monsieur!" 
 
 The smoothness of the implied compliment an- 
 noyed him. 
 
 "I will use any word you think more adequate, 
 madame, if you will suggest it," he answered tartly. 
 
 "There are a dozen I might suggest that would bet- 
 ter fit the case — and with more justice to yourself," 
 she answered, with a smile that revealed a gleam of 
 white teeth behind her scarlet lips. "Marius, bid 
 Benoit bring wine. Monsieur de Garnache will no 
 doubt be thirsting after his ride." 
 
 Garnache said nothing. Acknowledge the courtesy 
 
52 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 he would not; refuse it he could not. So he sat, and 
 waited for her to speak, his eyes upon the fire. 
 
 Madame had already set herself a course. Keener- 
 witted than her son, she had readily understood, upon 
 Garnache's being announced to her, that his visit 
 meant the failure of the imposture by which she had 
 sought to be rid of him. 
 
 "I think, monsieur," she said presently, watching 
 him from under her lids, " that we have, all of us who 
 are concerned in Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye's 
 affairs, been at cross-purposes. She is an impetuous, 
 impulsive child, and it happened that some little time 
 ago we had words — such things will happen in the 
 most united families. Whilst the heat of her foolish 
 anger was upon her, she wrote a letter to the Queen, 
 in which she desired to be removed from my tutelage. 
 Since then, monsieur, she has come to repent her of it. 
 You, who no doubt understand a woman's mind — " 
 
 "Set out upon no such presumption, madame," he 
 interrupted. "I know as little of a woman's mind as 
 any man who thinks he knows a deal — and that is 
 nothing." 
 
 She laughed as at an excellent jest, and Marius, 
 overhearing Garnache's retort as he was returning to 
 resume his seat, joined in her laugh. 
 
 "Paris is a fine whetstone for a man's wits," said 
 he. 
 
 Garnache shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I take it, madame, that you wish me to under- 
 stand that Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye, repenting 
 of her letter, desires no longer to repair to Paris; de- 
 sires, in fact, to remain here at Condillac in your ex- 
 cellent care." 
 
THE CHATEAU DE CONDILLAC 
 
 "You apprehend the position exactly, monsieur." 
 
 "To my mind," said he, "it presents few features 
 difficult of apprehension." 
 
 Marius's eyes flashed his mother a look of relief; 
 but the Marquise, who had an ear more finely trained, 
 caught the vibration of a second meaning in the 
 emissary's words. 
 
 "All being as you say, madame," he continued, 
 "will you tell me why, instead of some message to 
 this purport, you sent Monsieur de Tressan back to 
 me with a girl taken from some kitchen or barnyard, 
 whom it was sought to pass off upon me as Mademoi- 
 selle de La Vauvraye?" 
 
 The Marquise laughed, and her son, who had 
 shown signs of perturbation, taking his cue from her, 
 laughed too. 
 
 "It was a jest, monsieur" — she told him, miser- 
 ably conscious that the explanation could sound no 
 lamer. 
 
 "My compliments, madame, upon the humour that 
 prevails in Dauphiny. But your jest failed of its pur- 
 pose. It did not amuse me, nor, so far as I could dis- 
 cern, was Monsieur de Tressan greatly taken with it. 
 But all this is of little moment, madame," he con- 
 tinued. "Since you tell me that Mademoiselle de La 
 Vauvraye is content to remain here, I am satisfied 
 that it is so." 
 
 They were the very words that she desired to hear 
 from him; yet his manner of uttering them gave her 
 little reassurance. The smile on her lips was forced; 
 her watchful eyes smiled not at all. 
 
 "Still," he continued, "you will be so good as to 
 remember that I am not my own master in this affair. 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Were that so, I should not fail to relieve you at once 
 of my unbidden presence." 
 "Oh, monsieur — " 
 
 "But, being the Queen's emissary, I have her or- 
 ders to obey, and those orders are to convey Made- 
 moiselle de La Vauvraye to Paris. They make no 
 allowance for any change that may have occurred in 
 mademoiselle's inclinations. If the journey is now 
 distasteful to her, she has but her own rashness to 
 blame in having sought it herself. What imports is 
 that she is bidden by the Queen to repair to Paris; as 
 a loyal subject she must obey the Queen's commands; 
 you, as a loyal subject, must see to it that she obeys 
 them. So, madame, I count upon your influence with 
 mademoiselle to see that she is ready to set out by 
 noon to-morrow. One day already has been wasted 
 me by your — ah — jest, madame. The Queen likes 
 her ambassadors to be brisk." 
 
 The Dowager reclined in her chair, and bit her lip. 
 This man was too keen for her. She had no illusions. 
 He had seen through her as if she had been made of 
 glass; he had penetrated her artifices and detected her 
 falsehoods. Yet feigning to believe her and them, he 
 had first neutralized her only weapons — other than 
 offensive — then used them for her own defeat. 
 Marius it was who took up the conversation. 
 
 "Monsieur," he cried — and there was a frown 
 drawing together his fine brows — "what you suggest 
 amounts to a tyranny on the Queen's part." 
 
 Garnache was on his feet, his chair grating the pol- 
 ished floor. 
 
 "Monsieur says?" quoth he, his glittering eye chal- 
 lenging the rash boy to repeat his words. 
 
THE CHATEAU DE CONDILLAC 55 
 
 But the Dowager intervened with a little trill of 
 laughter. 
 
 " Bon Dieu! Marius, what are you saying? Foolish 
 boy! And you, Monsieur de Garnache, do not heed 
 him, I beg you. We are so far from Court in this little 
 corner of Dauphiny, and my son has been reared in 
 so free an atmosphere that he is sometimes betrayed 
 into expressions whose impropriety he does not real- 
 ize." 
 
 Garnache bowed in token of his perfect satisfac- 
 tion, and at that moment two servants entered bear- 
 ing flagons and beakers, fruits and sweetmeats, which 
 they placed upon the table. The Dowager rose, and 
 went to do the honours of the board. The servants 
 withdrew. 
 
 "You will taste our wine of Condillac, monsieur?" 
 
 He acquiesced, expressing thanks, and watched her 
 fill a beaker for him, one for herself, and another for 
 her son. She brought him the cup in her hands. He 
 took it with a grave inclination of the head. Then she 
 proffered him the sweetmeats. To take one, he set 
 down the cup on the table, by which he had also come 
 to stand. His left hand was gloved and held his 
 beaver and whip. 
 
 She nibbled, herself, at one of the comfits, and he , 
 followed her example. The boy, a trifle sullen since 
 the last words, stood on the hearth with his back to 
 the fire, his hands clasped behind him. 
 
 "Monsieur," she said, "do you think it would en- 
 able you to comply with what I have signified to be 
 not only our own wishes, but those of Mademoiselle 
 de La Vauvraye herself, if she were to state them to 
 you?" 
 
56 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 He looked up sharply, his lips parting in a smile 
 that revealed his strong white teeth. 
 
 "Are you proposing another of your jests, ma- 
 dame?" 
 
 She laughed outright. A wonderful assurance was 
 hers, thought Monsieur de Garnache. " Mon Dieuf 
 no, monsieur," she cried. "If you will, you may see 
 the lady herself." 
 
 He took a turn in the apartment, idly, as does a 
 man in thought. 
 
 "Very well," said he, at last. "I do not say that it 
 will alter my determination. But perhaps — yes, I 
 should be glad of an opportunity of the honour of 
 making Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye's acquaint- 
 ance. But no impersonations, I beg, madame!" He- 
 said it half-laughingly, taking his cue from her. 
 
 "You need have no fear of any." 
 
 She walked to the door, opened it, and called — 
 " Gaston ! " In answer came the page whom Garnache 
 had found in the room when he was admitted. 
 
 "Desire Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye to come to 
 us here at once," she bade the boy, and closed the 
 door. 
 
 Garnache had been all eyes for some furtive sign, 
 some whispered word; but he had surprised neither. 
 
 His pacing had brought him to the opposite end of 
 the board, where stood the cup of wine madame had 
 poured for Marius. His own, Garnache had left un- 
 touched. As if abstractedly, he now took up the 
 beaker, pledged madame with his glance, and drank. 
 She watched him, and suddenly a suspicion darted 
 through her mind — a suspicion that he suspected 
 them. 
 
THE CHATEAU DE CONDILLAC 57 
 
 Dieu! What a man was this ! He took no chances. 
 Madame reflected that this augured ill for the success 
 of the last resource upon which, should all else fail, 
 she was counting to keep mademoiselle at Condillac. 
 It seemed incredible that one so wary and watchful 
 should have committed the rashness of venturing 
 alone into Condillac without taking his precautions 
 to ensure his ability to retreat. 
 
 In her heart she felt daunted by him. But in the 
 matter of that wine — the faintest of smiles hovered 
 on her lips, her eyebrows went up a shade. Then she 
 took up the cup that had been poured for the Parisian, 
 and bore it to her son. 
 
 "Marius, you are not drinking," said she. And see- 
 ing a command in her eyes, he took the beaker from 
 her hand and bore it to his lips, emptying the half of 
 it, whilst with the faintest smile of scorn the Dowager 
 swept Garnache a glance of protest, as of one repudi- 
 ating an unworthy challenge. 
 
 Then the door opened, and the eyes of all three 
 were centred upon the girl that entered. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 
 
 YOU sent for me, madame," said the girl, seeming 
 to hesitate upon the threshold of the room, and 
 her voice — a pleasant, boyish contralto — was very- 
 cold and conveyed a suggestion of disdain. 
 
 The Marquise detected that inauspicious note, and 
 was moved by it to regret her already of having em- 
 barked upon so bold a game as to confront Monsieur 
 de Garnache with Valerie. It was a step she had de- 
 cided upon as a last means of convincing the Parisian 
 of the truth of her statement touching the change 
 that had taken place in mademoiselle's inclinations. 
 And she had provided for it as soon as she heard of 
 Garnache's arrival by informing mademoiselle that 
 should she be sent for, she must tell the gentleman 
 from Paris that it was her wish to remain at Con- 
 dillac. Mademoiselle had incontinently refused, 
 and madame, to win her compliance, had resorted to 
 threats. 
 
 "You will do as you consider best, of course," she 
 had said, in a voice that was ominously sweet. "But 
 I promise you that if you do otherwise than as I tell 
 you, you shall be married before sunset to Marius, 
 whether you be willing or not. Monsieur de Garnache 
 comes alone, and if I so will it alone he shall depart — 
 or not at all. I have men enough at Condillac to see 
 my orders carried out, no matter what they be. 
 
 "You may tell yourself that this fellow will return 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 
 
 59 
 
 to help you. Perhaps he will; but when he does, it 
 will be too late so far as you shall be concerned." 
 
 Terrified by that threat, Valerie had blenched, and 
 had felt her spirit deserting her. 
 
 "And if I comply, madame?" she had asked. "If 
 I do as you wish, if I tell this gentleman that I no 
 longer desne to go to Paris — what then?" 
 
 The Dowager's manner had become more affec- 
 tionate. She had patted the shrinking girl upon the 
 shoulder. "In that case, Valerie, you shall suffer 
 no constraint; you shall continue here as you have 
 done." 
 
 "And has there been no constraint hitherto?" had 
 been the girl's indignant rejoinder. 
 
 "Hardly, child," the Dowager had returned. "We 
 have sought to guide you to a wise choice — no more 
 than that. Nor shall we do more hereafter if you do 
 my pleasure now and give this Monsieur de Garnache 
 the answer that I bid you. But if you fail me, re- 
 member — you marry Marius before nightfall." 
 
 She had not waited for the girl to promise her com- 
 pliance. She was too clever a woman to show anxiety 
 on that score. She left her with that threat vibrating 
 in her mind, confident that she would scare the girl 
 into obedience by the very assurance she exhibited 
 that Valerie would not dare to disobey. 
 
 But now, at the sound of that chill voice, at the 
 sight of that calm, resolved countenance, madame 
 was regretting that she had not stayed to receive the 
 girl's promise before she made so very sure of her 
 pliability. 
 
 She glanced anxiously at Garnache. His eyes were 
 upon the girl. He was remarking the slender, supple 
 
6o SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 figure, moderately tall and looking taller in its black 
 gown of mourning; the oval face, a trifle pale now 
 from the agitation that stirred her, with its fine level 
 brows, its clear, hazel eyes, and its crown of lustrous 
 brown hair rolled back under the daintiest of white 
 coifs. His glance dwelt appreciatively on the slender 
 nose, with its delicate nostrils, the charming line of 
 mouth and chin, the dazzling whiteness of her skin, 
 conspicuous not only in neck and face but in the long, 
 slender hands that were clasped before her. 
 
 These signs of breeding, everywhere proclaimed, 
 left him content that here was no imposture; the girl 
 before him was, indeed, Valerie de La Vauvraye. 
 
 At madame's invitation she came forward. Marius 
 hastened to close the door and to set a chair for her, 
 his manner an admirable suggestion of ardour re- 
 strained by deference. 
 
 She sat down with an outward calm under which 
 none would have suspected the full extent of her agi- 
 tation, and she bent her eyes upon the man whom the 
 Queen had sent for her deliverance. 
 
 After all, Garnache's appearance was hardly sug- 
 gestive of the role of Perseus which had been thrust 
 upon him. She saw a tall, spare man, with prominent 
 cheek-bones, a gaunt, high-bridged nose, very fierce 
 mustachios, and a pair of eyes that were as keen as 
 sword-blades and felt to her glance as penetrating. 
 There was little about him like to take a woman's 
 fancy or claim more than a moderate share of her 
 attention, even when circumstances rendered her as 
 interested in him as was now Mademoiselle de La 
 Vauvraye. 
 
 There fell a silence, broken at last by Marius, who 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 61 
 
 leaned, a supple, graceful figure, his elbow resting 
 upon the summit of Valerie's chair. 
 
 "Monsieur de Garnache does us the injustice to 
 find a difficulty in believing that you no longer wish 
 to leave us." 
 
 That was by no means what Garnache had implied; 
 still, since it really expressed his mind, he did not 
 trouble to correct Marius. 
 
 Valerie said nothing, but her eyes travelled to 
 madame's countenance, where she found a frown. 
 Garnache observed the silence, and drew his own con- 
 clusions. 
 
 "So we have sent for you, Valerie," said the Dow- 
 ager, taking up her son's sentence, "that you may 
 yourself assure Monsieur de Garnache that it is so." 
 
 Her voice was stern; it bore to the girl's ears a sub- 
 tle, unworded repetition of the threat the Marquise 
 had already voiced. Mademoiselle caught it, and 
 Garnache caught it too, although he failed to inter- 
 pret it as precisely as he would have liked. 
 
 The girl seemed to experience a difficulty in an- 
 swering. Her eyes roved to Garn ache's, and fell away 
 in affright before their glitter. That man's glance 
 seemed to read her very mind, she thought; and sud- 
 denly the reflection that had terrified her became her 
 hope. If it were as she deemed it, what matter what 
 she said? He would know the truth, in spite of all. 
 
 "Yes, madame," she said at last, and her voice was 
 wholly void of expression. "Yes, monsieur, it is as 
 madame says. It is my wish to remain at Condillac." 
 
 From the Dowager, standing a pace or two away 
 from Garnache, came the sound of a half-sigh. Gar- 
 nache missed nothing. He caught the sound, and ac- 
 
62 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 cepted it as an expression of relief. The Marquise 
 stepped back a pace; idly, one might have thought; 
 not so thought Garnache. It had this advantage: 
 that it enabled her to stand where he might not watch 
 her face without turning his head. He was content 
 that such was her motive. To defeat her object, to 
 show her that he had guessed it, he stepped back, too, 
 also with that same idleness of air, so that he was once 
 more in line with her. And then he spoke, addressing 
 Valerie. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, that you should have written to 
 the Queen in haste is deplorable now that your views 
 have undergone this change. I am a stupid man, 
 mademoiselle, just a blunt soldier with orders to obey 
 and no authority to think. My orders are to conduct 
 you to Paris. Your will was not taken into considera- 
 tion. I know not how the Queen would have me act, 
 seeing your reluctance; it may be that she would elect 
 to leave you here, as you desire. But it is not for me 
 to arrogate to determine the Queen's mind. I can but 
 be guided by her orders, and those orders leave me no 
 course but one — to ask you, mademoiselle, to make 
 ready immediately to go with me." 
 
 The look of relief that swept into Valerie's face, the 
 little flush of colour that warmed her cheeks, hitherto 
 so pale, were all the confirmation that he needed of 
 what he suspected. 
 
 "But, monsieur," said Marius, "it must be plain to 
 you that since the Queen's orders are but a compli- 
 ance with mademoiselle's wishes, now that mademoi- 
 selle's wishes have altered, so too would Her Maj- 
 esty's commands alter to comply with them once 
 more." 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 
 
 63 
 
 "That may be plain to you, monsieur; for me, 
 unfortunately, there are my orders for only guide," 
 Garnache persisted. "Does not mademoiselle herself 
 agree with me?" 
 
 She was about to speak; her glance had looked 
 eager, her lips had parted. Then, of a sudden, the 
 little colour faded from her cheeks again, and she 
 seemed stricken with a silence. Garnache's eyes, 
 directed in a sidelong glance to the Marquise's face, 
 surprised there a frown that had prompted that sud- 
 den change. 
 
 He half-turned, his manner changing suddenly to a 
 freezing civility. 
 
 "Madame la Marquise," said he, "I beg with all 
 deference to suggest that I am not allowed the in- 
 terview you promised me with Mademoiselle de La 
 Vauvraye." 
 
 The ominous coldness with which he had begun to 
 speak had had a disturbing effect upon the Dowager; 
 the words he uttered, when she had weighed them, 
 brought an immense relief. It seemed, then, that he 
 but needed convincing that this was Mademoiselle de 
 La Vauvraye. This argued that for the rest he was 
 satisfied. 
 
 "There, monsieur, you are at fault," she cried, and 
 she was smiling into his grave eyes. "Because once I 
 put that jest upon you, you imagine — " 
 
 "No, no," he broke in. " You misapprehend me. I 
 do not say that this is not Mademoiselle de La Vau- 
 vraye; I do not say that — " 
 
 He paused; he was at the end of his resources. He 
 did not know how to put the thing without giving 
 offence, and it had been his resolve — realizing the 
 
64 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 necessity for it — to conduct this matter with a grave 
 courtesy. 
 
 To feel that after having carried the affair so far 
 with a — for him — commendable lightness of touch, 
 he should be at a loss for a delicate word to convey 
 a harsh accusation began to anger him. And once 
 Garnache began to be angered, the rest followed 
 quickly. It was just that flaw in his character that 
 had been the ruin of him, that had blighted what 
 otherwise might have been a brilliant career. Astute 
 and wily as a fox, brave as a lion, and active as a 
 panther, gifted with intelligence, insight and resource, 
 he had carried a dozen enterprises up to the very 
 threshold of success, there to have ruined them all by 
 giving way to some sudden access of choler. 
 
 So was it now. His pause was but momentary. Yet 
 in that moment, from calm and freezing that he had 
 been, he became ruffled and hot. The change was 
 visible in his heightened colour, in his flashing eyes, 
 and in his twitching mustachios. For just a second he 
 sought to smother his wrath; he had a glimmer of re- 
 membrance of the need for caution and diplomacy in 
 the darkness of anger that was descending over him. 
 Then, without further warning, he exploded. 
 
 His nervous, sinewy hand clenched itself and fell 
 with a crash upon the table, overturning a flagon and 
 sending a lake of wine across the board, to trickle over 
 at a dozen points and form in puddles at the feet of 
 Valerie. Startled, they all watched him, mademoi- 
 selle the most startled of the three. 
 
 "Madame," he thundered, "I have been receiving 
 dancing-lessons at your hands for long enough. It is 
 time, I think, we did a little ordinary walking, else 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 
 
 65 
 
 shall we get no farther along the road I mean to go — 
 and that is the road to Paris with mademoiselle for 
 company." 
 
 "Monsieur, monsieur!" cried the startled Mar- 
 quise, placing herself intrepidly before him; and 
 Marius trembled for her, for so wild did the man seem 
 that he almost feared he might strike her. 
 
 "Lhave heard enough," he blazed. "Not another 
 word from any here in Condillac! I'll take this lady 
 with me — now, at once; and if any here raises a 
 finger to resist me, as Heaven is my witness, it will be 
 the last resistance he will ever offer any man. Let a 
 hand be laid upon me, or a sword bared before my 
 eyes, and I swear, madame, that I'll come back and 
 burn this dunghill of rebellion to the ground." 
 
 In the blindness of his passion all his fine keenness 
 was cast to the wind, his all-observing watchfulness 
 was smothered in the cloud of anger that oppressed 
 his brain. He never saw the sign that madame made 
 to her son, never so much as noticed Marius's stealthy 
 progress towards the door. 
 
 "Oh," he continued, a satirical note running now 
 through his tempestuous voice, "it is a fine thing to 
 cozen each other with honeyed words, with smirks 
 and with grimaces. But we have done with that, 
 madame." He towered grimly above her, shaking a 
 threatening finger in her very face. "We have done 
 with that. We shall resort to deeds, instead." 
 
 "Aye, monsieur," she answered very coldly, sneer- 
 ing upon his red-hot fury, "there shall be deeds 
 enough to satisfy even your outrageous thirst for 
 them." 
 
 That cold, sneering voice, with its note of threat, 
 
66 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 was like a hand of ice upon his overheated brain. It 
 cooled him on the instant. He stiffened, and looked 
 about him. He saw that Marius had disappeared, and 
 that mademoiselle had risen and was regarding him 
 with singularly imploring eyes. 
 
 He bit his lip in mortified chagrin. He cursed him- 
 self inwardly for a fool and a dolt — the more pitiable 
 because he accounted himself cunning above others. 
 Had he but kept his temper, had he done no more 
 than maintain the happy pretence that he was a slave 
 to the orders he had received — a mere machine — he 
 might have gained his ends by sheer audacity. At 
 least, his way of retreat would have remained open, 
 and he might have gone, to return another day with 
 force at his heels. 
 
 As it was, that pretty whelp, her son, had been 
 sent, no doubt, for men. He stepped up to Valerie. 
 
 "Are you ready, mademoiselle?" said he; for little 
 hope though he might still have of winning through, 
 yet he must do the best to repair the damage that was 
 of his making. 
 
 She saw that the storm of passion had passed, and 
 she was infected by the sudden, desperate daring that 
 prompted that question of his. 
 
 "I am ready, monsieur," said she, and her boyish 
 voice had an intrepid ring. "I will come with you as 
 I am." 
 
 "Then, in God's name, let us be going." 
 
 They moved together towards the door, with never 
 another glance for the Dowager where she stood, 
 patting the head of the hound that had risen and 
 come to stand beside her. In silence she watched 
 them, a sinister smile upon her beautiful, ivory face. 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 67 
 
 Then came a sound of feet and voices in the ante- 
 room. The door was flung violently open, and a half- 
 dozen men with naked swords came blundering into 
 the room, Marius bringing up the rear. 
 
 With a cry of fear Valerie shrank back against the 
 panelled wall, her little hands to her cheeks, her eyes 
 dilating with alarm. 
 
 Garnache's sword rasped out, an oath rattled from 
 his clenched teeth, and he fell on guard. The men 
 paused, and took his measure. Marius urged them 
 on, as if they had been a pack of dogs. 
 
 "At him!" he snapped, his finger pointing, his 
 handsome eyes flashing angrily. "Cut him down!" 
 
 They moved; but mademoiselle moved at the same 
 moment. She sprang before them, between their 
 swords and their prey. 
 
 "You shall not do it; you shall not do it!" she 
 cried, and her face looked drawn, her eyes distraught. 
 " It is murder — murder, you curs ! " And the memory 
 of how that dainty little lady stood undaunted before 
 so much bared steel, to shield him from those assas- 
 sins, was one that abode ever after with Garnache. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he, in a quiet voice, "if you 
 will but stand aside there will be some murder done 
 among them first." 
 
 But she did not move. Marius clenched his hands, 
 fretted by the delay. The Dowager looked on and 
 smiled and patted her dog's head. To her mademoi- 
 selle now turned in appeal. 
 
 "Madame," she exclaimed, "you'll not allow it. 
 You'll not let them do this thing. Bid them put up 
 their swords, madame. Bethink you that Monsieur 
 de Garnache is here in the Queen's name." 
 
68 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Too well did madame bethink her of it. Garnache 
 need not plague himself with vexation that his rash 
 temper alone had wrought his ruin now. It had but 
 accelerated it. It was just possible, perhaps, that 
 suavity might have offered him opportunities; but, 
 for the rest, from the moment that he showed himself 
 firm in his resolve to carry mademoiselle to Paris, his 
 doom was sealed. Madame would never willingly 
 have allowed him to leave Condillac alive, for she 
 realized that did she do so he would stir up trouble 
 enough to have them outlawed. He must perish here, 
 and be forgotten. If questions came to be asked later, 
 Condillac would know nothing of him. 
 
 "Monsieur de Garnache promised us some fine 
 deeds on his own account," she mocked him. "We 
 but afford him the opportunity to perform them. If 
 these be not enough for his exceeding valour, there 
 are more men without whom we can summon." 
 
 A feeling of pity for mademoiselle — perhaps of 
 no more than decency — now overcame Marius. He 
 stepped forward. 
 
 "Valerie," he said, "it is not fitting you should re- 
 main." 
 
 "Aye, take her hence," the Dowager bade him, 
 with a smile. "Her presence is unmanning our fine 
 Parisian." 
 
 Eager to do so, over-eager, Marius came forward, 
 past his men-at-arms, until he was but some three 
 paces from the girl and just out of reach of a sudden 
 dart of Garnache's sword. 
 
 Softly, very warily, Garnache slipped his right foot 
 a little farther to the right. Suddenly he threw his 
 weight upon it, so that he was clear of the girl. Before 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 69 
 
 they understood what he was about, the thing had 
 taken place. He had leaped forward, caught the 
 young man by the breast of his shimmering doublet, 
 leaped back to shelter beyond mademoiselle, hurled 
 Marius to the ground, and planted his foot, shod as it 
 was in his thickly mudded riding-boot, full upon the 
 boy's long, shapely neck. 
 
 "Move so much as a finger, my pretty fellow," he 
 snapped at him, "and I'll crush the life from you as 
 from a toad." 
 
 There was a sudden forward movement on the part 
 of the men; but if Garnache was vicious, he was calm. 
 Were he again to lose his temper now, there would in- 
 deed be a speedy end to him. That much he knew, 
 and kept repeating to himself, lest he should be 
 tempted to forget it. 
 
 "Back!" he bade them in a voice so imperative 
 that they stopped, and looked on with gaping mouths. 
 "Back, or he perishes!" And dropping the point of 
 his sword, he lightly rested it upon the young man's 
 breast. 
 
 In dismay they looked to the Dowager for instruc- 
 tion. She craned forward, the smile gone from her 
 lips, a horror in her eyes, her bosom heaving. A mo- 
 ment ago she had smiled upon mademoiselle's out- 
 ward signs of fear; had mademoiselle been so minded, 
 she might in her turn have smiled now at the terror 
 written large upon the Dowager's own face. But her 
 attention was all absorbed by the swiftly executed act 
 by which Garnache had gained at least a temporary 
 advantage. 
 
 She had turned and looked at the strange spectacle 
 of that dauntless man, erect, his foot upon Marius's 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 neck, like some fantastic figure of a contemporary- 
 Saint George and a contemporary dragon. She 
 pressed her hands tighter upon her bosom; her eyes 
 sparkled with an odd approval of that brisk deed. 
 
 But Garnache's watchful eyes were upon the Dow- 
 ager. He read the anxious fear that marred the 
 beauty of her face, and he took heart at the sight, for 
 he was dependent upon the extent to which he might 
 work upon her feelings. 
 
 "You smiled just now, madame, when it was in- 
 tended to butcher a man before your eyes. You 
 smile no longer, I observe, at this the first of the fine 
 deeds I promised you." 
 
 "Let him go," she said, and her voice was scarce 
 louder than a whisper, horror-laden. "Let him go, 
 monsieur, if you would save your own neck." 
 
 "At that price, yes — though, believe me, you are 
 paying too much for so poor a life as this. Still, you 
 value the thing, and I hold it; and so you'll forgive me 
 if I am extortionate." 
 
 "Release him, and, in God's name, go your ways. 
 None shall stay you," she promised him. 
 
 He smiled. "I'll need some security for that. I do 
 not choose to take your word for it, Madame de Con- 
 dillac." 
 
 "What security can I give you?" she cried, wring- 
 ing her hands, her eyes on the boy's ashen face — 
 ashen from mingling fear and rage — where it showed 
 beyond Garnache's heavy boot. 
 
 "Bid one of your knaves summon my servant. I 
 left him awaiting me in the courtyard." 
 
 The order was given, and one of the cut-throats de- 
 parted. 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 
 
 In a tense and anxious silence they awaited his 
 return, though he kept them but an instant. 
 
 Rabecque's eyes took on a startled look when he 
 had viewed the situation. Garnache called to him to 
 deprive those present of their weapons. 
 
 "And let none refuse, or offer him violence," he 
 added, "or your master's life shall pay the price of 
 it." 
 
 The Dowager with a ready anxiety repeated to 
 them his commands. Rabecque, understanding noth- 
 ing, went from man to man, and received from each 
 his weapons. He placed the armful on the window- 
 seat, at the far end of the apartment, as Garnache 
 bade him. At the other end of the long room, Gar- 
 nache ordered the disarmed men to range themselves. 
 When that was done, the Parisian removed his foot 
 from his victim's neck. 
 
 "Stand up," he commanded, and Marius very 
 readily obeyed him. 
 
 Garnache placed himself immediately behind the 
 boy. "Madame," said he, "no harm shall come to 
 your son if he is but wise. Let him disobey me, or let 
 any man in Condillac lift a hand against us, and that 
 shall be the signal for Monsieur de Condillac's death. 
 Mademoiselle, it is your wish to accompany me to 
 Paris?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur," she answered fearlessly, her eyes 
 sparkling now. 
 
 "We will be going then. Place yourself alongside of 
 Monsieur de Condillac. Rabecque, follow me. For- 
 ward, Monsieur de Condillac. You will be so good as 
 to conduct us to our horses in the courtyard." 
 
 They made an odd procession as they marched out 
 
72 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 of the hall, under the sullen eyes of the baulked cut- 
 throats and their mistress. On the threshold Gar- 
 nache paused, and looked over his shoulder. 
 
 "Are you content, madame? Have you seen fine 
 deeds enough for one day?" he asked her, laughing. 
 But, white to the lips with chagrin, she returned no 
 answer. 
 
 Garnache and his party crossed the anteroom, 
 after having taken the precaution to lock the door 
 upon the Marquise and her men, and proceeding 
 down a gloomy passage they gained the courtyard. 
 Here Marius was consoled to find some men of the 
 garrison of Condillac — a half-score, or so — all more 
 or less armed, surrounding the horses of Garnache 
 and his lackey. At sight of the odd group that now 
 appeared those ruffians stood at gaze, surprised, and 
 with suspicions aroused by Garnache's naked sword, 
 ready for anything their master might demand of 
 them. 
 
 Marius had in that instant a gleam of hope. Thus 
 far, Garnache had been master of the situation. But 
 surely the position would be reversed when Garnache 
 and his man came to mount their horses, particularly 
 considering how hampered they must be by Valerie. 
 This danger Garnache, however, was no less quick to 
 perceive, and with a dismaying promptness did he 
 take his measures. 
 
 "Remember," he threatened Monsieur de Condil- 
 lac, "if any of your men show their teeth it will be the 
 worse for you." They had come to a halt on the 
 threshold of the courtyard. "You will be so good as 
 to bid them retreat through that doorway across the 
 yard yonder." 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 
 
 73 
 
 Marius hesitated. "And if I refuse ? " he demanded 
 hardily, but keeping his back to Garnache. The men 
 stirred, and stray words of mingling wonder and 
 anger reached the Parisian. 
 
 "You will not," said Garnache, with quiet confi- 
 dence. 
 
 "I think you make too sure," Marius replied, and 
 dissembled his misgivings in a short laugh. Garnache 
 became impatient. His position was not being im- 
 proved by delay. 
 
 "Monsieur de Condillac," said he, speaking quickly 
 and yet with an incisiveness of tone that made his 
 .words sound deliberate, "I am a desperate man in a 
 desperate position. Every moment that I tarry here 
 increases my danger and shortens my temper. If you 
 think to temporize in the hope of gaining an oppor- 
 tunity of turning the tables upon me, you must be 
 mad to dream that I shall permit it. Monsieur, you 
 will at once order those men to leave the courtyard 
 by that doorway, or I give you my word of honour 
 that I shall run you through as you stand." 
 
 "That would be to destroy yourself," said Marius 
 with an attempted note of confidence. 
 
 " I should be no less destroyed by delay," answered 
 Garnache; and added more sharply, "Give the word, 
 monsieur, or I will make an end." 
 
 From the movement behind him Marius guessed 
 almost by instinct that Garnache had drawn back for 
 a lunge. At his side Valerie looked over her shoulder, 
 with eyes that were startled but unafraid. For a sec- 
 ond Marius considered whether he might not attempt 
 to elude Garnache by a wild and sudden dash towards 
 his men. But the consequences of failure were too 
 fearful. 
 
74 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and gave the order. 
 The men hesitated a moment, then shuffled away in 
 the direction indicated. But they went slowly, with 
 much half-whispered, sullen conferring and many a 
 backward glance at Marius and those with him. 
 
 " Bid them go faster," snapped Garnache. Marius 
 obeyed him, and the men obeyed Marius, and van- 
 ished into the gloom of the archway. After all, 
 thought Monsieur de Condillac, they need go no 
 farther than that doorway; they must have appre- 
 ciated the situation by now; and he was confident 
 they would have the sense to hold themselves in readi- 
 ness for a rush in the moment of Garnache's mount- 
 ing. 
 
 But Garnache's next order shattered that last hope. 
 
 "Rabecque," said he, without turning his head, 
 "go and lock them in." Before bidding the men go 
 that way, he had satisfied himself that there was a 
 key on the outside of the door. "Monsieur de Condil- 
 lac," he resumed to Marius, "you will order your men 
 in no way to hinder my servant. I shall act upon any 
 menace of danger to my lackey precisely as I should 
 were I, myself, in danger." 
 
 Marius's heart sank within him, as sinks a stone 
 through water. He realized, as his mother had real- 
 ized a little while before, that in Garnache they had 
 an opponent who took no chances. In a voice thick 
 with the torturing rage of impotence he gave the 
 order upon which the grim Parisian insisted. There 
 followed a silence broken by the fall of Rabecque's 
 heavily shod feet upon the stones of the yard, as 
 he crossed it to-do his master's bidding. The door 
 creaked on its hinges; the key grated screaming in its 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 
 
 75 
 
 lock, and Rabecque returned to Garn ache's side even 
 as Garnache tapped Marius on the shoulder. 
 
 "This way, Monsieur de Condillac, if you please," 
 said he, and as Marius turned at last to face him, he 
 stood aside and waved his left hand towards the door 
 through which they had lately emerged. A moment 
 stood the youth facing his stern conqueror; his hands 
 were clenched until the knuckles showed white; his 
 face was a dull crimson. Vainly he sought for words 
 in which to vent some of the malicious chagrin that 
 filled his soul almost to bursting-point. Then, de- 
 spairing, with a shrug and an inarticulate mutter, he 
 flung past the Parisian, obeying him as the cur obeys, 
 with pendant tail and teeth-revealing snarl. 
 
 Garnache closed the door upon him with a bang, 
 and smiled quietly as he turned to Valerie. 
 
 "I think we have won through, mademoiselle," 
 said he, with pardonable vanity. "The rest is easy, 
 though you may be subjected to some slight discom- 
 fort between this and Grenoble." 
 
 She smiled back at him, a pale, timid smile, like a 
 gleam of sunshine from a wintry sky. "That matters 
 nothing," she assured him, and strove to make her 
 voice sound brave. 
 
 There was need for speed, and compliments were 
 set aside by Garnache, who, at his best, was not felici- 
 tous with them. Valerie felt herself caught by the 
 wrist, a trifle roughly she remembered afterwards, 
 and hurried across the cobbles to the tethered horses, 
 with which Rabecque was already busy. She saw 
 Garnache raise his foot to the stirrup and hoist him- 
 self to the saddle. Then he held down a hand to her, 
 bade her set her foot on his, and called with an oath 
 
76 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 to Rabecque to lend her his assistance. A moment 
 later she was perched in front of Garnache, almost on 
 the withers of his horse. The cobbles rattled under 
 its hooves, the timbers of the drawbridge sent up a 
 booming sound, they were across — out of Condillac 
 — and speeding at a gallop down the white road that 
 led to the river; after them pounded Rabecque, bump- 
 ing horribly in his saddle, and attempting wildly, and 
 with awful objurgations, to find his stirrups. 
 
 They crossed the bridge that spans the Isere and 
 took the road to Grenoble at a sharp pace, with scarce 
 a backward glance at the grey towers of Condillac. 
 Valerie experienced an overwhelming inclination to 
 weep and laugh, to cry and sing at one and the same 
 time; but whether this odd emotion sprang from the 
 happenings in which she had had her part, or from the 
 exhilaration of that mad ride, she could not tell. No 
 doubt it sprang from both, owing a part to each. She 
 controlled herself, however. A shy, upward glance at 
 the stern, set face of the man whose arm encircled and 
 held her fast had a curiously sobering effect upon her. 
 Their eyes met, and he smiled a friendly, reassuring 
 smile, such as a father might have bestowed upon a 
 daughter. 
 
 "I do not think that they will charge me with blun- 
 dering this time," he said. 
 
 "Charge you with blundering?" she echoed; and 
 the inflection of the pronoun might have flattered him 
 had he not reflected that it was impossible she could 
 have understood his allusion. And now she bethought 
 her that she had not thanked him — and the debt 
 was a heavy one. He had come to her aid in an hour 
 when hope seemed dead. He had come single-handed 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 
 
 77 
 
 — save for his man Rabecque; and in a manner that 
 was worthy of being made the subject of an epic, he 
 had carried her out of Condillac, away from the ter- 
 rible Dowager and her cut-throats. The thought of 
 them sent a shiver through her. 
 
 "Do you feel the cold?" he asked concernedly; and 
 that the wind might cut her less, he slackened speed. 
 
 "No, no," she cried, her alarm waking again at the 
 thought of the folk of Condillac. "Make haste! Go 
 on, go on! Mon Dieu/ if they should overtake us!" 
 
 He looked over his shoulder. The road ran straight 
 for over a half-mile behind them, and not a living 
 thing showed upon it. 
 
 "You need have no alarm," he smiled. "We are 
 not pursued. They must have realized the futility of 
 attempting to overtake us. Courage, mademoiselle. 
 We shall be in Grenoble presently, and once there, 
 you will have nothing more to fear." 
 
 "You are sure of that?" she asked, and there was 
 doubt in her voice. 
 
 He smiled reassuringly again. "The Lord Sen- 
 eschal shall supply us with an escort," he promised 
 confidently. 
 
 "Still," she said, "we shall not stay there, I hope, 
 monsieur." 
 
 "No longer than may be necessary to procure a 
 coach for you." 
 
 "I am glad of that," said she. "I shall know no 
 peace until Grenoble is a good ten leagues behind us. 
 The Marquise and her son are too powerful there." 
 
 "Yet their might shall not prevail against the 
 Queen's," he made reply. And as now they rode 
 amain she fell to thanking him, shyly at first, then, as 
 
78 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 she gathered confidence in her subject, with a greater 
 fervour. But he interrupted her ere she had gone far. 
 
 "Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye," said he, "you 
 overstate the matter." His tone was chilling almost, 
 and she felt as she had been rebuked. " I am no more 
 than the emissary of Her Majesty — it is to her that 
 your thanks are due." 
 
 "Ah, but, monsieur," she returned to the assault, 
 "I owe some thanks to you as well. What other in 
 your place would have done what you have done?" 
 
 "I know not that, nor do I greatly care," said he, 
 and laughed, but with a laugh that jarred on her. 
 "That which I did I must have done, no matter 
 whom it was a question of saving. I am but an in- 
 strument in this matter, mademoiselle." 
 
 His thought was to do no more than belittle the 
 service he had rendered her, to stem her flow of grati- 
 tude, since, indeed, he felt, as he said, that it was to 
 the Queen-Regent her thanks were due. All unwitting 
 was it — out of his ignorance of the ways of thought 
 of a sex with which he held the view that it is an ill 
 thing to meddle — that he wounded her by his dis- 
 claimer, in which her sensitive maiden fancy imagined 
 a something that was almost contemptuous. 
 
 They rode in silence for a little spell, broken at last 
 by Garnache in expression of the thoughts that had 
 come to him as a consequence of what she had said. 
 
 "On this same subject of thanks," said he — and 
 as she raised her eyes again she found him smiling 
 almost tenderly — "if any are due between us they 
 are surely due from me to you." 
 
 "From you to me?" she asked in wonder. 
 
 "Assuredly," said he. "Had you not come be- 
 
GARNACHE LOSES HIS TEMPER 79 
 
 tween me and the Dowager's assassins there had been 
 an end to me in the hall of Condillac." 
 
 Her hazel eyes were very round for a moment, then 
 they narrowed, and little humorous lines formed at 
 the corners of her lips. 
 
 "Monsieur de Garnache," said she, with a mock 
 coldness that was a faint echo of his own recent man- 
 ner, "you overstate the case. That which I did I 
 must have done, no matter whom it was a question of 
 saving. I was but an instrument in this matter, mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 His brows went up. He stared at her a moment, 
 gathering instruction from the shy mockery of her 
 glance. Then he laughed with genuine amusement. 
 
 "True," he said. "An instrument you were; but an 
 instrument of Heaven, whereas in me you but behold 
 the instrument of an earthly power. We are not quite 
 quits, you see." 
 
 But she felt, at least, that she was quits with him in 
 the matter of his repudiation of her own thanks, and 
 the feeling bridged the unfriendly gap that she had 
 felt was opening out between them; and for no reason 
 in the world that she could think of, she was glad that 
 this was so. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE KEEPS HIS TEMPER 
 
 NIGHT had fallen and it had begun to rain when 
 Garnache and Valerie reached Grenoble. They 
 entered the town afoot, the Parisian not desiring to 
 attract attention by being seen in the streets with a 
 lady on the withers of his horse. 
 
 With thought for her comfort, Monsieur de Gar- 
 nache had divested himself of his heavy horseman's 
 cloak and insisted upon her assuming it, so setting it 
 about her that her head was covered as by a wimple. 
 Thus was she protected not only from the rain, but 
 from the gaze of the inquisitive. 
 
 They made their way in the drizzle, through the 
 greasy, slippery streets ashine with the lights that fell 
 from door and window, Rabecque following closely 
 with the horses. Garnache made straight for his inn 
 — the Auberge du Veau qui Tete — which enjoyed 
 the advantage of facing the Palais Seneschal. 
 
 The ostler took charge of the nags, and the landlord 
 conducted them to a room above-stairs, which he 
 placed at mademoiselle's disposal. That done, Gar- 
 nache left Rabecque on guard, and proceeded to make 
 the necessary arrangements for the journey that lay 
 before them. He began by what he conceived to be 
 the more urgent measure, and stepping across to the 
 Palais Seneschal, he demanded to see Monsieur de 
 Tressan at once. 
 
 Ushered into the Lord Seneschal's presence, he 
 
GARNACHE KEEPS HIS TEMPER 81 
 
 startled that obese gentleman by the announcement 
 that he had returned from Condillac with Mademoi- 
 selle de La Vauvraye, and that he would require an 
 escort to accompany them to Paris. 
 
 "For I am by no means minded to be exposed to 
 such measures as the tigress cf Condillac and her cub 
 may take to recover their victim," he explained with 
 a grim smile. 
 
 The Seneschal combed his beard and screwed up 
 his pale eyes until they vanished in the cushions of 
 his cheeks. He was lost in amazement. He could only 
 imagine that the Queen's emissary had been duped — 
 more successfully this time. 
 
 "I am to gather, then," said he, dissembling what 
 was passing through his mind, "that you delivered 
 the lady by force or strategy." 
 
 "By both, monsieur," was the short answer. 
 
 Tressan continued to comb his beard, and pondered 
 the situation. If things were so, indeed, they could 
 not have fallen out more to his taste. He had had no 
 hand in it, one way or the other. He had run with the 
 hare and hunted with the hounds, and neither party 
 could charge him with any lack of loyalty. His ad- 
 miration and respect for Monsieur de Garnache grew 
 enormously. When the rash Parisian had left him that 
 afternoon for the purpose of carrying his message him- 
 self to Condillac, Tressan had entertained little hope'of 
 ever again seeing him alive. Yet there he stood, as 
 calm and composed as ever, announcing that single- 
 handed he had carried out what another might well 
 have hesitated to attempt with a regiment at his heels. 
 
 Tressan's curiosity urged him to beg for the details 
 of this marvel, and Garnache entertained him with a 
 
82 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 brief recital of what had taken place, whereat, realiz- 
 ing that Garnache had indeed outwitted them, the 
 Seneschal's wonder increased. 
 
 "But we are not out of the quagmire yet," cried 
 Garnache; "and that is why I want an escort." 
 
 Tressan became uneasy. "How many men shall 
 you require?" he asked, thinking that the Parisian 
 would demand at least the half of a company. 
 
 "A half-dozen and a sergeant to command them." 
 
 Tressan 's uneasiness was dissipated, and he found 
 himself despising Garnache more for his rashness in 
 being content with so small a number than he re- 
 spected him for the boldness and courage he had so 
 lately displayed. It was not for him to suggest that 
 the force might prove insufficient; rather was it for 
 him to be thankful that Garnache had not asked for 
 more. An escort Tressan dared not refuse him, and 
 yet refuse it him he must have done — or broken 
 with the Condillacs — had he asked for a greater 
 number. But six men ! Pooh ! they would be of little 
 account. So he very readily consented, inquiring how 
 soon Garnache would require them. 
 
 "At once," was the Parisian's answer. "I leave 
 Grenoble to-night. I hope to set out in an hour's 
 time. Meanwhile I'll have the troopers form a guard 
 of honour. I am lodged over the way." 
 
 Tressan, but too glad to be quit of him, rose there 
 and then to give the necessary orders, and within ten 
 minutes Garnache was back at the Sucking Calf with 
 six troopers and a sergeant, who had left their horses 
 in the Seneschal's stables until the time for setting 
 out. Meanwhile Garnache placed them on duty in 
 the common-room of the inn. 
 
GARNACHE KEEPS HIS TEMPER 
 
 83 
 
 He called for refreshment for them, and bade them 
 remain there at the orders of his man Rabecque. His 
 reason for this step was that it became necessary that 
 he should absent himself for a while to find a carriage 
 suitable for the journey; for as the Sucking Calf was 
 not a post-house he must seek one elsewhere — at the 
 Auberge de France, in fact, which was situate on the 
 eastern side of the town by the Porte de Savoie — and 
 he was not minded to leave the person of Valerie un- 
 guarded during his absence. The half-dozen troopers 
 he considered ample, as indeed they were. 
 
 On this errand he departed, wrapped tightly in 
 his cloak, walking briskly through the now heavier 
 rain. 
 
 But at the Auberge de France a disappointment 
 awaited him. The host had no horses and no carriage, 
 nor would he have until the following morning. He 
 was sorrow-stricken that the circumstance should dis- 
 compose Monsieur de Garnache; he was elaborate in 
 his explanations of how it happened that he could 
 place no vehicle at Monsieur de Garnache's disposal 
 
 — so elaborate that it is surprising Monsieur de 
 Garnache's suspicions should not have been aroused. 
 For the truth of the matter was that the folk of Con- 
 dillac had been at the Auberge de France before him 
 
 — as they had been elsewhere in the town wherever a 
 conveyance might be procurable — and by promises 
 of reward for obedience and threats of punishment 
 for disobedience, they had contrived that Garnache 
 should hear this same story on every hand. His mis- 
 take had lain in his eagerness to obtain a guard from 
 the Seneschal. Had he begun by making sure of a 
 conveyance, anticipating, as he should have done, 
 
84 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 this move on the part of the Condillacs — a move 
 which he did not even now suspect — it is possible 
 that he might have been spared much of the trouble 
 that was to follow. 
 
 An hour or so later, after having vainly ransacked 
 the town for the thing he needed, he returned wet and 
 annoyed to the Veau qui Tete. In a corner of the 
 spacious common-room — a corner by the door lead- 
 ing to the interior of the inn — he saw the six troopers 
 at table, waxing a trifle noisy over cards. Their ser- 
 geant sat a little apart, in conversation with the land- 
 lord's wife, eyes upturned adoringly, oblivious of the 
 increasing scowl that gathered about her watchful 
 husband's brow. 
 
 At another table sat four gentlemen — seemingly 
 travellers, by their air and garb — in a conversation 
 that was hushed at Garnache's entrance. But he paid 
 no heed to them as he stalked with ringing step across 
 the rushstrewn floor, nor observed how covertly and 
 watchfully their glances followed him as returning, 
 in passing the sergeant's prompt salute he vanished 
 through the doorway leading to the stairs. 
 
 He reappeared again a moment later, to call the 
 host, and give him orders for the preparing of his own 
 and Rabecque's supper. 
 
 On the landing above he found Rabecque awaiting 
 him. 
 
 "Is all well?" he asked, and received from his 
 lackey a reassuring answer. 
 
 Mademoiselle welcomed him gladly. His long ab- 
 sence, it appeared, had been giving her concern. He 
 told her on what errand he had been, and alarm over- 
 spread her face upon hearing its result. 
 
GARNACHE KEEPS HIS TEMPER 85 
 
 "But, monsieur," she cried, "you are not proposing 
 that I should remain a night in Grenoble." 
 
 "What alternative have we?" he asked, and his 
 brows met, impatient at what he accounted no more 
 than feminine whimsey. 
 
 "It is not safe," she exclaimed, her fears increasing. 
 "You do not know how powerful are the Condillacs." 
 
 He strode to the fire, and the logs hissed under the 
 pressure of his wet boot. He set his back to the blaze, 
 and smiled down upon her. 
 
 "Nor do you know how powerful are we," he an- 
 swered easily. "I have below six troopers and a ser- 
 geant of the Seneschal's regiment; with myself and 
 Rabecque we are nine men in all. That should be a 
 sufficient guard, mademoiselle. Nor do I think that 
 with all their power the Condillacs will venture here 
 to claim you at the sword-point." 
 
 "And yet," she answered, for all that she was 
 plainly reassured, at least in part, "I would rather 
 you had got me a horse, that we might have ridden to 
 Saint Marcellin, where no doubt a carriage might be 
 obtained." 
 
 " I did not see the need to put you to so much dis- 
 comfort," he returned. "It is raining heavily." 
 
 "Oh, what of that?" she flung back impatiently. 
 
 "Besides," he added, "it seems there are no horses 
 at the post-house. A benighted place this Dauphiny 
 of yours, mademoiselle." 
 
 But she never heeded the gibe at her native prov- 
 ince. "No horses?" she echoed, and her hazel eyes 
 looked up sharply, the alarm returning to her face. 
 She rose, and approached him. "Surely that is im- 
 possible." 
 
86 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "I assure you that it is as I say — neither at the 
 post-house nor at any of the inns I visited could I find 
 me a spare horse." 
 
 "Monsieur," she cried, "I see the hand of Condil- 
 lac in this." 
 
 "As how?" he inquired, and his tone again was 
 quickened by impatience. 
 
 "They have anticipated you. They seek to keep 
 you here — to keep us in Grenoble." 
 
 "But to what end?" he asked, his impatience grow- 
 ing. "The Auberge de France has promised me a car- 
 riage in the morning. What shall it avail them at 
 Condillac to keep us here to-night?" 
 
 "They may have some project. Oh, monsieur! I 
 am full of fears." 
 
 "Dismiss them," he answered lightly; and to reas- 
 sure her he added, smiling: "Rest assured we shall 
 keep good watch over you, Rabecque and I and 
 the troopers. A guard shall remain in the passage 
 throughout the night. Rabecque and I will take turn 
 about at sentry-go. Will that give you peace?" 
 
 "You are very good," she said, her voice quivering 
 with feeling and real gratitude, and as he was depart- 
 ing she called after him. " You will be careful of your- 
 self," she said. 
 
 He paused under the lintel, and turned, surprised. 
 "It is a habit of mine," said he, with a glint of humour 
 in his eye. 
 
 But there was no answering smile from her. Her 
 face was all anxiety. 
 
 "Beware of pitfalls," she bade him. "Go warily; 
 they are cruelly cunning, those folk of Condillac. And 
 if evil should befall you . . ." 
 
GARNACHE KEEPS HIS TEMPER 
 
 87 
 
 "There would still remain Rabecque and the 
 troopers," he concluded. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "I implore you to be 
 careful," she insisted. 
 
 "You may depend upon me," he said, and closed 
 the door. 
 
 Outside he called Rabecque, and together they 
 went below. But mindful of her fears, he dispatched 
 one of the troopers to stand sentry outside her door 
 whilst he and his lackey supped. That done, he called 
 the host, and set himself at table, Rabecque at his 
 elbow in attendance to hand him the dishes and pour 
 his wine. 
 
 Across the low-ceilinged room the four travellers 
 still sat in talk, and as Garnache seated himself, one 
 of them shouted for the host and asked in an im- 
 patient tone to know if his supper was soon to come. 
 
 "In a moment, sir," answered the landlord respect- 
 fully, and he turned again to the Parisian. He went 
 out to bring the latter's meal, and whilst he was gone 
 Rabecque heard from his master the reason of their 
 remaining that night in Grenoble. The inference 
 drawn by the astute lackey — and freely expressed 
 by him — from the lack of horses or carriages in 
 Grenoble that night, coincided oddly with Valerie's. 
 He too gave it as his opinion that his master had been 
 forestalled by the Dowager's people, and without pre- 
 suming to advise Garnache to go warily — a piece of 
 advice that Garnache would have resented, to the 
 extent perhaps of boxing the fellow's ears — he de- 
 termined, there and then, to keep a close watch upon 
 his master, and under no circumstances, if possible, 
 permit him to leave the Sucking Calf that night. 
 
88 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 The host returned, bearing a platter on which there 
 steamed a ragout that gave out an appetizing odour; 
 his wife followed with other dishes and a bottle of 
 Armagnac under her arm. Rabecque busied himself 
 at once, and his hungry master disposed himself to 
 satisfy the healthiest appetite in France, when sud- 
 denly a shadow fell across the table. A man had come 
 to stand beside it, his body screening the light of one 
 of the lamps that hung from a rafter of the ceiling. 
 
 "At last!" he exclaimed, and his voice was harsh 
 with ill-humour. 
 
 Garnache looked up, pausing in the very act of 
 helping himself to that ragout. Rabecque looked up 
 from behind his master, and his lips tightened. The 
 host looked up from the act of drawing the cork of the 
 flagon he had taken from his wife, and his eyes grew 
 big as in his mind he prepared a judicious blend of 
 apology and remonstrance wherewith to soothe this 
 very impatient gentleman. But before he could 
 speak, Garnache's voice cut sharply into the silence. 
 An interruption at such a moment vexed him sorely. 
 
 "Monsieur says?" quoth he. 
 
 "To you, sir — nothing," answered the fellow im- 
 pudently, and looked him straight between the eyes. 
 
 With a flush mounting to his cheeks, and his brows 
 drawn together in perplexity, Garnache surveyed 
 him. He was that same traveller who had lately clam- 
 oured to know when he might sup, a man of rather 
 more than middle height, lithe and active of frame, 
 yet with a breadth of shoulder and depth of chest 
 that argued strength and endurance as well. He had 
 fair, wavy hair, which he wore rather longer than was 
 the mode, brown eyes, and a face which, without 
 
GARNACHE KEEPS HIS TEMPER 
 
 89 
 
 being handsome, was yet more than ordinarily engag- 
 ing by virtue of its strength and frank ingenuousness. 
 His dress was his worst feature. It was flamboyant 
 and showy; cheap, and tawdrily pretentious. Yet 
 he bore himself with the easy dignity of a man who 
 counts more inferiors than superiors. 
 
 Despite the arrogant manner of his address, Gar- 
 nache felt prepossessed in the newcomer's favour. But 
 before he could answer him, the host was speaking. 
 
 "Monsieur mistakes . . ." he began. 
 
 "Mistakes?" thundered the other in an accent 
 slightly foreign. "It is you who mistake if you pro- 
 pose to tell me that this is not my supper. Am I to 
 wait all night, while every jackanapes who follows me 
 into your pigsty is to be served before me?" 
 
 "Jackanapes?" said Garnache thoughtfully, and 
 looked the man in the face again. Behind the stranger 
 pressed his three companions now, whilst the troopers 
 across the room forgot their card-play to watch the 
 altercation that seemed to impend. 
 
 The foreigner — for such, indeed, his French pro- 
 claimed him — turned half-con temptuously to the 
 host, ignoring Garnache with an air that was studi- 
 ously offensive. 
 
 "Jackanapes?" murmured Garnache again, and he, 
 too, turned to the host. "Tell me, Monsieur VHote" 
 said he, "where do the jackanapes bury their dead in 
 Grenoble? I may need the information." 
 
 Before the distressed landlord could utter a word, 
 the stranger had wheeled about again to face Gar- 
 nache. "What shall that mean?" he asked sharply, a 
 great fierceness in his glance. 
 
 "That Grenoble may be witnessing the funeral of 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 a foreign bully by to-morrow, Monsieur VEtranger" 
 said Garnache, snowing his teeth in a pleasant smile. 
 He became conscious in that moment of a pressure on 
 his shoulder blade, but paid no heed to it, intent on 
 watching the other's countenance. It expressed sur- 
 prise a moment, then grew dark with anger. 
 
 "Do you mean that for me, sir?" he growled. 
 
 Garnache spread his hands. "If monsieur feels 
 that the cap fits him, I shall not stay him in the act of 
 donning it." 
 
 The stranger set one hand upon the table, and 
 leaned forward towards Garnache. "May I ask mon- 
 sieur to be a little more definite?" he begged. 
 
 Garnache sat back in his chair and surveyed the 
 man, smiling. Quick though his temper usually might 
 be, it was checked at present by amusement. He had 
 seen in his time many quarrels spring from the flimsi- 
 est of motives, but surely never had he seen one quite 
 so self-begotten. It was almost as if the fellow had 
 come there of set purpose to pick it with him. 
 
 A suspicion flashed across his mind. He remem- 
 bered the warning mademoiselle had given him. And 
 he wondered. Was this a trick to lure him to some 
 guet-apens? He surveyed his man more closely; but 
 the inspection lent no colour to his suspicions. The 
 stranger looked so frank and honest; then again his 
 accent was foreign. It might very well be that he was 
 some Savoyard lordling unused to being kept waiting, 
 and that his hunger made him irritable and impatient. 
 If that were so, assuredly the fellow deserved a lesson 
 that should show him he was now in France, where 
 different manners obtained to those that he dis- 
 played; yet, lest he should be something else, Gar- 
 
GARNACHE KEEPS HIS TEMPER 
 
 nache determined to pursue a policy of conciliation. 
 It would be a madness to embroil himself just then, 
 whether this fellow were of Condillac or not. 
 
 "I have asked you, monsieur," the stranger in- 
 sisted, "to be a little more definite." 
 
 Garnache's smile broadened and grew more 
 friendly. "Frankly," said he, "I experience diffi- 
 culty. My remark was vague. I meant it so to be." 
 
 "But it offended me, monsieur," the other an- 
 swered sharply. 
 
 The Parisian raised his eyebrows, and pursed his 
 lips. "Then I deplore it," said he. And now he had to 
 endure the hardest trial of all. The stranger's expres- 
 sion changed to one of wondering scorn. 
 
 "Do I understand that monsieur apologizes?" 
 
 Garnache felt himself crimsoning; his self-control 
 was slipping from him; the pressure against his 
 shoulder blade was renewed, and in time he became 
 aware of it and knew it for a warning from Ra- 
 becque. 
 
 "I cannot conceive, sir, that I have offended," said 
 he at length, keeping a tight hand upon his every 
 instinct — which was to knock this impertinent 
 stranger down. " But if I have, I beg that you will 
 believe that I have done so unwittingly. I had no 
 such intent." 
 
 The stranger removed his hand from the table and 
 drew himself erect. 
 
 "So much for that, then," said he, provokingly 
 contemptuous. "If you will be as amiable in the mat- 
 ter of the supper I shall be glad to terminate an 
 acquaintance which I can see no honour to myself in 
 
92 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 This, Garnache felt, was more than he could en- 
 dure. A spasm of passion crossed his face, another 
 instant and despite Rabecque's frantic proddings he 
 might have flung the ragout in the gentleman's face, 
 when suddenly came the landlord unexpectedly to the 
 rescue. 
 
 "Monsieur, here comes your supper now," he an- 
 nounced, as his wife reentered from the kitchen with 
 a laden tray. 
 
 For a moment the stranger seemed out of counte- 
 nance. Then he looked with cold insolence from the 
 dishes set before Garnache to those which were being 
 set for himself. 
 
 "Ah," said he, and his tone was an insult unsur- 
 passable, "perhaps it is to be preferred. This ragout 
 grows cold, I think." 
 
 He sniffed, and turning on his heel, without word or 
 sign of salutation to Garnache, he passed to the next 
 table, and sat down with his companions. The Pari- 
 sian's eyes followed him, and they blazed with sup- 
 pressed wrath. Never in all his life had he exercised 
 such self-control as he was exercising then — which 
 was the reason why he had failed to achieve greatness 
 — and he was exercising it for the sake of that child 
 above-stairs, and because he kept ever-present in his 
 mind the thought that she must come to grievous 
 harm if ill befell himself. But he controlled his pas- 
 sion at the cost of his appetite. He could not eat, so 
 enraged was he. And so he pushed the platter from 
 him, and rose. 
 
 He turned to Rabecque, and the sight of his face 
 sent the lackey back a pace or two in very fear. He 
 waved his hand to the table. 
 
GARNACHE KEEPS HIS TEMPER 
 
 93 
 
 "Sup, Rabecque," said he. "Then come to me 
 above." 
 
 And followed, as before, by the eyes of the stranger 
 and his companions, Garnache strode out of the room, 
 and mounting the stairs went to find solace in talk 
 with Valerie. But however impossible he might find 
 it to digest the affront he had swallowed, no word of 
 the matter did he utter to the girl, lest it should cause 
 her fears to reawaken. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 
 
 GARNACHE spent a sleepless night at Grenoble, 
 on guard throughout the greater part of it — ■ 
 since nothing short of that would appease the fears of 
 Valerie. Yet it passed without any bellicose mani- 
 festation on the part of the Condillacs such as Valerie 
 feared and such as Garnache was satisfied would not 
 — could not, indeed — take place. 
 
 Betimes next morning he dispatched Rabecque to 
 the Auberge de France for the promised carriage, and 
 broke his fast in the common-room what time he 
 awaited his man's return. The chamber was again 
 occupied by the stranger of yesternight, who sat 
 apart, however, and seemed no longer disposed to 
 interfere with the Parisian. Garnache wondered idly, 
 might this be due to the circumstance that that same 
 stranger was supported now by one single companion, 
 and was therefore less valorous than when he had 
 been in the company of three. 
 
 At another table were two gentlemen, sprung he 
 knew not whence, quiet in dress and orderly in man- 
 ner, to whom he paid little heed until one of them — 
 a slender, swarthy, hawk-faced fellow — looking up 
 suddenly, started slightly at sight of the Parisian and 
 addressed him instantly by name. Garnache paused 
 in the act of rising from table, half-turned, and 
 sharply scrutinized the swarthy gentleman, but failed 
 to recognize him. He advanced towards him. 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 
 
 "I have the honour to be known to you, mon- 
 sieur?" he half-stated, half-inquired. 
 
 " Parbleu y Monsieur de Garnache!" exclaimed the 
 other with a ready smile, the more winning since it 
 lighted up a face that at rest was very sombre. 
 "Lives there a Parisian to whom you are not known? 
 I have seen you often at the Hotel de Bourgogne." 
 
 Garnache acknowledged the courtesy by a slight 
 inclination of the head. 
 
 "And once," continued the other, "I had the hon- 
 our to be presented to you by Monsieur le Due him- 
 self. My name is Gaubert — Fabre Gaubert." And 
 as he introduced himself he rose out of respect for 
 Garnache, who had remained standing. Garnache 
 knew him not at all, yet never doubted that his tale 
 was true; the fellow had a very courtly, winning air; 
 moreover, Garnache was beginning to feel lonely in 
 the wilds of Dauphiny, so that it rejoiced him to come 
 into the company of one whom he might regard as 
 something of a fellow-creature. He held out his hand. 
 
 " I am honoured in that you should have borne me 
 in your memory, monsieur," said he. He was about 
 to add that he would be overjoyed if it should happen 
 that Monsieur Gaubert was travelling to Paris, since 
 he might give himself the pleasure of his company on 
 that tedious journey; but he checked himself betimes. 
 He had no reason to suspect this gentleman; and yet, 
 all things considered, he bethought him suddenly 
 that he would do well to observe the greatest circum- 
 spection. So with a pleasant but meaningless civility 
 touching Monsieur Gaubert's presence in those parts, 
 Garnache passed on and gained the door. He paused 
 in the porch, above which the rebus-like sign of the 
 
96 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Sucking Calf creaked and grated in each gust of the 
 chill wind that was blowing from the Alps. The rain 
 had ceased, but the sky was dark and heavy with 
 great banks of scudding clouds. In the street the men 
 of his escort sat their horses, having mounted at his 
 bidding in readiness for the journey. A word or two 
 he exchanged with the sergeant, and then with a 
 great rumble the clumsy carriage from the Auberge 
 de France heralded its approach. It rolled up the 
 street, a vast machine of wood and leather, drawn by 
 three horses, and drew up at the door of the inn. Out 
 sprang Rabecque, to be immediately sent by his 
 master to summon mademoiselle. They would set 
 out upon the instant. 
 
 Rabecque turned to obey; but in that same mo- 
 ment he was thrust rudely aside by a man with the 
 air of a servant, who issued from the inn carrying a 
 valise; after him, following close upon his heels, with 
 head held high and eyes that looked straight before 
 him and took no heed of Garnache, came the for- 
 eigner of yesternight. 
 
 Rabecque, his shoulders touching the timbers of 
 the porch, against which he had been thrust, re- 
 mained at gaze, following with resentful eye the fel- 
 low who had so rudely used him. Garnache, on the 
 other side, watched with some wonder the advent of 
 the ingenuous-looking stranger, but as yet with no 
 suspicion of his intent. 
 
 Not until the servant had thrown open the door of 
 the coach and deposited within the valise he carried, 
 did Garnache stir. Not, indeed, until the foreigner's 
 foot was on the step preparatory to mounting did 
 Garnache speak. 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 
 
 97 
 
 "Hi! monsieur," he called to him, "what is your 
 pleasure with my carriage?" 
 
 The stranger turned, and stared at Garnache with a 
 look of wonder that artfully changed to one of dis- 
 dainful recognition. 
 
 "Ah?" said he, and his eyebrows went up. "The 
 apologetic gentleman! You said?" 
 
 Garnache approached him, followed a step not only 
 by Rabecque, but also by Monsieur Gaubert, who 
 had sauntered out a second earlier. Behind them, in 
 the porch, lounged now the foreigner's friend, and be- 
 hind him again was to be seen the great face and star- 
 ing, somewhat startled eyes of the landlord. 
 
 "Tasked you, monsieur," said Garnache, already 
 at grips with that quick temper of his, "what might 
 be your pleasure with my coach?" 
 
 u With your coach?" echoed the other, his super- 
 ciliousness waxing more and more offensive*. "Voy- 
 onsl my apologetic friend, do all things in Grenoble 
 belong to you?" He turned to the post-boy, who 
 looked on stolidly. "You are from the Auberge de 
 France, are you not?" quoth he. 
 
 "I am, monsieur," replied the man. "This carriage 
 was ordered last night by a gentleman lodging at the 
 Veau qui Tete?" 
 
 "Perfectly," replied the stranger, in a tone of 
 finality. "It was ordered by me." And he was about 
 to turn away, when Garnache approached him by yet 
 another step. 
 
 "I will ask you to observe, monsieur," said he — 
 and for all that his tone and words were civil, that 
 they were forcedly so was obvious from their quiver 
 — "I will ask you to observe that the carriage 
 
98 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 was fetched by my own man there, who rode hither 
 in it." 
 
 The stranger looked him up and down with a curl- 
 ing lip. 
 
 "It seems, sir," said he, with a broad sneer, "that 
 you are one of those impertinent fellows who will bs 
 for ever thrusting themselves upon gentlemen with an 
 eye to such profit as they can make." He produced a 
 purse and opened it. "Last night it was my supper 
 you usurped. I suffered that. Now you would do the 
 same by my coach, and that I shall not suffer. But 
 there is for your pains, and to be quit of your com- 
 pany." And he tossed a silver coin at the Parisian. 
 
 There was an exclamation of horror in the back- 
 ground, and Monsieur de Gaubert thrust himself for- 
 ward. 
 
 "Sir, sir," he exclaimed in an agitated voice, "you 
 cannot know whom you are addressing. This is Mon- 
 sieur Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache, Mestre-de- 
 Champ in the army of the King." 
 
 "Of all those names the one I should opine might 
 fit him best, but for his ugliness, is that of Marie," 
 answered the foreigner, leering, and with a contemp- 
 tuous shrug he turned again to mount the carriage. 
 
 At that all Garnache's self-control deserted him, 
 and he did a thing deplorable. In one of his blind ac- 
 cesses of fury, heedless of the faithful and watchful 
 Rabecque's arresting tug at his sleeve, he stepped 
 forward, and brought a heavy hand down upon the 
 supercilious gentleman's shoulder. He took him in 
 the instant in which, with one foot off the ground and 
 the other on the step of the carriage, the foreigner 
 was easily thrown off his balance; he dragged him 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 
 
 99 
 
 violently backward, span him round and dropped 
 him floundering in the mire of the street-kennel. 
 
 That done, there fell a pause — a hush that was 
 ominous of things impending. A little crowd of idlers 
 that had gathered was quickly augmenting now, and 
 from some there came a cry of "Shame!" at Gar- 
 nache's act of violence. 
 
 This is no moment at which to pause to moralize. 
 And yet, how often is it not so? How often does not 
 public sympathy go out to the man who has been 
 assaulted without thought of the extent to which that 
 man may have provoked and goaded his assailant. 
 
 That cry of "Shame!" did no more than increase 
 the anger that was mastering Garnache. His mission 
 in Grenoble was forgotten; mademoiselle above-stairs 
 was forgotten; the need for caution and the fear of 
 the Condillacs were forgotten; everything was thrust 
 from his mind but the situation of the moment. 
 
 Amid the hush that followed, the stranger picked 
 himself slowly up, and sought to wipe the filth from 
 his face and garments. His servant and his friend 
 flew to his aid, but he waved them aside, and ad- 
 vanced towards Garnache, eyes blazing, lips sneering. 
 
 "Perhaps," said he, in that soft, foreign tone of 
 his, laden now with fierce mock-politeness, "perhaps 
 monsieur proposes to apologize again." 
 
 "Sir, you are mad," interposed Gaubert. "You are 
 a foreigner, I perceive, else you would — " 
 
 But Garnache thrust him quietly aside. "You are 
 very kind, Monsieur Gaubert," said he, and his man- 
 ner now was one of frozen calm — a manner that be- 
 trayed none of the frenzy of seething passion under- 
 neath. "I think, sir," said he to the stranger, adopt- 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 ing something of that gentleman's sardonic manner, 
 "that it will be a more peaceful world without you. 
 It is that consideration restrains me from apologizing. 
 And yet, if monsieur will express regret for having 
 sought, and with such lack of manners, to appropri- 
 ate my carriage — " 
 
 "Enough!" broke in the other. "We are wasting 
 time, and I have a long journey before me. Cour- 
 thon," said he, addressing his friend, "will you bring 
 me the length of this gentleman's sword? My name, 
 sir," he added to Garnache, "is Sanguinetti." 
 
 "Faith," said Garnache, "it sorts well with your 
 bloody spirit." 
 
 "And will sort well, no doubt, with his condition 
 presently," put in hawk-faced Gaubert. "Monsieur 
 de Garnache, if you have no friend at hand to act for 
 you, I shall esteem myself honoured." And he bowed. 
 
 "Why, thanks, sir. You are most opportunely met. 
 You should be a gentleman since you frequent the 
 H6tel de Bourgogne. My thanks." 
 
 Gaubert went aside to confer with Monsieur Cour- 
 thon. Sanguinetti stood apart, his manner haughty 
 and impressive, his eye roaming scornfully through 
 the ranks of what had by now become a crowd. Win- 
 dows were opening in the street, and heads appearing, 
 and across the way Garnache might have beheld 
 the flabby face of Monsieur de Tressan among the 
 spectators of that little scene. 
 
 Rabecque drew near his master. 
 
 "Have a care, monsieur," he implored him. "If 
 this should be a trap." 
 
 Garnache started. The remark sobered him, and 
 brought to his mind his own suspicions of yesternight, 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 
 
 which his present anger had for the moment lulled. 
 Still, he conceived that he had gone too far to extri- 
 cate himself. But he could at least see to it that he 
 was not drawn away from the place that sheltered 
 mademoiselle. And so he stepped forward, joining 
 Courthon and Gaubert, to insist that the combat 
 should take place in the inn — either in the common- 
 room or in the yard. But the landlord, overhearing 
 this, protested loudly that he could not consent to it. 
 He had his house to think of. He swore that they 
 should not fight on his premises, and implored them 
 in the same breath not to attempt it. 
 
 At that Garnache, now thoroughly on his guard, 
 was for putting off the encounter. 
 
 "Monsieur Courthon," said he — and he felt a 
 flush of shame mounting to his brow, and realized 
 that it may need more courage to avoid an encounter 
 than to engage in one — "there is something that in 
 the heat of passion I forgot; something that renders it 
 difficult for me to meet your friend at present." 
 
 Courthon looked at him as he might look at an im- 
 pertinent lackey. 
 
 "And what may that be?" he inquired, mightily 
 contemptuous. There was a snigger from some in the 
 crowd that pressed about them, and even Monsieur 
 Gaubert looked askance. 
 
 "Surely, sir," he began, "if I did not know you for 
 Monsieur de Garnache — " 
 
 But Garnache did not let him finish. 
 
 "Give me air," he cried, and cuffed out to right and 
 left of him at the grinning spectators, who fell back 
 and grinned less broadly. "My reason, Monsieur de 
 Courthon," said he, "is that I do not belong to my- 
 
io2 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 self at present. I am in Grenoble on business of the 
 State, as the emissary of the Queen-Regent, and so it 
 would hardly become me to engage in private quar- 
 rels." 
 
 Courthon raised his brows. 
 
 "You should have thought of that before you rolled 
 Monsieur Sanguinetti in the mud," he answered 
 coldly. 
 
 "I will tender him my apologies for that," Gar- 
 nache promised, swallowing hard, "and if he still in- 
 sists upon a meeting he shall have it in, say, a month's 
 time." 
 
 "I cannot permit — " began Courthon, very 
 fiercely. 
 
 "You will be so good as to inform your friend of 
 what I have said," Garnache insisted, interrupting 
 him. 
 
 Cowed, Courthon shrugged and went apart to con- 
 fer with his friend. 
 
 "Ah!" came Sanguinetti's soft voice, yet loud 
 enough to be heard by all present. "He shall have 
 a caning then for his impertinence." And he called 
 loudly to the post-boy for his whip. But at that insult 
 Garnache's brain seemed to take fire, and his cautious 
 resolutions were reduced to ashes by the conflagra- 
 tion. He stepped forward, and, virulent of tone and 
 terrific of mien, he announced that since Monsieur 
 Sanguinetti took that tone with him, he would cut 
 his throat for him at once and wherever they should 
 please. 
 
 At last it was arranged that they should proceed 
 there and then to the Champs aux Capuchins, a half- 
 mile away behind the Franciscan convent. 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 103 
 
 Accordingly they set out, Sanguinetti and Cour- 
 thon going first, and Garnache following with Gau- 
 bert; the rear being brought up by a regiment of 
 rabble, idlers and citizens, that must have repre- 
 sented a very considerable proportion of the popula- 
 tion of Grenoble. This audience heartened Garnache, 
 to whom some measure of reflection had again re- 
 turned. Before such numbers it was unthinkable that 
 1 these gentlemen — assuming them to be acting on 
 behalf of Condillac — should dare to attempt foul 
 measures with him. For the rest he had taken the 
 precaution of leaving Rabecque at the Sucking Calf, 
 and he had given the sergeant strict injunctions that 
 he was not to allow any of his men to leave their posts 
 during his absence, and that the troopers were to hold 
 themselves entirely at the orders of Rabecque. Com- 
 paratively easy therefore in his mind, and but little 
 exercised by any thought of the coming encounter, 
 Garnache walked briskly along. 
 
 They came at last to the Champs aux Capuchins — 
 a pleasant stretch of verdure covering perhaps half an 
 acre and set about by a belt of beech-trees. 
 
 The crowd disposed itself on the fringe of the 
 sward, and the duellists went forward, and set about 
 the preparations. Principals and seconds threw off 
 cloak and doublet, and Sanguinetti, Courthon, and 
 Gaubert removed their heavy boots, whilst Garnache 
 did no more than detach the spurs from his. 
 
 Sanguinetti, observing this, drew the attention of 
 the others to it, and an altercation arose. It was 
 Gaubert who came to beg Garnache that he should 
 follow the example they had set him in that respect. 
 But Garnache shook his head. 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "The turf is sodden." 
 
 "But it is precisely on that account, sir," protested 
 Gaubert very earnestly. "In your boots you will be 
 unable to stand firm; you will run the risk of slipping 
 every time that you break ground." 
 
 "I venture to think, sir, that that is my affair," 
 said Garnache stiffly. 
 
 "But it is not," the other cried. "If you fight in 
 your boots, we must all do the same, and for myself 
 — well, I have not come here to commit suicide." 
 
 "Look you, Monsieur Gaubert," said Garnache 
 quietly, "your opponent will be Monsieur Courthon, 
 and since he is in his stockinged feet, there is no rea- 
 son why you yourself should not remain so too. As 
 for me, I retain my boots, and Monsieur Sanguinetti 
 may have all the advantage that may give him. 
 Since I am content, in Heaven's name let the fight go 
 forward. I am in haste." 
 
 Gaubert bowed in submission; but Sanguinetti, 
 who had overheard, turned with an oath. 
 
 "By God, no!" said he. "I need no such advan- 
 tage, sir. Courthon, be so good as to help me on with 
 my boots again." And there was a fresh delay whilst 
 he resumed them. 
 
 At last, however, the four men came together, and 
 proceeded to the measurement of swords. It was 
 found that Sanguinetti's was two inches longer than 
 any of the other three. 
 
 "It is the usual length in Italy," said Sanguinetti 
 with a shrug. 
 
 "If monsieur had realized that he was no longer in 
 Italy, we might perhaps have been spared this very 
 foolish business," answered Garnache testily. 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 
 
 105 
 
 "But what are we to do?" cried the perplexed 
 Gaubert. 
 
 "Fight," said Garnache impatiently. "Is there 
 never to be an end to these preliminaries?" 
 
 "But I cannot permit you to oppose yourself to 
 a sword two inches longer than your own," cried 
 Gaubert, almost in a temper. 
 
 "Why not, if I am satisfied?" asked Garnache. 
 "Mine is the longer reach; thus matters will stand 
 equal." 
 
 "Equal?" roared Gaubert. "Your longer reach is 
 an advantage that you had from God, his longer 
 sword is one he had from an armourer. Is that 
 equality?" 
 
 "He may have my sword, and I'll take his," cut in 
 the Italian, also showing impatience. "I too am in 
 haste." 
 
 "In haste to die, then," snapped Gaubert. 
 "Monsieur, this is not seemly," Courthon reproved 
 him. 
 
 "You shall teach me manners when we engage," 
 snapped the hawk-faced gentleman. 
 
 "Sirs, sirs," Garnache implored them, "are we to 
 waste the day in words ? Monsieur Gaubert, there are 
 several gentlemen yonder wearing swords; I make no 
 doubt that you will find one whose blade is of the 
 same length as your own, sufficiently obliging to lend 
 it to Monsieur Sanguinetti." 
 
 "That is an office that my friend can do for me," 
 interposed Sanguinetti, and thereupon Courthon de- 
 parted, to return presently with a borrowed weapon 
 of the proper length. 
 
 At last it seemed that they might proceed with the 
 
io6 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 business upon which they were come; but Garnache 
 was wrong in so supposing. A discussion now arose 
 between Gaubert and Courthon as to the choice of 
 spot. The turf was drenched and slippery, and for 
 all that they moved from place to place testing the 
 ground, their principals following, nowhere could 
 they find the conditions sufficiently improved to de- 
 cide upon engaging. To Garnache the futility of this 
 was apparent from the first. If these gentlemen had 
 thought to avoid slippery ground, they should have 
 elected to appoint the meeting elsewhere. But hav- 
 ing chosen the Champs aux Capuchins, it was idle to 
 expect that one stretch of turf would prove firmer 
 than another. 
 
 Wearied at last by this delay, he gave expression to 
 his thoughts. 
 
 "You are quite right, monsieur," said Courthon. 
 "But your second is over-fastidious. It would sim- 
 plify matters so much if you would remove your 
 boots." 
 
 "Look you, sirs," said Garnache, taking a firm 
 stand, "I will engage in my boots and on this very 
 spot or not at all. I have told you that I am in haste. 
 As for the slipperiness of the ground, my opponent 
 will run no greater risks than I. I am not the only 
 impatient one. The spectators are beginning to jeer 
 at us. We shall have every scullion in Grenoble pres- 
 ently saying that we are afraid of one another. Be- 
 sides which, sirs, I think I am taking cold." 
 
 "I am quite of monsieur's mind, myself," drawled 
 Sanguinetti. 
 
 "You hear, sir," exclaimed Courthon, turning to 
 Gaubert. "You can scarce persist in finding objec- 
 tions now." 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 
 
 "Why, since all are satisfied, so be it," said Gau- 
 bert, with a shrug. "I sought to do the best for my 
 principal. As it is, I wash my hands of all respon- 
 sibility, and by all means let us engage, sirs." 
 
 They disposed themselves accordingly, Gaubert en- 
 gaging Courthon, on Garnache's right hand, and 
 Garnache himself falling on guard to receive the at- 
 tack of Sanguinetti. The jeers and murmurs that 
 had been rising from the ever-growing crowd that 
 swarmed about the outskirts of the place fell silent as 
 the clatter of meeting swords rang out at last. And 
 then, scarce were they engaged when a voice arose, 
 calling angrily: 
 
 "Hold, Sanguinetti! Wait!" 
 
 A big, broad-shouldered man, in a suit of home- 
 spun and a featherless hat, thrust his way rudely 
 through the crowd and broke into the space within 
 the belt of trees. The combatants had fallen apart at 
 this commanding cry, and the newcomer now dashed 
 forward, flushed and out of breath as if with run- 
 
 " Vertudieu! Sanguinetti," he swore, and his man- 
 ner was half-angry, half-bantering; "do you call this 
 friendship?" 
 
 "My dear Francois," returned the foreigner, "you 
 arrive most inopportunely." 
 
 "And is that all the greeting you have for me?" 
 
 Looking more closely, Garnache thought that he 
 recognized in him one of Sanguinetti's companions of 
 yesternight. 
 
 "But do you not see that I am engaged?" 
 
 "Ay; and that is my grievance that you should be 
 engaged upon such an affair, and that I should have 
 
io8 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 no share in it. It is to treat me like a lackey, and I 
 have the right to feel offended. Enfin! It seems I am 
 not come too late." 
 
 Garnache cut in. He saw the drift of the fellow's 
 intentions, and he was not minded to submit to fresh 
 delays; already more than half an hour was sped since 
 he had left the Sucking Calf. He put it plainly to 
 them that more than enough delay had there been 
 already and he begged the newcomer to stand aside 
 and allow them to terminate the business on which 
 they were met. But Monsieur Francois — as San- 
 guinetti had called him — would not hear of it. He 
 proved, indeed, a very testy fellow, and he had, more- 
 over, the support of the others, including even Mon- 
 sieur Gaubert. 
 
 "Let me implore you not to spoil sport, sir," the 
 latter begged Garnache. "I have a friend at the inn 
 who would never forgive me if I permitted him to 
 miss such a morning's diversion as this gentleman is 
 willing to afford him. Suffer me to go for him." 
 
 "Look you, sir," answered Garnache sharply, 
 "however you may view this meeting, it is not with 
 me an affair of jest or sport. I am in a quarrel that 
 has been forced upon me, and - — " 
 
 "Surely not, sir," Courthon interrupted sweetly. 
 "You forget that you rolled Monsieur Sanguinetti in 
 the mud. That is hardly to have a quarrel forced 
 upon you." 
 
 Garnache bit his lip to the blood in his vexation. 
 
 "However the quarrel may have originated," said 
 Francois, with a great laugh, "I swear that it goes not 
 forward until I am accommodated, too." 
 
 "You had better accede, monsieur," murmured 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 
 
 Gaubert. "I shall not be gone five minutes, and it 
 will save time in the end." 
 
 "Oh, very well," cried poor Garnache in his despair. 
 "Anything to save time; anything! In God's name 
 fetch your friend, and I hope you and he and every 
 man here will get his fill of fighting for once." 
 
 Gaubert departed on his errand, and there were 
 fresh murmurs in the mob until the reason of his going 
 was understood. Five minutes sped; ten minutes, and 
 yet he returned not. Grouped together were San- 
 guinetti and his two friends, in easy, whispered talk. 
 At a little distance from them, Garnache paced up 
 and down to keep himself warm. He had thrown his 
 cloak over his shoulders again, and with sword tucked 
 under arm and head thrust forward, he stamped back- 
 wards and forwards, the very picture of ill-humour. 
 Fifteen minutes passed; twelve o'clock boomed from 
 the Church of Saint Francois d'Assisi and still Mon- 
 sieur Gaubert returned not. Garnache stood still a 
 moment, in angry thought. This must not go on. 
 There must be an end, and at once. The tastes and 
 inclinations of brawlers were no concern of his. He 
 had business of State — however unworthy — to dis- 
 patch. He turned, intending to demand of Monsieur 
 Sanguinetti that they should engage at once and be 
 done, when suddenly a fellow roughly dressed, with 
 dirty face and a shock head of fair hair, pushed his 
 way through the throng and advanced towards Mon- 
 sieur Sanguinetti and his friends. Garnache checked 
 in his movement to look at the fellow, for he recog- 
 nized in him the ostler of the Auberge de France. He 
 spoke at that moment, and Garnache overheard the 
 words he uttered. 
 
no SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "Monsieur Sanguinetti," said he, addressing that 
 gentleman, "my master sends to inquire if you shall 
 want the carriage you ordered for to-day. It has been 
 standing for an hour at the door of the Auberge de 
 France, awaiting you, and if you don't want it — " 
 
 "Standing where?" asked Sanguinetti harshly. 
 
 "At the door of the Auberge de France." 
 
 "Peste, fool!" cried the foreigner, "why is it there, 
 when I bade it be sent to the Sucking Calf?" 
 
 "I don't know, sir. I know no more than Monsieur 
 THote told me." 
 
 "Now, a plague on Monsieur VHote" swore San- 
 guinetti, and in that moment his eye fell upon Gar- 
 nache, standing there, attentive. At sight of the Pari- 
 sian he seemed lost in confusion. He dropped his 
 glance and appeared on the point of turning aside. 
 Then to the ostler: "I shall want the carriage, and I 
 shall come for it anon. Carry that message to your 
 master." And with that he turned and advanced to 
 Garnache. His whilom arrogance was all fallen from 
 him; he wore instead an air of extreme contrition. 
 
 "Monsieur, what shall I say to you?" he asked in a 
 voice that was rather small. " It seems there has been 
 an error. I am deeply grieved, believe me — " 
 
 "Say no more, I beg," cried Garnache, immensely 
 relieved that at last there should be a conclusion to an 
 affair which had threatened to be interminable. "Let 
 me but express my regrets for the treatment you re- 
 ceived at my hands." 
 
 "I accept your expressions, and I admire their 
 generosity," returned the other as courteous now — 
 as subservient, indeed, in his courtesy — as he had 
 been erstwhile fierce and intractable. "As for the 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TRAP 
 
 in 
 
 treatment I received, I confess that my mistake and 
 my opinionativeness deserved it me. I deplore to de- 
 prive these gentlemen of the entertainment to which 
 they were looking forward, but unless you should 
 prove of an excessive amiability I am afraid they 
 must suffer with me the consequences of my error." 
 
 Garnache assured him very briefly, and none too 
 politely that he did not intend to prove of any exces- 
 sive amiability. He spoke whilst struggling into his 
 doublet. He felt that he could cheerfully have caned 
 the fellow for the inconvenience he had caused him, 
 and yet he realized that he had other more pressing 
 matters to attend to. He sheathed his sword, took up 
 his cloak and hat, made those gentlemen the com- 
 pliments that became the occasion, in terms a trifle 
 more brief, perhaps, than were usual, and, still won- 
 dering why Monsieur de Gaubert had not yet re- 
 turned, he stalked briskly away. Followed by the 
 booings of the disappointed crowd, he set out for the 
 Sucking Calf at a sharp pace, taking the shorter way 
 behind the Church and across the graveyard of Saint 
 Francois. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE CLOSING OF THE TRAP 
 
 UPON leaving the Champs aux Capuchins, hawk- 
 faced Monsieur Gaubert had run every foot of 
 the way to the Sucking Calf, and he had arrived there 
 within some five minutes, out of breath and wearing 
 every appearance of distress — of a distress rather 
 greater than his haste to find his friend should war- 
 rant. 
 
 At the door of the inn he found the carriage still 
 waiting; the post-boy, however, was in the porch, 
 leaning in talk with one of the drawers. The troop- 
 ers sat their horses in stolid patience, keeping guard, 
 and awaiting, as they had been bidden, the return of 
 Monsieur de Garnache. Rabecque, very watchful, 
 lounged in the doorway, betraying in his air none of 
 the anxiety and impatience with which he looked for 
 his master. 
 
 At sight of Monsieur Gaubert, running so breath- 
 lessly, he started forward, wondering and uneasy. 
 Across the street, from the Palais Seneschal, came at 
 that same moment Monsieur de Tressan with rolling 
 gait. He reached the door of the inn together with 
 Monsieur Gaubert. 
 
 Full of evil forebodings, Rabecque hailed the 
 runner. 
 
 "What has happened?" he cried. "Where is Mon- 
 sieur de Garnache?" 
 
 Gaubert came to a staggering halt; he groaned and 
 wrung his hands. 
 
THE CLOSING OF THE TRAP 
 
 "Killed!" he panted, rocking himself in a passion 
 of distress. "He has been butchered! Oh! it was 
 horrible!' 
 
 Rabecque gripped him by the shoulder, and stead- 
 ied him with a hand that hurt. "What do you say?" 
 he gasped, his face white to the lips. 
 
 Tressan halted, too, and turned upon Gaubert, a 
 look of incredulity in his fat countenance. "Who has 
 been killed?" he asked. "Not Monsieur de Gar- 
 nache?' 
 
 "He/as! yes," groaned the other. "It was a snare, 
 a guet-apens to which they led us. Four of them set 
 upon us in the Champs aux Capuchins. As long as he 
 lived, I stood beside him. But seeing him fallen, I 
 come for help." 
 
 "My God!" sobbed Rabecque, and loosed his grasp 
 of Monsieur Gaubert's shoulder. 
 
 "Who did it?" inquired Tressan, and his voice 
 rumbled fiercely. 
 
 "I know not who they were. The man who picked 
 the quarrel with Monsieur de Garnache called him- 
 self Sanguinetti. There is a riot down there at pres- 
 ent. There was a crowd to witness the combat, 
 and they have fallen to fighting among themselves. 
 Would to Heaven they had stirred in time to save 
 that poor gentleman from being murdered." 
 
 "A riot, did you say?" cried Tressan, the official 
 seeming to awaken in him. 
 
 "Aye," answered the other indifferently; "they are 
 cutting one another's throats." 
 
 "But . . . But . . . Are you sure that he is dead, 
 monsieur?" inquired Rabecque; and his tone was one 
 that implored contradiction- 
 
ii 4 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Gaubert looked and paused, seeming to give the 
 matter a second's thought. "I saw him fall," said he. 
 "It may be that he was no more than wounded." 
 
 "And you left him there?" roared the servant. 
 "You left him there?" 
 
 Gaubert shrugged his shoulders. "What could I 
 do against four? Besides, the crowd was interfering 
 already, and it seemed best to me to come for help. 
 These soldiers, now — " 
 
 "Aye," cut in Tressan, and he turned about and 
 called the sergeant. "This becomes my affair." And 
 he announced his quality to Monsieur Gaubert. "I 
 am the Lord Seneschal of Dauphiny." 
 
 "I am fortunate in rinding you," returned Gaubert, 
 and bowed. "I could place the matter in no better 
 hands." 
 
 But Tressan, without heeding him, was already 
 ordering the sergeant to ride hard with his troopers 
 for the Champs aux Capuchins. Rabecque, however, 
 thrust himself suddenly forward. 
 
 "Not so, Monsieur le Seneschal," he interposed in 
 fresh alarm, and mindful of his charge. "These men 
 are here to guard Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. 
 Let them remain. I will go to Monsieur de Garnache." 
 
 The Seneschal stared at him with contemptuously 
 pouting underlip. "You will go?" said he. "And 
 what can you do alone? Who are you?" he asked. 
 
 "I am Monsieur de Garnache's servant." 
 
 "A lackey? Ah!" And Tressan turned aside and 
 resumed his orders as if Rabecque did not exist or had 
 never spoken. "To the Champs aux Capuchins!" 
 said he. "At the gallop, Pommier! I will send others 
 after you." 
 
THE CLOSING OF THE TRAP 
 
 »5 
 
 The sergeant rose in his stirrups and growled an 
 order. The troopers wheeled about; another order, 
 and they were off, their cantering hoofs thundering 
 down the narrow street. 
 
 Rabecque clutched at the Lord Seneschal's arm. 
 
 "Stop them, monsieur!" he almost screamed in his 
 excitement. "Stop them! There is some snare, some 
 trick in this." 
 
 "Stop tnem?" quoth the Seneschal. "Are you 
 mad ? " He shook off Rabecque's detaining hand, and 
 left him, to cross the street again with ponderous and 
 sluggish haste, no doubt to carry out his purpose of 
 sending more troopers to the scene of the disturbance. 
 
 Rabecque swore angrily and bitterly, and his vexa- 
 tion had two entirely separate sources. On the one 
 hand his anxiety and affection for his master urged 
 him to run at once to his assistance, whilst Tressan's 
 removal of the troopers rendered it impossible for 
 him to leave Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye un- 
 guarded — though what he should do with her if 
 Garnache came not back at all, he did not at this 
 stage pause to consider. On the other hand, an in- 
 stinctive and growing suspicion of this Monsieur 
 Gaubert — who was now entering the inn — inspired 
 him with the opinion that the fat Seneschal had been 
 duped by a wild tale to send the troopers from the 
 spot where they might presently become very neces- 
 sary. 
 
 Full of fears, anxiety, and mistrust, it was a very 
 dispirited Rabecque that now slowly followed Mon- 
 sieur Gaubert into the inn. But as he set his foot 
 across the threshold of the common-room, a sight met 
 his eyes that brought him to a momentary standstill, 
 
n6 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 and turned to certainty all his rising suspicions. He 
 found it tenanted by a half-dozen fellows of very rude 
 aspect, all armed and bearing an odd resemblance in 
 air and accoutrements to the braves he had seen at 
 Condillac the day before. As to how they came there, 
 he could only surmise that they had entered through 
 the stable-yard, as otherwise he must have observed 
 their approach. They were grouped now at the other 
 end of the long, low chamber, by the door leading to 
 the interior of the inn. A few paces distant the land- 
 lord watched them with uneasy eyes. 
 
 But what dismayed Garnache's servant most of all 
 was to see the man who called himself Gaubert stand- 
 ing in talk with a slender, handsome youth, magnifi- 
 cently arrayed, in whom he recognized Marius de 
 Condillac. 
 
 Rabecque checked in his advance, and caught in 
 that moment from Marius the words: "Let her be 
 told that it is Monsieur de Garnache wishes her to 
 descend." 
 
 At that Rabecque stepped towards them, very pur- 
 poseful of mien. Gaubert turned at his approach, and 
 smiled. Marius looked up quickly; then made a sign 
 to the men. Instantly two of them went out by the 
 door they guarded, and ere it swung back again 
 Rabecque saw that they were making for the stairs. 
 The remaining four ranged themselves shoulder to 
 shoulder across the doorway, plainly with intent to 
 bar the way. Gaubert, followed immediately by 
 Marius, stepped aside and approached the landlord 
 with arms akimbo and a truculent smile on his pale 
 hawk face. What he and Marius said, Rabecque 
 could not make out, but he distinctly heard the land- 
 
THE CLOSING OF THE TRAP 117 
 
 lord's answer delivered with a respectful bow to 
 Marius : 
 
 "Bien, Monsieur de Condillac. I would not inter- 
 fere in your concerns — not for the world. I will be 
 blind and deaf." 
 
 Marius acknowledged the servile protestation by a 
 sneer, and Rabecque, stirring at last, went forward 
 boldly towards the doorway and its ugly, human 
 barrier. 
 
 "By your leave, sirs," said he — and he made to 
 thrust one of them aside. 
 
 "You cannot pass this way, sir," he was answered, 
 respectfully but firmly. 
 
 Rabecque stood still, clenching and unclenching his 
 hands and quivering with anger. It was in that mo- 
 ment that he most fervently cursed Tressan and his 
 stupid meddling. Had the troopers still been there, 
 they could have made short work of these tatterde- 
 malions. As it was, and with Monsieur de Garnache 
 dead, or at least absent, everything seemed at an end. 
 He might have contended that, his master being slain, 
 it was no great matter what he did, for in the end the 
 Condillacs must surely have their way with Mademoi- 
 selle de La Vauvraye. But he never paused to think 
 of that just then. His sense of trust was strong; his 
 duty to his master plain. He stepped back, and drew 
 his sword. 
 
 "Let me pass ! " he roared. But at the same instant 
 there came the soft slither of another weapon drawn, 
 and Rabecque was forced to turn to meet the on- 
 slaught of Monsieur Gaubert. 
 
 "You dirty traitor," cried the angry lackey, and 
 that was all they left him breath to say. Strong arms 
 
n8 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 gripped him from behind. The sword was wrenched 
 from his hand. He was flung down heavily, and 
 pinned prone in a corner by one of those bullies who 
 knelt on his spine. And then the door opened again, 
 and poor Rabecque groaned in impotent anguish to 
 behold Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye pause white- 
 faced and wide-eyed on the threshold at sight of 
 Monsieur de Condillac bowing low before her. 
 
 She stood there a moment between the two ruffians 
 who had been sent to fetch her, and her eyes trav- 
 elling round that room discovered Rabecque in his 
 undignified and half-strangled condition. 
 
 "Where . . . Where is Monsieur de Garnache?" she 
 faltered. 
 
 "He is where all those who cross the will of Condil- 
 lac must sooner or later find themselves," said Marius 
 airily. "He is . . . disposed of." 
 
 "Do you mean that he is dead?" she cried. 
 
 "I think it very probable by now," he smiled. "So 
 you see, mademoiselle, since the guardian the Queen 
 appointed you has . . . deserted you, you would do 
 well to return to my mother's roof. Let me assure 
 you that we shall very gladly welcome your return. 
 We blame none but Garnache for your departure, 
 and he has paid for the brutality of his abduction of 
 you." 
 
 She turned in despair from that mocking gentle- 
 man, and attempted to make appeal to the landlord, 
 as though he could help her who could not help him- 
 self. 
 
 " Monsieur VHote — " she began, but Marius cut in 
 sharply. 
 
 "Take her out that way," he said, and pointed 
 
THE CLOSING OF THE TRAP 
 
 back down the passage by the stairs. "To the coach. 
 Make haste." 
 
 She sought to resist them now; but they dragged 
 her back, and there was a rush of the others following 
 through the doorway, the rear being brought up by 
 Gaubert. 
 
 " Follow presently," was his parting command to the 
 man who still knelt upon Rabecque, and with that he 
 vanished too. 
 
 Their steps died away in the passage; a door banged 
 in the distance. There followed a silence, disturbed 
 only by the sound of Rabecque's laboured breathing; 
 then came a stir outside the door of the inn; some one 
 shouted an order. There was a movement of hoofs, a 
 creak and crunch of wheels, and presently the rumble 
 of a heavy carriage being driven rapidly away. But 
 too well did Rabecque surmise what had taken place. 
 
 The ruffian released him at last, and, leaping to his 
 feet, was gone before Rabecque could rise. Once up, 
 however, the lackey darted to the door. In the dis- 
 tance he saw his late assailant running hard; the 
 coach had disappeared. He turned, and his smoulder- 
 ing eye fell upon the landlord. 
 
 "O pig!" he apostrophized him, snarling at him to 
 vent some of his pent-up rage. "O cowardly pig." 
 
 "What would you?" expostulated the frightened 
 taverner. "They had cut my throat if I resisted 
 them." 
 
 Rabecque poured abuse upon him, until for very 
 lack of words he was forced to cease, then, with a final 
 bark of contempt, he went to recover his sword, 
 which had been flung into a corner of the room. He 
 was stooping in the act, when a quick step rang be- 
 
120 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 hind him on the threshold, an angry voice harsh and 
 metallic pronounced his name: 
 "Rabecque!" 
 
 The sword clattered from Rabecque's hand sud- 
 denly gone nerveless — nerveless with sheer joy, all 
 else forgotten in the perception that there, safe and 
 sound, stood his beloved master. 
 
 "Monsieur!" he cried, and the tears welled up to 
 the rough servant's eyes. "Monsieur!" he cried 
 again, and then with the tears streaming down his 
 cheeks, sallow and wrinkled as parchment, "Oh, 
 thank God!" he blubbered. "Thank God!" 
 
 "For what?" asked Garnache, coming forward, a 
 scowl like a thunder-cloud upon his brow. "Where is 
 the coach, where the troopers? Where is mademoi- 
 selle? Answer me!" 
 
 He caught Rabecque's wrist in a grip that threat- 
 ened to snap it. His face was livid, his eyes aflame. 
 
 "They — they — " stammered Rabecque. He had 
 not the courage to tell the thing that had happened. 
 He feared Garnache would strike him dead. 
 
 And then out of his terror he gathered an odd dar- 
 ing. He spoke to Garnache as never he had dreamt 
 to speak to him, and it may well be that by his tone 
 and by what he said he saved his life just then. 
 
 "You fool," he cried to him. "I told you to be on 
 your guard. I warned you to go warily. But you 
 would not heed me. You know better than Rabecque. 
 You would have your way. You must go a-brawling. 
 And they duped you, they fooled you to the very top 
 of their bent, monsieur." 
 
 Garnache dropped the servant's hand and stood 
 back a pace. That counter-blast of passion and that 
 
THE CLOSING OF THE TRAP 
 
 plain speaking from a quarter so unexpected served, 
 in part at least, to sober him. He understood the 
 thing that had happened, the thing that already he 
 suspected must have happened; but he understood 
 too that he alone was to blame for it — he and his 
 cursed temper. 
 
 "Who — who fooled me?" he stammered. 
 
 "Gaubert — the fellow that calls himself Gaubert. 
 He and his friends. They fooled you away. Then 
 Gaubert returned with a tale that you had been killed 
 and that there was a disturbance in the Champs aux 
 Capuchins. Monsieur de Tressan was here, as ill-luck 
 would have it, and Gaubert implored him to send 
 soldiers thither to quell the riot. He dispatched the 
 escort. I sought in vain to stay them. He would not 
 listen to me. The troopers went, and then Monsieur 
 Gaubert entered the inn, to join Monsieur de Con- 
 dillac and six of his braves who were waiting there. 
 They overpowered me, and carried mademoiselle off 
 in the coach. I did what I could, but — " 
 
 "How long have they been gone?" Garnache inter- 
 rupted him to inquire, 
 
 "But few minutes before you came." 
 
 "It would be, then, the coach that passed me near 
 the Porte de Savoie. We must go after them, Ra- 
 becque. I made a short cut across the graveyard of 
 Saint Francis, or I must have met the escort. Oh, 
 perdition!" he cried, smiting his clenched right hand 
 into his open left. "To have so much good work un- 
 done by a moment's unguardedness." Then abruptly 
 he turned on his heels. "I am going to Monsieur de 
 Tressan," said he over his shoulder, and went out. 
 
 As he reached the threshold of the porch, the escort 
 
122 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 rode up the street, returned at last. At sight of him 
 the sergeant broke into a cry of surprise. 
 
 "At least you are safe, monsieur," he said. "We 
 had heard that you were dead, and I feared it must be 
 so, for all that the rest of the story that was told us 
 was clearly part of a very foolish jest." 
 
 "Jest? It was no jest, Vertudieu!" said Garnache 
 grimly. "You had best return to the Palais Seneschal. 
 I have no further need of an escort," he added bit- 
 terly. "I shall require a larger force." 
 
 And he stepped out into the rain, which had begun 
 again a few minutes earlier, and was now falling in a 
 steady downpour. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE SENESCHAL'S ADVICE 
 
 STRAIGHT across the Palais Seneschal went 
 Garnache. And sorely though his temper might 
 already have been tried that day, tempestuously 
 though it had been vented, there were fresh trials in 
 store for him, fresh storms for Tressan. 
 
 "May I ask, Monsieur le Seneschal," he demanded 
 arrogantly, "to what end it was that you permitted 
 yourself to order from its post the escort you had 
 placed under my command?" 
 
 "To what end?" returned the Seneschal, between 
 sorrow and indignation. "Why, to the end that it 
 might succour you if still in time. I had heard that if 
 not dead already, you were in danger of your life." 
 
 The answer was one that disarmed Garnache, in 
 spite of his mistrust of Tressan, and followed as it 
 now was by the Seneschal's profuse expressions of joy 
 at seeing Garnache safe and well, it left him clearly 
 unable to pursue the subject of his grievance in this 
 particular connection. Instead, he passed on to enter- 
 tain Tressan with the recital of the thing that had 
 been done; and in reciting it his anger revived again, 
 nor did the outward signs of sympathetic perturba- 
 tion which the Seneschal thought it judicious to dis- 
 play do aught to mollify his feelings. 
 
 "And now, monsieur," he concluded, "there re- 
 mains but one course to be pursued — to return in 
 force, and compel them at the sword-point to sur- 
 render me mademoiselle. That accomplished, I shall 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 arrest the Dowager and her son and every jackanapes 
 within that castle. Her men can lie in Grenoble gaol 
 to be dealt with by yourself for supporting her in an 
 attempt to resist the Queen's authority. Madame 
 and her son shall go with me to Paris to answer there 
 for their offence." 
 
 The Seneschal looked grave. He thoughtfully 
 combed his beard with his forefinger, and his little 
 eyes peered a shade fearfully at Garnache through his 
 horn-rimmed spectacles — Garnache had found him 
 at his never-failing pretence of work. 
 
 "Why, yes," he agreed, speaking slowly, "that 
 way lies your duty." 
 
 "I rejoice, monsieur, to hear you say so. For I 
 shall need your aid." 
 
 "My aid?" The Seneschal's face assumed a 
 startled look. 
 
 " I shall require of you the necessary force to reduce 
 that garrison." 
 
 The Seneschal blew out his cheeks almost to burst- 
 ing point, then wagged his head and smiled wistfully. 
 
 "And where," he asked, "am I to find such a 
 force?" 
 
 "You have upwards of ten score men in quarters at 
 Grenoble." 
 
 "If I had those men — which I have not — what, 
 think you, could they do against a fortress such as 
 Condillac? Monsieur deludes himself. If they resist, 
 you'll need ten times that number to bring them to 
 their senses. They are well victualled; they have an 
 excellent water-supply. My friend, they would just 
 draw up the bridge, and laugh at you and your sol- 
 diers from the ramparts." 
 
THE SENESCHAL'S ADVICE 125 
 
 Garnache looked at him from under lowering 
 brows. But for all his mistrust of the man — a mis- 
 trust most excellently founded — he was forced to 
 confess that there was wisdom in what Tressan said. 
 
 "I'll sit down and besiege them if need be," he an- 
 nounced. 
 
 Again the Seneschal wagged his head. "You would 
 have to be prepared to spend your winter there in 
 that case, and it can be cold in the valley of Isere. 
 Their garrison is small — some twenty men at most; 
 but it is sufficient for their defence, and not too many 
 mouths to feed. No, no, monsieur, if you would win 
 your way by force you must count upon more than 
 ten score men." 
 
 And now a flash of inspiration helped Tressan. It 
 was his aim, as we know, to run with the hare and 
 hunt with the hounds. Break with Madame de Con- 
 dillac his foolish hopeful heart would not permit him. 
 Break with this man, who personified authority and 
 the King, he dared not. He had sought — and it had 
 given him much to do — to steer a middle course, 
 serving the Dowager and appearing not to withstand 
 the Parisian. Now it almost seemed to him as if he 
 were come to an impasse beyond which he could no 
 longer pursue that course, but must halt and de- 
 clare his side. But the notion that now occurred to 
 him helped him to win through this difficulty. For 
 Madame de Condillac's schemes he cared not a jot; 
 whether they came safe to harbour or suffered ship- 
 wreck on the way was all one to him; whether Valerie 
 de La Vauvraye married Marius de Condillac or the 
 meanest cobbler in Grenoble was, similarly, a matter 
 that never disturbed his mind. He would not even be 
 
126 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 concerned if he, himself, were to help the Dowager's 
 schemes to frustration, so long as she were to remain 
 in ignorance of his defection, so long as outwardly he 
 were to appear faithful to her interests. 
 
 "Monsieur," said he gravely, "the only course that 
 promises you success is to return to Paris, and, raising 
 sufficient men, with guns and other modern siege ap- 
 pliances such as we possess not here, come back and 
 batter down the walls of Condillac." 
 
 There the Seneschal spoke good sense. Garnache 
 realized it, so much so that he almost began to doubt 
 whether he had not done the man an injustice in be- 
 lieving him allied to the other party. But, however 
 fully he might perceive the wisdom of the advice, such 
 a step was one that must wound his pride, must be an 
 acknowledgment that his own resources, upon which 
 the Queen had relied when she sent him single-handed 
 to deal with this situation, had proved insufficient. 
 
 He took a turn in the apartment without answer- 
 ing, tugging at his mustachios and pondering the situ- 
 ation what time the Seneschal furtively watched him 
 in the candle-light. At last he came abruptly to a 
 standstill by the Seneschal's writing-table, immedi- 
 ately opposite Tressan. His hand fell to his side, his 
 eyes took on a look of determination. 
 
 "As a last resource your good advice may guide me, 
 Monsieur le Seneschal," said he. "But first I'll see 
 what can be done with such men as you have here." 
 
 "But I have no men," answered Tressan, dismayed 
 to see the failure of his effort. 
 
 Garnache stared at him in an unbelief that was fast 
 growing to suspicion. "No men?" he echoed dully. 
 "No men?" 
 
THE SENESCHAL'S ADVICE 
 
 "I might muster a score — no more than that." 
 
 "But, monsieur, it is within my knowledge that 
 you have at least two hundred. I saw at least some 
 fifty drawn up in the courtyard below here yesterday 
 morning." 
 
 "I had them, monsieur," the Seneschal made haste 
 to cry, his hands upheld, his body leaning forward 
 over his table. "I had them. But, unfortunately, 
 certain disturbances in the neighbourhood of Mon- 
 telimar have forced me to part with them. They 
 were on the point of setting out when you saw 
 them." 
 
 Garnache looked at him a moment without speak- 
 ing. Then, sharply: 
 
 "They must be recalled, monsieur," said he. 
 
 And now the Seneschal took refuge in a fine pre- 
 tence of indignation. 
 
 "Recalled?" he cried, and besides indignation 
 there was some horror in his voice. "Recalled? And 
 for what? That they may assist you in obtaining 
 charge of a wretched girl who is so headstrong as to 
 wish to marry other than her guardians have deter- 
 mined. A pretty affair that, as God's my life! And 
 for the adjustment of such a family dispute as this, a 
 whole province is to go to ruin, a conflagration of re- 
 bellion is to spread unquenched? On my soul, sir, I 
 begin to think that this mission of yours has served to 
 turn your head. You begin to see it out of all propor- 
 tion to its size." 
 
 "Monsieur, it may have turned my head, or it may 
 not; but I shall not be amazed if in the end it be the 
 means of losing you yours. Tell me now: What is the 
 disturbance you speak of in Montelimar?" 
 
128 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 That was a question all Tressan's ingenuity could 
 not answer. 
 
 "What affair is it of yours?" he demanded. "Are 
 you Seneschal of Dauphiny, or am I ? If I tell you 
 that there is a disturbance, let that suffice. In quell- 
 ing it I do but attend to my own business. Do you 
 attend to yours — which seems to be that of med- 
 dling in women's matters." 
 
 This was too much. There was such odious truth in 
 it that the iron sank deep into Garnache's soul. The 
 very reflection that such a business should indeed be 
 his, was of itself enough to put him in a rage, without 
 having it cast in his teeth as Tressan had none too 
 delicately done. 
 
 He stormed and raged; he waved his arms and 
 thumped the table, and talked of cutting men to 
 ribbons — among which men no doubt he counted 
 my Lord the Seneschal of Dauphiny. But from the 
 storm of fierce invective, of threats and promises 
 with which he filled the air, the Seneschal gathered 
 with satisfaction the one clear statement that he 
 would take his advice. 
 
 "I'll do as you say," Garnache had ended. "I'll 
 get me back to Paris as fast as horse can carry me. 
 When I return woe betide Condillac! And I shall send 
 my emissaries into the district of Montelimar to in- 
 quire into these disturbances you tell of. Woe betide 
 you if they find the country quiet. You shall pay 
 a heavy price for having dispatched your soldiers 
 thither to the end that they might not be here to 
 further the Queen's business." 
 
 With that he caught up his rain-sodden hat, flung 
 it on his head, and stalked out of the room, and, so, 
 out of the Palace. 
 
THE SENESCHAL'S ADVICE 
 
 He left Grenoble next morning, and it was a very- 
 tame and crestfallen Garnache who quitted the Au- 
 berge du Veau qui Tete and rode out of the town to 
 take the road to Paris. How they would laugh at him 
 at the Luxembourg! Not even an affair of this kind 
 was he fit to carry through; not even as a meddler 
 in women's matters — as Tressan had called him — 
 could he achieve success. Rabecque, reflecting his 
 master's mood — as becomes a good lackey — rode 
 silent and gloomy a pace or two in the rear. 
 
 By noon they had reached Voiron, and here, at a 
 quiet hostelry, they descended to pause awhile for 
 rest and refreshment. It was a chill, blustering day, 
 and although the rain held off, the heavens were black 
 with the promise of more to come. There was a fire 
 burning in the general-room of the hostelry, and 
 Garnache went to warm him at its cheerful blaze* 
 Moodily he stood there, one hand on the high mantel- 
 shelf, one foot upon an andiron, his eyes upon the 
 flames. 
 
 He was disconsolately considering his position; con- 
 sidering how utterly, how irrevocably he had failed; 
 pondering the gibes he would have to stomach on his 
 return to Paris, the ridicule it would incumb him to 
 live down. It had been a fine thing to breathe fire 
 and blood and vengeance to Tressan yesterday, to tell 
 him of the great deeds he would perform on his re- 
 turn. It was odds he never would return. They 
 would send another in his place, if indeed they sent at 
 all. For, after all, before he could reach Paris and 
 the force required be in Dauphiny, a fortnight must 
 elapse, let them travel never so quickly. By that 
 time they must be singularly sluggish at Condillac if 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 they did not so contrive that no aid that came should 
 come in time for mademoiselle, now that they were 
 warned that the Queen was stirring in the matter. 
 
 Oh! he had blundered it all most cursedly. Had he 
 but kept his temper yesterday at Grenoble; had he 
 but had the wit to thwart their plans, by preserv- 
 ing an unruffled front to insult, he might have won 
 through and carried mademoiselle out of their hands. 
 As it was — ! he let his arms fall to his sides in his 
 miserable despair. 
 
 "Your wine, monsieur," said Rabecque at his el- 
 bow. He turned, and took the cup of mulled drink 
 from his servant. The beverage warmed him in body; 
 but it would need a butt of it to thaw the misery from 
 his soul. 
 
 "Rabecque," he said with a pathetic grimness, "I 
 think I am the most cursed blunderer that ever was 
 entrusted with an errand." 
 
 The thing so obsessed his mind that he must speak 
 of it, if it be only to his lackey. Rabecque's sharp face 
 assumed a chastened look. He sighed most dutifully. 
 He sought for words of consolation. At last: 
 
 "At least, monsieur has made them fear him up 
 there at Condillac," said he. 
 
 " Fear me ?" laughed Garnache. "Pish! Deride me, 
 you would say." 
 
 "Fear you, I repeat, monsieur. Else why are they 
 at such pains to strengthen the garrison?" 
 
 " Eh ? " he questioned. But his tone was not greatly 
 interested. "Are they doing that? Are they strength- 
 ening it? How know you?" 
 
 "I had it from the ostler at the Veau qui Tete that 
 a certain Captain Fortunio — an Italian soldier of 
 
THE SENESCHAL'S ADVICE 131 
 
 fortune who commands the men at Condillac — was 
 at the Auberge de France last night, offering wine 
 to whomsoever would drink with him, and paying 
 for it out of Madame la Marquise's purse. To such 
 as accepted his hospitality he talked of the glory of 
 a military career, particularly a free-lance's; and to 
 those who showed interest in what he said he offered 
 a pike in his company/' 
 
 "Enrolled he many, did you learn?" 
 
 "Not one, monsieur, the ostler told me; and it 
 seems he spent the evening watching him weave his 
 spider's web. But the flies were over-wary. They 
 knew whence he came; they knew the business for 
 which he desired to enrol them — for a rumour had 
 gone round that Condillac was in rebellion against the 
 Queen's commands — and there were none so des- 
 perate at the Auberge de France as to risk their necks 
 by enlisting, no matter what the wage he offered." 
 
 Garnache shrugged his shoulders. "No matter," 
 said he. "Get me another cup of wine." But as 
 Rabecque turned away to obey him there came a 
 sudden gleam into the eye of Monsieur de Garnache, 
 which lightened the depression of his countenance. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE RECRUIT 
 
 IN the great hall of the Chateau de Condillac sat the 
 Dowager, her son, and the Lord Seneschal, in con- 
 ference. 
 
 It was early in the afternoon of the last Thursday 
 in October, exactly a week since Monsieur de Gar- 
 nache — all but broken-hearted at the failure of his 
 mission — had departed from Grenoble. They had 
 dined, and the table was still strewn with vessels and 
 the fragments of their meal, for the cloth had not yet 
 been raised. But the three of them had left the board 
 — the Seneschal with all that reluctance with which 
 he was wont to part company with the table, no 
 matter how perturbed in spirit he might be — and 
 they had come to group themselves about the great 
 open fireplace. 
 
 A shaft of pale October sunshine entering through 
 the gules of an escutcheon on the mullioned windows 
 struck a scarlet light into silver and glass upon the 
 forsaken board. 
 
 Madame was speaking. She was repeating words 
 that she had uttered at least twenty times a day dur- 
 ing the past week. 
 
 "It was a madness to let that fellow go. Had we 
 but put him and his servant out of the way, we should 
 be able now to sleep tranquil in our beds. I know their 
 ways at Court. They might have marvelled a little 
 at first that he should tarry so long upon his errand, 
 
THE RECRUIT 
 
 133 
 
 that he should send them no word of its progress; but 
 presently, seeing him no more, he would little by- 
 little have been forgotten, and with him this affair 
 in which the Queen has been so cursedly ready to 
 meddle. 
 
 "As it is, the fellow will go back hot with the out- 
 rage put upon him; there will be some fine talk of it 
 in Paris; it will be spoken of as treason, as defiance 
 of the King's Majesty, as rebellion. The Parliament 
 may be moved to make outlaws of us, and the end 
 of it all — who shall foresee?" 
 
 "It is a long distance from Condillac to Paris, 
 madame," said her son, with a shrug. 
 
 "And you will find them none so ready to send 
 soldiers all this way, Marquise," the Seneschal com- 
 forted her. 
 
 "Bah! You make too sure of your security. You 
 make too sure of what they will do, what leave un- 
 done. Time will show, my friends; and, mort-dieul I 
 am much at fault if you come not both to echo my 
 regret that we did not dispose of Monsieur de Gar- 
 nache and his lackey when we had them in our 
 power." 
 
 Her eye fell with sinister promise upon Tressan, 
 who shivered slightly and spread his hands to the 
 blaze, as though his shiver had been of cold. But 
 Marius did not so readily grow afraid. 
 
 "Madame," he said, "at the worst we can shut 
 our gates and fling defiance at them. We are well- 
 manned, and Fortunio is seeking fresh recruits." 
 
 " Seeking them, yes," she sneered. "For a week has 
 the fellow been spending money like water, addling 
 the brains of half Grenoble with the best wine at the 
 
i 3 4 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Auberge de France, yet not a single recruit has come 
 in, so far." 
 
 Marius laughed. "Your pessimism leads you into 
 rash conclusions," he cried. "You are wrong. One 
 recruit has come in." 
 
 "One!" she echoed. "A thousand devils! A brave 
 number that! A fine return for the river of wine with 
 which we have washed the stomachs of Grenoble." 
 
 "Still, it is a beginning," ventured the Seneschal. 
 
 "Aye, and, no doubt, an ending," she flashed back 
 at him. "And what manner of fool may this one be, 
 whose fortunes were so desperate that he could throw 
 them in with ours?" 
 
 "He is an Italian — a Piedmontese who has 
 tramped across Savoy and was on his way to Paris to 
 make his fortune, when Fortunio caught him and 
 made it clear to him that his fortune was made for 
 him at Condillac. He is a lusty, stalwart fellow, 
 speaking no word of French, who was drawn to For- 
 tunio by discovering in him a fellow-countryman." 
 
 Mockery flashed from the Dowager's beautiful eyes. 
 
 "In that you have the reason of his enrolling him- 
 self. He knew no word of French, poor devil, so could 
 not learn how rash his venture was. Could we find 
 more such men as this one it might be well. But 
 where shall we find them? Pish! my dear Marius, 
 matters are little mended, nor ever will be, for the 
 mistake we made in allowing Garnache to go his 
 ways." 
 
 "Madame," again ventured Tressan, "I think that 
 you want for hopefulness." 
 
 "At least, I do not want for courage, Monsieur le 
 Comte," she answered him; "and I promise you that 
 
THE RECRUIT 
 
 *35 
 
 while I live — to handle a sword if need be — no 
 Paris men shall set foot in Condillac." 
 
 "Aye," grumbled Marius, "you can contemplate 
 that, and it is all you do contemplate. You will not 
 see, madame, that our position is far from desperate; 
 that, after all, there may be no need to resist the 
 King. It is three months since we had news of Flori- 
 mond. Much may happen in three months when a 
 man is warring. It may well be that he is dead." 
 
 "I wish I knew he was — and damned," she 
 snapped, with a tightening of her scarlet lips. 
 
 "Yes," agreed Marius, with a sigh, "that were an 
 end to all our troubles." 
 
 "I'm none so sure. There is still mademoiselle, 
 with her new-formed friends in Paris — may a pes- 
 tilence blight them all! There are still the lands of 
 La Vauvraye to lose. The only true end to our 
 troubles as they stand at present lies in your marry- 
 ing this headstrong baggage." 
 
 "That the step should be rendered impossible, you 
 can but blame yourself," Marius reminded her. 
 
 "How so?" she cried, turning sharply upon him. 
 
 "Had you kept friends with the Church, had you 
 paid tithes and saved us from this cursed Interdict, we 
 should have no difficulty in getting hither a priest, 
 and settling the matter out of hand, be Valerie willing 
 or not." 
 
 She looked at him, scorn kindling in her glance. 
 Then she swung round to appeal to Tressan. 
 
 "You hear him, Count," said she. "There is a 
 lover for you! He would wed his mistress whether 
 she love him or not — and he has sworn to me that he 
 loves the girl." 
 
i 3 6 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "How else should the thing be done since she op- 
 poses it?" asked Marius, sulkily. 
 
 "How else? Do you ask me how else? God! Were 
 I a man, and had I your shape and face, there is no 
 woman in the world should withstand me if I set my 
 heart on her. It is address you lack. You are clumsy 
 as a lout where a woman is concerned. Were I in your 
 place, I had taken her by storm three months ago, 
 when first she came to us. I had carried her out of 
 Condillac, out of France, over the border into Savoy, 
 where there are no Interdicts to plague you, and 
 there I would have married her." 
 
 Marius frowned darkly, but before he could speak, 
 Tressan was insinuating a compliment to the Marquise. 
 
 "True, Marius," he said, with pursed lips. "Na- 
 ture has been very good to you in that she has made 
 you the very counterpart of your lady mother. You 
 are as comely a gentleman as is to be found in France 
 — or out of it." 
 
 "Pish!" snapped Marius, too angered by the reflec- 
 tion cast upon his address, to be flattered by their 
 praises of his beauty. "It is an easy thing to talk; an 
 easy thing to set up arguments when we consider but 
 the half of a question. You forget, madame, that 
 Valerie is betrothed to Florimond and that she clings 
 faithfully to her betrothal." 
 
 "Vertudieul" swore the Marquise, "and what is this 
 betrothal, what this faithfulness? She has not seen 
 her betrothed for three years. She was a child at the 
 time of their fiangailles. Think you her faithfulness to 
 him is the constancy of a woman to her lover? Go 
 your ways, you foolish boy. It is but the constancy to 
 a word, to the wishes of her father. Think you con- 
 
THE RECRUIT 
 
 137 
 
 stancy that has no other base than that would stand 
 between her and any man who — as you might do, 
 had you the address — could make her love him ? " 
 
 "I do say so," answered Marius firmly. 
 
 She smiled the pitying smile of one equipped with 
 superior knowledge when confronted with an obsti- 
 nate, uninformed mind. 
 
 "There is a droll arrogance about you, Marius," 
 she told him, quietly. "You, a fledgling, would teach 
 me, a woman, the ways of a woman's heart! It is a 
 thing you may live to regret." 
 
 "As how?" he asked. 
 
 "Once already has mademoiselle contrived to cor- 
 rupt one of our men, and send him to Paris with a 
 letter. Out of that has sprung our present trouble. 
 Another time she may do better. When she shall 
 have bribed another to assist her to escape; when she, 
 herself, shall have made off to the shelter of the 
 Queen-mother, perhaps you will regret that my 
 counsel should have fallen upon barren ground." 
 
 "It is to prevent any such attempt that we have 
 placed her under guard," said he. "You are forget- 
 ting that." 
 
 "Forgetting it? Not I. But what assurance have 
 you that she will not bribe her guard?" 
 
 Marius laughed, rose, and pushed back his chair. 
 
 "Madame," said he, "you are back at your con- 
 templation of the worst side of this affair; you are 
 persisting in considering only how we may be 
 thwarted. But set your mind at rest. Gilles is her 
 sentinel. Every night he sleeps in her anteroom. He 
 is Fortunio's most trusted man. She will not corrupt 
 him." 
 
138 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 The Dowager smiled pensively, her eyes upon 
 the fire. Suddenly she raised them to his face. 
 "Berthaud was none the less trusted. Yet, with 
 no more than a promise of reward at some future 
 time should she succeed in escaping from us, did she 
 bribe him to carry her letter to the Queen. What 
 happened to Berthaud that may not happen to 
 Gilles?" 
 
 "You might change her sentry nightly," put in the 
 Seneschal. 
 
 "Yes, if we knew whom we could trust; who would 
 be above corruption. As it is" — she shrugged her 
 shoulders — "that would be but to afford her oppor- 
 tunities to bribe them one by one until they were all 
 ready to act in concert." 
 
 "Why need she any sentinel at all? " asked Tressan, 
 with some show of sense. 
 
 "To ward off possible traitors," she told him, and 
 Marius smiled and wagged his head. 
 
 "Madame is never done foreseeing the worst, 
 monsieur." 
 
 "Which shows my wisdom. The men in our garri- 
 son are mercenaries, all attached to us only because 
 we pay them. They all know who she is and what her 
 wealth." 
 
 "Pity you have not a man who is deaf and dumb," 
 said Tressan, half in jest. But Marius looked up sud- 
 ' denly, his eyes serious. 
 
 "We have as good," said he. "There is the Italian 
 knave Fortunio enrolled yesterday, as I have told 
 you. He knows neither her wealth nor her identity; 
 nor if he did could he enter into traffic with her, for he 
 knows no French, and she no Italian." 
 
THE RECRUIT 
 
 139 
 
 The Dowager clapped her hands. " The very man ! " 
 she cried. 
 
 But Marius, either from sheer perverseness, or be- 
 cause he did not share her enthusiasm, made answer: 
 "I have faith in Grilles." 
 
 "Yes," she mocked him, "and you had faith in 
 Berthaud. Oh, if you have faith in Gilles, let him re- 
 main; let no more be said." 
 
 The obstinate boy took her advice, and shifted the 
 subject, speaking to Tressan of some trivial business 
 connected with the Seneschalship. 
 
 But madame, woman-like, returned to the matter 
 whose abandoning she had herself suggested. Marius, 
 for all his affected disdain of it, viewed it with a certain 
 respect. And so in the end they sent for the recruit. 
 
 Fortunio — who was no other than the man Gar- 
 nache had known as " Sanguinetti " — brought him, 
 still clad in the clothes in which he had come. He 
 was a tall, limber fellow, with a very swarthy skin and 
 black, oily-looking hair that fell in short ringlets about 
 his ears and neck, and a black, drooping mustache 
 which gave him a rather hang-dog look. There was a 
 thick stubble of beard of several days' growth about 
 his chin and face; his eyes were furtive in their 
 glances, but of a deep blue that contrasted oddly with 
 his blackness when he momentarily raised them. 
 
 He wore a tattered jerkin, and his legs, in default of 
 stockings, were swathed in soiled bandages and cross- 
 gartered from ankle to knee. He stood in a pair of 
 wooden shoes, from one of which peeped forth some 
 wisps of straw, introduced, no doubt, to make the 
 footgear fit. He slouched and shuffled in his walk, 
 and he was unspeakably dirty. Nevertheless, he was 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 girt with a sword in a ragged scabbard hanging from 
 a frayed and shabby belt of leather. 
 
 Madame scanned him with interest. The fastidious 
 Marius eyed him with disgust. The Seneschal peered 
 at him curiously through shortsighted eyes. 
 
 "I do not think I have ever seen a dirtier ruffian," 
 said he. 
 
 "I like his nose," said madame quietly. "It is the 
 nose of an intrepid man." 
 
 "It reminds me of Garnache's," laughed the Sen- 
 eschal. 
 
 "You flatter the Parisian," commented Marius. 
 
 The mercenary, meanwhile, stood blandly smiling 
 at the party, showing at least a fine array of teeth, 
 and wearing the patient, attentive air of one who real- 
 izes himself to be under discussion, yet does not un- 
 derstand what is being said. 
 
 "A countryman of yours, Fortunio?" sneered 
 Marius. 
 
 The captain, whose open, ingenuous countenance 
 dissembled as villainous a heart as ever beat in the 
 breast of any man, disowned the compatriotism with 
 a smile. 
 
 "Hardly, monsieur," said he. "'Battista' is a 
 Piedmontese." Fortunio himself was a Venetian. 
 
 "Is he to be relied upon, think you?" asked ma- 
 dame. Fortunio shrugged his shoulders and spread 
 his hands. It was not his habit to trust any man 
 inordinately. 
 
 "He is an old soldier," said he. "He has trailed a 
 pike in the Neapolitan wars. I have cross-questioned 
 him, and found his answers bore out the truth of 
 what he said." 
 
THE RECRUIT 
 
 141 
 
 "And what brings him to France?" asked Tressan. 
 
 The captain smiled again, and there came again 
 that expressive shrug of his. "A little over-ready with 
 the steel," said he. 
 
 They told Fortunio that they proposed to place him 
 sentry over mademoiselle instead of Gilles, as the 
 Italian's absolute lack of French would ensure against 
 corruption. The captain readily agreed with them. 
 It would be a wise step. The Italian fingered his 
 tattered hat, his eyes on the ground. 
 
 Suddenly madame spoke to him. She asked him 
 for some account of himself and whence he came, 
 using the Italian tongue, of which she had a passing 
 knowledge. He followed her questions very atten- 
 tively, at times with apparent difficulty, his eyes on 
 her face, his head craned a little forward. 
 
 Now and then Fortunio had to intervene, to make 
 plainer to this ignorant Piedmontese mind the Mar- 
 quise's questions. His answers came in a deep, 
 hoarse voice, slurred by the accent of Piedmont, and 
 madame — her knowledge of Italian being imperfect 
 — had frequently to have recourse to Fortunio to dis- 
 cover the meaning of what he said. 
 
 At last she dismissed the pair of them, bidding the 
 captain see that he was washed and more fittingly 
 clothed. 
 
 An hour later, after the Seneschal had taken his 
 departure to ride home to Grenoble, it was madame 
 herself, accompanied by Marius and Fortunio, who 
 conducted Battista — such was the name the Italian 
 had given — to the apartments above, where made- 
 moiselle was now confined practically a prisoner. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 VALERIE'S GAOLER 
 
 MY child," said the Dowager, and her eyes 
 dwelt on Valerie with a look of studied gen- 
 tleness, "why will you not be reasonable?" 
 
 The constant reflection that Garnache was at large, 
 making his way back to Paris to stir up vengeance for 
 the outrage put upon him, was not without a certain 
 chastening effect upon the Dowager. She had a way 
 of saying that she had as good a stomach for a fight as 
 any man in France, and a fight there should be if it 
 came to it and Garnache should return to assail Con- 
 dillac. Yet a certain pondering of the consequences, a 
 certain counting of the cost — ordinarily unusual to 
 her nature — led her to have recourse to persuasion 
 and to a gentleness no less unusual. 
 
 Valerie's eyes were raised to hers with a look that 
 held more scorn than wonder. They were standing in 
 the antechamber of Valerie's room. Yonder at his 
 post lounged the recruit "Battista," looking a trifle 
 cleaner than when first he had been presented to the 
 Marquise, but still not clean enough for a lady's ante- 
 chamber. He was leaning stolidly against the sill of 
 the window, his eyes on the distant waters of the 
 Isere, which shone a dull copper colour in the after- 
 glow of the October sunset. His face was vacant, his 
 eyes pensive, as he stood there undisturbed by the 
 flow of a language he did not understand. 
 
 Fortunio and Marius had departed, and the Mar- 
 
VALERIE'S GAOLER 
 
 143 
 
 quise — played upon by her unusual tremors — had 
 remained behind for a last word with the obstinate 
 girl- 
 
 "In what, madame," asked Valerie, "does my con- 
 duct fall short of reasonableness?" 
 
 The Dowager made a movement of impatience. If 
 at every step she were to be confronted by these 
 questions, which had in them a savour of challenge, 
 she was wasting time in remaining. 
 
 "You are unreasonable, in this foolish clinging to a 
 promise given for you." 
 
 "Given by me, madame," the girl amended, know- 
 ing well to what promise the Dowager referred. 
 
 "Given by you, then; but given at an age when you 
 could not understand the nature of it. They had no 
 right to bind you so." 
 
 "If it is for any to question that right, it is for me," 
 Valerie made answer, her eyes ever meeting the Dow- 
 ager's unflinchingly. "And I am content to leave that 
 right unquestioned. I am content to fill the promise 
 given. In honour I could not do less." 
 
 "Ah! In honour!" The Dowager sighed. Then 
 she came a step nearer, and her face grew sweetly 
 wistful. " But your heart, child; what of your heart?" 
 
 "My heart concerns myself. I am the betrothed of 
 Florimond — that is all that concerns the world and 
 you. I respect and admire him more than any living 
 man, and I shall be proud to become his wife when he 
 returns, as his wife I shall become in spite of all that 
 you and your son may do." 
 
 The Dowager laughed softly, as if to herself. 
 
 "And if I tell you that Florimond is dead?" 
 
 "When you give me proof of that, I shall believe 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 it," the girl replied. The Marquise looked at her, her 
 face manifesting no offence at the almost insulting 
 words. 
 
 "And if I were to lay that proof before you?" she 
 inquired, sadly almost. 
 
 Valerie's eyes opened a trifle wider, as if in appre- 
 hension. But her answer was prompt and her voice 
 steady. "It still could have no effect upon my atti- 
 tude towards your son." 
 
 "This is foolishness, Valerie — " 
 
 "In you it is, madame," the girl broke in; "a fool- 
 ishness to think you can constrain a girl, compel her 
 affections, command her love, by such means as you 
 have employed towards me. You think that it pre- 
 disposes me to be wooed, that it opens my heart to 
 your son, to see myself gaoled that he may pay me his 
 court." 
 
 "Gaoled, child? Who gaols you?" the Dowager 
 cried, as if the most surprising utterance had fallen 
 from Valerie's lips. 
 
 Mademoiselle smiled in sorrow and some scorn. 
 
 "Am I not gaoled, then?" she asked. "What call 
 you this? What does that fellow there? He is to lie 
 outside my door at nights to see that none holds com- 
 munication with me. He is to go with me each morn- 
 ing to the garden, when, by your gracious charity I 
 take the air. Sleeping and waking the man is ever 
 within hearing of any word that I may utter — " 
 
 " But if he has no French ! " the Dowager protested. 
 
 "To ensure, no doubt, against any attempt of 
 mine to win him to my side, to induce him to aid me 
 escape from this prison. Oh, madame, I tell you you 
 do but waste time, and you punish me and harass 
 
VALERIE'S GAOLER 
 
 145 
 
 yourself to little purpose. Had Marius been such a 
 man as I might have felt it in my nature to love — 
 which Heaven forbid ! — these means by which you 
 have sought to bring that thing about could but have 
 resulted in making me hate him as I do." 
 
 The Dowager's fears were banished from her mind 
 at that, and with them went all thought of conciliat- 
 ing Valerie. Anger gleamed in her eyes; the set of 
 her lips grew suddenly sneering and cruel, so that the 
 beauty of her face but served to render it hateful the 
 more. 
 
 "So that you hate him, ma mie?" a ripple of mock- 
 ery on the current of her voice, " and he a man such as 
 any girl in France might be proud to wed. Well, well, 
 you are not to be constrained, you say." And the 
 Marquise's laugh was menacing and unpleasant. 
 "Be not so sure, mademoiselle. Be not so sure of 
 that. It may well betide that you shall come to beg 
 upon your knees for this alliance with a man whom 
 you tell me that you hate. Be not so sure you cannot 
 be constrained." 
 
 Their eyes met; both women were white to the lips, 
 but it was curbed passion in the one, and deadly fear 
 in the other; for what the Dowager's words left un- 
 said her eyes most eloquently conveyed. The girl 
 shrank back, her hands clenched, her lip caught in her 
 teeth. 
 
 "There is a God in heaven, madame," she re- 
 minded the Marquise. 
 
 "Aye — in heaven," laughed the Marquise, turn- 
 ing to depart. She paused by the door, which the 
 Italian had sprung forward to open for her. 
 
 " Marius shall take the air with you in the morn- 
 
146 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 ing if it is fine. Ponder meanwhile what I have said." 
 
 "Does this man remain here, madame?" inquired 
 the girl, vainly seeking to render her voice steady. 
 
 "In the outer anteroom is his place: but as the key 
 of this room is on his side of the door, he may enter 
 here when he so pleases, or when he thinks that he has 
 reason to. If the sight of him displeases you, you may 
 lock yourself from it in your own chamber yonder." 
 
 The same she said in Italian to the man, who bowed 
 impassively, and followed the Dowager into the outer 
 room, closing the door upon mademoiselle. It was a 
 chamber almost bare of furniture, save for a table and 
 chair which had been placed there, so that the gaoler 
 might take his meals. 
 
 The man followed the Marquise across the bare 
 floor, their steps resounding as they went, and he 
 held the outer door for her. 
 
 Without another word she left him, and where he 
 stood he could hear her steps as she tripped down the 
 winding staircase of stone. At last the door of the 
 courtyard closed with a bang, and the grating of a 
 key announced to the mercenary that he and his 
 charge were both imprisoned in that tower of the 
 Chateau de Condillac. 
 
 Left alone in the anteroom, mademoiselle crossed 
 to the window and dropped limply into a chair. Her 
 face was still very white, her heart beating tumultu- 
 ously, for the horrid threat that had been conveyed in 
 the Dowager's words had brought her her first thrill 
 of real fear since the beginning of this wooing-by- 
 force three months ago, a wooing which had become 
 more insistent and less like a wooing day by day, until 
 it had culminated in her present helpless position. 
 
VALERIE'S GAOLER 
 
 147 
 
 She was a strong-souled, high-spirited girl, but to- 
 night hope seemed extinguished in her breast. Flori- 
 mond, too, seemed to have abandoned her. Either he 
 had forgotten her, or he was dead, as the Dowager 
 said. Which might be the true state of things she did 
 not greatly care. The realization of how utterly she 
 was in the power of Madame de Condillac and her 
 son, and the sudden chance discovery of how un- 
 scrupulously that power might be wielded, filled her 
 mind to the exclusion of all else. 
 
 By the window she sat, watching, without heeding 
 them, the fading colours in the sky. She was aban- 
 doned to these monsters, and it seemed they would 
 devour her. She could hope for no help from outside 
 since they had — as she believed — slain Monsieur 
 de Garnache. Her mind dwelt for a moment on that 
 glimpse of rescue that had been hers a week ago, upon 
 the few hours of liberty which she had enjoyed, but 
 which only seemed now to increase the dark hopeless- 
 ness of her imprisonment. 
 
 Again with the eyes of her mind she beheld that 
 grim, stalwart figure, saw his great nose, his greying 
 hair, his fierce mustachios and his stern, quick eyes. 
 Again she heard the rasp of his metallic voice with its 
 brisk derision. She saw him in the hall below, his foot 
 upon the neck of that popinjay of Condillac daring 
 them all to draw a breath, should he forbid it; again 
 in fancy she rode on the withers of his horse at the 
 gallop towards Grenoble. A sigh escaped her. Surely 
 that was the first man who was indeed a man she had 
 ever set eyes on since her father died. Had Garnache 
 been spared, she would have felt courage and she 
 would have hoped, for there was something about 
 
i 4 8 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Aim that suggested energy and resource such as it is 
 good to lean upon in times of stress. Again she heard 
 that brisk, metallic voice: "Are you content, ma- 
 dame? Have you had fine deeds enough for one 
 day?" 
 
 And then, breaking in upon her musings came the 
 very voice of her day-dream, so suddenly, sounding 
 so natural and lifelike that she almost screamed, so 
 startled was she. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," it said, "I beg that you'll not 
 utterly lose heart. I have come back to the thing Her 
 Majesty bade me do, and I'll do it, in spite of that 
 tigress and her cub." 
 
 She sat still as a statue, scarce breathing, her eyes 
 fixed upon the violet sky. The voice had ceased, but 
 still she sat on. Then it was slowly borne in upon her 
 that that was no dream-voice, no trick of her over- 
 burdened mind. A voice, a living, actual voice had 
 uttered those words in this room, here at her elbow. 
 
 She turned, and again she almost screamed; for 
 there, just behind her, his glittering eyes fixed upon 
 her with singular intentness, stood the swarthy, 
 black-haired Italian gaoler they had given her be- 
 cause he had no French. 
 
 He had come up so quietly behind her that she had 
 not heard his approach, and he was leaning forward 
 now, with an odd suggestion of crouching in his atti- 
 tude, like a beast about to spring. Yet his gaze riv- 
 eted hers as with a fascination. And so, while she 
 looked, his lips moved, and from them, in that same 
 voice of her dreams, came from this man who had no 
 French, the words: 
 
 " Be not afraid, mademoiselle. I am that blunderer, 
 
VALERIE'S GAOLER 
 
 149 
 
 Garnache, that unworthy fool whose temper ruined 
 what chance of saving you he had a week ago." 
 
 She stared like one going mad. 
 
 "Garnache!" said she, in a husky whisper. "You 
 Garnache?" 
 
 Yet the voice, she knew, was Garnache's and none 
 other. It was a voice not easily mistaken. And now, 
 as she looked and looked, she saw that the man's nose 
 was Garnache's, though oddly stained, and those 
 keen eyes, they were Garnache's too. But the hair 
 that had been brown and flecked with grey was black; 
 the reddish mustachios that had bristled like a moun- 
 tain cat's were black, too, and they hung limp and 
 hid from sight the fine lines of his mouth. A hideous 
 stubble of unshorn beard defaced his chin and face, 
 and altered its sharp outline; and the clear, healthy 
 skin that she remembered was now a dirty brown. 
 
 Suddenly the face smiled, and it was a smile that 
 reassured her and drove away the last doubt that she 
 had. She was on her feet in an instant. 
 
 "Monsieur, monsieur," was all that she could say; 
 but her longing was to fling her arms about the neck 
 of this man, as she might have flung them about the 
 neck of a brother or a father, and sob out upon his 
 shoulder the sudden relief and revulsion that his pres- 
 ence brought. 
 
 Garnache saw something of her agitation, and to 
 relieve it he smiled and began to tell her the circum- 
 stances of his return and his presentation to Madame 
 as a knave who had no French. 
 
 "Fortune was very good to me, mademoiselle," said 
 he. "I had little hope that such a face as mine could 
 be disguised, but I take no pride in what you see. It 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 is the handiwork of Rabecque, the most ingenious 
 lackey that ever served a foolish master. It helped 
 me that having been ten years in Italy when I was 
 younger, I acquired the language so well as to be able 
 to impose even upon Fortunio. In that lay a cir- 
 cumstance which at once disarmed suspicion, and if I 
 stay not so long as it shall take the dye to wear from 
 my hair and beard and the staining from my face, I 
 shall have little to fear." 
 
 "But, monsieur," she cried, "you have everything 
 to fear!" And alarm grew in her eyes. 
 
 But he laughed again for answer. "I have faith in 
 my luck, mademoiselle, and I think I am on the tide 
 of it at present. I little hoped when I made my way 
 into Condillac in this array that I should end, by 
 virtue of my pretended ignorance of French, in being 
 appointed gaoler to you. I had some ado to keep the 
 joy from my eyes when I heard them planning it. It 
 is a thing that has made all else easy." 
 
 "But what can you do alone, monsieur?" she 
 asked him; and there was a note almost of petulance 
 in her voice. 
 
 He moved to the window, and leaned his elbow on 
 the sill. The light was fast fading. " I know not yet. 
 But I am here to contrive a means. I shall think and 
 watch." 
 
 "You know in what hourly peril I am placed," she 
 cried, and suddenly remembering that he must have 
 overheard and understood the Dowager's words, a 
 sudden heat came to her cheeks to recede again and 
 leave them marble -pale. And she thanked Heaven 
 that in the dusk and in the shadow where she stood 
 he could but ill make out her face. 
 
VALERIE'S GAOLER 
 
 "If you think that I have been rash in return- 
 ing-" 
 
 "No, no, not rash, monsieur; noble and brave 
 above all praise. I would indeed I could tell you how 
 noble and brave I account your action." 
 
 "It is as nothing to the bravery required to let 
 Rabecque do this hideous work upon a face for which 
 I have ever entertained some measure of respect." 
 
 He jested, sooner than enlighten her that it was his 
 egregious pride had fetched him back when he was 
 but a few hours upon his journey Pariswards, his in- 
 ability to brook the ridicule that would be his when 
 he announced at the Luxembourg that failure had 
 attended him. 
 
 "Ah, but what can you do alone?" she repeated. 
 
 "Give me at least a day or two to devise some 
 means; let me look round and take the measure of this 
 gaol. Some way there must be. I have not come so 
 far and so successfully to be beaten now. Still," he 
 continued, "if you think that I overrate my strength 
 or my resource, if you would sooner that I sought men 
 and made an assault upon Condillac, endeavouring to 
 carry it and to let the Queen's will prevail by force of 
 arms, tell me so, and I am gone to-morrow." 
 
 "Whither would you go?" she cried, her voice 
 strained with sudden affright. 
 
 " I might seek help at Lyons or Moulins. I might 
 find loyal soldiers who would be willing to follow me 
 by virtue of my warrant to levy such help as I may 
 require, if I but tell them that the help was refused 
 me in Grenoble. I am not sure that it would be so, 
 for, unfortunately, my warrant is for the Seneschal of 
 Dauphiny only. Still, I might make the attempt." 
 
152 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "No, no," she implored him, and in her eagerness 
 to have him put all thought of leaving her from his 
 mind, she caught him by the arm and raised a plead- 
 ing face to his. "Do not leave me here, monsieur; 
 of your pity do not leave me alone amongst them. 
 Think me a coward if you will, monsieur: I am no less. 
 They have made a coward of me." 
 
 He understood the thing she dreaded, and a great 
 pity welled up from his generous heart for this poor 
 unfriended girl at the mercy of the beautiful witch of 
 Condillac and her beautiful rascally son. He patted 
 the hand that clutched his arm. 
 
 "I think, myself, that it will be best if I remain, now 
 that I have come so far," he said. "Let me ponder 
 things. It may well be that I shall devise some way." 
 
 " May Heaven inspire you, monsieur. I shall spend 
 the night in prayer, I think, imploring God and His 
 saints to show you the way you seek." 
 
 "Heaven, I think, should hear your prayers, made- 
 moiselle," he answered musingly, his glance upon the 
 white, saintly face that seemed to shine in the deep- 
 ening gloom. Then, suddenly he stirred and bent to 
 listen. 
 
 "Sh! Some one is coming," he whispered. And he 
 sped quickly from her side and into the outer room, 
 where he sank noiselessly on to his chair as the steps 
 ascended the stone staircase and a glow of yellow 
 light grew gradually in the doorway that opened on 
 to it. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 THAT he might inspire the more confidence in the 
 Dowager and her son Garnache organized and 
 performed a little comedy at Condillac a couple of 
 nights after his appointment as mademoiselle's gaoler. 
 He gave an alarm at dead midnight, and when half- 
 clad men, followed presently by madame and Marius, 
 rushed into the anteroom where he stood, a very pic- 
 ture of the wildest excitement, he drew their atten- 
 tion to two twisted sheets, tied end to end, hanging 
 from the window which overlooked the moat; and in 
 answer to the marquise's questions he informed he* 
 that he had been disturbed by sounds of movements 
 and upon entering the chamber he had discovered 
 mademoiselle making these preparations for depar- 
 ture. 
 
 Valerie, locked in the inner chamber, refused to 
 come forth as the Marquise bade her, but her voice re- 
 assured Madame de Condillac of her presence, and so, 
 since her attempt had failed, madame was content to 
 let her be. 
 
 "The little fool," she said, peering down from the 
 window into the night; "she would have been killed 
 for certain. Her rope of sheets does not reach more 
 than a third of the way down. She would have had 
 over thirty feet to fall, and if that had not been 
 enough to finish her, she would of a certainty have 
 been drowned in the moat." 
 
154 
 
 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 She signified her satisfaction with the faithful 
 "Battista's" vigilance by a present of some gold 
 pieces in the morning, and since the height of the 
 window and the moat beneath it did not appear 
 sufficient obstacles to mademoiselle's attempts at 
 effecting her escape, the Dowager had the window 
 nailed down. Thus, only by breaking it could egress 
 be obtained, and the breaking of it could not be 
 effected without such a noise as must arouse "Bat- 
 tista." 
 
 Under Garnache's instructions the comedy was 
 carried a little further. Mademoiselle affected for her 
 gaoler a most unconquerable aversion, and this she 
 took pains to proclaim. 
 
 One morning, three days after her attempted es- 
 cape, she was taking the air in the garden of Condillac, 
 "Battista," ever watchful, a few paces behind her, 
 when suddenly she was joined by Marius — a splen- 
 did, graceful figure in a riding-suit of brown velvet and 
 biscuit-coloured hose, his points tipped with gold, his 
 long boots of the finest marroquin leather, his liver- 
 coloured hound at his heels. It was the last day of 
 October, but the weather, from cold and wet that it 
 had been for the past fortnight, had taken on a sudden 
 improvement. The sun shone, the air was still and 
 warm, and but for the strewn leaves and the faint smell 
 of decay with which the breath of autumn is ever 
 laden, one might have fancied it a day of early spring. 
 
 It was not Valerie's wont to pause when Marius 
 approached. Since she might not prevent him from 
 walking where he listed, she had long since abandoned 
 the futility of bidding him begone when he came near 
 her. But, at least, she had never stopped in her walk, 
 
A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 never altered its pace; she had suffered what she might 
 not avoid, but she had worn the outward air of suffer- 
 ing it with indifference. This morning, however, she 
 made a departure from her long habit. Not only did 
 she pause upon observing his approach, but she called 
 to him as if she would have him hasten to her side. 
 And hasten he did, a new light in his eyes that was 
 mostly of surprise, but a little, also, of hope. 
 
 She was gracious to him for once, and gave him 
 good-morning in a manner that bordered upon the 
 pleasant. Wondering, he fell into step beside her, and 
 they paced together the yew-bordered terrace, the 
 ever-vigilant but discreet "Battista" following them, 
 though keeping now a few paces farther in the rear. 
 
 For a little while they appeared constrained, and 
 their talk was of the falling leaves and the grateful 
 change that had so suddenly come upon the weather. 
 Suddenly she stopped and faced him. 
 
 "Will you do me a favour, Marius?" she asked. 
 He halted too, and turned to her, studying her gentle 
 face, seeking to guess her mind in the clear hazel eyes 
 she raised to his. His eyebrows lifted slightly with 
 surprise. Nevertheless — 
 
 "There is in all the world, Valerie, nothing you 
 could ask me that I would not do," he protested. 
 
 She smiled wistfully. "How easy it is to utter 
 words!" she sighed. 
 
 "Marry me," he answered, leaning towards her, his 
 eyes devouring her now, " and you shall find my words 
 very quickly turned to deeds." 
 
 "Ah," said she, and her smile broadened and took 
 on a scornful twist, "you make conditions now. If I 
 will marry you, there is nothing you will not do for 
 
' 156 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 me; so that, conversely, I may take it that if I do not 
 marry you, there is nothing you will do. But in the 
 meantime, Marius, until I resolve me whether I will 
 marry you or not, would you not do a little thing that 
 I might ask of you?" 
 
 "Until you resolve?" he cried, and his face flushed 
 with the sudden hope he gathered from those words. 
 Hitherto there had been no suggestion of a possible 
 modification of attitude towards his suit. It had been 
 repulsion, definite and uncompromising. Again he 
 studied her face. Was she fooling him, this girl with 
 the angel-innocence of glance? The thought of such 
 a possibility cooled him instantly. "What is it you 
 want of me?" he asked, his voice ungracious. 
 
 "Only a little thing, Marius." Her glance trav- 
 elled back over her shoulder to the tall, limber fellow 
 in leather jerkin and with cross-gartered legs who 
 lounged a dozen steps behind them. " Rid me of that 
 ruffian's company," said she. 
 
 Marius looked back at "Battista," and from him to 
 Valerie. Then he smiled and made a slight movement 
 with his shoulders. 
 
 "But to what end?" he asked, as one who plead- 
 ingly opposes an argument that is unreasonable. "An- 
 other would replace him, and there is little to choose 
 among the men that garrison Condillac." 
 
 "Little, perhaps; but that little matters." Sure of 
 her ground, and gathering from his tone and manner 
 that the more ardently she begged this thing the less 
 likely would it be that she should prevail, she pursued 
 her intercessions with a greater heat. "Oh," she cried, 
 in a pretended rage, "it is to insult me to give me that 
 unclean knave for perpetual company. I loathe and 
 
A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 detest him. The very sight of him is too much to 
 endure." 
 
 "You exaggerate," said he coldly. 
 
 "I do not; indeed I do not," she rejoined, looking 
 frankly, pleadingly into his face. "You do not 
 realize what it is to suffer the insolent vigilance of 
 such as he; to feel that your every step is under sur- 
 veillance; to feel his eyes ever upon you when you are 
 within his sight. Oh, it is insufferable!" 
 
 Suddenly he gripped her arm, his face within a 
 hand's breadth of her own, his words falling hot and 
 quickly on her ear. 
 
 "It is yours to end it when you will, Valerie," he 
 passionately reminded her. "Give yourself into my 
 keeping. Let it be mine to watch over you henceforth. 
 Let me — " 
 
 Abruptly he ceased. She had drawn back her head, 
 her face was white to the lips, and in her eyes, as they 
 dwelt on his at such close quarters, there appeared a 
 look of terror, of loathing unutterable. He saw it, and 
 releasing her arm he fell back as if she had struck him. 
 The colour left his face too. 
 
 "Or is it," he muttered thickly, " that I inspire you 
 with much the same feeling as does he?" 
 
 She stood before him with lowered eyelids, her 
 bosom heaving still from the agitation of fear his close- 
 ness had aroused in her. He studied her in silence 
 a moment, with narrowing eyes and tightening lips. 
 Then anger stirred in him, and quenched the sorrow 
 with which at first he had marked the signs of her 
 repulsion. But anger in Marius de Condillac was a 
 cold and deadly emotion that vented itself in no 
 rantings, uttered no loud-voiced threats or denun- 
 
158 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 ciations, prompted no waving of arms or plucking 
 forth of weapons. 
 
 He stooped towards her again from his stately, 
 graceful height. The cruelty hidden in the beautiful 
 lines of his mouth took instant prominence in the 
 smile that flickered round it. 
 
 " I think that Battista makes a very excellent watch- 
 dog," he said, and you would have thought him 
 amused, as if at the foolish subterfuge of some little 
 child. "You may be right to dislike him. He knows 
 no French, so that it may not be yours to pervert and 
 bribe him with promises of what you will do if he 
 assists you to escape; but you will see that this very 
 quality which renders him detestable to you renders 
 him invaluable to us." 
 
 He laughed softly, as one well pleased with his own 
 astuteness, doffed his hat with a politeness almost 
 exaggerated, and whistling his dog he abruptly left 
 her. 
 
 Thus were Marius and his mother — to whom he 
 bore the tale of Valerie's request — tricked further 
 into reposing the very fullest trust in the watchful, in- 
 corruptible "Battista." Realizing that this would be 
 so, Garnache now applied himself more unreservedly 
 to putting into effect the plans he had been maturing. 
 And he went about it with a zest that knew no flag- 
 ging, with a relish that nothing could impair. Not that 
 it was other than usual for Garnache to fling himself 
 whole-heartedly into the conduct of any enterprise he 
 might have upon his hands; but he had come into this 
 affair at Condillac against his will; stress of circum- 
 stances it was had driven him on, step by step, to take 
 a personal hand in the actual deliverance of Valerie. 
 
A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 
 
 It was vanity and pride that had turned him back 
 when already he was on the road to Paris; not without 
 yet a further struggle would he accept defeat. To this 
 end had he been driven, for the first time in his life, 
 to the indignity of his foul disguise; and he, whose 
 methods had ever been direct, had been forced to have 
 recourse to the commonest of subterfuges. It was 
 with anger in his heart that he had proceeded to play 
 j the part he had assumed. He felt it to be a thing un- 
 worthy of him, a thing that derogated from his self- 
 respect. Had he but had the justification of some 
 high political aim, he might have endured it with a 
 better resignation; the momentous end to be served 
 might have sanctioned the ignoble means adopted. 
 But here was a task in itself almost as unworthy 
 of him as the methods by which he now set about 
 accomplishing it. He was to black his face and dye 
 his beard and hair, stain his skin and garb himself 
 in filthy rags, for no better end than that he might 
 compass the enlargement of a girl from the captivity 
 into which she had been forced by a designing lady of 
 Dauphiny. Was that a task to set a soldier, a man of 
 his years and birth and name? He had revolted at it; 
 yet that stubborn pride of his that would not brook 
 his return to Paris to confess himself defeated by a 
 woman over this woman's business, held him relent- 
 lessly to his distasteful course. 
 
 And gradually the distaste of it had melted. It had 
 begun to fall away five nights ago, when he had 
 heard what passed between Madame de Condillac and 
 Valerie. A great pity for this girl, a great indignation 
 against those who would account no means too base to 
 achieve their ends with her, a proper realization of the 
 
160 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 indignities she was suffering, caused him to shed some 
 of his reluctance, some of his sense of injury to him- 
 self. 
 
 His innate chivalry, that fine spirit of his which had 
 ever prompted him to defend the weak against the 
 oppressor, stirred him now, and stirred him to such 
 purpose that, in the end, from taking up the burden 
 of his task reluctantly, he came to bear it zestfully and 
 almost gladly. He was rejoiced to discover himself 
 equipped with histrionic gifts of which he had had no 
 suspicion hitherto, and it delighted him to set them 
 into activity. 
 
 Now it happened that at Condiilac there was a 
 fellow-countryman of "Battista's," a mercenary from 
 Northern Italy, a rascal named Arsenio, whom For- 
 tunio had enlisted when first he began to increase the 
 garrison a month ago. Upon this fellow's honesty 
 Garnache had formed designs. He had closely ob- 
 served him, and in Arsenio's countenance he thought 
 he detected a sufficiency of villainy to augur well for 
 the prosperity of any scheme of treachery that might 
 be suggested to him — provided the reward were ade- 
 quate. 
 
 Garnache went about sounding the man with a 
 wiliness peculiarly his own. Arsenio being his only 
 compatriot at Condiilac it was not wonderful that 
 in his few daily hours of relief from his gaoler's duty 
 "Battista" should seek out the fellow and sit in talk 
 with him. The pair became intimate, and intercourse 
 between them grew more free and unrestrained. Gar- 
 nache waited, wishing to risk nothing by precipi- 
 tancy, and watched for his opportunity. It came on 
 the morrow of All Saints. On that Day of the Dead, 
 
A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 161 
 
 Arsenio, whose rearing had been that of a true son of 
 Mother Church, was stirred by the memory of his 
 earthly mother, who had died some three years before. 
 He was silent and moody, and showed little respon- 
 siveness to Garnache's jesting humour. Garnache, 
 wondering what might be toward in the fellow's mind, 
 watched him closely. 
 
 Suddenly the little man — he was a short, bow- 
 legged, sinewy fellow — heaved a great sigh as he 
 plucked idly at a weed that grew between two stones 
 of the inner courtyard, where they were seated on the 
 chapel steps. 
 
 "You are a dull comrade to-day, compatriot," said 
 Garnache, clapping him on the shoulder. 
 
 "It is the Day of the Dead," the fellow answered 
 him, as though that were an ample explanation. Gar- 
 nache laughed. 
 
 "To those that are dead it no doubt is; so was 
 yesterday, so will to-morrow be. But to us who sit 
 here it is the day of the living." 
 
 "You are a scoffer," the other reproached him, and 
 his rascally face was oddly grave. "You don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 '"'Enlighten me, then. Convert me." 
 
 "It is the day when our thoughts turn naturally to 
 the dead, and mine are with my mother, who has lain 
 in her grave these three years. I am thinking of what 
 she reared me and of what I am." 
 
 Garnache made a grimace which the other did not 
 observe. He stared at the little cut-throat, and there 
 was some dismay in his glance. What ailed the rogue? 
 Was he about to repent him of his sins, and to have 
 done with villainy and treachery; was he minded to 
 
162 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 slit no more gullets in the future, be faithful to the 
 hand that paid him, and lead a godlier life? Peste! 
 That was a thing that would nowise suit Monsieur de 
 Garnache's ends just then. If Arsenio had a mind 
 to reform, let him postpone that reformation until 
 Garnache should have done with him. So he opened 
 his lips and let out a deep guffaw of mockery. 
 
 "We shall have you turning monk," said he, "a 
 candidate for canonization going barefoot, with fla- 
 gellated back and shaven head. No more wine, no 
 more dice, no more wenches, no more — " 
 
 "Peace!" snapped the other. 
 
 "Say 'Pax,'" suggested Garnache, '"Pax tecum* 
 or ' vobiscum? It is thus you will be saying it later." 
 
 "If my conscience pricks me, is it aught to you? 
 Have you no conscience of your own?" 
 
 "None. Men wax lean on it in this vale of tears. It 
 is a thing invented by the great to enable them to 
 pursue the grinding and oppression of the small. If 
 your master pays you ill for the dirty work you do for 
 him and another comes along to offer you some rich 
 reward for an omission in that same service, you are 
 warned that if you let yourself be tempted, your con- 
 science will plague you afterwards. Pish! A clumsy, 
 childish device that, to keep you faithful." 
 
 Arsenio looked up. Words that defamed the great 
 were ever welcome to him; arguments that showed 
 him he was oppressed and imposed upon sounded ever 
 gratefully in his ears. He nodded his approval of 
 "Battista's" dictum. 
 
 "Body of Bacchus!" he swore, "you are right in 
 that, compatriot. But my case is different. I am 
 thinking of the curse that Mother Church has put 
 
A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 163 
 
 upon this house. Yesterday was All Saints, and never 
 a Mass heard I. To-day is All Souls, and never a 
 prayer may I offer up in this place of sin for the rest of 
 my mother's soul." 
 
 "How so?" quoth Garnache, looking in wonder at 
 this religiously minded cut-throat. 
 
 "How so? Is not the House of Condillac under ex- 
 communication, and every man who stays in it of his 
 own free will? Prayers and Sacraments are alike for- 
 bidden here." 
 
 Garnache received a sudden inspiration. He leapt 
 to his feet, his face convulsed as if at the horror of 
 learning of a hitherto undreamt-of state of things. He 
 never paused to give a moment's consideration to the 
 cut- throat's mind, so wonderfully constituted as to 
 enable him to break with impunity every one of the 
 commandments every day of the week for the matter 
 of a louis d'or or two, and yet be afflicted by qualms 
 of conscience at living under a roof upon which the 
 Church had hurled her malediction. 
 
 "What are you saying, compatriot? What is it that 
 you tell me?" 
 
 "The truth," said Arsenio, with a shrug. "Any 
 man who wilfully abides in the services of Condillac" 
 — and instinctively he lowered his voice lest the Cap- 
 tain or the Marquise should be within earshot — 
 "is excommunicate." 
 
 "By the Host!" swore the false Piedmontese. "I 
 am a Christian man myself, Arsenio, and I have lived 
 in ignorance of this thing?" 
 
 "That ignorance may be your excuse. But now 
 that you know — " Arsenio shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Now that I know, I had best have a care of 
 
164 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 my soul and look about me for other employment." 
 
 "Alas!" sighed Arsenio; "it is none so easy to 
 find." 
 
 Garnache looked at him. Garnache began to have 
 in his luck a still greater faith than hitherto. He 
 glanced stealthily around; then he sat down again, so 
 that his mouth was close to Arsenio's ear. 
 
 "The pay is beggarly here, yet I have refused a 
 fortune offered me by another that I might remain 
 loyal to my masters at Condillac. But this thing that 
 you tell me alters everything. By the Host! yes." 
 
 "A fortune?" sneered Arsenio. 
 
 "Aye, a fortune — at least, fifty pistoles. That is a 
 fortune to some of us." 
 
 Arsenio whistled. "Tell me more," said he. 
 
 Garnache rose with the air of one about to depart. 
 
 "I must think of it," said he, and he made shift to 
 go. But the other's hand fell with a clenching grip 
 upon his arm. 
 
 "Of what must you think, fool?" said he. "Tell me 
 this service you have been offered. I have a conscience 
 that upbraids me. If you refuse these fifty pistoles, 
 why should not I profit by your folly?" 
 
 "There would not be the need. Two men are re- 
 quired for the thing I speak of, and there are fifty 
 pistoles for each. If I decide to undertake the task, 
 I'll speak of you as a likely second." 
 
 He nodded gloomily to his companion, and shaking 
 off his hold he set out to cross the yard. But Arsenio 
 was after him and had fastened again upon his arm, 
 detaining him. 
 
 "You fool!" said he; "you'd not refuse this for- 
 tune?" 
 
A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 165 
 
 "It would mean treachery," whispered Garnache. 
 
 "That is bad," the other agreed, and his face fell. 
 But remembering what Garnache had said, he was 
 quick to brighten again. "Is it to these folk here at 
 Condillac ?" he asked. Garnache nodded. "And they 
 would pay — these people that seek our service — 
 would pay you fifty pistoles?" 
 
 "They seek my service only, as yet. They might 
 seek yours were I to speak for you." 
 
 "And you will, compatriot. You will, will you not? 
 We are comrades, we are friends, and we are fellow- 
 countrymen in a strange land. There is nothing I 
 would not do for you, Battista. Look, I would die for 
 you if there should come the need! Body of Bacchus! 
 I would. I am like that when I love a man." 
 
 Garnache patted his shoulder. "You are a good 
 fellow, Arsenio." 
 
 "And you will speak for me?" 
 
 "But you do not know the nature of the service," 
 said Garnache. "You may refuse it when it is de- 
 finitely offered you." 
 
 "Refuse fifty pistoles? I should deserve to be the 
 pauper that I am if such had been my habits. Be the 
 service what it may, my conscience pricks me for 
 serving Condillac. Tell me how the fifty pistoles are 
 to be earned, and you may count upon me to put my 
 hand to anything." 
 
 Garnache was satisfied. But he told Arsenio no 
 more that day, beyond assuring him he would speak 
 for him and let him know upon the morrow. Nor on 
 the morrow, when they returned to the subject at 
 Arsenio's eager demand, did Garnache tell him all, or 
 even that the service was mademoiselle's. Instead 
 
166 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 he pretended that it was some one in Grenoble who 
 needed two such men as they. 
 
 "Word has been brought me," he said mysteriously. 
 "You must not ask me how." 
 
 "But how the devil are we to reach Grenoble? 
 The Captain will never let us go," said Arsenio, in an 
 ill-humour. 
 
 "On the night that you are of the watch, Arsenio, 
 we will depart together without asking the Captain's 
 leave. You shall open the postern when I come to 
 join you here in the courtyard." 
 
 "But what of the man at the door yonder?" And 
 he jerked his thumb towards the tower where made- 
 moiselle was a captive, and where at night " Battista " 
 was locked in with her. At the door leading to the 
 courtyard a sentry was always posted for greater 
 security. That door and that sentry were obstacles 
 which Garnache saw the futility of attempting to 
 overcome without aid. That was why he had been 
 forced to enlist Arsenio's assistance. 
 
 "You must account for him, Arsenio," said he. 
 
 "Thus?" inquired Arsenio coolly, and he passed 
 the edge of his hand significantly across his throat. 
 Garnache shook his head. 
 
 "No," said he; "there will be no need for that. A 
 blow over the head will suffice. Besides, it may be 
 quieter. You will find the key of the tower in his belt. 
 When you have felled him, get it and unlock the door; 
 then whistle for me. The rest will be easy." 
 
 "You are sure he has the key?" 
 
 "I have it from madame herself. They were forced 
 to leave it with him to provide for emergencies. 
 Mademoiselle's attempted escape by the window 
 
A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 167 
 
 showed them the necessity for it." He did not add 
 that it was the implicit confidence they reposed in 
 " Battista" himself that had overcome their reluctance 
 to leave the key with the sentry. 
 
 To seal the bargain, and in earnest of all the gold to 
 come, Garnache gave Arsenio a couple of gold louis as 
 a loan to be repaid him when their nameless employer 
 should pay him his fifty pistoles in Grenoble. 
 
 The sight and touch of the gold convinced Arsenio 
 that the thing was no dream. He told Garnache that 
 he believed he would be on guard-duty on the night of 
 the following Wednesday — this was Friday — and 
 so for Wednesday next they left the execution of their 
 plans unless, meantime, a change should be effected in 
 the disposition of the sentries. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE COURIER 
 
 MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE was pleased 
 with the issue of his little affair with Arsenio. 
 "Mademoiselle," he told Valerie that evening, "I 
 was right to have faith in my luck, right to believe 
 that the tide of it is flowing. All we need now is a little 
 patience; everything has become easy." 
 
 It was the hour of supper. Valerie was at table in 
 her anteroom, and "Battista" was in attendance. It 
 was an added duty they had imposed upon him, for, 
 since her attempt to escape, mademoiselle's imprison- 
 ment had been rendered more rigorous than ever. No 
 servant of the chateau was allowed past the door of 
 the outer anteroom, now commonly spoken of as the 
 guardroom of the tower. Valerie dined daily in the 
 salon with Madame de Condillac and Marius, but her 
 other meals were served her in her own apartments. 
 The servants who brought the meals from the kitchen 
 delivered them to "Battista" in the guardroom, and 
 he it was who laid the cloth and waited upon made- 
 moiselle. At first this added duty had irritated him 
 more than all that he had so far endured. Had he — 
 Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache — lived to dis- 
 charge the duties of a lackey, to bear dishes to a lady's 
 table and to remain at hand to serve her? The very 
 thought had all but set him in a rage. But presently 
 he grew reconciled to it. It afforded him particular 
 opportunities of being in mademoiselle's presence and 
 
THE COURIER 
 
 169 
 
 of conferring with her; and for the sake of such an 
 advantage he might well belittle the unsavoury part 
 of the affair. 
 
 A half-dozen candles burned in two gleaming silver 
 sconces on the table; in her tall-backed leather chair 
 mademoiselle sat, and ate and drank but little, while 
 Garnache told her of the preparations he had made. 
 
 "If my luck but holds until Wednesday next," he 
 concluded, "you may count upon being well out of 
 Condillac. Arsenio does not dream that you come 
 with us, so that even should he change his mind, at 
 least we have no cause to fear a betrayal. But he will 
 not change his mind. The prospect of fifty pistoles 
 has rendered it immutable." 
 
 She looked up at him with eyes brightened by hope 
 and by the encouragement to count upon success 
 which she gathered from his optimism. 
 
 "You have contrived it marvellously well," she 
 praised him. "If we succeed — " 
 
 "Say when we succeed, mademoiselle," he laugh- 
 ingly corrected her. 
 
 "Very well, then — when we shall have succeeded 
 in leaving Condillac, whither am I to go?" 
 
 "Why, with me, to Paris, as was determined. My 
 man awaits me at Voiron with money and horses. No 
 further obstacle shall rise to hamper us once our backs 
 are turned upon the ugly walls of Condillac. The 
 Queen shall make you welcome and keep you safe 
 until Monsieur Florimond comes to claim his bride." 
 
 She sipped her wine, then set down the glass and 
 leaned her elbow on the table, taking her chin in her 
 fine white hand. 
 
 "Madame tells me that he is dead," said she, and 
 
170 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Garnache was shocked at the comparative calmness 
 with which she said it. He looked at her sharply from 
 under his sooted brows. Was she, after all, he won- 
 dered, no different from other women? Was she cold 
 and calculating, and had she as little heart as he had 
 come to believe was usual with her sex, that she could 
 contemplate so calmly the possibility of her lover be- 
 ing dead? He had thought her better, more natural, 
 more large-hearted and more pure. That had en- 
 couraged him to stand by her in these straits of hers, 
 no matter at what loss of dignity to himself. It began 
 to seem that his conclusions had been wrong. 
 
 His silence caused her to look up, and in his face she 
 read something of what was passing in his thoughts. 
 She smiled rather wanly. 
 
 "You are thinking me heartless, Monsieur de 
 Garnache?" 
 
 "I am thinking you — womanly." 
 
 "The same thing, then, to your mind. Tell me, 
 monsieur, do you know much of women?" 
 
 "God forbid! I have found trouble enough in my 
 life." 
 
 "And you pass judgment thus upon a sex with 
 which you have no acquaintance?" 
 
 "Not by acquaintance only is it that we come to 
 knowledge. There are ways of learning other than 
 by the road of experience. One may learn of dangers 
 by watching others perish. It is the fool who will be 
 satisfied alone with the knowledge that comes to him 
 from what he undergoes himself." 
 
 "You are very wise, monsieur," said she demurely, 
 so demurely that he suspected her of laughing at him. 
 "You were never wed?" 
 
THE COURIER 
 
 "Never, mademoiselle," he answered stiffly, "nor 
 ever in any danger of it." 
 
 "Must you, indeed, account it a danger?" 
 
 "A deadly peril, mademoiselle," said he; whereupon 
 they both laughed. 
 
 She pushed back her chair and rose slowly. Slowly 
 she passed from the table and stepped towards the 
 window. Turning she set her back to it, and faced 
 him. 
 
 "Monsieur de Garnache," said she, "you are a good 
 man, a true and noble gentleman. I would that you 
 thought a little better of us. All women are not con- 
 temptible, believe me. I will pray that you may yet 
 mate with one who will prove to you the truth of 
 what I say." 
 
 He smiled gently, and shook his head. 
 
 "My child," said he, "I am not half the noble fel- 
 low you account me. I have a stubborn pride that 
 stands me at times in the stead of virtue. It was pride 
 brought me back here, for instance. I could not brook 
 the laughter that would greet me in Paris did I confess 
 that I was beaten by the Dowager of Condillac. I tell 
 you this to the end that, thinking less well of me, 
 you may spare me prayers which I should dread to 
 see fulfilled. I have told you before, mademoiselle, 
 Heaven is likely to answer the prayers of such a heart 
 as yours." 
 
 " Yet but a moment back you deemed me heartless," 
 she reminded him. 
 
 "You seemed so indifferent to the fate of Florimond 
 de Condillac." 
 
 "I must have seemed, then, what I am not," she 
 told him, "for I am far from indifferent to Florimond's 
 
172 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 fate. The truth is, monsieur, I do not believe Madame 
 de Condillac. Knowing me to be under a promise that 
 naught can prevail upon me to break, she would have 
 me believe that nature has dissolved the obligation 
 for me. She thinks that were I persuaded of Flori- 
 mond's death, I might turn an ear to the wooing of 
 Marius. But she is mistaken, utterly mistaken; and 
 so I sought to convince her. My father willed that I 
 should wed Florimond. Florimond's father had been 
 his dearest friend. I promised him that I would do 
 his will, and by that promise I am bound. But were 
 Florimond indeed dead, and were I free to choose, I 
 should not choose Marius were he the only man in all 
 the world." 
 
 Garnache moved nearer to her. 
 
 "You speak," said he, " as if you were indifferent in 
 the matter of wedding Florimond, whilst I understand 
 that your letter to the Queen professed you eager for 
 the alliance. I may be impertinent, but, frankly, your 
 attitude puzzles me." 
 
 "I am not indifferent," she answered him, but 
 calmly, without enthusiasm. "Florimond and I were 
 playmates, and as a little child I loved him and ad- 
 mired him as I might have loved and admired a bro- 
 ther perhaps. He is comely, honourable, and true. 
 I believe he would be the kindest husband ever wo- 
 man had, and so I am content to give my life into 
 his keeping. What more can be needed?" 
 
 "Never ask me, mademoiselle; I am by no means 
 an authority," said he. " But you appear to have been 
 well schooled in a most excellent philosophy." And he 
 laughed outright. She reddened under his amusement. 
 
 "It was thus my father taught me," said she, in 
 
THE COURIER 
 
 173 
 
 quieter tones; "and he was the wisest man I ever 
 knew, just as he was the noblest and the bravest." 
 
 Garnache bowed his head. "God rest his soul!" 
 said he with respectful fervour. 
 
 "Amen," the girl replied, and they fell silent. 
 
 Presently she returned to the subject of her be- 
 trothed. 
 
 "If Florimond is living, this prolonged absence, 
 this lack of news is very strange. It is three months 
 since last we heard of him — four months, indeed. 
 Yet he must have been apprised of his father's death, 
 and that should have occasioned his return." 
 
 "Was he indeed apprised of it?" inquired Gar- 
 nache. "Did you, yourself, communicate the news 
 to him ? " 
 
 "I?" she cried. "But no, monsieur. We do not 
 correspond." 
 
 "That is a pity," said Garnache, " for I believe that 
 the knowledge of the Marquis's death was kept from 
 him by his stepmother." 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, in horror. "Do you 
 mean that he may still be in ignorance of it?" 
 
 "Not that. A month ago a courier was dispatched 
 to him by the Queen-Mother. The last news of him — 
 some four months old, as you have said — reported 
 him at Milan in the service of Spain. Thither was the 
 courier sent to find him and to deliver him letters set- 
 ting forth what was toward at Condillac." 
 
 "A month ago?" she said. "And still we have no 
 word. I am full of fears for him, monsieur." 
 
 "And I," said Garnache, "am full of hope that we 
 shall have news of him at any moment." 
 
 That he was well justified of his hope was to be 
 
174 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 proven before they were many days older. Mean- 
 while Garnache continued to play his part of gaoler to 
 the entire satisfaction and increased confidence of the 
 Condillacs, what time he waited patiently for the ap- 
 pointed night when it should be his friend Arsenio's 
 turn to take the guard. 
 
 On that fateful Wednesday "Battista" sought out 
 — as had now become his invariable custom — his 
 compatriot as soon as the time of his noontide rest 
 was come, the hour at which they dined at Condillac. 
 He found Arsenio sunning himself in the outer court- 
 yard, for it seemed that year that as the winter ap- 
 proached the warmth increased. Never could man re- 
 member such a Saint Martin's Summer as was this. 
 
 In so far as the matter of their impending flight was 
 concerned, "Battista" was as brief as he could be. 
 
 "Is all well?" he asked. "Shall you be on guard 
 to-night?" 
 
 "Yes. It is my watch from sunset till dawn. At 
 what hour shall we be stirring?" 
 
 Garnache pondered a moment, stroking that firm 
 chin of his, on which the erstwhile stubble had now 
 grown into a straggling, unkempt beard — and it 
 plagued him not a little, for a close observer might 
 have discovered that it was of a lighter colour at the 
 roots. His hair, too, was beginning to lose its glossy 
 blackness. It was turning dull, and presently, no 
 doubt, it would begin to pale, so that it was high time 
 he spread his wings and took flight from Condillac. 
 
 "We had best wait until midnight. It will give 
 them time to be soundly in their slumbers. Though, 
 should there be signs of any one stirring even then, 
 you had better wait till later. It were foolish to risk 
 
THE COURIER 
 
 175 
 
 having our going prevented for the sake of leaving a 
 half-hour earlier." 
 
 "Depend upon me," Arsenio answered him. 
 "When I open the door of your tower I shall whistle to 
 you. The key of the postern hangs on the guardroom 
 wall. I shall possess myself of that before I come." 
 
 "Good," said Garnache, "we understand each 
 other." 
 
 And on that they might have parted there and 
 then, but that there happened in that moment a 
 commotion at the gate. Men hurried from the guard- 
 house, and Fortunio's voice sounded loud in command. 
 A horseman had galloped up to Condillac, walked his 
 horse across the bridge — which was raised only at 
 night — and was knocking with the butt of his whip 
 an imperative summons upon the timbers of the 
 gate. 
 
 By Fortunio's orders it was opened, and a man 
 covered with dust, astride a weary, foam-flecked 
 horse, rode under the archway of the keep into the 
 first courtyard of the chateau. 
 
 Garnache eyed him in surprise and inquiry, and he 
 read in the man's appearance that he was a courier. 
 The horseman had halted within a few paces of the 
 spot where "Battista" and his companion stood, and 
 seeing in the vilely clad Garnache a member of the 
 Condillac household, he flung him his reins, then got 
 down stiffly from his horse. 
 
 Fortunio, bristling'with importance, his left hand on 
 the hilt of his rapier, the fingers of his right twirling at 
 his long fair mustachios, at once confronted him and 
 craved his business. 
 
 " I am the bearer of letters for Madame the Dowager 
 
176 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Marquise de Condillac," was the reply; whereupon, 
 with an arrogant nod, Fortunio bade the fellow go 
 with him, and issued an order that his horse should be 
 cared for. 
 
 Arsenio was speaking in Garnache's ear. The man's 
 nature was inquisitive, and he was indulging idle con- 
 jectures as to what might be the news this courier 
 brought. Garnache's mind, actuated by very different 
 motives, was engaged upon the same task, so much so 
 that not a word heard he of what his supposed com- 
 patriot was whispering. Whence came this courier? 
 Why had not that fool Fortunio asked him, so that 
 Garnache might have overheard his answer? Was he 
 from Paris and the Queen, or was he, perchance, from 
 Italy and Florimond? These were questions to which 
 it imported him to have the answers. He must know 
 what letters the fellow brought. The knowledge might 
 guide him now; might even cause him to alter the plans 
 he had formed. 
 
 He stood in thought whilst, unheeded by him, 
 Arsenio prattled at his elbow. He bethought him of 
 the old minstrel's gallery at the end of the hall in 
 which the Condillacs were dining and whither the 
 courier would be conducted. He knew the way to that 
 gallery, for he had made a very close study of the 
 chateau against the time when he might find himself 
 in need of the knowledge. 
 
 With a hurried excuse to Arsenio he moved away, 
 and, looking round to see that he was unobserved, he 
 was on the point of making his way to the gallery 
 when suddenly he checked himself. WTiat went he 
 there to do? To play the spy? To become fellow to 
 the lackey who listens at keyholes? Ah, no! That 
 
THE COURIER 
 
 177 
 
 was something no service could demand of him. He 
 might owe a duty to the Queen, but there was also a 
 duty that he owed himself, and this duty forbade him 
 from going to such extremes. Thus spake his Pride, 
 and he mistook its voice for that of Honour. Betide 
 what might, it was not for Garnache to play the eaves- 
 dropper. Not that, Pardieu! 
 
 And so he turned away, his desires in conflict with 
 that pride of his, and gloomily he paced the court- 
 yard, Arsenio marvelling what might have come to 
 him. And well was it for him that pride should have 
 detained him; well would it seem as if his luck were 
 indeed in the ascendant and had prompted his pride 
 to save him from a deadly peril. For suddenly some 
 one called — 
 
 "Battista!" 
 
 He heard, but for the moment, absorbed as he was 
 in his own musings, he overlooked the fact that it was 
 the name to which he answered at Condillac. 
 
 Not until it was repeated more loudly, and impera- 
 tively, did he turn to see Fortunio beckoning him. 
 With a sudden dread anxiety, he stepped to the 
 captain's side. Was he discovered? But Fortunio's 
 words set his doubts to rest at once. 
 
 "You are to re-conduct Mademoiselle de La Vau- 
 vraye to her apartments at once." 
 
 Garnache bowed and followed the captain up the 
 steps and into the chateau that he might carry out the 
 order; and as he went he shrewdly guessed that it was 
 the arrival of that courier had occasioned the sudden 
 removal of mademoiselle. 
 
 When they were alone together — he and she — in 
 her anteroom in the Northern Tower, she turned to 
 
178 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 him before he had time to question her as he was in- 
 tending. 
 
 "A courier has arrived," said she. 
 
 "I know; I saw him in the courtyard. Whence is 
 he? Did you learn it?" 
 
 "From Florimond." She was white with agitation. 
 
 "From the Marquis de Condillac?" he cried, and 
 he knew not whether to hope or fear. "From Italy?" 
 
 "No, monsieur. I do not think from Italy. From 
 what was said I gathered that Florimond is already 
 on his way to Condillac. Oh, it made a fine stir. It 
 left them no more appetite for dinner, and they seem 
 to have thought it could have left me none for mine, 
 for they ordered my instant return to my apartments." 
 
 "Then you know nothing — save that the courier 
 is from the Marquis?" 
 
 "Nothing; nor am I likely to," she answered, and 
 her arms dropped limply to her sides, her eyes looked 
 entreatingly up into his gloomy face. 
 
 But Garnache could do no more than rap out an 
 oath. Then he stood still a moment, his eyes on the 
 window, his chin in his hand, brooding. His pride and 
 his desire to know more of that courier's message were 
 fighting it out again in his mind, just as they fought it 
 out in the courtyard below. Suddenly his glance fell 
 on her, standing there, so sweet, so frail, and so dis- 
 consolate. For her sake he must do the thing, repul- 
 sive though it might be. 
 
 "I must know more," he exclaimed. "I must learn 
 Florimond's whereabouts, if only that we may go to 
 meet him when we leave Condillac to-night." 
 
 "You have arranged definitely for that? " she asked, 
 her face lighting. 
 
THE COURIER 
 
 179 
 
 "All is in readiness," he assured her. Then, lower- 
 ing his voice without apparent reason, and speaking 
 quickly and intently, " I must go find out what I can," 
 he said. "There may be a risk, but it is as nothing 
 to the risk we run of blundering matters through 
 ignorance of what may be afoot. Should any one 
 come — which is unlikely, for all those interested will 
 be in the hall until the courier is dealt with — and 
 should they inquire into my absence, you are to know 
 nothing of it since you have no Italian and I no 
 French. All that you will know will be that you be- 
 lieve I went but a moment since to fetch water. You 
 understand?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Then lock yourself in your chamber till I return." 
 
 He caught up a large earthenware vessel in which 
 water was kept for his own and mademoiselle's use, 
 emptied it through the guard-room window into the 
 moat below, then left the room and made his way 
 down the steps to the courtyard. 
 
 He peered out. Not a soul was in sight. This inner 
 courtyard was little tenanted at that time of day, 
 and the sentry at the door of the tower was only 
 placed there at nightfall. Alongside this there stood 
 another door, opening into a passage from which 
 access might be gained to any part of the chateau. 
 Thrusting behind that door the earthenware vessel 
 that he carried, Garnache sped swiftly down the corri- 
 dor on his eavesdropping errand. Still his mind was in 
 conflict. At times he cursed his slowness, at times his 
 haste and readiness to undertake so dirty a business, 
 wishing all women at the devil since by the work of 
 women was he put to such a shift as this. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 FLORIMOND'S LETTER 
 
 IN the great hall of Condillac, where the Marquise, 
 her son, and Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye had 
 been at dinner, a sudden confusion had been spread by 
 the arrival of that courier so soon as it was known that 
 he bore letters from Florimond, Marquis de Condillac. 
 
 Madame had risen hastily, fear and defiance blend- 
 ing in her face, and she had at once commanded made- 
 moiselle's withdrawal. Valerie had wondered might 
 there not be letters — or, leastways, messages — for 
 herself from her betrothed. But her pride had sup- 
 pressed the eager question that welled up to her lips. 
 She would, too, have questioned the courier concern- 
 ing Florimond's health; she would have asked him 
 how the Marquis looked, and where the messenger 
 had left him. But of all this that she craved to know, 
 nothing could she bring herself to ask before the 
 Marquise. 
 
 She rose in silence upon hearing the Dowager order 
 Fortunio to summon Battista that he might re-conduct 
 mademoiselle to her apartments, and she moved a few 
 paces down the hall, towards the door, in proud, sub- 
 missive readiness to depart. Yet she could not keep 
 her eyes from the dust-stained courier, who, having 
 flung his hat and whip upon the floor, was now open- 
 ing his wallet, the Dowager standing before him to 
 receive his papers. 
 
 Marius, affecting an insouciance he did not feel, re- 
 
FLORIMOND'S LETTER 181 
 
 mained at table, his page behind his chair, his hound 
 stretched at his feet; and he now sipped his wine, now 
 held it to the light that he might observe the beauty 
 of its deep red colour. 
 
 At last Fortunio returned, and mademoiselle took 
 her departure, head in the air and outwardly seeming 
 nowise concerned in what was taking place. With her 
 went Fortunio. And the Marquise, who now held the 
 package she had received from the courier, bade the 
 page depart also. 
 
 When the three were at last alone, she paused 
 before opening the letter and turned again to the 
 messenger. She made a brave figure in the flood of 
 sunlight that poured through the gules and azures of 
 the long blazoned windows, her tall, lissome figure 
 clad in a close-fitting robe of black velvet, her abun- 
 dant glossy black hair rolled back under its white coif, 
 her black eyes and scarlet lips detaching from the 
 ivory of her face, in which no trace of emotion showed, 
 for all the anxiety that consumed her. 
 
 "Where left you the Marquis de Condillac?" she 
 asked the fellow. 
 
 "At La Rochette, madame," the courier answered* 
 and his answer brought Marius to his feet with an 
 oath. 
 
 "So near?" he cried out. But the Dowager's 
 glance remained calm and untroubled. 
 
 "How does it happen that he did not hasten him- 
 self, to Condillac?" she asked. 
 
 "I do not know, madame. I did not see Monsieur 
 le Marquis. It was his servant brought me that letter 
 with orders to ride hither." 
 
 Marius approached his mother, his brow clouded 
 
182 
 
 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "Let us see what he says," he suggested anxiously. 
 But his mother did not heed him. She stood balanc- 
 ing the package in her hand. 
 
 "Can you tell us, then, nothing of Monsieur le 
 Marquis?" 
 
 "Nothing more than I have told you, madame." 
 
 She bade Marius call Fortunio, and then dismissed 
 the courier, bidding her captain see to his refreshment. 
 
 Then, alone at last with her son, she hastily tore the 
 covering from the letter, unfolded it and read. And 
 Marius, moved by anxiety, came to stand beside and 
 just behind her, where he too might read. The letter 
 ran: 
 
 "My very dear Marquise, — I do not doubt but 
 that it will pleasure you to hear that I am on my way 
 home, and that but for a touch of fever that has 
 detair ed us here at La Rochette, I should be at 
 Condillac as soon as the messenger who is the bearer 
 of these presents. A courier from Paris found me a 
 fortnight since in Milan, with letters setting forth 
 that my father had been dead six months, and that it 
 was considered expedient at Court that I should re- 
 turn home forthwith to assume the administration of 
 Condillac. I am lost in wonder that a communication 
 of this nature should have been addressed to me from 
 Paris instead of from you, as surely it must have been 
 your duty to advise me of my father's decease at the 
 time of that untoward event. I am cast down by grief 
 at this evil news, and the summons from Court has 
 brought me in all haste from Milan. The lack of 
 news from Condillac has been for months a matter 
 of surprise to me. My father's death may be some 
 
FLORIMOND'S LETTER 183 
 
 explanation of this, but scarcely explanation enough. 
 However, madame, I count upon it that you will be 
 able to dispel such doubts as I am fostering. I count, 
 too, upon being at Condillac by the end of the week, 
 but I beg that neither you nor my dear Marius will 
 allow this circumstance to make any difference to 
 yourselves, just as, although I am returning to as- 
 sume the government of Condillac as the Court has 
 suggested to me, I hope that yourself and my dear 
 brother will continue to make it your home for as long 
 as it shall pleasure you. So long shall it pleasure me. 
 
 " I am, my very dear marquise, your very humble 
 and very affectionate servant and stepson, 
 
 "Florimond" 
 
 When she had read to the end, the Dowager turned 
 back and read aloud the passage: "However, madame, 
 I count upon it that you will be able to dispel such 
 doubts as I am fostering." She looked at her son, who 
 had shifted his position, so that he was now confront- 
 ing her. 
 
 "He has his suspicions that all is not as it should 
 be," sneered Marius. 
 
 "Yet his tone is amiable throughout. It cannot be 
 that they said too much in that letter from Paris." A 
 little trill of bitter laughter escaped her. "We are to 
 continue to make this our home for as long as it shall 
 pleasure us. So long shall it pleasure him!" 
 
 Then, with a sudden seriousness, she folded the 
 letter and, putting her hands behind her, looked up 
 into her son's face. 
 
 "Well?" she asked. "What are you going to 
 do?" 
 
i8 4 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "Strange that he makes no mention of Valerie!" 
 said Marius pensively. 
 
 "Pooh! A Condillac thinks lightly of his women. 
 What are you going to do ? " 
 
 His handsome countenance, so marvellously like 
 her own, was overcast. He looked gloomily at his 
 mother for a moment; then with a slight twitch of the 
 shoulders he turned and moved past her slowly in the 
 direction of the hearth. He leaned his elbow on the 
 overmantel and rested his brow against his clenched 
 right hand, and stood so awhile in moody thought 
 She watched him, a frown between her arrogant eyes. 
 
 "Aye, ponder it," said she. "He is at La Rochette, 
 within a day's ride, and only detained there by a 
 touch of fever. In any case he promises to be here by 
 the end of the week. By Saturday, then, Condillac will 
 have passed out of our power; it will be lost to you 
 irretrievably. Will you lose La Vauvraye as well?" 
 
 He let his hand fall to his side, and turned, fully to 
 face her. 
 
 "What can I do? What can we do?" he asked, a 
 shade of petulance in his question. 
 
 She stepped close up to him and rested her hand 
 lightly upon his shoulder. 
 
 "You have had three months in which to woo that 
 girl, and you have tarried sadly over it, Marius. You 
 have now at most three days in which to accomplish 
 it. What will you do?" 
 
 "I have been maladroit perhaps," he said, with 
 bitterness. "I have been over-patient with her. I 
 have counted too much upon the chance of Flori- 
 mond's being dead, as seemed from the utter lack of 
 news of him. Yet what could I do ? Carry her off by 
 
FLORIMOND'S LETTER 185 
 
 force and compel at the dagger's point some priest to 
 marry us?" 
 
 She moved her hand from his shoulder and smiled, 
 as if she derided him and his heat. 
 
 "You want for invention, Marius," said she. "And 
 yet I beg that you will exert your mind, or Sunday 
 next shall find us well-nigh homeless. I'll take no 
 charity from the Marquis de Condillac, nor, I think, 
 will you." 
 
 "If all fails," said he, "we have still your house in 
 Touraine." 
 
 "My house?" she echoed, her voice shrill with 
 scorn. " My hovel, you would say. Could you abide 
 there — in such a sty?" 
 
 " Vertudieul If all else failed, we might be glad of 
 it." 
 
 "Glad of it? Not I, for one. Yet all else will fail 
 unless you bestir yourself in the next three days. Con- 
 dillac is as good as lost to you already, since Flori- 
 mond is upon the threshold. La Vauvraye most 
 certainly will be lost to you as well unless you make 
 haste to snatch it in the little moment that is left you." 
 
 " Can I achieve the impossible, madame? " he cried, 
 and his impatience waxed beneath this unreasonable 
 insistence of his mother's. 
 
 "Who asks it of you?" 
 
 "Do not you, madame?" 
 
 " I ? Pish ! All that I urge is that you take Valerie 
 across the border into Savoy where you can find a 
 priest to marry you, and get it done this side of 
 Saturday." 
 
 "And is not that the impossible? She will not go 
 with me, as you well know, madame." 
 
1 86 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 There was a moment's silence. The Dowager shot 
 him a glance; then her eyes fell. Her bosom stirred 
 as if some strange excitement moved her. Fear and 
 shame were her emotions; for a way she knew by 
 which mademoiselle might be induced to go with him 
 — not only willingly, but eagerly, she thought — to 
 the altar. But she was his mother, and even her harsh 
 nature shuddered before the task of instructing him in 
 this vile thing. Why had the fool not wit enough to 
 see it for himself? 
 
 Observing her silence Marius smiled sardonically. 
 
 "You may well ponder it," said he. "It is an easy 
 matter to tell me what I should do. Tell me, rather, 
 how it should be done." 
 
 His blindness stirred her anger, and her anger 
 whelmed her hesitation. 
 
 "Were I in your place, Marius, I should find a 
 way," said she, in a voice utterly expressionless, her 
 eyes averted ever from his own. 
 
 He scanned her curiously. Her agitation was plain 
 to him, and it puzzled him, as did the downcast glance 
 of eyes usually so bold and insolent in their gaze. 
 Then he pondered her tone, so laden with expression 
 by its very expressionlessness, and suddenly a flood of 
 light broke upon his mind, revealing very clearly and 
 hideously her meaning. He caught his breath with a 
 sudden gasp and blenched a little. Then his lips 
 tightened suddenly. 
 
 "In that case, madame," he said, after a pause, and 
 speaking as if he were still without revelation of her 
 meaning, "I can but regret that you are not in my 
 place. For, as it is, I am thinking we shall have to 
 make the best of the hovel in Touraine." 
 
FLORIMOND'S LETTER 187 
 
 She bit her lip in the intensity of her chagrin and 
 shame. She was no fool, nor did she imagine from his 
 words that her meaning had been lost upon him. She 
 knew that he had understood, and that he chose to 
 pretend that he had not. She looked up suddenly, her 
 dark eyes blazing, a splash of colour in either cheek. 
 
 "Fool!" she snapped at him; "you lily-livered fool! 
 Are you indeed my son ? Are you — by God ! — that 
 you talk so lightly of yielding? " She advanced a step 
 in his direction. " Through your cowardice you may 
 be content to spend your days in beggary; not so am 
 I ; nor shall I be, so long as I have an arm and a voice. 
 You may go hence if your courage fails you outright; 
 but I'll throw up the bridge and entrench myself 
 within these walls. Florimond de Condillac sets no 
 foot in here while I live; and if he should come within 
 range of musket-shot, it will be the worse for him." 
 
 " I think you are mad, madame — mad so to talk of 
 resisting him, as you are mad to call me coward. I'll 
 leave you till you are come to a more tranquil frame 
 of mind." And turning upon his heel, his face on fire 
 from the lash of her contempt, he strode down the 
 hall and passed out, leaving her alone. 
 
 White again, with heaving bosom and clenched 
 hands, she stood a moment where he had left her, then 
 dropped into a chair, and taking her chin in her hand 
 she rested her elbow on her knee. Thus she remained, 
 the firelight tinting her perfect profile, on which little 
 might be read of the storm that was raging in her soul. 
 Another woman in her place would have sought relief 
 in tears, but tears came rarely to the beautiful eyes of 
 the Marquise de Condillac. 
 
 She sat there until the sun had passed from the 
 
1 88 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 windows behind her and the corners of the room were 
 lost in the quickening shadows. At last she was 
 disturbed by the entrance of a lackey, who an- 
 nounced that Monsieur le Comte de Tressan, Lord 
 Seneschal of Dauphiny, was come to Condillac. 
 
 She bade the fellow call help to clear the board, 
 where still was set their interrupted noontide meal, 
 and then to admit the Seneschal. With her back to 
 the stirring, bustling servants she stood, pensively 
 regarding the flames, and a smile that was mocking 
 rather than aught else spread upon her face. 
 
 If all else failed her, she told herself, there would 
 be no Touraine hovel for her. She could always be 
 Comtesse de Tressan. Let Marius work out alone 
 the punishment of his cowardice. 
 
 Away in the Northern Tower, where mademoiselle 
 was lodged, she sat in eager talk with Garnache, who 
 had returned unobserved and successful from his 
 journey of espionage. 
 
 He had told her what from the conversation of 
 Marius and his mother he had learned touching the 
 contents of that letter. Florimond lay as near as La 
 Rochette, detained there by a touch of fever, but 
 promising to be at Condillac by the end of the week. 
 Since that was so, Valerie opined there was no longer 
 the need to put themselves to the trouble of the escape 
 they had planned. Let them wait until Florimond 
 came. 
 
 But Garnache shook his head. He had heard more; 
 and for all that he accounted her at present safe from 
 Marius, yet he made no false estimate of that supple 
 gentleman's character, was not deluded by his mo- 
 mentary show of niceness. As the time of Florimond's 
 
FLORIMOND'S LETTER 189 
 
 arrival grew nearer, he thought it very possible that 
 Marius might be rendered desperate. There was 
 grave danger in remaining. He said naught of this, 
 yet he convinced mademoiselle that it were best to go. 
 
 "Though there will no longer be the need of a toil- 
 some journey as far as Paris," he concluded. "A four 
 hours' ride to La Rochette, and you may embrace 
 your betrothed." 
 
 "Did he speak of me in his letter, know you, mon- 
 sieur?" she inquired. 
 
 "I heard them say that he did not," Garnache 
 replied. " But it may well be that he had good reason. 
 He may suspect more than he has written." 
 
 "In that case," she asked — and there was a 
 wounded note in her voice — " Why should a touch of 
 fever keep him at La Rochette? Would a touch of 
 fever keep you from the woman you loved, monsieur, 
 if you knew, or even suspected, that she was in 
 durance?" 
 
 "I do not know, mademoiselle. I am an old man 
 who has never loved, and so it would be unfair of me 
 to pass judgment upon lovers. That they think not as 
 other folk is notorious; their minds are for the time 
 disordered." 
 
 Nevertheless he looked at her where she sat by the 
 window, so gentle, so lissome, so sweet, and so frail, 
 and he had a shrewd notion that were he Florimond 
 de Condillac, whether he feared her in durance or not, 
 not the fever, nor the plague itself should keep him 
 for the best part of a week at La Rochette within easy 
 ride of her. 
 
 She smiled gently at his words, and turned the 
 conversation to the matter that imported most. 
 
i 9 o SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 " To-night, then, it is determined that we are to go ? " 
 
 "At midnight or a little after. Be in readiness, 
 mademoiselle, and do not keep me waiting when I rap 
 upon your door. Haste may be of importance." 
 
 "You may count upon me, my friend," she an- 
 swered him, and stirred by a sudden impulse she held 
 out her hand. "You have been very good to me, 
 Monsieur de Garnache. You have made life very 
 different for me since your coming. I had it in my 
 mind to blame you once for your rashness in returning 
 alone. I was a little fool. You can never know the 
 peace that has come to me from having you at hand. 
 The fears, the terrors that possessed me before you 
 came have all been dispelled in this last week that you 
 have been my sentry in two senses." 
 
 He took the hand she held out to him, and looked 
 down at her out of his grimy, disfigured face, an odd 
 tenderness stirring him. He felt as might have felt a 
 father towards his daughter — at least, so thought he 
 then. 
 
 " Child," he answered her, " you overrate it. I have 
 done no less than I could do, no more than any other 
 would have done." 
 
 "Yet more than Florimond has done — and he my 
 betrothed. A touch of fever was excuse enough to 
 keep him at La Rochette, whilst the peril of death did 
 not suffice to deter you from coming hither." 
 
 "You forget, mademoiselle, that, maybe, he does 
 not know your circumstances." 
 
 "Maybe he does not," said she, with a half-sigh. 
 Then she looked up into his face again. "I am sad at 
 the thought of going, monsieur," she surprised him by 
 saying. 
 
FLORIMOND'S LETTER 
 
 "Sad?" he cried. Then he laughed. "But what can 
 there be to sadden you?" 
 
 "This, monsieur: that after to-night it is odds I 
 shall never see you more." She said it without hesita- 
 tion and without coquetry, for her upbringing had 
 been simple and natural — in an atmosphere different 
 far from that in which had been reared the courtly 
 women he had known. "You will return to Paris and 
 the great world, and I shall live out my life in this 
 little corner of Dauphiny. You will forget me in the 
 bustle of your career, monsieur; but I shall always 
 hold your memory very dear and very gratefully. 
 You are the only friend I have ever known since my 
 father died — excepting Florimond, though it is so 
 long since I have seen him, and he never came to me 
 in times of stress as you have done." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he answered, touched despite 
 himself — more touched than he could have believed 
 possible to his callous, world-worn nature — "you 
 make me very proud; you make me feel a little bet- 
 ter than I am, for if I have earned your regard and 
 friendship, there must be some good in old Garnache. 
 Believe me, mademoiselle, I too shall not forget." 
 
 And thereafter they remained a spell in silence, she 
 sitting by the window, gazing out into the bright 
 October sky, he standing by her chair, thoughtfully 
 considering her brown head so gracefully set upon her 
 little shoulders. A feeling came to him that was odd 
 and unusual; he sought to interpret it, and he sup- 
 posed it to mean that he wished that at some time in 
 the dim past he might have married some woman 
 who would have borne him for daughter such an one 
 as this. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE CONFERENCE 
 
 THE matter that brought Monsieur de Tressan to 
 Condillac — and brought him in most fearful 
 haste — was the matter of the courier who had that 
 day arrived at the chateau. 
 
 News of it had reached the ears of my Lord Sene- 
 schal. His mind had been a prey to uneasiness con- 
 cerning this business of rebellion in which he had so 
 rashly lent a hand, and he was anxious to know whence 
 came this courier and what news he brought. But for 
 all his haste he had paused — remembering it was 
 the Marquise he went to visit — to don the gorgeous 
 yellow suit with the hanging sleeves which he had 
 had from Paris, and the crimson sash he had bought 
 at Taillemant's, all in the very latest mode. 
 
 Thus arrayed, his wig well curled and a clump of it 
 caught in ribbon of flame-coloured silk on the left side, 
 his sword hanging from belt and carriages richly 
 wrought with gold, and the general courtierlike effect 
 rather marred by the heavy riding-boots which he 
 would have liked to leave behind yet was constrained 
 to wear, he presented himself before the Dowager, 
 hiding his anxiety in a melting smile, and the latter in 
 the profoundest of bows. 
 
 The graciousness of his reception overwhelmed him 
 almost, for in his supreme vanity he lacked the wit to 
 see that this cordiality might be dictated by no more 
 than the need they had of him at Condillac. A lackey 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 !93 
 
 placed a great chair for him by the fire that he might 
 warm himself after his evening ride, and the Dowager, 
 having ordered lights, sate herself opposite him with 
 the hearth between them. 
 
 He simpered awhile and toyed with trivialities of 
 speech before he gave utterance to the matter that 
 absorbed him. Then, at last, when they were alone, 
 he loosed the question that was bubbling on his lips. 
 
 "I hear a courier came to Condillac to-day." 
 
 For answer she told him what he sought to learn, 
 whence came that courier, and what the message that 
 he brought. 
 
 "And so, Monsieur de Tressan," she ended, "my 
 days at Condillac are numbered." 
 
 "Why so?" he asked, "since you say that Flori- 
 mond has adopted towards you a friendly tone. 
 Surely he would not drive his father's widow hence?" 
 
 She smiled at the fire in a dreamy, pensive man- 
 ner. 
 
 "No," said she, "he would not drive me hence. He 
 has offered me the shelter of Condillac for as long as it 
 may pleasure me to make it my home." 
 
 "Excellent!" he exclaimed, rubbing his little fat 
 hands and screwing the little features of his huge red 
 face into the grotesque semblance of a smile. "What 
 need to talk of going, then?" 
 
 "What need?" she echoed, in a voice dull and 
 concentrated. "Do you ask that, Tressan? Do you 
 think I should elect to live upon the charity of this 
 man?" 
 
 For all that the Lord Seneschal may have been dull- 
 witted, yet he had wit enough to penetrate to the very 
 marrow of her meaning. 
 
i 9 4 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "You must hate Florimond very bitterly," said he. 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "I possess, I think, the faculty of feeling strongly. 
 I can love well, monsieur, and I can hate well. It is 
 one or the other with me. And as cordially as I love 
 my own son Marius, as cordially do I detest this 
 coxcomb Florimond." 
 
 She expressed no reasons for her hatred of her late 
 husband's elder son. Hers were not reasons that could 
 easily be put into words. They were little reasons, 
 trivial grains of offence which through long years had 
 accumulated into a mountain. They had their begin- 
 ning in the foolish grievance that had its birth with 
 her own son, when she had realized that but for 
 that rosy-cheeked, well-grown boy borne to the Mar- 
 quis by his first wife, Marius would have been heir 
 to Condillac. Her love of her own child and her 
 ambitions for him, her keen desire to see him fill an 
 exalted position in the world, caused her a thousand 
 times a day to wish his half-brother dead. Yet Flori- 
 mond had flourished and grown, and as he grew he 
 manifested a character which, with all its imperfec- 
 tions, was more lovable than the nature of her own 
 offspring. And their common father had never seen 
 aught but the faults of Marius and the virtues of 
 Florimond. She had resented this, and Marius had 
 resented it; and Marius, having inherited with his 
 mother's beauty his mother's arrogant, dominant 
 spirit, had returned with insolence such admonitions 
 as from time to time his father gave him, and thus the 
 breach had grown. Later, since he could not be heir 
 to Condillac, the Marquise's eyes, greedy of advance- 
 ment for him, had fallen covetously upon the richer 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 195 
 
 La Vauvraye, whose lord had then no son, whose 
 heiress was a little girl. 
 
 By an alliance easy to compass, since the lords 
 of Condillac and La Vauvraye were lifelong friends, 
 Marius's fortunes might handsomely have been 
 mended. Yet when she herself bore the suggestion of 
 it to the Marquis, he had seized upon it, approved it, 
 but adopted it for Florimond's benefit instead. 
 
 Thereafter war had raged fiercely in the family of 
 Condillac — a war between the Marquis and Flori- 
 mond on the one side, and the Marquise and Marius 
 on the other. And so bitterly was it waged that it was 
 by the old Marquis's suggestion that at last Flori- 
 mond had gone upon his travels to see the world and 
 carry arms in foreign service. 
 
 Her hopes that he would take his death, as was a 
 common thing when warring, rose high — so high as 
 to become almost assurance, a thing to be reckoned 
 with. Florimond would return no more, and her son 
 should fill the place to which he was entitled by his 
 beauty of person and the high mental gifts his doting 
 mother saw in him. 
 
 Yet the months grew into years, and at long inter- 
 vals — intervals full of hope for the Marquise — 
 news came of Florimond, and the news was ever that 
 he was well and thriving, gathering honours and drink- 
 ing deep of life. 
 
 And now, at last, when matters seemed to have been 
 tumbled into her lap that she might dispose of them 
 as she listed; now, when in her anxiety to see her son 
 supplant his step-brother in the possession of La Vau- 
 vraye — if not, perhaps, in that of Condillac as well 
 — she had done a rashness which might end in mak- 
 
196 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 ing her and Marius outlaws, news came that this 
 hated Florimond was at the door; tardily returned, 
 yet returned in time to overthrow her schemes and to 
 make her son the pauper that her husband's will had 
 seemed to aim at rendering him. 
 
 Her mind skimmed lightly over all these matters, 
 seeking somewhere some wrong that should stand out 
 stark and glaring, upon which she might seize, and 
 offer it to the Seneschal as an explanation of her 
 hatred. But nowhere could she find the thing she 
 sought. Her hatred had for foundation a material too 
 impalpable to be fashioned into words. Tressan's 
 voice aroused her from her thoughts. 
 
 "Have you laid no plans, madame?"he asked her. 
 "It were surely a madness now to attempt to with- 
 stand the Marquis." 
 
 "The Marquis? Ah yes — Florimond." She sat 
 forward out of the shadows in which her great chair 
 enveloped her, and let candle and firelight play about 
 the matchless beauty of her perfect face. There was a 
 flush upon it, the flush of battle; and she was about to 
 tell the Seneschal that not while one stone of Con- 
 dillac should stand upon another, not while a gasp of 
 breath remained in her frail body, would she sur- 
 render. But she checked her rashness. Well might it 
 be that in the end she should abandon such a purpose. 
 Tressan was ugly as a toad, the most absurd, ridicu- 
 lous bridegroom that ever led woman to the altar. 
 Yet rumour ran that he was rich, and as a last resource, 
 for the sake of his possessions she might bring herself 
 to endure his signal shortcomings. 
 
 "I have taken no resolve as yet," said she, in a 
 wistful voice. "I founded hopes upon Marius which 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 197 
 
 Marius threatens to frustrate. I think I had best 
 resign myself to the poverty of my Touraine 
 home." 
 
 And then the Seneschal realized that the time was 
 now. The opportunity he might have sought in vain 
 was almost thrust upon him. In the spirit he blessed 
 Florimond for returning so opportunely; in the flesh 
 he rose from the chair and, without more ado, he cast 
 himself upon his knees before the Dowager. He cast 
 himself down, and the Dowager experienced a faint 
 stirring of surprise that she heard no flop such as 
 must attend the violent falling of so fat a body. But 
 the next instant, realizing the purpose of his absurd 
 posture, she shrank back with a faint gasp, and her 
 face was mercifully blurred to his sight once more 
 amid the shadows of her chair. Thus was he spared 
 the look of utter loathing, of unconquerable, irrepress- 
 ible disgust that leapt into her countenance. 
 
 His voice quivered with ridiculous emotion, his 
 little fat red fingers trembled as he outheld them in a 
 theatrical gesture of supplication. 
 
 "Never contemplate poverty, madame, until you 
 have discarded me/' he implored her. "Say but that 
 you will, and you shall be lady of Tressan. All that I 
 have would prove but poor adornment to a beauty 
 such as yours, and I should shrink from offering it 
 you, were it not that, with it all, I can offer you the 
 fondest heart in France. Marquise — Clotilde, I cast 
 myself humbly at your feet. Do with me as you will. 
 I love you." 
 
 By an effort she crushed down her loathing of him 
 — a loathing that grew a hundredfold as she beheld 
 him now transformed by his amorousness into the 
 
198 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 semblance almost of a satyr — and listened to his 
 foolish rantings. 
 
 As Marquise de Condillac it hurt her pride to listen 
 and not have him whipped for his audacity; as a 
 woman it insulted her. Yet the Marquise and the 
 woman she alike repressed. She would give him no 
 answer — she could not, so near was she to fainting 
 with disdain of him — yet must she give him hope 
 against the time when, should all else fail, she might 
 have to swallow the bitter draught he was now holding 
 to her lips. So she temporized. 
 
 She controlled her voice into a tone of gentle sad- 
 ness; she set a mask of sorrow upon her insolent face. 
 
 "Monsieur, monsieur," she sighed, and so far over- 
 came her nausea as for an instant to touch his hand in 
 a little gesture of caress, "you must not speak so to a 
 widow of six months, nor must I listen." 
 
 The quivering grew in his hands and voice; but no 
 longer did they shake through fear of a rebuff: they 
 trembled now in the eager strength of the hope he 
 gathered from her words. She was so beautiful, so 
 peerless, so noble, so proud — and he so utterly un- 
 worthy — that naught but her plight had given him 
 courage to utter his proposal. And she answered him 
 in such terms! 
 
 "You give me hope, Marquise? If I come 
 again — ?" 
 
 She sighed, and her face, which was once more 
 within the light, showed a look of sad inquiry. 
 
 "If I thought that what you have said, you have 
 said out of pity, because you fear lest my necessities 
 should hurt me, I could give you no hope at all. I have 
 my pride, mon ami. But if what you have said you 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 199 
 
 would still have said though I had continued mistress 
 of Condillac, then, Tressan, you may repeat it to me 
 hereafter, at a season when I may listen." 
 
 His joy welled up and overflowed in him as over- 
 flows a river in time of spate. 
 
 He bent forward, caught her hand, and bore it to 
 his lips. 
 
 "Clotilde!" he cried, in a smothered voice; then 
 the door opened, and Marius stepped into the long 
 chamber. 
 
 At the creaking sound of the opening door the 
 Seneschal bestirred himself to rise. Even the very 
 young care not so to be surprised, how much less, 
 then, a man well past the prime of life? He came up 
 laboriously — the more laboriously by virtue of his 
 very efforts to show himself still nimble in his mistress's 
 eyes. Upon the intruder he turned a crimson, furious 
 face, perspiration gleaming like varnish on brow and 
 nose. At sight of Marius, who stood arrested, scowling 
 villainously upon the pair, the fire died suddenly from 
 his glance. 
 
 "Ah, my dear Marius," said he, with a flourish and 
 an air of being mightily at his ease. But the young 
 man's eyes went over and beyond him to rest in a look 
 of scrutiny upon his mother. She had risen too, and 
 he had been in time to see the startled manner of her 
 rising. In her cheeks there was a guilty flush, but her 
 eyes boldly met and threw back her son's regard. 
 
 Marius came slowly down the room, and no word 
 was spoken. The Seneschal cleared his throat with 
 noisy nervousness. Madame stood hand on hip, the 
 flush fading slowly, her glance resuming its habitual 
 lazy insolence. By the fire Marius paused and kicked 
 
aoo SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 the logs into a blaze, regardless of the delicate fabric 
 of his rosetted shoes. 
 
 "Monsieur le Seneschal," said madame calmly, 
 "came to see us in the matter of the courier." 
 
 "Ah!" said Marius, with an insolent lifting of his 
 brows and a sidelong look at Tressan; and Tressan 
 registered in his heart a vow that when he should have 
 come to wed the mother, he would not forget to take 
 payment for that glance from her pert son. 
 
 "Monsieur le Comte will remain and sup with us 
 before riding back to Grenoble," she added. 
 
 "Ah!" said he again, in the same tone. And that 
 for the moment was all he said. He remained by the 
 fire, standing between them where he had planted 
 himself in the flesh, as if to symbolize the attitude he 
 intended in the spirit. 
 
 But one chance he had, before supper was laid, of a 
 word alone with his mother, in her own closet. 
 
 "Madame," he said, his sternness mingling with 
 alarm, "are you mad that you encourage the suit of 
 this hedgehog Tressan?" 
 
 She looked him up and down with a deliberate eye, 
 her lip curling a little. 
 
 "Surely, Marius, it is my own concern." 
 
 "Not so," he answered her, and his grasp fastened 
 almost viciously on her wrist. " I think that it is mine 
 as well. Mother, bethink you," and his tone changed 
 to an imploring key, "bethink you what you would 
 do! Would you — you — mate with such a thing as 
 that?" 
 
 His emphasis of the pronoun was very eloquent. 
 Not in all the words of the French language could he 
 have told her better how high he placed her in his 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 20 1 
 
 thoughts, how utterly she must fall, how unutterably 
 be soiled by an alliance with Tressan. 
 
 "I had hoped you would have saved me from it, 
 Marius," she answered him, her eyes seeming to gaze 
 down into the depths of his. "At La Vauvraye I had 
 hoped to live out my widowhood in tranquil dignity. 
 But — " She let her arms fall sharply to her sides, 
 and uttered a little sneering laugh. 
 
 "But, mother," he cried, "between the dignity of 
 La Vauvraye and the indignity of Tressan, surely 
 there is some middle course?" 
 
 "Aye," she answered scornfully, "starvation on a 
 dunghill in Touraine — or something near akin to it, 
 for which I have no stomach." 
 
 He released her wrist and stood with bent head, 
 clenching and unclenching his long white hands, and 
 she watched him, watching in him the working of his 
 proud and stubborn spirit. 
 
 "Mother," he cried at last, and the word sounded 
 absurd between them, by so little did he seem the 
 younger of the twain, "mother, you shall not do it — 
 you must not!" 
 
 "You leave me little alternative — alas!" sighed 
 she. "Had you been more adroit you had been wed 
 by now, Marius, and the future would give us no con- 
 cern. As it is, Florimond comes home, and we — " 
 She spread her hands and thrust out her nether lip in 
 a grimace that was almost ugly. Then: "Come," she 
 said briskly. "Supper is laid, and my Lord Seneschal 
 will be awaiting us." 
 
 And before he could reply she had swept past him 
 and taken her way below. He followed gloomily, and 
 in gloom sat he at table, never heeding the reckless 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 gaiety of the Seneschal and the forced mirth of the 
 Marquise. He well understood the sort of tacit bar- 
 gain that his mother had made with him. She had 
 seen her advantage in his loathing of the proposed 
 union with Tressan, and she had used it to the full. 
 Either he must compel Valerie to wed him this side of 
 Saturday or resign himself to see his mother — his 
 beautiful, peerless mother — married to this skin of 
 lard that called itself a man. 
 
 Living, he had never entertained for his father a 
 son's respect, nor, dead, did he now reverence his 
 memory as becomes a son. But in that hour, as he sat 
 at table, facing this gross wooer of his mother's, his 
 eyes were raised to the portrait of the florid-visaged, 
 haughty Marquis de Condillac, where it looked down 
 upon them from the panelled wall, and from his soul 
 he offered up to that portrait of his dead sire an 
 apology for the successor whom his widow destined 
 him. 
 
 He ate little, but drank great draughts, as men will 
 when their mood is sullen and dejected, and the heat 
 of the wine, warming his veins and lifting from him 
 some of the gloom that had settled over him, lent him 
 anon a certain recklessness very different from the 
 manner of his sober moments. 
 
 Chancing suddenly to raise his eyes from the cup 
 into which he had been gazing, absorbed as gazes a 
 seer into his crystal, he caught on the Seneschal's lips 
 so odious a smile, in the man's eyes so greedy, hateful 
 a leer as he bent them on the Marquise, that he had 
 much ado not to alter the expression of that flabby 
 face by hurling at it the cup he held. 
 
 He curbed himself; he smiled sardonically upon the 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 203 
 
 pair; and in that moment he swore that be the cost 
 what it might, he would frustrate the union of those 
 two. His thoughts flew to Valerie, and the road they 
 took was fouled with the mud of ugly deeds. A de- 
 spair, grim at first, then mocking, took possession of 
 him. He loved Valerie to distraction. Loved her for 
 herself, apart from all worldly advantages that must 
 accrue to him from an alliance with her. His mother 
 saw in that projected marriage no more than the ac- 
 quisition of the lands of La Vauvraye, and she may 
 even have thought that he himself saw no more. In 
 that she was wrong; but because of it she may have 
 been justified of her impatience with him at the tardi- 
 ness, the very clumsiness with which he urged his suit. 
 How was she to know that it was just the sincerity of 
 his passion made him clumsy? For like many another, 
 normally glib, self-assured, and graceful, Marius grew 
 halting, shy, and clumsy only where he loved. 
 
 But in the despair that took him now the quality of 
 his passion seemed to change. Partly it was the wine, 
 partly the sight of this other lover — of whom there 
 must be an end — whose very glance seemed to him 
 an insult to his mother. His imagination had taken 
 fire that night, and it had ripened him for any vil- 
 lainy. The Seneschal and the wine, between them, 
 had opened the floodgates of all that was evil in his 
 nature, and that evil thundered out in a great torrent 
 that bid fair to sweep all before it. 
 
 And suddenly, unexpectedly for the others, who 
 were by now resigned to his moody silence, the evil 
 found expression. The Marquise had spoken of 
 something — something of slight importance — that 
 must be done before Florimond returned. Abruptly 
 
'204 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Marius swung round in his seat to face his mother. 
 
 "Must this Florimond return?" he asked, and for 
 all that he uttered no more words, so ample in their 
 expression were those four that he had uttered and the 
 tone of them, that his meaning left little work to the 
 imagination. 
 
 Madame turned to stare at him, surprise ineffable 
 in her glance — not at the thing that he suggested, 
 but at the abruptness with which the suggestion came. 
 The cynical, sneering tone rang in her ears after the 
 words were spoken, and she looked in his face for a 
 confirmation of their full purport. 
 
 She observed the wine-flush on his cheek, the wine- 
 glitter in his eye, and she remarked the slight smile on 
 his lips and the cynical assumption of nonchalance 
 with which he fingered the jewel in his ear as he re- 
 turned her gaze. She beheld now in her son a man 
 more purposeful than she had ever known before. 
 
 A tense silence had followed his words, and the 
 Lord Seneschal gaped at him, some of the colour 
 fading from his plethoric countenance, suspecting as 
 he did the true drift of Marius's suggestion. At last 
 it was madame who spoke — very softly, with a nar- 
 rowing of the eyes. 
 
 "Call Fortunio," was all she said, but Marius un- 
 derstood full well the purpose for which she would 
 have Fortunio called. 
 
 With a half-smile he rose, and going to the door he 
 bade his page who was idling in the anteroom go sum- 
 mon the captain. Then he paced slowly back, not to 
 the place he had lately occupied at table, but to the 
 hearth, where he took his stand with his shoulders 
 squared to the overmantel. 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 205 
 
 Fortunio came, fair-haired and fresh-complexioned 
 as a babe, his supple, not ungraceful figure tawdrily- 
 clad in showy clothes of poor material the worse for 
 hard usage and spilt wine. The Countess bade him 
 sit, and with her own hands she poured a cup of 
 Anjou for him. 
 
 In some wonder, and, for all his ordinary self-pos- 
 session, with a little awkwardness, the captain did her 
 bidding, and with an apologetic air he took the seat 
 she offered him. 
 
 He drank this wine, and here was a spell of silence 
 till Marius, grown impatient, brutally put the thing 
 for which the Marquise sought delicate words. 
 
 "We have sent for you, Fortunio," said he, in a 
 blustering tone, " to inquire of you what price you'd 
 ask to cut the throat of my brother, the Marquis de 
 Condillac." 
 
 The Seneschal sank back in his chair with a gasp. 
 The captain, a frown between his frank-seeming, 
 wide-set eyes, started round to look at the boy. The 
 business was by no means too strong for the ruffler's 
 stomach, but the words in which it was conveyed to 
 him most emphatically were. 
 
 "Monsieur de Condillac/' said he, with an odd as- 
 sumption of dignity, "I think you have mistaken 
 your man. I am a soldier, not a cut-throat." 
 
 "But yes," the Marquise soothed him, throwing 
 herself instantly into the breach, and laying a long, 
 slender hand upon the frayed green velvet of the cap- 
 tain's sleeve. "What my son means and what he says 
 are vastly different things." 
 
 "It will sorely tax your wits, madame," laughed 
 Marius brutally, "to make clear that difference." 
 
2o6 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 And then the Seneschal nervously cleared his 
 throat and muttering that it waxed late and he must 
 be riding home, made shift to rise. Him, too, the Mar- 
 quise at once subdued. She was not minded that he 
 should go just yet. It might be useful to her here- 
 after to have had him present at this conference, into 
 which she meant to draw him until she should have 
 made him one with them, a party to their guilt. For 
 the task she needed not over many words: just one or 
 two and a melting glance or so, and the rebellion in 
 his bosom was quelled at once. 
 
 But with the captain her wiles were not so readily 
 successful. He had no hopes of winning her to wife — 
 haply no desire, since he was not a man of very great 
 ambitions. On the other hand, he had against him 
 the very worst record in France, and for all that he 
 might embark upon this business under the auspices 
 of the Lord Seneschal himself, he knew not how far 
 the Lord Seneschal might dare to go thereafter to save 
 him from a hanging, should it come to that. 
 
 He said as much in words. In a business of this 
 kind, he knew from experience, the more difficulties 
 he advanced, the better a bargain he drove in the end; 
 and if he was to be persuaded to risk his neck in this, 
 he should want good payment. But even for good 
 payment on this occasion he was none too sure as yet 
 that he would let himself be persuaded. 
 
 "Monsieur Fortunio," the Marquise said, very 
 softly, "heed not Monsieur Marius's words. Attend 
 to me. The Marquis de Condillac, as no doubt you 
 will have learned for yourself, is lying at La Ro- 
 chette. Now it happens that he is noxious to us 
 — let the reasons be what they may. We need a 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 207 
 
 friend to put him out of our way. Will you be that 
 friend?" 
 
 "You will observe," sneered Marius, "how wide a 
 difference there is between what the Marquise sug- 
 gests and my own frank question of what price you 
 would take to cut my brother's throat." 
 
 "I observe no difference, which is what you would 
 say," Fortunio answered truculently, his head well 
 back, his brown eyes resentful of offence — for none 
 can be so resentful of imputed villainy as your villain 
 who is thoroughpaced. "And," he concluded, "I re- 
 turn you the same answer, madame — that I am no 
 cut- throat." 
 
 She repressed her anger at Marius's sneering inter- 
 ference, and made a little gesture of dismay with her 
 eloquent white hands. 
 
 "But we do not ask you to cut a throat." 
 
 "I have heard amiss, then," said he, his insolence 
 abating nothing. 
 
 "You have heard aright, but you have understood 
 amiss. There are other ways of doing these things. If 
 it were but the cutting of a throat, should we have 
 sent for you ? There are a dozen in the garrison would 
 have sufficed for our purpose." 
 
 "What is it, then, you need?" quoth he. 
 
 "We want an affair contrived with all decency. 
 The Marquis is at the Sanglier Noir at La Rochette. 
 You can have no difficulty in finding him, and having 
 found him, less difficulty still in giving or provoking 
 insult." 
 
 "Excellent," murmured Marius from the back- 
 ground. "It is such an enterprise as should please a 
 ready swordsman of your calibre, Fortunio." 
 
2o8 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "A duel?" quoth the fellow, and his insolence went 
 out of him, thrust out by sheer dismay; his mouth fell 
 open. A duel was another affair altogether. "But, 
 Sangdieu! what if he should slay me? Have you 
 thought of that?" 
 
 "Slay you?" cried the Marquise, her eyes resting 
 on his face with an expression as of wonder at such a 
 question. "You jest, Fortunio." 
 
 "And he with the fever," put in Marius, sneer- 
 
 "Ah!" muttered Fortunio. "He has the fever? 
 The fever is something. But — but — accidents will 
 happen." 
 
 "Florimond was ever an indifferent swordsman," 
 murmured Marius dreamily, as if communing with 
 himself. 
 
 The captain wheeled upon him once more. 
 
 "Why, then, Monsieur Marius," said he, "since 
 that is so and you are skilled — as skilled as am I, or 
 more — and he has a fever, where is the need to hire 
 me to the task?" 
 
 "Where?" echoed Marius. "What affair may that 
 be of yours? We ask you to name a price on which 
 you will do this thing. Have done with counter- 
 questions." 
 
 Marius was skilled with the foils, as Fortunio said, 
 but he cared not for unbaited steel, and he was 
 conscious of it, so that the captain's half-sneer had 
 touched him on the raw. But he was foolish to take 
 that tone in answer. There was a truculent, South- 
 ern pride in the ruffler which sprang immediately into 
 life and which naught that they could say thereafter 
 would stamp out. 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 209 
 
 "Must I say again that you mistake your man?" 
 was his retort, and as he spoke he rose, as though to 
 signify that the subject wearied him and that his re- 
 maining to pursue it must be idle. " I am not of those 
 to whom you can say: 'I need such an one killed, 
 name me the price at which you'll be his butcher.'" 
 
 The Marquise wrung her hands in pretty mimicry 
 of despair, and poured out soothing words, as one 
 might pour oil upon stormy waters. The Seneschal 
 sat in stolid silence, a half-scared spectator of this odd 
 scene, what time the Marquise talked and talked until 
 she had brought Fortunio back to some measure of 
 subjection. 
 
 Such reasoning as she made use of she climaxed by 
 an offer of no less a sum than a hundred pistoles. The 
 captain licked his lips and pulled at his mustachios. 
 For all his vaunted scorn of being a butcher at a price, 
 now that he heard the price he seemed not half so 
 scornful. 
 
 "Tell me again the thing that you need doing and 
 the manner of it," said he, as one who was moved to 
 reconsider. She told him, and when she had done he 
 made a compromise. 
 
 "If I go upon this business, madame, I go not 
 alone." 
 
 "Oh, as for that," said Marius, "it shall be as you 
 will. Take what men you want with you." 
 
 "And hang with them afterwards, maybe," he 
 sneered, his insolence returning. "The hundred 
 pistoles would avail me little then. Look you, Mon- 
 sieur de Condillac, and you, madame, if I go, I'll need 
 to take with me a better hostage than the whole 
 garrison of this place. I'll need for shield some one 
 
2io SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 who will see to it that he is not hurt himself, just as I 
 shall see to it that he is hurt before I am." 
 
 "What do you mean? Speak out, Fortunio," the 
 Marquise bade him. 
 
 "I mean, madame, that I will go, not to do this 
 thing, but to stand by and render help if help be 
 needed. Let Monsieur de Condillac go, and I will go 
 with him, and I will undertake to see to it that he re- 
 turns unhurt and that we leave the other stark." 
 
 Both started, and the Seneschal leaned heavily 
 upon the table. He was not, with all his faults, a man 
 of blood, and this talk of butchery turned him sick and 
 faint. 
 
 Vainly now did the Marquise seek to alter the cap- 
 tain's resolution; but in this she received a sudden 
 check from Marius himself. He cut in upon her argu- 
 ments to ask the captain: 
 
 "How can you promise so much ? Do you mean that 
 you and I must fall upon him ? You forget that he will 
 have men about him. A duel is one thing, a rough- 
 and-tumble another, and we shall fare none so well in 
 this, I'm thinking." 
 
 The captain closed one eye, and a leer of subtle 
 cunning overspread his face. 
 
 "I've thought of that," said he. "Neither a duel 
 nor a rough-and-tumble do I propose, but something 
 between the two; something that shall seem a duel 
 yet be a rough-and-tumble." 
 
 "Explain yourself." 
 
 "What further explanation does it ask? We come 
 upon Monsieur le Marquis where his men are not. 
 We penetrate, let us say, into his chamber. I turn the 
 key in the door. We are alone with him and you 
 
THE CONFERENCE 
 
 211 
 
 provoke him. He is angry, and must fight you there 
 and then. I am your friend; I must fill the office of 
 second for both sides. You engage, and I stand aside 
 and let you fight it out. You say he is indifferently 
 skilled with the sword, and, in addition, that he has a 
 fever. Thus you should contrive to put your steel 
 through him, and a duel it will have been. But if by 
 luck or skill he should have you in danger, I shall be 
 at hand to flick in my sword at the right moment and 
 make an opening through which you may send yours 
 home." 
 
 "Believe me it were better — " began the Dowager. 
 But Marius, who of a sudden was much taken with 
 the notion, again broke in. 
 
 "Are you to be depended upon to make no mistake, 
 Fortunio?" 
 
 "Per Bacco!" swore the ruffler. "A mistake must 
 cost me a hundred pistoles. I think you may depend 
 upon me there. If I err at all, it will be on the side of 
 eagerness to see you make short work of him. You 
 have my answer now, monsieur. If we talk all night, 
 you shall not move me further. But if my proposal 
 suits you, I am your man." 
 
 "And I yours, Fortunio," answered Marius, and 
 there was a ring almost of exultation in his voice. 
 
 The Dowager looked from one to the other, as if she 
 were weighing the men and satisfying herself that 
 Marius ran no risk. She put a question or two to her 
 son, another to the captain; then, seeming satisfied 
 with what had been agreed, she nodded her head and 
 told them they had best be stirring with the dawn. 
 
 "You will have light enough by half-past six. Do 
 not delay later in taking the road. And see that you 
 
212 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 are back here by nightfall; I shall be anxious till you 
 are returned." 
 
 She poured wine again for the captain, and Marius 
 coming up to the table filled himself a glass, which he 
 tossed off. The Marquise was speaking to Tressan. 
 
 "Will you not drink to the success of the venture?" 
 she asked him, in a coaxing tone, her eyes upon his 
 own. "I think we are like to see the end of our 
 troubles now, monsieur, and Marius shall be lord both 
 of Condillac and La Vauvraye." 
 
 And the gross, foolish Seneschal, under the spell of 
 her magnificent eyes, slowly raised his cup to his lips 
 and drank to the success of that murderous business. 
 Marius stood still, a frown between his eyes haled 
 thither by the mention of La Vauvraye. He might be 
 winning it, as his mother said, but he would have pre- 
 ferred to have won it differently. Then the frown was 
 smoothed away; a sardonic smile replaced it; another 
 cup of wine he poured himself. Then, without word to 
 any there, he turned on his heel and went from the 
 room, a trifle unsteady in his gait, yet with such lines 
 of purposefulness in the way he bore himself that the 
 three of them stared after him in dull surprise. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 IN her apartments in the Northern Tower Valerie 
 had supped, and — to spare Monsieur de Gar- 
 nache the full indignity of that part of the offices he 
 was charged with — she had herself removed the cloth 
 and set the things in the guard-room, where they might 
 lie till morning. When that was done — and despite 
 her protests, Garnache had insisted upon lending a 
 hand — the Parisian reminded her that it was already 
 after nine, and urged her to make such preparations as 
 incumbed her for their journey. 
 
 " My preparations are soon made," she assured him 
 with a smile. "I need but what I may carry in a 
 cloak." 
 
 They fell to talking of their impending flight, and 
 they laughed together at the discomfiture that would 
 be the Dowager's and her son's when, in the morning, 
 they came to discover the empty cage. From that 
 they passed on to talk of Valerie herself, of her earlier 
 life at La Vauvraye, and later the conversation shifted 
 to Garnache, and she questioned him touching the 
 warring he had seen in early youth, and afterwards 
 asked him for particulars of Paris — that wonderful 
 city which to her mind was the only earthly parallel of 
 Paradise — and of the life at Court. 
 
 Thus in intimate talk did they while away the 
 time of waiting, and in the hour that sped they came, 
 perhaps, to know more of each other than they had 
 done hitherto. Intimate, indeed, had they uncon- 
 
2i 4 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 sciously become already. Their singular position, 
 locked together in that tower — a position utterly im- 
 possible under any but the conditions that attended it 
 — had conduced to that good-fellowship, whilst the 
 girl's trust and dependence upon the man, the man's 
 observance of that trust, and his determination to 
 show her that it had not been misplaced, had done 
 the rest. 
 
 But to-night they seemed to have drawn nearer in 
 spirit to each other, and that, maybe, it was that 
 prompted Valerie to sigh, and in her sweet, unthink- 
 ing innocence to say again: 
 
 "I am truly sorry, Monsieur de Garnache, that our 
 sojourn here is coming to an end." 
 
 He was no coxcomb, and he set no false value on the 
 words. He laughed for answer, as he rejoined: 
 
 "Not so am I, mademoiselle. Nor shall I know 
 peace of mind again until this ill-omened chateau is a 
 good three leagues or so behind us. Sh! What was 
 that?" 
 
 He came instantly to his feet, his face intent and 
 serious. He had been sitting at his ease in an arm- 
 chair, over the back of which he had tossed the baldric 
 from which his sword depended. The clang of the 
 heavy door below, striking the wall as it was pushed 
 open, had reached his ears. 
 
 "Can it be time already?" asked mademoiselle; 
 yet a panic took her, and she blenched a little. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Impossible," said he; "it is not more than ten 
 o'clock. Unless that fool Arsenio has blundered — " 
 He stopped. "Sh!" he whispered. "Some one is 
 coming here." 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 And suddenly he realized the peril that might lie in 
 being found thus in her company. It alarmed him 
 more than did the visit itself, so unusual at this hour. 
 He saw that he had not time to reach the guard-room; 
 he would be caught in the act of coming forth, and 
 that might be interpreted by the Dowager or her son 
 
 — if it should happen to be one or the other of them 
 
 — as a hurried act of flight such as guilt might 
 prompt. Perhaps he exaggerated the risk; but their 
 fortunes at Condillac had reached a point where they 
 must not be jeopardized by any chance however 
 slight. 
 
 "To your chamber, mademoiselle," he whispered 
 fearfully, and he pointed to the door of the inner 
 room. "Lock yourself in. Quick! Sh!" And he 
 signed frantically to her to go silently. 
 
 Swift and quietly as a mouse she glided from the 
 room and softly closed the door of her chamber and 
 turned the key in a lock, which Garnache had had the 
 foresight to keep well oiled. He breathed more freely 
 when it was done. 
 
 A step sounded in the guard-room. He sank without 
 a rustle into the chair from which he had risen, rested 
 his head against the back of it, closed his eyes, opened 
 his mouth, and dissembled sleep. 
 
 The steps came swiftly across the guard-room 
 floor, soft, as of one lightly shod; and Garnache 
 wondered was it the mother or the son, just as he 
 wondered what this ill-come visitor might be seeking. 
 
 The door of the antechamber was pushed gently 
 open — it had stood ajar — and under the lintel 
 appeared the slender figure of Marius, still in his 
 brown velvet suit as Garnache last had seen him. He 
 
2i6 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 paused a moment to peer into the chamber. Then he 
 stepped forward, frowning to behold "Battista" so 
 cosily ensconced. 
 
 "Old there!" he cried, and kicked the sentry's out- 
 stretched legs, the more speedily to wake him. "Is 
 this the watch you keep?" 
 
 Garnache opened his eyes and stared a second 
 dully at the disturber of his feigned slumbers. Then, 
 as if being more fully awakened he recognized his 
 master, he heaved himself suddenly to his feet and 
 bowed. 
 
 "Is this the watch you keep?" quoth Marius again, 
 and Garnache, scanning the youth's face with fool- 
 ishly smiling eyes, noted the flush on his cheek, the 
 odd glitter in his handsome eyes, and even caught a 
 whiff of wine upon his breath. Alarm grew in Gar- 
 nache's mind, but his face maintained its foolish 
 vacancy, its inane smile. He bowed again and, with a 
 wave of the hands towards the inner chamber, 
 
 "La damigella e la" said he. 
 
 For all that Marius had no Italian he understood 
 the drift of the words, assisted as they were by the 
 man's expressive gesture. He sneered cruelly. 
 
 " It would be an ugly thing for you, my ugly friend, 
 if she were not," he answered. "Away with you. I 
 shall call you when I need you." And he pointed to 
 the door. 
 
 Garnache experienced some dismay, some fear 
 even. He plied his wits, and he determined that he 
 had best seem to apprehend from his gestures Ma- 
 rius's meaning; but apprehend it in part only, and 
 go no further than the other side of that door. 
 
 He bowed, therefore, for the third time, and with 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 217 
 
 another of his foolish grins he shuffled out of the 
 chamber, pulling the door after him, so that Marius 
 should not see how near at hand he stayed. 
 
 Marius, without further heeding him, stepped to 
 mademoiselle's door and rapped on a panel with brisk 
 knuckles. 
 
 "Who is there?" she inquired from within. 
 
 "It is I — Marius. Open, I have something I must 
 say to you." 
 
 "Will it not keep till morning?" 
 
 " I shall be gone by then," he answered impatiently, 
 "and much depends upon my seeing you ere I go. So 
 open. Come!" 
 
 There followed a pause, and Garnache in the outer 
 room set his teeth and prayed she might not anger 
 Marius. He must be handled skilfully, lest their flight 
 should be frustrated at the last moment. He prayed, 
 too, that there might be no need for his intervention. 
 That would indeed be the end of all — a shipwreck 
 within sight of harbour. He promised himself that he 
 would not lightly intervene. For the rest this news of 
 Marius's intended departure filled him with a desire 
 to know something of the journey on which he was 
 bound. 
 
 Slowly mademoiselle's door opened. White and 
 timid she appeared. 
 
 "What do you want, Marius?" 
 
 "Now and always and above all things the sight 
 of you, Valerie," said he, and the flushed cheek, the 
 glittering eye, and wine-laden breath were as plain to 
 her as they had been to Garnache, and they filled her 
 with a deeper terror. Nevertheless she came forth at 
 his bidding. 
 
218 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "I see that you were not yet abed," said he. "It is 
 as well. We must have a talk." He set a chair for her 
 and begged her to be seated; then he perched himself 
 on the table, his hands gripping the edges of it on 
 either side of him, and he turned his eyes upon her. 
 
 "Valerie," he said slowly, "the Marquis de Con- 
 dillac, my brother, is at La Rochette." 
 
 " He is coming home ! " she cried, clasping her hands 
 and feigning surprise in word and glance. 
 
 Marius shook his head and smiled grimly. 
 
 "No," said he. "He is not coming home. That is 
 — not unless you wish it." 
 
 "Not unless I wish it? But naturally I wish it!" 
 
 "Then, Valerie, if you would have what you wish, 
 so must I. If Florimond is ever to come to Condillac 
 again, you must be my wife." 
 
 He leaned towards her now, supported by his elbow, 
 so that his face was close to hers, a deeper flush upon 
 it, a brighter glitter in his black eyes, his vinous 
 breath enveloping and suffocating her. She shrank 
 back, her hands locking themselves one in the other 
 till the knuckles showed white. 
 
 "What — what is it you mean?" she faltered. 
 
 "No more than I have said; no less. If you love 
 him well enough to sacrifice yourself," and his lips 
 curled sardonically at the word, " then marry me and 
 save him from his doom." 
 
 "What doom?" Her voice came mechanically, her 
 lips seeming scarce to move. 
 
 He swung down from the table and stood before 
 her. 
 
 "I will tell you," he said, in a voice very full of 
 promise. " I love you, Valerie, above all else on earth 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 219 
 
 or, I think, in heaven; and I'll not yield you to him. 
 Say 'No' to me now, and at daybreak I start for La 
 Rochette to win you from him at point of sword." 
 
 Despite her fears she could not repress a little smile 
 of scorn. 
 
 " Is that all ? " said she. "Why, if you are so rash, it 
 is yourself, assuredly, will be slain." 
 
 He smiled tranquilly at that reflection upon his 
 courage and his skill. 
 
 "So might it befall if I went alone," said he. She 
 understood. Her eyes dilated with horror, with 
 loathing of him. The angry words that sprang to her 
 lips were not to be denied. 
 
 "You cur, you cowardly assassin!" she blazed at 
 him. "I might have guessed that in some such cut- 
 throat manner would your vaunt of winning me at 
 the sword-point be accomplished." 
 
 She watched the colour fade from his cheeks, and the 
 ugly, livid hue that spread in its room to his very lips. 
 Yet it did not daunt her. She was on her feet, con- 
 fronting him ere he had time to speak again. Her eyes 
 flashed, and her arm pointed quivering to the door. 
 
 "Go!" she bade him, her voice harsh for once. 
 "Out of my sight! Go! Do your worst, so that you 
 leave me. I'll hold no traffic with you." 
 
 "Will you not?" said he, through setting teeth, and 
 suddenly he caught the wrist of that outstretched 
 arm. But she saw nothing of immediate danger. The 
 only danger that she knew was the danger that 
 threatened Florimond, and little did that matter since 
 at midnight she was to leave Condillac to reach La 
 Rochette in time to warn her betrothed. The know- 
 ledge gave her confidence and an added courage. 
 
22o SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "You have offered me your bargain," she told him. 
 "You have named your price and you have heard my 
 refusal. Now go." 
 
 "Not yet awhile," said he, in a voice so odiously 
 sweet that Garnache caught his breath. 
 
 He drew her towards him. Despite her wild struggles 
 he held her fast against his breast. Do what she 
 would, he rained his hot kisses on her face and hair, 
 till at last, freeing a hand, she smote him with all her 
 might across the face. 
 
 He let her go then. He fell back with an oath, a 
 patch of fingermarks showing red on his white coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 "That blow has killed Florimond de Condillac," 
 he told her viciously. "He dies at noon to-morrow. 
 Ponder it, my pretty." 
 
 "I care not what you do so that you leave me," she 
 answered defiantly, restraining by a brave effort the 
 tears of angry distress that welled up from her stricken 
 heart. And no less stricken, no less angry was Gar- 
 nache where he listened. It was by an effort that he 
 had restrained himself from bursting in upon them 
 when Marius had seized her. The reflection that were 
 he to do so all would irretrievably be ruined alone had 
 stayed him. 
 
 Marius eyed the girl a moment, his face distorted by 
 the rage that was in him. 
 
 "By God!" he swore, "if I cannot have your love, 
 I'll give you cause enough to hate me." 
 
 "Already have you done that most thoroughly," 
 said she. And Garnache cursed this pertness of hers 
 which was serving to dare him on. 
 
 The next moment there broke from her a startled 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 221 
 
 cry. Marius had seized her again and was crushing 
 her frail body in his arms. 
 
 "I shall kiss your lips before I go, ma mie," said he, 
 his voice thick now with a passion that was not all of 
 anger. And then, while he still struggled to have his 
 way with her, a pair of arms took him about the waist 
 like hoops of steel. 
 
 In his surprise he let her free, and in that moment 
 he was swung back and round and cast a good six 
 paces down the room. 
 
 He came to a standstill by the table, at which he 
 clutched to save himself from falling, and turned be- 
 wildered, furious eyes upon "Battista," by whom he 
 now dimly realized that he had been assailed. 
 
 Garnache's senses had all left him in that moment 
 when Valerie had cried out. He cast discretion to the 
 winds; reason went out of him, and only blind anger 
 remained to drive him into immediate action. And as 
 suddenly as that flood of rage had neaped, as suddenly 
 did it ebb now that he found himself face to face with 
 the outraged Condillac and began to understand the 
 magnitude of the folly he had committed. 
 
 Everything was lost now, utterly and irretrievably 
 — lost as a dozen other fine emprises had been by his 
 sudden and ungoverned frenzy. God! What a fool 
 he was! What a cursed, drivelling fool! What, after 
 all, was a kiss or two, compared with all the evil that 
 might now result from his interference? Haply 
 Marius would have taken them and departed, and at 
 midnight they would have been free to go from Con- 
 dillac. 
 
 The future would not have been lacking in oppor- 
 tunities to seek out and kill Marius for that insult. 
 
222 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Why could he not have left the matter to the future? 
 But now, with Florimond to be murdered on the 
 morrow at La Rochette, himself likely to be murdered 
 within the hour at Condillac, Valerie was at their 
 mercy utterly. 
 
 Wildly and vainly did he strive even then to cover 
 up the foolish thing that he had done. He bowed 
 apologetically to Marius; he waved his hands and 
 filled the air with Italian phrases, frenziedly uttered, 
 as if by the very vigour of them he sought to drive 
 explanation into his master's brain. Marius watched 
 and listened, but his rage nowise abated; it grew, 
 instead, as if that farrago of a language he did not 
 understand were but an added insult. An oath was 
 all he uttered. Then he swung round and caught 
 Garnache's sword from the chair beside him, where it 
 still rested, and Garnache in that moment cursed the 
 oversight. Whipping the long, keen blade from its 
 sheath, Marius bore down upon the rash meddler. 
 
 "Par Dieu!" he swore between his teeth. "We'll 
 see the colour of your dirty blood, you that lay hands 
 upon a gentleman." 
 
 But before he could send home the weapon, before 
 Garnache could move to defend himself, Valerie had 
 slipped between them. Marius looked into her white, 
 determined face, and was smitten with surprise. 
 What was this hind to her that she should interfere at 
 the risk of taking the sword herself? 
 
 Then a slow smile spread upon his face. He was 
 smarting still under her disdain and resistance, as well 
 as under a certain sense of the discomfiture this fellow 
 had put upon him. He saw a way to hurt her, to abase 
 her pride, and cut her to the very soul with shame. 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 223 
 
 "You are singularly concerned in this man's life," 
 said he, an odious undercurrent of meaning in his 
 voice. 
 
 "I would not have you murder him," she answered, 
 "for doing no more than madame your mother bade 
 him." 
 
 "I make no doubt he has proved a very excellent 
 guard," he sneered. 
 
 Even now all might have been well. With that 
 insult Marius might consider that he had taken pay- 
 ment for the discomfiture he had suffered. He might 
 have bethought him that, perhaps, as she said, "Bat- 
 tista" had done no more than observe the orders he 
 had received — a trifle excessively, maybe, yet faith- 
 fully nevertheless. Thinking thus, he might even have 
 been content to go his ways and take his fill of 
 vengeance by slaying Florimond upon the morrow. 
 But Garnache's rash temper, rising anew, tore that 
 last flimsy chance to shreds. 
 
 The insult that mademoiselle might overlook — 
 might even not have fully understood — set him afire 
 with indignation for her sake. He forgot his role, for- 
 got even that he had no French. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he cried, and she gasped in her 
 affright at this ruinous indiscretion, "I beg that you 
 will stand aside." His voice was low and threatening, 
 but his words were woefully distinct. 
 
 "Par la mort Dieu!" swore Marius, taken utterly 
 aback. "What may your name be — you who hither- 
 to have had no French?" 
 
 Almost thrusting mademoiselle aside, Garnache 
 stood out to face him, the flush of hot anger showing 
 through the dye on his cheeks. 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "My name," said he, "is Martin Marie Rigobert de 
 Garnache, and my business now to make an end of one 
 at least of this obscene brood of Condillac." 
 
 And, without more ado, he caught up a chair and 
 held it before him in readiness to receive the other's 
 onslaught. 
 
 But Marius hung back an instant — at first in 
 sheer surprise, later in fear. He had some knowledge 
 of the fellow's methods. Even the sword he wielded 
 gave him little confidence opposed to Garnache with a 
 chair. He must have help. His eyes sought the door, 
 measuring the distance. Ere he could reach it Gar- 
 nache would cut him off. There was nothing for it but 
 to attempt to drive the Parisian back. And so with a 
 sudden rush he advanced to the attack. Garnache fell 
 back and raised his chair, and in that instant made- 
 moiselle once more intervened between them. 
 
 "Stand aside, mademoiselle," cried Garnache, who 
 now, grown cool, as was his way when once he was 
 engaged, saw clearly through the purpose formed by 
 Marius. "Stand aside, or we shall have him giving 
 the alarm." 
 
 He leapt clear of her to stop Marius's sudden rush 
 for the door. On the very threshold the young man 
 was forced to turn and defend himself, lest his brains 
 be dashed out by that ponderous weapon Garnache 
 was handling with a rare facrlity. But the mischief 
 was done, in that he had reached the threshold. Back- 
 ing, he defended himself and gained the anteroom. 
 Garnache followed, but the clumsy chair was defensive 
 rather than offensive, and Marius's sword meanwhile 
 darted above it and below it, forcing him to keep a 
 certain distance. 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 225 
 
 And now Marius raised his voice and shouted with 
 all the power of his lungs: 
 
 "To me! To me! Fortunio! Abdon! To me, you 
 dogs! I am beset." 
 
 From the courtyard below rose an echo of his words, 
 repeated in a shout by the sentinel, who had over- 
 heard them, and they caught the swift fall of the 
 fellow's feet as he ran for help. Furious, picturing to 
 himself how the alarm would spread like a conflagra- 
 tion through the chateau, cursing his headstrong folly 
 yet determined that Marius at least should not escape 
 him, Garnache put forth his energies to hinder him 
 from gaining the door that opened on to the stairs. 
 From the doorway of the antechamber mademoiselle, 
 with a white face and terrified eyes, watched the un- 
 equal combat and heard the shouts for help. Anon 
 despair might whelm her at the thought of how they 
 had lost their opportunity of escaping; but for the 
 present she had no thought save for the life of that 
 brave man who was defending himself with an un- 
 wieldy chair. 
 
 Garnache leapt suddenly aside to take his opponent 
 in the flank and thus turn him from his backward 
 progress towards the outer door. The manoeuvre suc- 
 ceeded, and gradually, always defending himself, 
 Garnache circled farther round him until he was 
 between Marius and the threshold. 
 
 And now there came a sound of running feet on the 
 uneven stones of the courtyard. Light gleamed on the 
 staircase, and breathless voices were wafted up to the 
 two men. Garnache bethought him that his last hour 
 was assuredly at hand. Well, if he must take his 
 death, he might as well take it here upon Marius's 
 
226 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 sword as upon another's. So he would risk it for the 
 sake of leaving upon Marius some token by which he 
 might remember him. He swung his chair aloft, un- 
 covering himself for a second. The young man's 
 sword darted in like a shaft of light. Nimbly Gar- 
 nache stepped aside to avoid it, and moved nearer his 
 opponent. Down crashed the chair, and down went 
 Marius, stunned and bleeding, under its terrific blow. 
 The sword clattered from his hand and rolled, with a 
 pendulum-like movement, to the feet of Garnache. 
 
 The Parisian flung aside his chair and stooped to 
 seize that very welcome blade. He rose, grasping the 
 hilt and gathering confidence from the touch of that 
 excellently balanced weapon, and he swung round 
 even as Fortunio and two of his braves appeared in 
 the doorway. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 HOW MONSIEUR DE GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 
 
 NEVER was there a man with a better stomach 
 for a fight than Martin de Garnache, nor did he 
 stop to consider that here his appetite in that direc- 
 tion was likely to be indulged to a surfeit. The sight 
 of those three men opposing him, swords drawn and 
 Fortunio armed in addition with a dagger, drove from 
 his mind every other thought, every other considera- 
 tion but that of the impending battle. 
 
 He fell on guard to receive their onslaught, his eyes 
 alert, his lips tight set, his knees like springs of steel, 
 slightly flexed to support his well-poised body. 
 
 But they paused a moment in the extremity of their 
 surprise, and Fortunio called to him in Italian to know 
 the meaning of this attitude of his as well as that of 
 Marius, who lay huddled where he had fallen. 
 
 Garnache, reckless now, disdaining further subter- 
 fuge nor seeking to have recourse to subtleties that 
 could avail him nothing, retorted in French with the 
 announcement of his true name. At that, perceiv- 
 ing that here was some deep treachery at work, they 
 hesitated no longer. 
 
 Led by Fortunio they attacked him, and the din 
 they made in the next few minutes with their heavy 
 breathing, their frequent oaths, their stamping and 
 springing this way and that, and, ringing above all, 
 the clash and clatter of sword on sword, filled the 
 chamber and could be heard in the courtyard below. 
 
228 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Minutes sped, yet they gained no advantage on 
 this single man; not one, but a dozen swords did he 
 appear to wield, so rapid were his passes, so ubiquitous 
 his point. Had he but stood his ground there might 
 have been a speedy end to him, but he retreated 
 slowly towards the door of the antechamber. Valerie 
 still stood there, watching with fearful eyes and bated 
 breath that tremendous struggle which at any mo- 
 ment she expected to see terminate in the death of 
 her only friend. 
 
 In her way she was helping Garnache, though she 
 little realized it. The six tapers in the candle-branch 
 she held aloft afforded the only light for that stormy 
 scene, and that light was in the eyes of Garnache's 
 assailants, showing him their faces yet leaving his own 
 in shadow. 
 
 He fell back steadily towards that door. He could 
 not see it; but there was not the need. He knew that 
 it was in a direct line with the one that opened upon 
 the stairs, and by the latter he steered his backward 
 course. His aim was to gain the antechamber, al- 
 though they guessed it not, thinking that he did but 
 retreat through inability to stand his ground. His 
 reasons were that here in this guard-room the best he 
 could do would be to put his back to the wall, where 
 he might pick off one or two before they made an end 
 of him. The place was too bare to suit his urgent, fear- 
 ful need. Within the inner room there was furniture 
 to spare, with which he might contrive to hamper his 
 opponents and give them such a lusty fight as would 
 live in the memory of those who might survive it for as 
 long as they should chance to live thereafter. 
 
 He had no thought of perishing himself, although, 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 229 
 
 to any less concerned, his death, sooner or later, must 
 seem inevitable — the only possible conclusion to this 
 affray, taken as he was. His mind was concerned only 
 with this fight; his business to kill, and not himself to 
 be slain. He knew that presently others would come 
 to support these three. Already, perhaps, they were 
 on their way, and he husbanded his strength against 
 their coming. He was proudly conscious of his own 
 superior skill, for he had studied the art of fence 
 in Italy — its home — during his earlier years, and 
 there was no trick of sword-play with which he was 
 not acquainted, no ruse of service in a rough-and- 
 tumble in which he was unversed. He was proudly 
 conscious, too, of his supple strength, his endurance, 
 and his grea% length of reach, and upon all these he 
 counted to help him make a decent fight. 
 
 Valerie, watching him, guessed his purpose to be 
 the gaining of the inner chamber, the crossing of the 
 threshold on which she was standing. She drew back 
 a pace or two, almost mechanically, to give him room. 
 The movement went near to costing him his life. The 
 light no longer falling so pitilessly upon Fortunio's 
 eyes, the captain saw more clearly than hitherto, and 
 shot a swift, deadly stroke straight at the region of 
 Garnache's heart. The Parisian leapt back when it 
 was within an inch of his breast; one of the bravoes 
 followed up, springing a pace in advance of his com- 
 panions and lengthening his arm in a powerful lunge. 
 Garnache caught the blade almost on his hilt, and by 
 the slightest turn of the wrist made a simultaneous 
 presentment of his point at the other's outstretched 
 throat. It took the fellow just above the Adam's 
 apple, and with a horrid, gurgling cry he sank, 
 
230 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 stretched as he still was in the attitude of that mur- 
 derous lunge that had proved fatal only to himself. 
 
 Garnache had come on guard again upon the in- 
 stant. Yet in the briefest of seconds during which 
 his sword had been about its work of death, Fortunio's 
 rapier came at him a second time. He beat the blade 
 aside with his bare left hand and stopped with his 
 point the rush of the other bravo. Then he leapt back 
 again, and his leap brought him to the threshold of 
 the anteroom. He retreated quickly a pace, and then 
 another. He was a sword's length within the cham- 
 ber, and now he stood, firm as a rock and engaged 
 Fortunio's blade, which had followed him through the 
 doorway. But he was more at his ease. The doorway 
 was narrow. Two men abreast could not beset him, 
 since one must cumber the movements of the other. 
 If they came at him one at a time, he felt that he 
 could continue that fight till morning, should there 
 still by then be any left to face him. 
 
 A wild exultation took him, an insane desire to 
 laugh. Surely was sword-play the merriest game 
 that was ever devised for man's entertainment. He 
 straightened his arm, and his steel went out like a 
 streak of lightning. But for the dagger on which he 
 caught its edge, the blade had assuredly pierced the 
 captain's heart. And now, fighting still, Garnache 
 called to Valerie. He had need of her assistance to 
 make his preparations ere others came. 
 
 " Set down your tapers, mademoiselle," he bade her, 
 "on the mantelshelf at my back. Place the other 
 candle-branch there too." 
 
 Swiftly, yet with half-swimming senses, everything 
 dim to her as to one in a nightmare, she ran to do his 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 231 
 
 bidding; and now the light, placed so at his back, gave 
 him over his opponents the same slight advantage 
 that he had enjoyed before. In brisk tones he issued 
 his fresh orders. 
 
 "Can you move the table, mademoiselle?" he 
 asked her. "Try to drag it here, to the wall on my 
 left, as close to the door as you can bring it." 
 
 "I will try, monsieur," she panted through dry lips, 
 and again she moved to do his bidding. Quickened 
 by the need there was, her limbs, which awhile ago 
 had seemed on the point of refusing their office, ap- 
 peared to gather more than ordinary strength. She 
 was unconsciously sobbing in her passionate anxiety 
 to render him what help was possible. Frenziedly she 
 caught at the heavy oaken table, and began to drag it 
 across the room as Garnache had begged her. And 
 now, Fortunio seeing what was toward, and guessing 
 Garnache's intentions, sought by a rush to force his 
 way into the chamber. But Garnache was ready for 
 him. There was a harsh grind of steel on steel, cul- 
 minating in a resounding beat, and Fortunio was back 
 in the guard-room, whither he had leapt to save his skin. 
 
 A pause fell at that, and Garnache lowered his point 
 to rest his arm until they should again come at him. 
 From beyond the doorway the captain called upon 
 him to yield. He took the summons as an insult, and 
 flew into a momentary passion. 
 
 " Yield ? " he roared. " Yield to you, you cut-throat 
 scum ? You shall have my sword if you will come for 
 it, but you shall have it in your throat." 
 
 Angered in his turn, Fortunio inclined his head to 
 his companion's ear, issuing an order. In obedience to 
 it, it was the bravo now who advanced and engaged 
 
232 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Garnache. Suddenly he dropped on to his knees, and . 
 over his head Garnache found his blade suddenly op- 
 posed by Fortunio's. It was a clever trick, and it all 
 but did Garnache's business then. Yet together with 
 the surprise of it there came to him the understanding 
 of what was intended. Under his guard the kneeling 
 man's sword was to be thrust up into his vitals. As a 
 cry of alarm broke from mademoiselle, he leapt aside 
 and towards the wall, where he was covered from 
 Fortunio's weapon, and turning suddenly he passed 
 his sword from side to side through the body of the 
 kneeling mercenary. 
 
 The whole thing he had performed mechanically, 
 more by instinct than by reason; and when it was 
 done, and the tables were thus effectively turned upon 
 his assailants, he scarcely realized how he had accom- 
 plished it. 
 
 The man's body cumbered now the doorway, and 
 behind him Fortunio stood, never daring to advance 
 lest a thrust of that sword which he could not see 
 — Garnache still standing close against the wall — 
 should serve him likewise. 
 
 Garnache leaned there, in that friendly shelter, 
 to breathe, and he smiled grimly under cover of his 
 mustache. So long as he had to deal with a single 
 assailant he saw no need to move from so excellent a 
 position. Close beside him, leaning heavily against 
 the table she had dragged thus far, stood Valerie, her 
 face livid as death, her heart sick within her at the 
 horror inspired her by that thing lying on the thresh- 
 old. She could not take her eyes from the crimson 
 stain that spread slowly on the floor, coming from 
 under that limply huddled mass of arms and legs. 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 233 
 
 "Do not look, mademoiselle j " Garnache implored 
 her softly. "Be brave, child; try to be brave." 
 
 She sought to brace her flagging courage, and by an 
 effort she averted her eyes from that horrid heap and 
 fixed them upon Garnache's calm, intrepid face. The 
 sight of his quietly watchful eyes, his grimly smiling 
 lips, seemed to infuse courage into her anew. 
 
 "I have the table, monsieur," she told him. "I can 
 bring it no nearer to the wall." 
 
 He understood that this was not because her cour- 
 age or her strength might be exhausted, but because 
 he now occupied the spot where he had bidden her 
 place it. He motioned her away, and when she had 
 moved he darted suddenly and swiftly aside and caught 
 the table, his sword still fast in his two first fingers, 
 which he had locked over the quillons. He had pushed 
 its massive weight halfway across the door before 
 Fortunio grasped the situation. Instantly the captain 
 sought to take advantage of it, thinking to catch Gar- 
 nache unawares. But no sooner did he show his nose 
 inside the doorpost than Garnache's sword flashed be- 
 fore his eyes, driving him back with a bloody furrow 
 in his cheek. 
 
 "Have a care, Monsieur le Capitaine," Garnache 
 mocked him. " Had you come an inch farther it might 
 have been the death of you." 
 
 A clatter of steps sounded upon the stairs, and the 
 Parisian bent once more to his task, and thrust the 
 table across the open doorway. He had a moment's 
 respite now, for Fortunio stung — though lightly — 
 was not likely to come again until he had others to 
 support him. And while the others came, while the 
 hum of their voices rose higher, and finally their steps 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 clattered over the bare boards of the guard-room 
 floor, Garnache had caught up and flung a chair under 
 the table to protect him from an attack from below, 
 while he had piled another on top to increase and 
 further strengthen the barricade. 
 
 Valerie watched him agonizedly, leaning now against 
 the wall, her hands pressed across her bosom, as if to 
 keep down its tempestuous heaving. Yet her anguish 
 was tempered by a great wonder and a great admira- 
 tion of this man who could keep such calm eyes and 
 such smiling lips in the face of the dreadful odds by 
 which he was beset, in the face of the certain death 
 that must ultimately reach him before he was many 
 minutes older. And in her imagination she conjured 
 up a picture of him lying there torn by their angry 
 swords and drenched in blood, his life gone out of him, 
 his brave spirit, quenched for ever — and all for her 
 unworthy sake. Because she — little, worthless thing 
 that she was — would not marry as they listed, this 
 fine, chivalrous soul was to be driven from its stalwart 
 body. 
 
 An agony of grief took her now, and she fell once 
 more to those awful sobs that awhile ago had shaken 
 her. She had refused to marry Marius that Flori- 
 mond's life should be spared, knowing that before Ma- 
 rius could reach him she herself would have warned 
 her betrothed. Yet even had that circumstance not 
 existed, she was sure that still she would have refused 
 to do the will of Marius. But equally sure was she 
 that she would not so refuse him were he now to offer 
 as the price of her compliance the life of Garnache, 
 which she accounted irrevocably doomed. 
 
 Suddenly his steady, soothing voice penetrated her 
 anguished musings. 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 235 
 
 " Calm yourself, mademoiselle; all is far from lost as 
 yet." 
 
 She thought that he but spoke so to comfort her; 
 she did not follow the working of his warlike mind, 
 concentrated entirely upon the business of the mo- 
 ment, with little thought — or care, for that matter 
 • — for what might betide anon. Yet she made an 
 effort to repress her sobs. She would be brave, if only 
 to show herself worthy of the companionship and 
 friendship of so brave a man. 
 
 Across his barricade he peered into the outer room 
 to ascertain with what fresh opponents he might have 
 to reckon, and he was surprised to see but four men 
 standing by Fortunio, whilst behind them, among 
 the thicker shadows, he dimly made out a woman's 
 figure and, beside her, another man who was short and 
 squat. 
 
 He bethought him that the hour, and the circum- 
 stance that most of the mercenaries would be in 
 their beds, accounted for the reinforcement not be- 
 ing greater. 
 
 The woman moved forward, and he saw, as he had 
 suspected, that it was the Dowager herself. The squat 
 figure beside her, moving with her into the shaft of 
 light that fell from the doorway Garnache defended, 
 revealed to him the features of Monsieur de Tressan. 
 If any doubt he had still entertained concerning the 
 Seneschal's loyalty, that doubt was now dispelled. 
 
 And now the Dowager uttered a sudden cry of fear. 
 She had caught sight of the fallen Marius, and she 
 hurried to his side. Tressan sped after her, and be- 
 tween them they raised the boy and helped him to a 
 chair, where he now sat, passing a heavy hand across 
 
236 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 his no doubt aching brow. Clearly he was recover- 
 ing, from which Garnache opined with regret that his 
 blow had been too light. The Dowager turned to 
 Fortunio, who had approached her, and her eyes 
 seemed to take fire at something that he told her. 
 
 "Garnache?" the Parisian heard her say, and he 
 saw Fortunio jerk his thumb in the direction of the 
 barricade. 
 
 She appeared to forget her son; she stepped sud- 
 denly from his side, and peered through the door- 
 way at the stalwart figure of Garnache, dimly to be 
 seen through the pile of furniture that protected him 
 to the height of his breast. No word said she to the 
 Parisian. She stood regarding him a moment with lips 
 compressed and a white, startled, angry face. Then: 
 
 " It was by Marius's contrivance that he was placed 
 sentry over the girl," he heard her tell Fortunio, and 
 he thought she sneered. 
 
 She looked at the two bodies on the floor, one al- 
 most at her feet, the other just inside the doorway, 
 now almost hidden in the shadows of the table. Then 
 she issued her commands to the men, and fiercely she 
 bade them pull down that barricade and take the dog 
 alive. 
 
 But before they could move to do her bidding, 
 Garnache's voice rang imperatively through the cham- 
 ber. 
 
 "A word with you ere they begin, Monsieur de 
 Tressan," he shouted, and such was the note of com- 
 mand he assumed that the men stood arrested, look- 
 ing to the Dowager for fresh orders. Tressan changed 
 colour, for all that there was surely naught to fear, 
 and he fingered his beard perplexedly, looking to the 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 237 
 
 Marquise for direction. She flashed him a glance, 
 lifted one shoulder disdainfully, and to the men: 
 
 "Fetch him out," said she, and she pointed to Gar- 
 nache. But again Garnache stayed them. 
 
 "Monsieur de Tressan," he called impressively, 
 " to your dying day — and that will be none so dis- 
 tant — shall you regret it if you do not hear me." 
 
 The Seneschal was stirred by those words and the 
 half-threat, half-warning, they seemed to cover. He 
 paused a moment, and this time his eyes avoided the 
 Marquise's. At last, taking a step forward, 
 
 "Knave," said he, "I do not know you." 
 
 "You know me well enough. You have heard my 
 name. I am Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache, Her 
 Majesty's emissary into Dauphiny to procure the en- 
 largement of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye from the 
 Chateau de Condillac, where she is detained by force 
 and for the serving of unscrupulous ends. Now you 
 know me and my quality." 
 
 The Dowager stamped her foot. 
 
 "Fetch him out!" she commanded harshly. 
 
 "Hear me first, Monsieur le Seneschal, or it will be 
 the worse for you." And the Seneschal, moved by 
 that confident promise of evil, threw himself before 
 the men-at-arms. 
 
 "A moment, I beseech you, Marquise," he cried, 
 and the men, seeing his earnestness and knowing his 
 quality, stood undecided, buffeted as they were be- 
 tween his will and the Marquise's. "What have you 
 to say to me?" Tressan demanded, seeking to render 
 arrogant his tone. 
 
 "This: That my servant knows where I am, and 
 that should I fail within a very few days to come forth 
 
238 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 safe and sound from Condillac to rejoin him, he is to 
 ride to Paris with certain letters I have given him. 
 Those letters incriminate you to the full in this in- 
 famous matter here at Condillac. I have set forth in 
 them how you refused me help, how you ignored the 
 Queen's commands of which I was the bearer; and 
 should it be proved, in addition, that through your 
 treachery and insubordination my life has been lost, I 
 promise you that nothing in all this world will save 
 you from a hanging." 
 
 "Never listen, monsieur," cried the Dowager, see- 
 ing Tressan start back like a man in sudden fear. "It 
 is no more than the ruse of a desperate man." 
 
 "Heed me or not, at your choice," Garnache re- 
 torted, addressing himself ever to Tressan. "You 
 have had your warning. I little thought to see you 
 here to-night. But seeing you confirms my worst 
 suspicions, and if I am to die, I can die easy in my 
 conscience at the thought that in sacrificing you to 
 Her Majesty's wrath I have certainly not sacrificed an 
 innocent man." 
 
 "Madame — " the Seneschal began, turning to the 
 Dowager. But she broke in impatiently upon his in- 
 tended words, upon the prayer that bubbled to his 
 lips that she should pause a while ere she made an end 
 of this Parisian. 
 
 "Monsieur," said she, "you may bargain with him 
 when he is taken. We will have him alive. Go in," she 
 bade her men, her voice so resolute now that none 
 dared tarry longer. "Fetch the knave out — alive." 
 
 Garnache smiled at mademoiselle as the words were 
 uttered. 
 
 "They want me alive," said he. "That is a hopeful 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 239 
 
 state of things. Bear up, child; I may need your help 
 ere we are through." 
 
 "You shall find me ready, monsieur," she assured 
 him for all her tremors. He looked at the pale face, 
 composed now by an effort of her will, and at the 
 beautiful hazel eyes which strove to meet his with 
 calm and to reflect his smile, and he marvelled at her 
 courage as much as did she at his. 
 
 Then the assault began, and he could have laughed 
 at the way in which a couple of those cut-throats — 
 neither wishing to have the honour of meeting him 
 singly — hindered each other by seeking to attack 
 him at once. 
 
 At last the Dowager commanded one of them to go 
 in. The fellow came, and he was driven back by the 
 sword that darted at him from above the barricade. 
 
 There matters might have come to a deadlock, but 
 that Fortunio came forward with one of his men to 
 repeat the tactics which had cost him a life already. 
 His fellow went down on his knees, and drove his 
 sword under the table and through the frame of the 
 chair, seeking to prick Garnache in the legs. Simul- 
 taneously the captain laid hold of an arm of the chair 
 above, and sought to engage Garnache across it. The 
 ruse succeeded to the extent of compelling the Pari- 
 sian to retreat. The table seemed likely to be his un- 
 doing instead of helping him. He dropped like light- 
 ning to one knee, seeking to force the fellow out from 
 underneath. But the obstacles which should have 
 hindered his assailants hindered Garnache even more 
 at this juncture. In that instant Fortunio whipped 
 the chair from the table-top, and flung it forward. 
 One of its legs caught Garnache on the sword-arm, 
 
2 4 o SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 deadening it for a second. The sword fell from his 
 hand, and Valerie shrieked aloud, thinking the battle 
 at an end. But the next moment he was on his feet, 
 his rapier firmly gripped once more, for all that his 
 arm still felt a trifle numbed. As seconds passed the 
 numbness wore away, but before that had taken place 
 the table had been thrust forward, and the man be- 
 neath it had made it impossible for Garnache to 
 hinder this. Suddenly he called to Valerie. 
 
 "A cloak, mademoiselle! Get me a cloak!" he 
 begged. And she, stemming her fears once more, ran 
 to do his bidding. 
 
 She caught up a cloak that lay on a chair by the door 
 of her bed-chamber, and brought it to him. He twisted 
 it twice round his left arm, letting its folds hang loose, 
 and advanced again to try conclusions with the gentle- 
 man underneath. He cast the garment so that it en- 
 meshed the sword when next it was advanced. Step- 
 ping briskly aside, he was up to the table, and his 
 busy blade drove back the man who assailed him 
 across it. He threw his weight against it, and thrust 
 it back till it was jammed hard once more against the 
 doorposts, leaving the chair at his very feet. The man 
 beneath had recovered his sword by this, and again he 
 sought to use it. That was the end of him. Again 
 Garnache enmeshed it, kicked away the chair, or, 
 rather, thrust it aside with his foot, stooped suddenly, 
 and driving his blade under the table felt it sink into 
 the body of his tormentor. 
 
 There was a groan and a spluttering cough, and 
 then before Garnache could recover he heard made- 
 moiselle crying out to him to beware. The table was 
 thrust suddenly forward almost on top of him; its edge 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 241 
 
 caught his left shoulder, and sent him back a full yard, 
 sprawling upon the ground. 
 
 To rise again, gasping for air — for the fall had 
 shaken him — was the work of an instant. But in 
 that instant Fortunio had thrust the table clear of the 
 doorway, and his men were pouring into the room. 
 
 They came at Garnache in a body, with wild shouts 
 and fierce mockery, and he hurriedly fell on guard and 
 gave way before them until his shoulders were against 
 the wainscot and he had at least the assurance that 
 none could take him in the rear. Three blades en- 
 gaged his own. Fortunio had come no farther than 
 the doorway, where he stood, his torn cheek drenched 
 in blood, watching the scene, the Marquise beside him, 
 and Tressan standing just behind them, very pale and 
 scared. 
 
 Yet Garnache's first thought even in that moment 
 of dire peril was for Valerie. He would spare her the 
 sight that must before many moments be spread to 
 view within that shambles. 
 
 "To your chamber, mademoiselle," he cried to her. 
 " You hinder me," he added, by way of compelling her 
 obedience. She did his bidding, but only in part. No 
 farther went she than the doorway of her room, where 
 she remained standing, watching the fray as earlier 
 she had stood and watched it from the door of the 
 antechamber. 
 
 Suddenly she was moved by inspiration. He had 
 gained an advantage before by retreating through a 
 doorway into an inner room. Might he not do the 
 same again, and be in better case if he were to retreat 
 now to her own chamber? Impulsively she called to 
 him. 
 
242 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "In here, Monsieur de Garnache. In here." 
 
 The Marquise looked across at her, and smiled in 
 mockery. Garnache was too well occupied, she thought, 
 to attempt any such rashness. If he but dared remove 
 his shoulders from the wall there would be a speedier 
 end to him than as things were. 
 
 Not so, however, thought Garnache. The cloak 
 twisted about his left arm gave him some advantage, 
 and he used it to the full. He flicked the slack of it in 
 the face of one, and followed it up by stabbing the 
 fellow in the stomach before he could recover guard, 
 whilst with another wave of that cloak he enmeshed 
 the sword that shot readily into the opening he had 
 left. 
 
 Madame cursed, and Fortunio echoed her impreca- 
 tions. The Seneschal gasped, his fears lost in amaze- 
 ment at so much valour and dexterity. 
 
 Garnache swung away from the wall now, and set 
 his back to mademoiselle, determined to act upon her 
 advice. But even in that moment he asked himself for 
 the first time since the commencement of that carnage 
 — to what purpose ? His arms were growing heavy 
 with fatigue, his mouth was parched, and great beads 
 of perspiration stood upon his brow. Soon he would 
 be spent, and they would not fail to take a very full 
 advantage of it. 
 
 Hitherto his mind had been taken up with the 
 battle only, and if he had thought of retreating, it was 
 but to the end that he might gain a position of some 
 vantage. Now, conscious of his growing fatigue, his 
 thoughts turned them at last to the consideration of 
 flight. Was there no way out of it? Must he kill every 
 man in Condillac before he could hope to escape? 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 243 
 
 Whimsically, and almost mechanically, he set him- 
 self, in his mind, to count the men. There were twenty 
 mercenaries all told, excluding Fortunio and himself. 
 On Arsenio he might rely not to attack him, perhaps 
 even to come to his assistance at the finish. That left 
 nineteen. Four he had already either killed outright 
 or effectively disabled; so that fifteen remained him. 
 The task of dealing with those other fifteen was 
 utterly beyond him. Presently, no doubt, the two 
 now opposing him would be reinforced by others. So 
 that if any possible way out existed, he had best set 
 about finding it at once. 
 
 He wondered could he cut down these two, make an 
 end of Fortunio, and, running for it, attempt to escape 
 through the postern before the rest of the garrison 
 had time to come up with him or guess his purpose. 
 But the notion was too wild, its accomplishment too 
 impossible. 
 
 He was fighting now with his back to mademoiselle 
 and his face to the tall window, through the leaded 
 panes of which he caught the distorted shape of a 
 crescent moon. Suddenly the idea came to him. 
 Through that window must lie his way. It was a 
 good fifty feet above the moat, he knew, and if he 
 essayed to leap it, it must be an even chance that he 
 would be killed in leaping. But the chance of death 
 was a certain one if he tarried where he was until 
 others came to support his present opponents. And 
 so he briskly determined upon the lesser risk. 
 
 He remembered that the window was nailed down, 
 as it had remained since mademoiselle's pretended 
 attempt at flight. But surely that should prove no 
 formidable obstacle. 
 
244 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 And now that his resolve was taken his tactics 
 abruptly changed. Hitherto he had been sparing of 
 his movements, husbanding his strength against the 
 long battle that seemed promised him. Suddenly he 
 assumed the offensive where hitherto he had but acted 
 in self-defence, and a most deadly offensive was it. 
 He plied his cloak, untwisting it from his arm and 
 flinging it over the head and body of one of his assail- 
 ants, so that he was enmeshed and blinded by it. 
 Leaping to the fellow's flank, Garnache, with a 
 terrific kick, knocked his legs from under him so that 
 he fell heavily. Then, stooping suddenly, the Parisian 
 ran his blade under the other brave's guard and 
 through the fellow's thigh. The man cried out, stag- 
 gered, and then went down utterly disabled. 
 
 One swift downward thrust Garnache made at the 
 mass that wriggled under his cloak. The activity of 
 its wriggles increased in the next few seconds, then 
 ceased altogether. 
 
 Tressan felt wet from head to foot with a sweat pro- 
 voked by horror of what he saw. The Dowager's lips 
 were pouring forth a horrid litany of guard-room oaths, 
 and meanwhile Garnache had swung round to meet 
 Fortunio, the last of all who had stood with him. 
 
 The captain came on boldly, armed with sword and 
 dagger, and in that moment, feeling himself spent, 
 Garnache bitterly repented having relinquished his 
 cloak. Yet he made a stubborn fight, and whilst they 
 fenced and stamped about that room, Marius came to 
 watch them, staggering to his mother's side and lean- 
 ing heavily upon Tressan's shoulder. The Marquise 
 turned to him, her face livid to the lips. 
 
 "That man must be the very fiend," Garnache 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 245 
 
 heard her tell her son. "Run for help, Tressan, or, 
 God knows, he may escape us yet. Go for men, or we 
 shall have Fortunio killed as well. Bid them bring 
 muskets." 
 
 Tressan, moving like one bereft of wits, went her 
 errand, while the two men fought on, stamping and 
 panting, circling and lunging, their breath coming in 
 gasps, their swords grinding and clashing till sparks 
 leapt from them. 
 
 The dust rose up to envelop and almost choke 
 them, and more than once they slipped in the blood 
 with which the floor was spattered, whilst presently 
 Garnache barely recovered and saved himself from 
 stumbling over the body of one of his victims against 
 which his swiftly moving feet had hurtled. 
 
 And the Dowager, who watched the conflict and 
 who knew something of sword-play, realized that, 
 tired though Garnache might be, unless help came 
 soon or some strange chance gave the captain the ad- 
 vantage, Fortunio would be laid low with the others. 
 
 His circling had brought the Parisian round, so that 
 his back was now to the window, his face to the door 
 of the bedchamber, where mademoiselle still watched 
 in ever-growing horror. His right shoulder was in line 
 with the door of the antechamber, which madame 
 occupied, and he never saw her quit Marius's side and 
 creep slyly into the room to speed swiftly round be- 
 hind him. 
 
 The only one from whom he thought that he might 
 have cause to fear treachery was trie man whom he 
 had dropped with a thigh wound, and he was careful 
 to keep beyond the reach of any sudden sword-thrust 
 from that fellow. 
 
246 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 But if he did not see the woman's movements, made- 
 1 moiselle saw them, and the sight set her eyes dilating 
 with a new fear. She guessed the Dowager's treacher- 
 ous purpose. And no sooner had she guessed it than, 
 with a choking sob, she told herself that what madame 
 could do that could she also. 
 
 Suddenly Garnache saw an opening; Fortunio's 
 eyes, caught by the Dowager's movements, strayed 
 for a moment past his opponent, and the thing would 
 have been fatal to the captain but that in that mo- 
 ment, as Garnache was on the point of lunging, he felt 
 himself caught from behind, his arms pinioned to his 
 sides by a pair of slender ones that twined themselves 
 about him, and over his shoulder, the breath of it fan- 
 ning his hot cheek, came a vicious voice — 
 
 "Stab now, Fortunio!" 
 
 The captain asked nothing better. He raised his 
 weary sword-arm and brought his point to the level of 
 Garnache's breast, but in that instant its weight be- 
 came leaden. Imitating the Marquise, Valerie had 
 been in time. She seized Fortunio's half-lifted arm 
 and flung all her weight upon it. 
 
 The captain cursed her horridly in a frenzy of fear, 
 for he saw that did Garnache shake off the Marquise 
 there would be an end of himself. He sought to 
 wrench himself free of her detaining grasp, and the 
 exertion brought him down, weary as he was, and with 
 her weight hanging to him. He sank to his knees, and 
 the girl, still clinging valiantly, sank with him, calling 
 to Garnache that she held the captain fast. 
 
 Putting forth all his remaining strength, the 
 Parisian twisted from the Dowager's encircling grasp 
 and hurled her from him with a violence he nowise 
 intended. 
 
HOW GARNACHE LEFT CONDILLAC 247 
 
 "Yours, madame, are the first woman's arms that 
 ever Martin de Garnache has known," said he. "And 
 never could embrace of beauty have been less wel- 
 come." 
 
 Panting, he caught up one of the overturned chairs. 
 Holding it by the back he made for the window. He 
 had dropped his sword, and he called to mademoiselle 
 to hold the captain yet an instant longer. He swung 
 his chair aloft and dashed it against the window. 
 There was a thundering crash of shivered glass and a 
 cool draught of that November night came to sweeten 
 the air that had been fouled by the stamping of the 
 fighters. 
 
 Again he swung up his chair and dashed it at the 
 window, and yet again, until no window remained, but 
 a great, gaping opening with a fringe of ragged glass 
 and twisted leadwork. 
 
 In that moment Fortunio struggled to his feet, free 
 of the girl, who sank, almost in a swoon. He sprang 
 towards Garnache. The Parisian turned and flung his 
 now shattered chair toward the advancing captain. It 
 dropped at his feet, and his flying shins struck against 
 an edge of it, bringing him, hurt and sprawling, to the 
 ground. Before he could recover, a figure was flying 
 through the open gap that lately had been a window. 
 
 Mademoiselle sat up and screamed. 
 
 "You will be killed, Monsieur de Garnache! Dear 
 God, you will be killed!" and the anguish in her voice 
 was awful. 
 
 It was the last thing that reached the ears of Mon- 
 sieur de Garnache as he tumbled headlong through 
 the darkness of the chill November night. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN THE MOAT 
 
 FORTUNIO and the Marquise reached the win- 
 dow side by side, and they were in time to hear a 
 dull splash in the waters fifty feet below them. There 
 was a cloud over the little sickle of moon, and to their 
 eyes, fresh from the blaze of candle-light, the dark- 
 ness was impenetrable. 
 
 "He is in the moat," cried the Marquise excitedly, 
 and Valerie, who sat on the floor whither she had 
 slipped when Fortunio shook her off, rocked herself in 
 an agony of fear. 
 
 To the horrors about her — the huddled bodies 
 lying so still upon the floor, the bloody footprints 
 everywhere, the shattered furniture, and the groans 
 of the man with the wounded thigh — to all this she 
 was insensible. Garnache was dead, she told herself; 
 he was surely dead; and it seemed as if the very 
 thought of it were killing, too, a part of her own self. 
 
 Unconsciously she sobbed her fears aloud. "He is 
 dead," she moaned; "he is dead." 
 
 The Marquise overheard that piteous cry, and 
 turned to survey the girl, her brows lifting, her lips 
 parting in an astonishment that for a second effaced 
 the horrors of that night. Suspicion spread like an oil 
 stain in her evil mind. She stepped forward and 
 caught the girl by one of her limp arms. Marius, 
 paler than his stunning had left him, leaned more 
 heavily against the door-post, and looked on with 
 
IN THE MOAT 
 
 249 
 
 bloodshot eyes. If ever maiden avowed the secret of 
 her heart, it seemed to him that Valerie avowed it 
 then. 
 
 The Mara x uise shook her angrily. 
 
 "What was he to you, girl? What was he to you?" 
 she demanded shrilly. 
 
 And the girl, no more than half conscious of what 
 she was saying, made answer: 
 
 "The bravest gentleman, the noblest friend I have 
 ever known." 
 
 "Pah ! " The Dowager dropped her arm and turned 
 to issue a command to Fortunio. But already the 
 fellow had departed. His concern was not with wo- 
 men, but with the man who had escaped him. He 
 must make certain that the fall had killed Gar- 
 nache. 
 
 Breathless and worn as he was, all spattered now 
 with blood from the scratch in his cheek, which lent 
 him a terrific aspect, he dashed from that shambles 
 and across the guard-room. He snatched up a lighted 
 lantern that had been left in the doorway and leapt 
 down the stairs and into the courtyard. Here he came 
 upon Monsieur de Tressan with a half-dozen fellows at 
 his heels, all more or less half clad, but all very fully 
 armed with swords and knives, and one or two with 
 muskets. 
 
 Roughly, with little thought for the dignity of his 
 high office, he thrust the Lord Seneschal aside and 
 turned the men. Some he ordered off to the stables to 
 get horses, for if Garnache had survived his leap and 
 swum the moat, they must give chase. Whatever be- 
 tide, the Parisian must not get away. He feared the 
 consequences of that as much for himself as for Con- 
 
250 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 dillac. Some five or six of the men he bade follow him, 
 and never pausing to answer any of Tressan's fearful 
 questions, he sped across the courtyard, through the 
 kitchens — which was the nearest way — into the 
 outer quadrangle. Never pausing to draw breath, 
 spent though he was, he pursued his flight under the 
 great archway of the keep and across the drawbridge, 
 the raising of which had been that night postponed to 
 await the Lord Seneschal's departure. 
 
 Here on the bridge he paused and turned in a frenzy 
 to scream to his followers that they should fetch more 
 torches. Meanwhile he snatched the only one at hand 
 from the man-at-arms that carried it. 
 
 His men sprang into the guard-room of the keep, 
 realizing from his almost hysterical manner the urgent 
 need for haste. And while he waited for them, stand- 
 ing there on the bridge, his torch held high, he scanned 
 by its lurid red light the water as far as eye could 
 reach on either side of him. 
 
 There was a faint movement on the dark, oily sur- 
 face for all that no wind stirred. Not more than four 
 or five minutes could have elapsed since Garnache's 
 leap, and it would seem as if the last ripple from the 
 disturbance of his plunge had not yet rolled itself out. 
 But otherwise there was nothing here, nor did For- 
 tunio expect aught. The window of the Northern 
 Tower abutted on to the other side of the chateau, 
 and it was there he must look for traces of the fugi- 
 tive or for his body. 
 
 "Hasten!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Follow 
 me!" And without waiting for them he ran across 
 the bridge and darted round the building, his torch 
 scattering a shower of sparks behind him on the 
 
IN THE MOAT 
 
 251 
 
 night, and sending little rills of blood-red light adown 
 the sword which he still carried. 
 
 He gained the spot where Garnache must have 
 fallen, and he stood below the radiance that clove the 
 night from the shattered window fifty feet above, 
 casting the light of his torch this way and that over 
 the black bosom of the moat. Not a ripple moved now 
 upon that even, steely surface. Voices sounded be- 
 hind him, and with them a great glare of ruddy light 
 came to herald the arrival of his men. He turned to 
 them and pointed with his sword away from the 
 chateau. 
 
 "Spread yourselves!" he shouted. "Make search 
 yonder. He cannot have gone far." 
 
 And they, but dimly realizing whom they sought, 
 yet realizing that they sought a man, dashed off and 
 spread themselves as he had bidden them, to search 
 the stretch of meadowland, where ill must betide any 
 fugitive, since no cover offered. 
 
 Fortunio remained where he was at the edge of the 
 moat. He stooped, and waving his torch along the 
 ground he moved to the far angle of the chateau, 
 examining the soft, oozy clay. It was impossible that 
 a man could have clambered out over that without 
 leaving some impression. He reached the corner and 
 found the clay intact; at least, nowhere could he dis- 
 cover a mark of hands or a footprint set as would be 
 that of a man emerging from the water. 
 
 He retraced his steps and went back until he had 
 reached the eastern angle of the chateau, yet always 
 with the same result. He straightened himself at last, 
 and his manner was more calm; his frenzied haste was 
 gone, and deliberately he now raised his torch and let 
 
252 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 its light shine again over the waters. He pondered 
 them a moment, his dark eyes musing almost regret- 
 fully. 
 
 "Drowned!" he said aloud, and sheathed his sword. 
 
 From the window overhead a voice hailed him. He 
 looked up and saw the Dowager, and, behind her, the 
 figure of her son. Away in the meadows the lights of 
 his men's torches darted hither and thither like play- 
 ful jack-oUanterns. 
 
 "Have you got him, Fortunio?" 
 
 "Yes, madame," he answered with assurance. 
 "You may have his body when you will. He is under- 
 neath here." And he pointed to the water. 
 
 They appeared to take his word for it, for they 
 questioned him no further. The Marquise turned to 
 mademoiselle, who was still sitting on the floor. 
 
 "He is drowned, Valerie," she said slowly, watch- 
 ing the girl's face. 
 
 Valerie looked up. Her eyes were very wide, and 
 her lips moved for a second. Then she fell forward 
 without a word. This last horror, treading on the 
 heels of all those that already had assailed her, 
 proved too great a strain for her brave spirit. She 
 had swooned. 
 
 Tressan entered at that moment, full of questions 
 as to what might be toward, for he had understood 
 nothing in the courtyard. The Marquise called to him 
 to help her with the girl, Marius being still too faint, 
 and between them they bore her to her chamber, laid 
 her on the bed, and, withdrawing, closed the door 
 upon her. Then she signed to Marius and the Sene- 
 schal. 
 
 "Come," she said; "let us go. The sight and sme^ 1 
 
IN THE MOAT 
 
 253 
 
 of the place are turning me sick, although my stomach 
 is strong enough to endure most horrors." 
 
 She took up one of the candle-branches to light 
 them, and they went below and made their way to the 
 hall, where they found Marius's page, Gaston, looking 
 very pale and scared at the din that had filled the 
 chateau during the past half-hour or so. With him 
 was Marius's hound, which the poor boy had kept by 
 him for company and protection in that dreadful time. 
 
 The Marquise spoke to him kindly, and she stooped 
 to pat the dog's glossy head. Then she bade Gaston 
 set wine for them, and when it was fetched the three 
 of them drank in brooding, gloomy silence. 
 
 The draught invigorated Marius, it cheered Tres- 
 san's drooping spirits, and it quenched the Dowager's 
 thirst. The Seneschal turned to her again with his un- 
 answered questions touching the end of that butchery 
 above-stairs. She told him what Fortunio had said — 
 that Garnache was drowned as a consequence of his 
 mad leap from the window. 
 
 Into Tressan's mind there sprang the memory of 
 the thing Garnache had promised should befall him in 
 such a case. It drove the colour from his cheeks and 
 brought great lines of fearful care into sharp relief 
 about his mouth and eyes. 
 
 "Madame, we are ruined!" he groaned. 
 
 "Tressan," she answered him contemptuously, 
 "you are chicken-hearted. Listen to me. Did he not 
 say that he had left his man behind him when he came 
 to Condillac ? Where think you that he left his man ? " 
 
 "Maybe in Grenoble," answered the Seneschal, 
 staring. 
 
 "Find out," she told him impressively, her eyes on 
 
254 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 his, and calm as though they had never looked upon 
 such sights as that very night had offered them. "If 
 not in Grenoble, certainly, at least, somewhere in this 
 Dauphiny of which you are the King's Lord Seneschal. 
 Turn the whole province inside out, man, but find the 
 fellow. Yours is the power to do it. Do it, then, and 
 you will have no consequences to fear. You have seen 
 the man?" 
 
 "Ay, I have seen him. I remember him; and his 
 name, I bethink me, is Rabecque." 
 
 He took courage; his face looked less dejected. 
 
 "You overlook nothing, madame," he murmured. 
 "You are truly wonderful. I will start the search this 
 very night. My men are almost all at Montelimar 
 awaiting my commands. I'll dispatch a messenger 
 with orders that they are to spread themselves 
 throughout Dauphiny upon this quest." 
 
 The door opened, and Fortunio entered. He was 
 still unwashed and terrible to look upon, all blood- 
 bespattered. The sight of him drove a shudder 
 through Tressan. The Marquise grew solicitous. 
 
 "How is your wound, Fortunio?" was her first 
 question. 
 
 He made a gesture that dismissed the matter. 
 
 "It is nothing. I am over full-blooded, and if I am 
 scratched, I bleed, without perceiving it, enough to 
 drain another man." 
 
 "Here, drink, mon capitaine" she urged him, very 
 friendly, filling him a cup with her own hands. "And 
 you, Marius?" she asked. "Are you recovering 
 strength?" 
 
 "I am well," answered Marius sullenly. His defeat 
 that evening had left him glum and morose. He felt 
 
IN THE MOAT 255 
 
 that he had cut a sorry figure in the affair, and his 
 vanity was wounded. "I deplore I had so little share 
 in the fight," he muttered. 
 
 "The lustiest fight ever I or any man beheld," 
 swore Fortunio. "Dieu! But he was a fighter, that 
 Monsieur de Garnache, and he deserved a better end 
 than drowning." 
 
 "You are quite sure that he is drowned?" 
 
 Fortunio replied by giving his reasons for that con- 
 clusion, and they convinced both the Marquise and 
 her son — indeed they had never deemed it possible 
 that the Parisian could have survived that awful leap. 
 The Dowager looked at Marius, and from him to the 
 captain. 
 
 " Do you think, you two, that you will be fit for to- 
 morrow's business?" 
 
 "For myself," laughed Fortunio, "I am ready for it 
 now." 
 
 "And I shall be when I have rested," answered 
 Marius grimly. 
 
 "Then get you both to rest, you will be needing it," 
 she bade them. 
 
 "And I, too, madame," said the Seneschal, bending 
 over the hand she held out to him. "Good-night to 
 you all." He would have added a word to wish them 
 luck in the morrow's venture; but for the life of him 
 he dared not. He turned, made another of his bows, 
 and rolled out of the room. 
 
 Five minutes later the drawbridge was being raised 
 after his departure, and Fortunio was issuing orders to 
 the men he had recalled from their futile search to go 
 clear the guard-room and antechamber of the North- 
 ern Tower, and to bear the dead to the chapel, which 
 
2$6 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 must serve as a mortuary for the time. That done he 
 went off to bed, and soon after the lights were extin- 
 guished in Condillac; and save for Arsenio, who was 
 on guard, sorely perturbed by all that had befallen and 
 marvelling at the rashness of his friend "Battista" 
 — for he had no full particulars of the business — the 
 place was wrapped in sleep. 
 
 Had they been less sure that Garnache was drowned, 
 maybe they had slumbered less tranquilly that night 
 at Condillac. Fortunio had been shrewd in his con- 
 clusions, yet a trifle hasty; for whilst, as a matter of 
 fact, he was correct is assuming that the Parisian had 
 not crawled out of the moat — neither at the point 
 he had searched, nor elsewhere — yet was he utterly 
 wrong to assume him at the bottom of it. 
 
 Garnache had gone through that window prepared 
 to leap into another — and, he hoped, a better — 
 world. He had spun round twice in the air and shot 
 feet foremost through the chill waters of the moat, and 
 down until his toes came in contact with a less yielding 
 substance, yet yielding nevertheless. Marvelling that 
 he should have retained until now his senses, he 
 realized betimes that he was touching mud — that he 
 was really ankle deep in it. A vigorous, frantic kick 
 with both legs at once released him, and he felt him- 
 self slowly re-ascending to the surface. 
 
 It has been often said that a drowning man in his 
 struggles sees his whole life mirrored before him. In 
 the instants of Garnache's ascent through the half- 
 stagnant waters of that moat he had reviewed the 
 entire situation and determined upon the course he 
 should pursue. When he reached the surface, he must 
 see to it that he broke it gently, for at the window 
 
IN THE MOAT 
 
 above were sure to be watchers, looking to see how he 
 had fared. Madame, he remembered, had sent Tres- 
 san for muskets. If he had returned with them and 
 they should perceive him from above, a bullet would 
 be sent to dispose of him, and it were a pity to be shot 
 now after having come through so much. 
 
 His head broke the surface and emerged into the 
 chill darkness of the night. He took a deep breath 
 of cold but very welcome air, and moving his arms 
 gently under water, he swam quietly, not to the edge 
 of the moat but to the chateau wall, close under which 
 he thought he would be secure from observation. He 
 found by good fortune a crevice between two stones; 
 he did not see it, his fingers found it for him as they 
 groped along that granite surface. He clung there a 
 moment and pondered the situation. He heard voices 
 above, and looking up he saw the glare of light through 
 the opening he had battered. 
 
 And now he was surprised to feel new vigour run- 
 ning through him. He had hurled himself from that 
 window with scarce the power to leap, bathed in 
 perspiration and deeming his strength utterly spent. 
 The ice-cold waters of the moat had served, it would 
 seem, to brace him, to wash away his fatigue, and to 
 renew his energies. His mind was singularly clear and 
 his senses rendered superacute, and he set himself to 
 consider what he had best do. 
 
 Swim to the edge of the moat and, clambering out, 
 take to his legs was naturally the first impulse. But, 
 reflecting upon the open nature of the ground, he 
 realized that that must mean his ruin. Presently they 
 would come to see how he had fared, and failing to 
 find him in the water they would search the country 
 
258 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 round about. He set himself in their place. He tried 
 to think as they would think, the better that he might 
 realize how they would act, and then an idea came to 
 him that might be worth heeding. In any case his 
 situation was still very desperate; on that score he 
 allowed himself no illusions. That they would take 
 his drowning for granted, and never come to satisfy 
 themselves, he was not optimist enough to assume. 
 
 He abandoned his grip of the wall and began to 
 swim gently toward the eastern angle. If they came 
 out, they must lower the bridge; he would place him- 
 self so that in falling it should cover him and screen 
 him from their sight. He rounded the angle of the 
 building, and now the friendly cloud that had hung 
 across the moon moved by, and a faint, silver radiance 
 was upon the water under his eyes. But yonder, ahead 
 of him, something black lay athwart the moat. At 
 once he knew it for the bridge. It was down. And he 
 had the explanation in that he remembered that the 
 Lord Seneschal had not yet left Condillac. It mattered 
 little to him one way or the other. The bridge was 
 there, and he made the best of it. 
 
 A few swift, silent strokes brought him to it. He 
 hesitated a moment before venturing into the dark- 
 ness underneath; then, bethinking him that it was 
 that or discovery, he passed under. He made for the 
 wall, and as he groped along he found a chain depend- 
 ing and reaching down into the water. He caught at 
 it with both hands and hung by it to await events. 
 
 And now, for the first time that night, his pulses 
 really quickened. There in the dark he waited, and 
 the moments that sped seemed very long to him, and 
 they were very anxious. He had no good sword where- 
 
IN THE MOAT 
 
 with to defend himself were he attacked, no good, 
 solid ground on which to take his stand. If he were 
 discovered, he was helpless, at their mercy, to shoot, or 
 take, or beat to death as best they listed. And so he 
 waited, his pulses throbbing, his breath coming short 
 and fast. The cold water that had invigorated him 
 some minutes ago was numbing him now, and seemed 
 to be freezing his courage as it froze the blood in his 
 veins, the very marrow in his bones. 
 
 Presently his ears caught a rush of feet, a sound of 
 voices, and Fortunio's raised above the others. Heavy 
 steps rang on the bridge over his head, and the thud of 
 their fall was like thunder to the man beneath. A 
 crimson splash of light fell on the moat on either side 
 of him. The fellow on the bridge had halted. Then 
 the steps went on. The light flared this way and that, 
 and Garnache almost trembled, expecting at every 
 moment that its rays would penetrate the spot where 
 he was hanging and reveal him cowering there like a 
 frightened water-rat. But the man moved on, and his 
 light flared no longer. 
 
 Then others followed him. Garnache heard the 
 sounds of their search. So overwrought was he that 
 there was a moment when he thought of swimming to 
 the edge and making across the country to the north 
 while they were hunting the meadows to the east; but 
 he repressed the impulse and stayed on. An eternity 
 did it seem before those men returned and marched 
 once more over his head. A further eternity was it 
 until the clatter of hoofs on the courtyard stones and 
 their thunder on the planks above him brought him 
 the news that Tressan was riding home. He heard the 
 hoofs quicken, and their loud rattle on the road that 
 
26o SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 led down to the Isere, a half-mile away; and then, 
 when the hoof-beats grew more distant, there came 
 again the echo of voices up above. 
 
 Was it not over yet? Dear God! would it never 
 end? He felt that a few moments more of this im- 
 mersion and he should be done for utterly; his numb- 
 ness must rob him of the power to cross the moat. 
 
 Suddenly the first welcome sound he had heard 
 that night came to his ears. Chains creaked, hinges 
 groaned, and the great black pall above him began 
 gradually to rise. Faster it went, till, at last, it fell 
 back into position, flat with the wall of the chateau, 
 and such little light as there was from the moon was 
 beating down upon his frozen face. 
 
 He let the chain go, and, with strokes swift and 
 silent as he could contrive, he crossed the water. He 
 clambered up the bank, almost bereft of strength. A 
 moment he crouched there listening. Had he moved 
 too soon ? Had he been incautious ? 
 
 Nothing stirred behind him to confirm his fears. 
 He crept softly across the hard ground of the road 
 where he had landed. Then, when the yielding, silent 
 turf was under his feet, he gave not another thought 
 for his numbness, but started to run as a man runs in 
 a nightmare, so little did the speed of his movements 
 match the pace of his desire to set a distance between 
 himself and Condillac. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT 
 
 IT wanted something over an hour to midnight 
 when Monsieur de Garnache started out in his 
 sodden clothes to run from Condillac. He bore away 
 to the north, and continued running until he had 
 covered a mile or so, when perforce he must slacken 
 his pace lest presently he should have to give way to 
 utter exhaustion. He trudged on bravely thereafter, 
 at a good, swinging pace, realizing that in moving 
 briskly lay his salvation from such ill effects as might 
 otherwise attend his too long immersion. His run had 
 set a pleasant glow upon his skin and seemed to have 
 thawed the frozen condition of his joints. Yet he 
 could not disguise from himself that he was sorely 
 worn by that night's happenings, and that, if he 
 would reach his goal, he must carefully husband such 
 strength as yet remained him. 
 
 That goal of his was Voiron, some four leagues 
 distant to the north, where, at the inn of the Beau 
 Paon, his man, Rabecque, should be lodged, ready for 
 his coming at any time. Once already, when repairing 
 to Condillac, he had travelled by that road, and it was 
 so direct that there seemed scant fear of his mistak- 
 ing it. On he plodded through the night, his way 
 lighted for him by the crescent moon, the air so still 
 that, despite his wet garments, being warmed as he 
 was by his brisk movements, he never felt the cold 
 of it. 
 
262 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 He had overheard enough of what had been said by 
 Marius to Valerie to understand the business that was 
 afoot for the morrow, and he doubted him that he had 
 not sufficiently injured the Dowager's son to make him 
 refrain from or adjourn his murderous ride across the 
 border into Savoy. 
 
 Garnache's purpose now was to reach Voiron, there 
 to snatch a brief rest, and then, equipped anew to set 
 out with his man for La Rochette and anticipate the 
 fell plans of Marius and Fortunio. 
 
 He might have experienced elation at his almost 
 miraculous escape and at the circumstance that he was 
 still at large to carry this duel with the Condillacs to a 
 fitting finish, were it not for the reflection that but for 
 his besetting sin of hastiness he might now be travel- 
 ling in dry garments toward La Rochette, with made- 
 moiselle beside him. Once again that rash temper of 
 his had marred an enterprise that was on the point of 
 succeeding. And yet, even as he regretted his rash- 
 ness, rage stirred him again at the thought of Marius 
 crushing that slender shape against him and seeking 
 to force his odious kisses upon her pure, immaculate 
 lips. And then the thought of her, left behind at Con- 
 dillac at the mercy of Marius and that she-devil the 
 Marquise, and the fears that of a sudden leapt up in his 
 mind, brought him to a standstill, as though he were 
 contemplating the incomparable folly of a return. 
 He beat his hands together for a moment in a frenzy 
 of anguish; he threw back his head and raised his eyes 
 to the sky above with a burst of imprecations on his 
 lips. And then reflection brought him peace. No, no; 
 they dare offer her no hurt. To do so must irrevocably 
 lose them La Vauvraye; and it was their covetousness 
 
THROUGH THE NIGHT 263 
 
 had made them villains. Upon that covetousness did 
 their villainy rest, and he need fear from them no 
 wanton ruthlessness that should endanger their chance 
 of profit. 
 
 He trudged on, reassured. He had been a fool so to 
 give way to fear; as great a fool as he had been when 
 he had laid hands on Marius to quell his excessive 
 amorousness. Dieu! Was he bewitched? What ailed 
 him ? Again he paused there in the night to think the 
 situation out. 
 
 A dozen thoughts, all centring about Valerie, came 
 crowding in upon his brain, till in the end a great 
 burst of laughter — the laughter of a madman almost, 
 eerie and terrific as it rang upon the silent night — 
 broke from his parted lips. That brief moment of 
 introspection had revealed him to himself, and the 
 revelation had fetched that peal of mocking laughter 
 from him. 
 
 He realized now, at last, that not because the Queen 
 had ordered him to procure Mademoiselle de La 
 Vauvraye's enlargement had he submitted to assume 
 a filthy travesty, to set his neck in jeopardy, to play 
 the lackey and the spy. It was because something in 
 Valerie's eyes, something in her pure, lily face had 
 moved him to it; and simultaneously had come the 
 thought of the relation in which she stood to that 
 man at La Rochette whose life he now sought to save 
 for her, and it had stabbed him with a bitterness no 
 misfortune, no failure yet had brought him. 
 
 He trudged on, knowing himself for what he was — 
 a fool who, after close upon forty years of a strenuous 
 life in which no petticoat had played a part, was come 
 under the spell of a pair of innocent eyes belonging 
 
264 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 to a child almost young enough to have been his 
 daughter. 
 
 He despised himself a little for his weakness; he 
 despised himself for his apostasy from the faith that 
 had governed his life — the faith to keep himself im- 
 mune from the folly to which womanhood had driven 
 so many a stout man. 
 
 And yet, mock himself, despise himself as he would, 
 a great tenderness, a great desire grew strong in his 
 soul that night as he trudged on toward distant 
 Voiron. Mile after mile her image kept him company, 
 and once, when he had left Voreppe behind him, the 
 greater portion of his journey done, some devil whis- 
 pered in his ear that he was weary; that he would 
 be over-weary on the morrow for any ride to La 
 Rochette. He had done all that mortal man could 
 do; let him rest to-morrow whilst Marius and For- 
 tunio accomplished by Florimond what the fever had 
 begun. 
 
 A cold perspiration broke on him as he wrestled 
 with that grim temptation. Valerie was his; she be- 
 longed to him by the right of dangers shared; never 
 had mother in her labours been nearer death for the off- 
 spring's sake than had he for Valerie during the days 
 that were sped and the hours that were but gone. She 
 belonged to him by the title of those dangers he had 
 been through. What had Florimond done to establish 
 his claim to her? He had remained absent during long 
 years, a-warring in a foreign land. With how many 
 banal loves might not the fellow in that time have 
 strewn his soldier's path! Garnache knew well how 
 close does Cupid stalk in the wake of Mars, knew well 
 the way of these gay soldiers and the lightness of their 
 loves. 
 
THROUGH THE NIGHT 265 
 
 Was, then, this fellow to come now and claim her, 
 when perils were past, when there was naught left to 
 do but lead her to the altar? Could he be worthy of 
 such a pearl of womanhood, this laggard who, be- 
 cause a fever touched him, sat him down in an inn 
 within a few hours' ride of her to rest him, as though 
 the world held no such woman as Valerie? 
 
 And she, herself, by what ties was she bound to 
 him? By the ties of an old promise, given at an age 
 when she knew not what love meant. He had talked 
 of it with her, and he knew how dispassionately she 
 awaited Florimond's return. Florimond might be 
 betrothed to her — her father and his had encom- 
 passed that between them — but no lover of hers was 
 he. 
 
 Thus far did his thoughts journey, and temptation 
 gripped him ever more and more strongly. And then 
 his manhood and his honour awoke with a shudder, as 
 awakens a man from an ugly dream. What manner 
 of fool was he? he asked himself again. Upon what 
 presumptions did he base his silly musings? Did he 
 suppose that even were there no Florimond, it would 
 be left for a harsh, war-worn old greybeard such as he 
 to awaken tenderness in the bosom of that child? 
 The tenderness of friendship perhaps — she had con- 
 fessed to that; but the tenderness of her sweet love 
 must be won by a younger, comelier man. 
 
 If love had indeed touched him at last, let him be 
 worthy of it and of her who inspired it. Let him strain 
 every sinew in her service, asking no guerdon; let him 
 save the life of the man to whom she was affianced; let 
 him save her from the clutches of the Marquise de 
 Condillac and her beautiful, unscrupulous son. 
 
266 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 He put his folly from him and went on, seeking to 
 hold his mind to the planning of his to-morrow's 
 journey and its business. He had no means to know 
 that at that very hour Valerie was on her knees by 
 her little white bed, in the Northern Tower of Con- 
 dillac, praying for the repose of the soul of Monsieur 
 de Garnache — the bravest gentleman, the noblest 
 friend she had ever known. For she accounted him 
 dead, and she thought with horror of his body lying in 
 the slime under the cold waters of the moat beneath 
 the window of her antechamber. A change seemed to 
 have come upon her. Her soul was numb, her courage 
 seemed dead, and little care had she in that hour of 
 what might betide her now. 
 
 Florimond was coming, she remembered: coming to 
 wed her. Ah, well! It mattered little, since Monsieur 
 de Garnache was dead — as though it could have 
 mattered had he been living! 
 
 Three hours of his long striding brought Garnache 
 at last to Voiron, and the echo of his footsteps rang 
 through the silent streets and scared a stray cat or two 
 that were preying out of doors. There was no watch 
 in the little township and no lights, but by the moon's 
 faint glimmer Garnache sought the inn of the Beau 
 Paon, and found it at the end of a little wandering. 
 A gaudy peacock, with tail spread wide, was the sign 
 above the door on which he thumped and kicked as if 
 he would have beaten it down. 
 
 It opened after some delay, and a man, half clad, 
 candle in hand, a night-cap on his hoary locks, showed 
 an angry face at the opening. 
 
 At sight of the gaunt, bedraggled figure that craved 
 admittance, the landlord would have shut the door 
 
THROUGH THE NIGHT 267 
 
 again, fearing that he had to do with some wild bandit 
 from the hills. But Garnache thrust his foot in the way. 
 
 "There is a man named Rabecque, from Paris, 
 lodging here. I must have instant speech with him," 
 said he; and his words, together with the crisp, com- 
 manding tones in which they were uttered, had their 
 effect upon the host. 
 
 Rabecque had been playing the great lord during 
 the week he had spent at Voiron, and had known how 
 to command a certain deference and regard. That this 
 tatterdemalion, with the haughty voice, should de- 
 mand to see him at that hour of the night, with such 
 scant unconcern of how far he might incommode 
 the great Monsieur Rabecque, earned for him too a 
 certain measure of regard, though still alloyed with 
 some suspicion. 
 
 The landlord bade him enter. He did not know 
 whether Monsieur Rabecque would forgive him for 
 being disturbed; he could not say whether Monsieur 
 Rabecque would consent to see this visitor at such an 
 hour; very probably he would not. Still, monsieur 
 might enter. 
 
 Garnache cut him short before he had half done, 
 announced his name and bade him convey it to 
 Rabecque. The alacrity with which the lackey stirred 
 from his bed upon hearing who it was that had arrived 
 impressed the host not a little, but not half so much as 
 it impressed him presently to observe the deference 
 with which this great Monsieur Rabecque of Paris 
 confronted the scarecrow below stairs when he was 
 brought into its presence. 
 
 "You are safe and sound, monsieur?" he cried, in 
 deferential joy. 
 
258 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "Aye, by a miracle, mon fils" Garnache answered 
 him, with a short laugh. "Help me to bed; then bring 
 me a cup of spiced wine. I have swum a moat and 
 done other wonders in these clothes." 
 
 The host and Rabecque bustled now to minister to 
 his wants between them, and when, jaded and worn, 
 Garnache lay at last between good-smelling sheets 
 with the feeling in him that he was like to sleep until 
 the day of judgment, he issued his final orders. 
 
 "Awake me at daybreak, Rabecque," said he 
 drowsily. "We must be stirring then. Have horse 
 ready and clothes for me. I shall need you to wash 
 me clean and shave me and make me what I was be- 
 fore your tricks and dyes turned me into what I have 
 been this week and more. Take away the light. At 
 daybreak! Don't let me sleep beyond that as you 
 value your place with me. We shall have brisk work 
 to-morrow. At — daybreak — Rabecque!" 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 FLORIMOND DE CONDILLAC 
 
 IT was noon of the next day when two horsemen 
 gained the heights above La Rochette and paused 
 to breathe their nags and take a survey of the little 
 township in the plain at their feet. One of these was 
 Monsieur de Garnache, the other was his man Ra- 
 becque. But it was no longer the travestied Gar- 
 nache that Condillac had known as " Battista" during 
 the past days, it was that gentleman as he had been 
 when first he presented himself at the chateau. Ra- 
 becque had shaved him, and by means of certain un- 
 guents had cleansed his skin and hair of the dyes with 
 which he had earlier overlaid them. 
 
 That metamorphosis, of itself, was enough to set 
 Garnache in a good humour; he felt himself again, 
 and the feeling gave him confidence. His mustachios 
 bristled as fiercely as of old, his skin was clear and 
 healthy, and his dark brown hair showed ashen at the 
 temples. He was becomingly arrayed in a suit of dark 
 brown camlet, with rows of close-set gold buttons 
 running up his hanging sleeves; a leather jerkin hid 
 much of his finery, and his great boots encased his 
 legs. He wore a brown hat, with a tallish crown and 
 a red feather, and Rabecque carried his cloak for him, 
 for the persistent Saint Martin's summer rendered 
 that day of November rather as one of early autumn. 
 
 A flood of sunshine descended from a cloudless sky 
 to drench the country at their feet, and all about them 
 
270 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 the trees preserved a green that was but little touched 
 by autumnal browning. 
 
 Awhile he paused there on the heights; then he 
 gave his horse a touch of the spur, and they started 
 down the winding road that led into La Rochette. A 
 half-hour later they were riding under the porte- 
 cochere of the inn of the Black Boar. Of the ostler who 
 hastened forward to take their reins Monsieur de 
 Garnache inquired if the Marquis de Condillac were 
 lodged there. He was answered in the affirmative, and 
 he got down at once from his horse. Indeed, but for 
 the formality of the thing, he might have spared 
 himself the question, for lounging about the court- 
 yard were a score of stalwart weather-tanned fellows, 
 whose air and accoutrements proclaimed them sol- 
 diers. It required little shrewdness to guess in them the 
 personal followers of the Marquis, the remainder of 
 the little troop that had followed the young seigneur 
 to the wars when, some three years ago, he had set out 
 from Condillac. 
 
 Garnache gave orders for the horses to be cared for, 
 and bade Rabecque get himself fed in the common- 
 room. Heralded by the host, the Parisian then 
 mounted the stairs to Monsieur de Condillac's apart- 
 ments. 
 
 The landlord led the way to the inn's best room, 
 turned the handle, and, throwing wide the door, stood 
 aside for Monsieur de Garnache to enter. 
 
 From within the chamber came the sounds of a 
 scuffle, a man's soft laugh, and a girl's softer inter- 
 cession. 
 
 "Let me go, monsieur. Of your pity, let me go. 
 Some one is coming." 
 
FLORIMOND DE CONDILLAC 
 
 "And what care I who comes?" answered a voice 
 that seemed oppressed by laughter. 
 
 Garnache strode into the chamber — spacious and 
 handsomely furnished as became the best room of the 
 Auberge du Sanglier Noir — to find a meal spread on 
 the table, steaming with an odour promising of good 
 things, but neglected by the guest for the charms of 
 the serving-wench, whose waist he had imprisoned. 
 As Garnache's tall figure loomed before him he let the 
 girl go and turned a half-laughing, half-startled face 
 upon the intruder. 
 
 "Who the devil may you be?" he inquired, and a 
 brown eye, rakish and roving in its glance, played 
 briskly over the Parisian, whilst Garnache himself 
 returned the compliment, and calmly surveyed this 
 florid gentleman of middle height with the fair hair 
 and regular features. 
 
 The girl scurried by and darted from the room, 
 dodging the smiting hand which the host raised as she 
 flew past him. The Parisian felt his gorge rising. Was 
 this the sort of fever that had kept Monsieur le Mar- 
 quis at La Rochette, whilst mademoiselle was suffer- 
 ing in durance at Condillac? His last night's jealous 
 speculations touching a man he did not know had 
 leastways led him into no exaggeration. He found 
 just such a man as he had pictured — a lightly-lov- 
 ing, pleasure- taking roysterer, with never a thought 
 beyond the amusement which the hour afforded him. 
 
 With curling lip Garnache bowed stiffly, and in a 
 cold, formal voice he announced himself. 
 
 "My name is Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache. 
 I am an emissary dispatched from Paris by her 
 Majesty the Queen-mother to procure the enlarge- 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 ment of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye from the 
 durance in which she is held by madame y<5^r step- 
 mother." 
 
 The pleasant gentleman's eyebrows went up; a. 
 smile that was almost insolent broke on his face. 
 
 "That being so, monsieur, why the devil are you 
 here?" 
 
 "I am here, monsieur," answered him Garnache, 
 throwing back his head, his nostrils quivering, "be- 
 cause you are not at Condillac." 
 
 The tone was truculent to the point of defiance, for 
 despite the firm resolve he had taken last night never 
 again to let his temper overmaster him, already Gar- 
 nache's self-control was slipping away. 
 
 The Marquis noted the tone, and observed the man. 
 In their way he liked both; in their way he disliked 
 both. But he clearly saw that this peppery gentleman 
 must be treated less cavalierly, or trouble would 
 come of it. So he waved him gracefully to the table, 
 where a brace of flagons stood amid the steaming 
 viands. 
 
 "You will dine with me, monsieur," said he, the ut- 
 most politeness marking his utterance now. "I take 
 it that since you have come here in quest of me you 
 have something to tell me. Shall we talk as we eat? I 
 detest a lonely meal." 
 
 The florid gentleman's tone and manner were 
 mollifying in the extreme. Garnache had risen early 
 and ridden far; the smell of the viands had quickened 
 an appetite already very keen; moreover, since he and 
 this gentleman were to be allies, it was as well they 
 should not begin by quarrelling. 
 
 He bowed less stiffly, expressed his willingness and 
 
FLORIMOND DE CONDILLAC 
 
 his thanks, laid hat and whip and cloak aside, un- 
 buckled and set down his sword, and, that done, took 
 at table the place which his host himself prepared 
 him. 
 
 Garnache took more careful stock of the Marquis 
 now. He found much to like in his countenance. It 
 was frank and jovial; obviously that of a sensualist, 
 but, leastways, an honest sensualist. He was dressed 
 in black, as became a man who mourned his father, 
 yet with a striking richness of material, whilst his 
 broad collar of fine point and the lace cuffs of his 
 doublet were worth a fortune. 
 
 What time they ate Monsieur de Garnache told of 
 his journey from Paris and of his dealings with Tres- 
 san and his subsequent adventures at Condillac. He 
 dwelt passingly upon the manner in which they had 
 treated him, and found it difficult to choose words to 
 express the reason for his returning in disguise to play 
 the knight-errant to Valerie. He passed on to speak of 
 last night's happenings and of his escape. Through- 
 out, the Marquis heard him with a grave countenance 
 and a sober, attentive glance, yet, when he had fin- 
 ished a smile crept round the sensual lips. 
 
 "The letter that I had at Milan prepared me for 
 some such trouble as this," said he, and Garnache was 
 amazed at the lightness of his tone, just as he had been 
 amazed to see the fellow keep his countenance at 
 the narrative of mademoiselle's position. "I guessed 
 that my beautiful stepmother intended me some such 
 scurviness from the circumstance of her having kept 
 me in ignorance of my father's death. But frankly, 
 sir, your tale by far outstrips my wildest imaginings. 
 You have behaved very — very bravely in this affair. 
 
274 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 You seem, in fact, to have taken a greater interest in 
 Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye's enlargement than 
 the Queen could have a right to expect of you." And 
 he smiled, a world of suggestion in his eyes. Garnache 
 sat back in his chair and stared at the man. 
 
 "This levity, monsieur, on such a subject, leaves 
 me thunderstruck," he said at last. 
 
 "Triable!" laughed the other. "You are too prone, 
 after your trials, to view its tragic rather than its 
 comic side. Forgive me if I am smitten only with the 
 humour of the thing." 
 
 "The humour of the thing!" gurgled Garnache, his 
 eyes starting from his head. Then out leapt that 
 temper of his like an eager hound that has been 
 suddenly unleashed. He brought down his clenched 
 hand upon the table, caught in passing a flagon, and 
 sent it crashing to the floor. If there was a table near 
 at hand when his temper went, he never failed to 
 treat it so. 
 
 "Par la mort Dieul monsieur, you see but the hu- 
 mour of it, do you? And what of that poor child who 
 is lying there, suffering this incarceration because of 
 her fidelity to a promise given you?" 
 
 The statement was hardly fully accurate. But it 
 served its purpose. The other's face became instantly 
 grave. 
 
 "Calm yourself, I beg, monsieur," he cried, raising 
 a soothing hand. "I have offended you somewhere; 
 that is plain. There is something here that I do not 
 altogether understand. You say that Valerie has 
 suffered on account of a promise given me? To what 
 are you referring?" 
 
 "They hold her a prisoner, monsieur, because they 
 
FLORIMOND DE CONDILLAC 
 
 wish to wed her to Marius," answered Garnache, 
 striving hard to cool his anger. 
 
 "Parfaitement! That much I understood." 
 
 "Well, then, monsieur, is the rest not plain? Be- 
 cause she is betrothed to you — " He paused. He 
 saw, at last, that he was stating something not alto- 
 gether accurate. But the other took his meaning 
 there and then, lay back in his chair, and burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 The blood hummed through Garnache's head as he 
 tightened his lips and watched this gentleman indulge 
 his inexplicable mirth. Surely Monsieur de Condillac 
 was possessed of the keenest sense of humour in all 
 France. He laughed with a will, and Garnache sent up 
 a devout prayer that the laugh might choke him. The 
 noise of it filled the hostelry. 
 
 "Sir," said Garnache, with an ever-increasing tart- 
 ness, "there is a by-word has it 'Much laughter, 
 little wit.' In confidence won, is that your case, mon- 
 sieur?" 
 
 The other looked at him soberly a moment, then 
 went off again. 
 
 "Monsieur, monsieur!" he gasped, "you'll be the 
 death of me. For the love of Heaven look less fierce. 
 Is it my fault that I must laugh? The folly of it all is 
 so colossal. Three years from home, yet there is a 
 woman keeps faithful and holds to a promise given for 
 her. Come, monsieur, you who have seen the world, 
 you must agree that there is in this something that is 
 passing singular, extravagantly amusing. My poor 
 little Valerie!" he spluttered through his half-checked 
 mirth, "does she wait for me still? does she count me 
 still betrothed to her? And because of that, says 'No' 
 
276 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 to brother Marius! Death of my life! I shall die of 
 it." 
 
 "I have a notion that you may, monsieur," rasped 
 Garnache's voice, and with it rasped Garnache's chair 
 upon the boards. He had risen, and he was confront- 
 ing his merry host very fiercely, white to the lips, his 
 eyes aflame. There was no mistaking his attitude, no 
 mistaking his words. 
 
 "Eh?" gasped the other, recovering himself at last 
 to envisage what appeared to develop into a serious 
 situation. 
 
 "Monsieur," said Garnache, his voice very cold, 
 "do I understand that you no longer intend to carry 
 out your engagement and wed Mademoiselle de La 
 Vauvraye?" 
 
 A dull flush spread upon the Marquis's face. He 
 rose too, and across the table he confronted his guest, 
 his mien haughty, his eyes imperious. 
 
 "I thought, monsieur," said he, with a great 
 dignity, "I thought when I invited you to sit at my 
 table that your business was to serve me, however 
 little I might be conscious of having merited the 
 honour. It seems instead that you are come hither to 
 affront me. You are my guest, monsieur. Let me beg 
 that you will depart before I resent a question on a 
 matter which concerns myself alone." 
 
 The man was right, and Garnache was wrong. He 
 had no title to take up the affairs of Mademoiselle de 
 La Vauvraye. But he was past reason now, and he 
 was not the man to brook haughtiness, however 
 courteously it might be cloaked. He eyed the Mar- 
 quis's flushed face across the board, and his lip 
 curled. 
 
FLORIMOND DE CONDILLAC 277 
 
 "Monsieur," said he, "I take your meaning very 
 fully. Half a word with me is as good as a whole 
 sentence with another. You have dubbed me in 
 polite phrases an impertinent. That I am not; and I 
 resent the imputation." 
 
 "Oh, that!" said the Marquis, with a half-laugh 
 and a shrug. "If you resent it — " His smile and his 
 gesture made the rest plain. 
 
 "Exactly, monsieur," was Garnache's answer. 
 "But I do not fight sick men." 
 
 Florimond's brows grew wrinkled, his eyes puzzled. 
 
 "Sick men!" he echoed. "Awhile ago, monsieur, 
 you appeared to cast a doubt upon my sanity. Is it a 
 case of the drunkard who thinks all the world drunk 
 but himself?" 
 
 Garnache gazed at him. That doubt he had enter- 
 tained grew now into something like assurance. 
 
 "I know not whether it is the fever makes your 
 tongue run so — "he began, when the other broke in, 
 a sudden light of understanding in his eyes. 
 
 "You are at fault," he cried. "I have no fever." 
 
 "But then your letter to Condillac?" demanded 
 Garnache, lost now in utter amazement. 
 
 "What of it? I'll swear I never said I had a fever." 
 
 "I'll swear you did." 
 
 "You give me the lie, then?" 
 
 But Garnache waved his hands as if he implored 
 the other to have done with giving and taking offence. 
 There was some misunderstanding somewhere, he 
 realized, and sheer astonishment had cooled his anger. 
 His only aim now was to have this obscure thing made 
 clear. 
 
 "No, no," he cried. " I am seeking enlightenment." 
 
278 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Florimond smiled. 
 
 "I may have said that we were detained by a fever; 
 but I never said the patient was myself." 
 
 "Who then? Who else?" cried Garnache. 
 
 "Why, now I understand, monsieur. But it is my 
 wife who has the fever." 
 
 "Your — !" Garnache dared not trust himself to 
 utter the word. 
 
 "My wife, monsieur," the Marquis repeated. "The 
 journey proved too much for her, travelling at the rate 
 she did." 
 
 A silence fell. Garnache's long chin sank on to his 
 breast, and he stood there, his eyes upon the table- 
 cloth, his thoughts with the poor innocent child who 
 waited at Condillac, so full of trust and faith and loy- 
 alty to this betrothed of hers who had come home 
 with a wife out of Italy. 
 
 And then, while he stood so and Florimond was 
 regarding him curiously, the door opened, and the 
 host appeared. 
 
 "Monsieur le Marquis," said he, "there are two 
 gentlemen below asking to see you. One of them is 
 Monsieur Marius de Condillac." 
 
 " Marius ? " cried the Marquis, and he started round 
 with a frown. 
 
 "Marius?" breathed Garnache, and then, realizing 
 that the assassins had followed so close upon his 
 heels, he put all thoughts from his mind other than 
 that of the immediate business. He had, himself, a 
 score to settle with them. The time was now. He 
 swung round on his heel, and before he knew what he 
 had said the words were out: 
 
 "Bring them up, Monsieur rHole." 
 
FLORIMOND DE CONDILLAC 279 
 
 Florimond looked at him in surprise. 
 
 "Oh, by all means, if monsieur wishes it," said he, 
 with a fine irony. 
 
 Garnache looked at him, then back at the hesitating 
 host. 
 
 "You have heard," said he coolly. "Bring them 
 
 u p.-r . 
 
 "Bien> monsieur," replied the host, withdrawing 
 and closing the door after him. 
 
 "Your interference in my affairs grows really droll, 
 monsieur," said the Marquis tartly. 
 
 "When you shall have learned to what purpose I 
 am interfering, you'll find it, possibly, not quite so 
 droll," was the answer, no less tart. "We have but a 
 moment, monsieur. Listen while I tell you the nature 
 of their errand." 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE GHOST IN THE CUPBOARD 
 
 GARNACHE had but a few minutes in which to 
 unfold his story, and he needed, in addition, a 
 second or two in which to ponder the situation as he 
 now found it. 
 
 His first reflection was that Florimond, since he was 
 now married, might perhaps, instead of proving Val- 
 erie's saviour from Marius, join forces with his bro- 
 ther in coercing her into this alliance with him. But 
 from what Valerie herself had told him he was inclined 
 to think more favourably of Florimond and to sup- 
 press such doubts as these. Still he could incur no risks; 
 his business was to serve Valerie and Valerie only; to 
 procure at all costs her permanent liberation from the 
 power of the Condillacs. To make sure of this he 
 must play upon Florimond's anger, letting him know 
 that Marius had journeyed to La Rochette for the 
 purpose of murdering his half-brother. That he but 
 sought to murder him to the end that he might be re- 
 moved from his path to Valerie, was a circumstance 
 that need not too prominently be presented. Still, 
 presented it must be, for Florimond would require to 
 know by what motive his brother was impelled ere 
 he could credit him capable of such villainy. 
 
 Succinctly, but tellingly, Garnache brought out the 
 story of the plot that had been laid for Florimond's 
 assassination, and it joyed him to see the anger rising 
 in the Marquis's face and flashing from his eyes. 
 
THE GHOST IN THE CUPBOARD 281 
 
 "What reason have they for so damnable a deed?" 
 he cried, between incredulity and indignation. 
 
 "Their overweening ambition. Marius covets Ma- 
 demoiselle de La Vauvraye's estates." 
 
 "And to gain his ends he would not stop at murder- 
 ing me? Is it, indeed, the truth you tell me?" 
 
 "I pledge my honour for the truth of it," answered 
 Garnache, watching him closely. Florimond looked 
 at him a moment. The steady glance of those blue 
 eyes and the steady tone of that crisp voice scattered 
 his last doubt. 
 
 "The villains!" cried the Marquis. "The fools!" 
 he added. "For me, Marius had been welcome to 
 Valerie. He might have found in me an ally to aid 
 him in the urging of his suit. But now — " He raised 
 his clenched hand and shook it in the air, as if in 
 promise of the battle he would deliver. 
 
 "Good," said Garnache, reassured. "I hear their 
 steps upon the stairs. They must not find me with 
 you." 
 
 A moment later the door opened, and Marius, very 
 bravely arrayed, entered the room, followed closely 
 by Fortunio. Neither showed much ill effects of last 
 night's happenings, save for a long dark-brown scar 
 that ran athwart the captain's cheek, where Gar- 
 nache's sword had ploughed it. 
 
 They found Florimond seated quietly at table, and 
 as they entered he rose and came forward with a 
 friendly smile to greet his brother. His sense of hu- 
 mour was being excited; he was something of an ac- 
 tor, and the role he had adopted in the comedy to be 
 played gave him a certain grim satisfaction. He would 
 test for himself the truth of what Monsieur de Gar- 
 
282 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 nache had told him concerning his brother's intentions. 
 
 Marius received his advances very coolly. He took 
 his brother's hand, submitted to his brother's kiss; but 
 neither kiss nor hand-pressure did he return. Flori- 
 mond affected not to notice this. 
 
 "You are well, my dear Marius, I hope," said he, 
 and thrusting him out at arms' length, he held him by 
 the shoulders and regarded him critically. "Ma foi, 
 but you are changed into a comely well-grown man. 
 And your mother — she is well, too, I trust." 
 
 "I thank you, Florimond, she is well," said Marius 
 stiffly. 
 
 The Marquis took his hands from his brother's 
 shoulders; his florid, good-natured face smiling ever, 
 as if this were the happiest moment of his life. 
 
 "It is good to see France again, my dear Marius," 
 he told his brother. "I was a fool to have remained 
 away so long. I am pining to be at Condillac once 
 more." 
 
 Marius eyeing him, looked in vain for signs of the 
 fever. He had expected to find a debilitated, emaci- 
 ated man; instead, he saw a very lusty, healthy, 
 hearty fellow, full of good humour, and seemingly full 
 of strength. He began to like his purpose less, despite 
 such encouragement as he gathered from the support 
 of Fortunio. Still, it must be gone through with. 
 
 "You wrote us that you had the fever," he said, 
 half inquiringly. 
 
 "Pooh! That is naught." And Florimond snapped 
 a strong finger against a stronger thumb. " But whom 
 have you with you?" he asked, and his eyes took the 
 measure of Fortunio, standing a pace or two behind 
 his master. 
 
THE GHOST IN THE CUPBOARD 283 
 
 Marius presented his bravo. 
 
 "This is Captain Fortunio, the commander of our 
 garrison of Condillac." 
 
 The Marquis nodded good-humouredly towards the 
 captain. 
 
 "Captain Fortunio? He is well named for a soldier 
 of fortune. My brother, no doubt, will have family 
 matters to tell me of. If you will step below, Monsieur 
 le Capitaine, and drink a health or so while you wait, I 
 shall be honoured." 
 
 The captain, nonplussed, looked at Marius, and 
 Florimond surprised the look. But Marius's manner 
 became still chillier. 
 
 "Fortunio here," said he, and he half turned and 
 let his hand fall on the captain's shoulder, " is my very 
 good friend. I have no secrets from him." 
 
 The instant lift of Florimond's eyebrows was full of 
 insolent, supercilious disdain. Yet Marius did not 
 fasten his quarrel upon that. He had come to La 
 Rochette resolved that any pretext would serve his 
 turn. But the sight of his brother so inflamed his 
 jealousy that he had now determined that the quarrel 
 should be picked on the actual ground in which it had 
 its roots. 
 
 "Oh, as you will," said the Marquis coolly. "Per- 
 haps your friend will be seated, and you, too, my dear 
 Marius." And he played the host to them with a 
 brisk charm. Setting chairs, he forced them to sit, and 
 pressed wine upon them. 
 
 Marius cast his hat and cloak on the chair where 
 Garnache's had been left. The Parisian's hat and 
 cloak, he naturally assumed to belong to his brother. 
 The smashed flagon and the mess of wine upon the 
 
284 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 floor he scarce observed, setting it down to some 
 clumsiness, either his brother's or a servant's. They 
 both drank, Marius in silence, the captain with a 
 toast. 
 
 "Your good return, Monsieur le Marquis," said he, 
 and Florimond thanked him by an inclination of the 
 head. Then, turning to Marius: 
 
 "And so," he said, "you have a garrison at Con- 
 dillac. What the devil has been taking place there? I 
 have had some odd news of you. It would almost 
 seem as if you were setting up as rebels in our quiet 
 little corner of Dauphiny." 
 
 Marius shrugged his shoulders; his face suggested 
 that he was ill-humoured. 
 
 "Madame the Queen-Regent has seen fit to inter- 
 fere in our concerns. We Condillacs do not lightly 
 brook interference." 
 
 Florimond showed his teeth in a pleasant smile. 
 
 "That is true, that is very true, Pardieu! But 
 what warranted this action of Her Majesty's?" 
 
 Marius felt that the time for deeds was come. This 
 fatuous conversation was but a futile waste of time. 
 He set down his glass, and sitting back in his chair he 
 fixed his sullen black eyes full upon his half-brother's 
 smiling brown ones. 
 
 " I think we have exchanged compliments enough," 
 said he, and Fortunio wagged his head approvingly. 
 There were too many men in the courtyard for his 
 liking, and the more time they waited, the more likely 
 were they to suffer interruption. Their aim must be 
 to get the thing done quickly, and then quickly to de- 
 part before an alarm could be raised. "Our trouble at 
 Condillac concerns Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye." 
 
THE GHOST IN THE CUPBOARD 285 
 
 Florimond started forward, with a ready assump- 
 tion of lover-like solicitude. 
 
 "No harm has come to her?" he cried. "Tell me 
 that no harm has come to her." 
 
 "Reassure yourself, " answered Marius, with a sneer, 
 a greyness that was of jealous rage overspreading 
 his face. "No harm has come to her whatever. The 
 trouble was that I sought to wed her, and she, be- 
 cause she is betrothed to you, would have none of me. 
 So we brought her to Condillac, hoping always to 
 persuade her. You will remember that she was under 
 my mother's tutelage. The girl, however, could not 
 be constrained. She suborned one of our men to bear a 
 letter to Paris for her, and in answer to it the Queen 
 sent a hot-headed, rash blunderer down to Dauphiny 
 to procure her liberation. He lies now at the bottom 
 of the moat of Condillac." 
 
 Florimond's face had assumed a look of horror and 
 indignation. 
 
 "Do you dare tell me this?" he cried. 
 
 "Dare?" answered Marius, with an ugly laugh. 
 "Men enough have died over this affair already. 
 That fellow Garnache left some bodies on our hands 
 last night before he set out for another world himself. 
 You little dream how far my daring goes in this 
 matter. I'll add as many more as need be to the 
 death roll that we have already, before you set foot 
 in Condillac." 
 
 "Ah!" said Florimond, as one upon whose mind a 
 light breaks suddenly. "So, that is the business on 
 which you come to me. I doubted your brotherliness, 
 I must confess, my dear Marius. But tell me, bro- 
 ther mine, what of our father's wishes in this matter? 
 Have you no respect for those?" 
 
286 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "What respect had you?" flashed back Marius, his 
 voice now raised in anger. "Was it like a lover to 
 remain away for three years — to let all that time go 
 by without ever a word from you to your betrothed? 
 What have you done to make good your claim to 
 her?" 
 
 "Nothing, I confess; yet — " 
 
 "Well, you shall do something now," exclaimed 
 Marius, rising. "I am here to afford you the oppor- 
 tunity. If you would still win Mademoiselle de La 
 Vauvraye, you shall win her from me — at point of 
 sword. Fortunio, see to the door." 
 
 "Wait, Marius!" cried Florimond, and he looked 
 genuinely aghast. "Do not forget that we are bro- 
 thers, men of the same blood; that my father was 
 your father." 
 
 "I choose to remember rather that we are rivals," 
 answered Marius, and he drew his rapier. Fortunio 
 turned the key in the lock. Florimond gave his 
 brother a long searching look, then with a sigh he 
 picked up his sword where it lay ready to his hand and 
 thoughtfully unsheathed it. Holding the hilt in one 
 hand and the blade in the other he stood, bending 
 the weapon like a whip, whilst again he searchingly 
 regarded his brother. 
 
 "Hear me a moment," said he. "If you will force 
 this unnatural quarrel upon me, at least let the thing 
 be decently done. Not here, not in these cramped 
 quarters, but out in the open let our meeting take 
 place. If the captain, there, will act for you, I'll find a 
 friend to do me the like service." 
 
 "We settle this matter here and now," Marius 
 answered him, in a tone of calm finality. 
 
THE GHOST IN THE CUPBOARD 287 
 
 "But if I were to kill you — " Florimond began. 
 "Reassure yourself," said Marius with an ugly 
 smile. 
 
 "Very well, then; either alternative will suit the 
 case I wish to put. If you were to kill me — it may be 
 ranked as murder. The irregularity of it could not be 
 overlooked." 
 
 "The captain, here, will act for both of us." 
 
 "I am entirely at your service, gentlemen," replied 
 Fortunio pleasantly, bowing to each in turn. 
 
 Florimond considered him. " I do not like his looks," 
 he objected. "He may be the friend of your bosom, 
 Marius; you may have no secrets from him; but for 
 my part, frankly, I should prefer the presence of some 
 friend of my own to keep his blade engaged." 
 
 The Marquis's manner was affable in the extreme. 
 Now that it was settled that they must fight, he 
 appeared to have cast aside all scruples based upon 
 their consanguinity, and he discussed the affair with 
 the greatest bonhomie, as though he were disposing of 
 a matter of how they should sit down to table. 
 
 It gave them pause. The change was too abrupt. 
 They did not like it. It was as the calm that screens 
 some surprise. Yet it was impossible he should have 
 been forewarned; impossible he could have had word 
 of how they proposed to deal with him. 
 
 Marius shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "There is reason in what you say," he acknow- 
 ledged; "but I am in haste. I cannot wait while you 
 go in search of a friend." 
 
 "Why then," he answered, with a careless laugh, 
 "I must raise one from the dead." 
 
 Both stared at him. Was he mad? Had the fever 
 
288 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 touched his brain? Was that healthy colour but the 
 brand of a malady that rendered him delirious? 
 
 "Dieu! How you stare!" he continued, laughing in 
 their faces. "You shall see something to compensate 
 you for your journey, messieurs. I have learnt some 
 odd tricks in Italy; they are a curious people beyond 
 the Alps. What did you say was the name of the man 
 the Queen had sent from Paris ? — he who lies at the 
 bottom of the moat of Condillac?" 
 
 "Let there be an end to this jesting," growled 
 Marius. "On guard, Monsieur le Marquis!" 
 
 "Patience! patience!" Florimond implored him. 
 "You shall have your way with me, I promise you. 
 But of your charity, messieurs, tell me first the name 
 of that man." 
 
 "It was Garnache," said Fortunio, "and if the 
 information will serve you, it was I who slew him." 
 
 "You?" cried Florimond. "Tell me of it, I beg 
 you." 
 
 " Do you fool us ? " questioned Marius in a rage that 
 overmastered his astonishment, his growing suspicion 
 that here all was not quite as it seemed. 
 
 "Fool you? But no. I do but wish to show you 
 something that I learned in Italy. Tell me how you 
 slew him, Monsieur le Capitaine." 
 
 "I think we are wasting time," said the captain, 
 angry too. He felt that this smiling gentleman was 
 deriding the pair of them; it crossed his mind that for 
 some purpose of his own the Marquis was seeking to 
 gain time. He drew his sword. 
 
 Florimond saw the act, watched it, and his eyes 
 twinkled. Suddenly Marius's sword shot out at him. 
 He leapt back beyond the table, and threw himself on 
 
THE GHOST IN THE CUPBOARD 289 
 
 guard, his lips still wreathed in their mysterious smile. 
 
 "The time has come, messieurs," said he. "I should 
 have preferred to know more of how you slew that 
 Monsieur de Garnache; but since you deny me the 
 information, I shall do my best without it. I'll try to 
 conjure up his ghost, to keep you entertained, Mon- 
 sieur le Capitaine." And then, raising his voice, his 
 sword, engaging now his brother's: 
 
 " Ola, Monsieur de Garnache ! " he cried. " To me ! " 
 
 And then it seemed to those assassins that the 
 Marquis had been neither mad nor boastful when he 
 had spoken of strange things he had learned beyond 
 the Alps, or else it was they themselves were turned 
 light-headed, for the doors of a cupboard at the far 
 end of the room flew open suddenly, and from between 
 them stepped the stalwart figure of Martin de Gar- 
 nache, a grim smile lifting the corners of his mus- 
 tachios, a naked sword in his hand flashing back the 
 sunlight that flooded through the window. 
 
 They paused, aghast, and they turned ashen; and 
 then in the mind of each arose the same explanation 
 of this phenomenon. This Garnache wore the appear- 
 ance of the man who had announced himself by that 
 name when he came to Condillac a fortnight ago. 
 Then, the sallow, black-haired knave who had last 
 night proclaimed himself as Garnache in disguise 
 was some impostor. That was the conclusion they 
 promptly arrived at, and however greatly they might 
 be dismayed by the appearance of this ally of Flori- 
 mond's, yet the conclusion heartened them anew. 
 But scarce had they arrived at it when Monsieur de 
 Garnache's crisp voice came swiftly to dispel it. 
 
 "Monsieur le Capitaine," it said, and Fortunio 
 
290 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 shivered at the sound, for it was the voice he had heard 
 but a few hours ago, "I welcome the opportunity 
 of resuming our last night's interrupted sword-play." 
 And he advanced deliberately. 
 
 Marius's sword had fallen away from his brother's, 
 and the two combatants stood pausing. Fortunio 
 without more ado made for the door. But Garnache 
 crossed the intervening space in u bound. 
 
 "Turn!" he cried. "Turn, or I'll put my sword 
 through your back. The door shall serve you pres- 
 ently, but it is odds that it will need a couple of men 
 to bear you through it. Look to your dirty skin!" 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE OFFICES OF MOTHER CHURCH 
 
 A COUPLE of hours after the engagement in 
 the Marquis de Condillac's apartments at the 
 Sanglier Noir at La Rochette, Monsieur de Garnache, 
 attended only by Rabecque, rode briskly into France 
 once more and made for the little town of Cheylas, 
 which is on the road that leads down to the valley of 
 the Isere and to Condillac. But not as far as the town- 
 ship did he journey. On a hill, the slopes all culti- 
 vated into an opulent vineyard, some two miles east 
 of Cheylas, stood the low, square grey building of the 
 Convent of Saint Francis. Thither did Monsieur de 
 Garnache bend his horse's steps. Up the long white 
 road that crept zigzag through the Franciscans' vine- 
 yards rode the Parisian and his servant under the 
 welcome sunshine of that November afternoon. 
 
 Garnache's face was gloomy and his eyes sad, for 
 his thoughts were all of Valerie, and he was prey to a 
 hundred anxieties regarding her. 
 
 They gained the heights at last, and Rabecque 
 got down to beat with his whip upon the convent 
 gates. 
 
 A lay-brother came to open, and in reply to Gar- 
 nache's request that he might have a word with the 
 Father Abbot, invited him to enter. 
 
 Through the cloisters about the great quadrangle, 
 where a couple of monks, their habits girt high as their 
 knees, were busy at gardeners' work, Garnache fol- 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 lowed his conductor, and up the steps to the Abbot's 
 chamber. 
 
 The master of the Convent of Saint Francis of 
 Cheylas — a tall, lean man with an ascetic face, 
 prominent cheek-bones, and a nose not unlike Gar- 
 nache's own — the nose of a man of action rather than 
 of prayer — bowed gravely to this stalwart stranger, 
 and in courteous accents begged to be informed in 
 what he might serve him. 
 
 Hat in hand, Garnache took a step forward in that 
 bare, scantily furnished little room, permeated by the 
 faint, wax-like odour that is peculiar to the abode of 
 conventuals. Without hesitation he stated the reason 
 of his visit. 
 
 "Father," said he, "a son of the house of Condiilac 
 met his end this morning at La Rochette." 
 
 The monk's eyes seemed to quicken, as though his 
 interest in the outer world had suddenly revived. 
 
 "It is the Hand of God," he cried. "Their evil 
 ways have provoked at last the anger of Heaven. 
 How did this unfortunate meet his death?" 
 
 Garnache shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "De mortuis nil nisi bonum" said he. His air was 
 grave, his blue eyes solemn, and the Abbot had little 
 cause to suspect the closeness with which that pair of 
 eyes was watching him. He coloured faintly at the 
 implied rebuke, but he inclined his head as if sub- 
 missive to the correction, and waited for the other to 
 proceed. 
 
 "There is the need, Father, to give his body burial." 
 said Garnache gently. 
 
 But at that the monk raised his head, and a deeper 
 flush — the flush of anger — spread now upon his 
 
THE OFFICES OF MOTHER CHURCH 293 
 
 sallow cheeks. Garnache observed it, and was glad. 
 
 "Why do you come to me?" he asked. 
 
 "Why?" echoed Garnache, and there was hesitancy 
 now in his voice. "Is not the burial of the dead en- 
 joined by Mother Church? Is it not a part of your 
 sacred office?" 
 
 "You ask me this as you would challenge my re- 
 ply," said the monk, shaking his head. "It is as you 
 say, but it is not within our office to bury the impious 
 dead, nor those who in life were excommunicate and 
 died without repentance." 
 
 "How can you assume he died without repent- 
 ance?" 
 
 "I do not; but I assume he died without absolution, 
 for there is no priest who, knowing his name, would 
 dare to shrive him, and if one should do it in ignorance 
 of his name and excommunication, why then it is not 
 done at all. Bid others bury this son of the house of 
 Condillac; it matters no more by what hands or in 
 what ground he be buried than if he were the horse he 
 rode or the hound that followed him." 
 
 "The Church is very harsh, Father," said Garnache 
 sternly. 
 
 "The Church is very just," the priest answered 
 him, more sternly still, a holy wrath kindling his 
 sombre eyes. 
 
 "He was in life a powerful noble," said Garnache 
 thoughtfully. "It is but fitting that, being dead, 
 honour and reverence should be shown his body." 
 
 "Then let those who have themselves been hon- 
 oured by the Condillacs honour this dead Condillac 
 now. The Church is not of that number, monsieur. 
 Since the late Marquis's death the house of Condillac 
 
294 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 has been in rebellion against us; our priests have been 
 maltreated, our authority flouted; they paid no tithes, 
 approached no sacraments. Weary of their ungodli- 
 ness the Church placed its ban upon them: under this 
 ban it seems they die. My heart grieves for them; 
 but — " 
 
 He spread nis hands, long and almost transparent 
 in their leanness, and on his face a cloud of sorrow 
 rested. 
 
 "Nevertheless, Father," said Garnache, "twenty 
 brothers of Saint Francis shall bear the body home to 
 Condillac, and you yourself shall head this grim pro- 
 cession." 
 
 "I?" The monk shrank back before him, and his 
 figure seemed to grow taller. "Who are you, sir, that 
 say to me what I shall do, the Church's law despite?" 
 
 Garnache took the Abbot by the sleeve of his rough 
 habit and drew him gently towards the window. 
 There was a persuasive smile on his lips and in his 
 keen eyes which the monk, almost unconsciously, 
 obeyed. 
 
 "I will tell you," said Garnache, "and at the same 
 time I shall seek to turn you from your harsh pur- 
 pose." 
 
 At the hour at which Monsieur de Garnache was 
 seeking to persuade the Abbot of Saint Francis of 
 Cheylas to adopt a point of view more kindly towards 
 a dead man, Madame de Condillac was at dinner, 
 and with her was Valerie de La Vauvraye. Neither 
 woman ate appreciably. The one was oppressed by 
 sorrow, the other by anxiety, and the circumstance 
 that they were both afflicted served perhaps to render 
 the Dowager gentler in her manner towards the girl. 
 
THE OFFICES OF MOTHER CHURCH 295 
 
 She watched the pale face and troubled eyes of 
 Valerie; she observed the almost lifeless manner in 
 which she came and went as she was bidden, as though 
 a part of her had ceased to exist, and that part the 
 part that matters most. It did cross her mind that in 
 this condition mademoiselle might the more readily 
 be bent to their will, but she dwelt not overlong upon 
 that reflection. Rather was her mood charitable, no 
 doubt because she felt herself the need of charity, the 
 want of sympathy. 
 
 She was tormented by fears altogether dispropor- 
 tionate to their cause. A hundred times she told her- 
 self that no ill could befall Marius. Florimond was 
 a sick man, and were he otherwise, there was still 
 Fortunio to stand by and see to it that the right sword 
 pierced the right heart, else would his pistoles be lost 
 to him. 
 
 Nevertheless she was fretted by anxiety, and she 
 waited impatiently for news, fuming at the delay, yet 
 knowing full well that news could not yet reach her. 
 
 Once she reproved Valerie for her lack of appetite, 
 and there was in her voice a kindness Valerie had not 
 heard for months — not since the old Marquis died, 
 nor did she hear it now, or, hearing it, she did not 
 heed it. 
 
 "You are not eating, child," the Dowager said, and 
 her eyes were gentle. 
 
 Valerie looked up like one suddenly awakened; and 
 in that moment her eyes filled with tears. It was as if 
 the Dowager's voice had opened the floodgates of her 
 sorrow and let out the tears that hitherto had been 
 repressed. The Marquise rose and waved the page 
 and an attendant lackey from the room. She crossed 
 
296 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 to Valerie's side and put her arm about the girl's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "What ails you, child?" she asked. For a moment 
 the girl suffered the caress; almost she seemed to 
 nestle closer to the Dowager's shoulder. Then, as if 
 understanding had come to her suddenly, she drew 
 back and quietly disengaged herself from the other's 
 arms. Her tears ceased; the quiver passed from her 
 
 "You are very good, madame," she said, with a 
 coldness that rendered the courteous words almost 
 insulting, "but nothing ails me save a wish to be 
 alone." 
 
 "You have been alone too much of late," the 
 Dowager answered, persisting in her wish to show 
 kindness to Valerie; for all that, had she looked into 
 her own heart, she might have been puzzled to find a 
 reason for her mood — unless the reason lay in her 
 own affliction of anxiety for Marius. 
 
 "Perhaps I have," said the girl, in the same cold, 
 almost strained voice. "It was not by my own con- 
 triving." 
 
 "Ah, but it was, child; indeed it was. Had you been 
 reasonable you had found us kinder. We had never 
 treated you as we have done, never made a prisoner 
 of you." 
 
 Valerie looked up into the beautiful ivory-white 
 face, with its black eyes and singularly scarlet lips, 
 and a wan smile raised the corners of her gentle 
 mouth. 
 
 "You had no right — none ever gave it you — to 
 set constraint and restraint upon me." 
 
 "I had — indeed, indeed I had," the Marquise 
 
THE OFFICES OF MOTHER CHURCH 297 
 
 answered her, in a tone of sad protest. "Your father 
 gave me such a right when he gave me charge of you." 
 
 "Was it a part of your charge to seek to turn me 
 from my loyalty to Florimond, and endeavour to com- 
 pel me by means gentle or ungentle into marriage 
 with Marius?" 
 
 "We thought Florimond dead; or, if not dead, then 
 certainly unworthy of you to leave you without news 
 of him for years together. And if he was not dead then, 
 it is odds he will be dead by now." The words slipped 
 out almost unconsciously, and the Marquise bit her 
 lip and straightened herself, fearing an explosion. 
 But none came. The girl looked across the table at the 
 fire that smouldered on the hearth in need of being 
 replenished. 
 
 "What do you mean, madame?" she asked; but her 
 tone was listless, apathetic, as of one who though 
 uttering a question is incurious as to what the answer 
 may be. 
 
 "We had news some days ago that he was journey- 
 ing homewards, but that he was detained by fever at 
 La Rochette. We have since heard that his fever has 
 grown so serious that there is little hope of his re- 
 covery." 
 
 "And it was to solace his last moments that Mon- 
 sieur Marius left Condillac this morning?" 
 
 The Dowager looked sharply at the girl; but Va- 
 lerie's face continued averted, her gaze resting on 
 the fire. Her tone suggested nothing beyond a natural 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Yes," said the Dowager. 
 
 "And lest his own efforts to help his brother out of 
 this world should prove insufficient he took Captain 
 
298 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 Fortunio with him ? " said Valerie, in the same indiffer- 
 ent voice. 
 
 "What do you mean?" the Marquise almost hissed 
 into the girl's ear. 
 
 Valerie turned to her, a faint colour stirring in her 
 white face. 
 
 "Just what I have said, madame. Would you know 
 what I have prayed ? All night was I upon my knees 
 from the moment that I recovered consciousness, 
 and my prayers were that Heaven might see fit to let 
 Florimond destroy your son. Not that I desire Flori- 
 mond's return, for I care not if I never set eyes on him 
 again. There is a curse upon this house, madame," 
 the girl continued, rising from her chair and speaking 
 now with a greater animation, whilst the Marquise 
 recoiled a step, her face strangely altered and suddenly 
 gone grey, "and I have prayed that that curse might 
 be worked out upon that assassin, Marius. A fine 
 husband, madame, you would thrust upon the 
 daughter of Gaston de La Vauvraye." 
 
 And turning, without waiting for an answer, she 
 moved slowly down the room, and took her way to 
 her own desolate apartments, so full of memories of 
 him she mourned — of him, it seemed to her, she 
 must always mourn; of him who lay dead in the black 
 waters of the moat beneath her window. 
 
 Stricken with a sudden, inexplicable terror, the 
 Dowager, who for all her spirit was not without a 
 certain superstition, felt her knees loosen, and she 
 sank limply into a chair. She was amazed at the 
 extent of Valerie's knowledge, and puzzled by it; she 
 was amazed, too, at the seeming apathy of Valerie for 
 the danger in which Florimond stood, and at her 
 
THE OFFICES OF MOTHER CHURCH 299 
 
 avowal that she did not care if she never again be- 
 held him. But such amazement as came to her was 
 whelmed fathoms-deep in her sudden fears for Ma- 
 rius. If he should die! She grew cold at the thought, 
 and she sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her 
 face grey. That mention of the curse the Church 
 had put upon them had frozen her quick blood and 
 turned her stout spirit to mere water. 
 
 At last she rose and went out into the open to 
 inquire if no messenger had yet arrived, for all that 
 she knew there was not yet time for any messenger to 
 have reached the chateau. She mounted the winding 
 staircase of stone that led to the ramparts, and there 
 alone, in the November sunshine, she paced to and 
 fro for hours, waiting for news, straining her eyes to 
 gaze up the valley of the Isere, watching for the horse- 
 man that must come that way. Then, as time sped on 
 and the sun approached its setting and still no one 
 came, she bethought her that if harm had befallen 
 Marius, none would ride that night to Condillac. 
 This very delay seemed pregnant with news of dis- 
 aster. And then she shook off" her fears and tried to 
 comfort herself. There was not yet time. Besides, 
 what had she to fear for Marius ? He was strong and 
 quick, and Fortunio was by his side. A man was 
 surely dead by now at La Rochette; but that man 
 could not be Marius. 
 
 At last, in the distance, she espied a moving object, 
 and down on the silent air of eventide came the far- 
 off rattle of a horse's hoofs. Some one was riding, 
 galloping that way. He was returned at last. She 
 leaned on the battlements, her breath coming in 
 quick, short gasps, and watched the horseman grow- 
 ing larger with every stride of his horse. 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 A mist was rising from the river, and it dimmed the 
 figure; and she cursed the mist for heightening her 
 anxiety, for straining further her impatience. Then a 
 new fear was begotten in her mind. Why came one 
 horseman only where two should have ridden? Who 
 was it that returned, and what had befallen his com- 
 panion? God send, at least, it might be Marius who 
 rode thus, at such a breakneck pace. 
 
 At last she could make him out. He was close to the 
 chateau now, and she noticed that his right arm was 
 bandaged and hanging in a sling. And then a scream 
 broke from her, and she bit her lip hard to keep an- 
 other in check, for she had seen the horseman's face, 
 and it was Fortunio's. Fortunio — and wounded! 
 Then, assuredly, Marius was dead! 
 
 She swayed where she stood. She set her hand on 
 her bosom, above her heart, as if she would have re- 
 pressed the beating of the one, the heaving of the 
 other; her soul sickened, and her mind seemed to turn 
 numb, as she waited there for the news that should 
 confirm her fears. 
 
 The hoofs of his horse thundered over the planks 
 of the drawbridge, and came clatteringly to halt as 
 he harshly drew rein in the courtyard below. There 
 was a sound of running feet and men sprang to his 
 assistance. Madame would have gone below to meet 
 him; but her limbs seemed to refuse their office. She 
 leaned against one of the merlons of the embattled 
 parapet, her eyes on the spot where he should emerge 
 from the stairs, and thus she waited, her eyes haggard, 
 her face drawn. 
 
 He came at last, lurching in his walk, being over- 
 stiff from his long ride. She took a step forward to 
 meet him. Her lips parted- 
 
THE OFFICES OF MOTHER CHURCH 301 
 
 "Well?" she asked him, and her voice sounded 
 harsh and strained. "How has the venture sped?" 
 
 "The only way it could," he answered. "As you 
 would wish it." 
 
 At that she thought that she must faint. Her lungs 
 seemed to writhe for air, and she opened her lips and 
 took long draughts of the rising mist, never speaking 
 for a moment or two until she had sufficiently re- 
 covered from this tremendous revulsion from her 
 fears. 
 
 "Then, where is Marius?" she asked at last. 
 
 "He has remained behind to accompany the body 
 home. They are bringing it here." 
 
 "They?" she echoed. "Who are they?" 
 
 "The monks of Saint Francis of Cheylas," he 
 answered. 
 
 A something in his tone, a something in his shifty 
 eyes, a cloud upon his fair and usually so ingenuous- 
 looking countenance aroused her suspicions and gave 
 her resurrected courage pause. 
 
 She caught him viciously by the arms, and forced 
 his glance to meet her own in the fading daylight. 
 
 "It is the truth you are telling me, Fortunio?" she 
 snapped, and her voice was half-angry, half-fearful. 
 
 He faced her now, his eyes bold. He raised a hand 
 to lend emphasis to his words. 
 
 " I swear, madame, by my salvation, that Monsieur 
 Marius is sound and well." 
 
 She was satisfied. She released his arm. 
 
 "Does he come to-night?" she asked. 
 
 "They will be here to-morrow, madame. I rode on 
 to tell you so." 
 
 "An odd fancy, this of his. But" — and a sudden 
 
3 o2 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 smile overspread her face — "we may find a more use 
 ful purpose for one of these monks." 
 
 An hour ago she would willingly have set made- 
 moiselle at liberty in exchange for the assurance that 
 Marius had been successful in the business that had 
 taken him over the border into Savoy. She would 
 have done it gladly, content that Marius should be 
 heir to Condillac. But now that Condillac was 
 assured her son, she must have more for him; her 
 insatiable greed for his advancement and prosperity 
 was again upon her. Now, more than ever — now 
 that Florimond was dead — must she have La Vau- 
 vraye for Marius, and she thought that mademoiselle 
 would no longer be difficult to bend. The child had 
 fallen in love with that mad Garnache, and when a 
 woman is crossed in love, while her grief lasts it 
 matters little to her where she weds. Did she not 
 know it out of the fund of her own bitter experience? 
 Was it not that — the compulsion her own father had 
 employed to make her find a mate in a man so much 
 older than herself as Condillac — that had warped 
 her own nature, and done much to make her what she 
 was? 
 
 A lover she had had, and whilst he lived she had 
 resisted them, and stood out against this odious mar- 
 riage that for convenience' sake they forced upon 
 her. He was killed in Paris in a duel, and when the 
 news of it came to her, she had folded her hands and 
 let them wed her to whom they listed. 
 
 Of just such a dejection of spirit had she observed 
 the signs in Valerie; let them profit by it while it 
 lasted. They had been long enough without Church 
 ceremonies at Condillac There should be two to- 
 
THE OFFICES OF MOTHER CHURCH 303 
 
 morrow to make up for the empty time — a wedding 
 and a burial. 
 
 She was going down the stairs, Fortunio a step 
 behind her, when her mind reverted to the happening 
 at La Rochette. 
 
 "Was it well done?" she asked. 
 
 "It made some stir," said he. "The Marquis had 
 men with him, and had the affair taken place in 
 France ill might have come of it." 
 
 "You shall give me a full account of it," said she, 
 rightly thinking that there was still something to be 
 explained. Then she laughed softly. "Yes, it was 
 a lucky chance for us, his staying at La Rochette. 
 Florimond was born under an unlucky star, I think, 
 and you under a lucky one, Fortunio." 
 
 "I think so, too, as regards myself," he answered 
 grimly, and he thought of the sword that had ploughed 
 his cheek last night and pierced his sword-arm that 
 morning, and he thanked such gods as in his godless- 
 ness he owned for the luck that had kept that sword 
 from finding out his heart. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 
 
 ON the morrow, which was a Friday and the tenth 
 of November — a date to be hereafter graven on 
 the memory of all concerned in the affairs of Condillac 
 — the Dowager rose betimes, and, for decency's sake, 
 having in mind the business of the day, she gowned 
 herself in black. 
 
 Betimes, too, the Lord Seneschal rode out of Gre- 
 noble, attended by a couple of grooms, and headed 
 for Condillac, in doing which — little though he sus- 
 pected it — he was serving nobody's interests more 
 thoroughly than Monsieur de Garnache's. 
 
 Madame received him courteously. She was in a 
 blithe and happy mood that morning — the reaction 
 from her yesterday's distress of mind. The world was 
 full of promise, and all things had prospered with her 
 and Marius. Her boy was lord of Condillac; Flori- 
 mond, whom she had hated and who had stood in the 
 way of her boy's advancement, was dead and on his 
 way to burial; Garnache, the man from Paris who 
 might have made trouble for them had he ridden home 
 again with the tale of their resistance, was silenced for 
 all time, and the carp in the moat would be feasting 
 by now upon what was left of him; Valerie de La Vau- 
 vraye was in a dejected frame of mind that augured 
 well for the success of the Dowager's plans concerning 
 her, and by noon at latest there would be priests at 
 Condillac, and, if Marius still wished to marry the 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 
 
 obstinate baggage, there would be no difficulty as to 
 that. 
 
 It was a glorious morning, mild and sunny as an 
 April day, as though Nature took a hand in the 
 Dowager's triumph and wished to make the best of 
 its wintry garb in honour of it. 
 
 The presence of this gross suitor of hers afforded her 
 another source of satisfaction. There would no longer 
 be the necessity she once had dreaded of listening to 
 his suit for longer than it should be her pleasure to be 
 amused by him. But when Tressan spoke, he struck 
 the first note of discord in the perfect harmony which 
 the Dowager imagined existed. 
 
 "Madame,'' said he, "I am desolated that I am not 
 a bearer of better tidings. But for all that we have 
 made the most diligent search, the man Rabecque has 
 not yet been apprehended. Still, we have not aban- 
 doned hope," he added, by way of showing that there 
 was a silver lining to his cloud of danger. 
 
 For just a moment madame's brows were knitted. 
 She had forgotten Rabecque until now; but an in- 
 stant's reflection assured her that in forgetting him she 
 had done him no more than such honour as he deserved. 
 She laughed, as she led the way down the garden steps 
 — the mildness of the day and the brightness of her 
 mood had moved her there to receive the Seneschal. 
 
 "From the sombreness of your tone one might fear 
 your news to be of the nature of some catastrophe. 
 What shall it signify that Rabecque eludes your men? 
 He is but a lackey after all." 
 
 "True," said the Seneschal, very soberly; "but do 
 not forget, I beg, that he is the bearer of letters from 
 one who is not a lackey." 
 
306 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 The laughter went out of her face at that. Here 
 was something that had been lost sight of in the all- 
 absorbing joy of other things. In calling the forgotten 
 Rabecque to mind she had but imagined that it was 
 no more than a matter of the tale he might tell — a 
 tale not difficult to refute, she thought. Her word 
 should always weigh against a lackey's. But that 
 letter was a vastly different matter. 
 
 "He must be found, Tressan," she said sharply. 
 
 Tressan smiled uneasily, and chewed at his beard. 
 
 "No effort shall be spared," he promised her. "Of 
 that you may be very sure. The affairs of the province 
 are at a standstill," he added, that vanity of his for 
 appearing a man of infinite business rising even in an 
 hour of such anxiety, for to himself, no less than to 
 her, was there danger should Rabecque ever reach his 
 destination with the papers Garnache had said he 
 carried. 
 
 "The affairs of the province are at a standstill," he 
 repeated, "while all my energies are bent upon this 
 quest. Should we fail to have news of his capture in 
 Dauphiny, we need not, nevertheless, despond. I have 
 sent men after him along the three roads that lead to 
 Paris. They are to spare neither money nor horses in 
 picking up his trail and effecting his capture. After 
 all, I think we shall have him." 
 
 "He is our only danger now," the Marquise an- 
 swered, "for Florimond is dead — of the fever," she 
 added, with a sneering smile which gave Tressan 
 sensations as of cold water on his spine. "It were an 
 irony of fate if that miserable lackey were to reach 
 Paris now and spoil the triumph for which we have 
 worked so hard." 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 307 
 
 "It were, indeed," Tressan agreed with her, "and 
 we must see that he does not." 
 
 "But if he does," she returned, "then we must 
 stand together." And with that she set her mind at 
 ease once more, her mood that morning being very- 
 optimistic. 
 
 "Always, I hope, Clotilde," he answered, and his 
 little eyes leered up out of the dimples of fat in which 
 they were embedded. "I have stood by you like a true 
 friend in this affair; is it not so?" 
 
 "Indeed; do I deny it?" she answered half scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 "As I shall stand by you always when the need 
 arises. You are a little in my debt concerning Mon- 
 sieur de Garnache." 
 
 "I — I realize it," said she, and she felt again as if 
 the sunshine were gone from the day, the blitheness 
 from her heart. She was moved to bid him cease 
 leering at her and to take himself and his wooing to 
 the devil. But she bethought her that the need for 
 him might not yet utterly be passed. Not only in the 
 affair of Garnache — in which he stood implicated as 
 deeply as herself — might she require his loyalty, but 
 also in the matter of what had befallen yesterday at 
 La Rochette; for despite Fortunio's assurances that 
 things had gone smoothly, his tale hung none too 
 convincingly together; and whilst she did not enter- 
 tain any serious fear of subsequent trouble, yet it 
 might be well not utterly to banish the consideration 
 of such a possibility, and to keep the Seneschal her 
 ally against it. So she told him now, with as much 
 graciousness as she could command, that she fully 
 realized her debt, and when, encouraged, he spoke of 
 
308 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 his reward, she smiled upon him as might a girl smile 
 upon too impetuous a wooer whose impetuosity she 
 deprecates yet cannot wholly withstand. 
 
 "I am a widow of six months," she reminded him, 
 as she had reminded him once before. Her widowhood 
 was proving a most convenient refuge. "It is not for 
 me to listen to a suitor, however my foolish heart may 
 incline. Come to me in another six months' time " 
 
 "And you will wed me then?" he bleated. 
 
 By an effort her eyes smiled down upon him, al- 
 though her face was a trifle drawn. 
 
 "Have I not said that I will listen to no suitor? and 
 what is that but a suitor's question?" 
 
 He caught her hand; he would have fallen on his 
 knees there and then, at her feet, on the grass still wet 
 with the night's mist, but that he in time bethought 
 him of how sadly his fine apparel would be the 
 sufferer. 
 
 "Yet I shall not sleep, I shall know no rest, no 
 peace until you have given me an answer. Just an 
 answer is all I ask. I will set a curb upon my im- 
 patience afterwards, and go through my period of — 
 ah — probation without murmuring. Say that you 
 will marry me in six months' time — at Easter, say." 
 
 She saw that an answer she must give, and so she 
 gave him the answer that he craved. And he — poor 
 fool ! — never caught the ring of her voice, as false as 
 the ring of a base coin; never guessed that in promis- 
 ing she told herself it would be safe to break that 
 promise six months hence, when the need of him and 
 his loyalty would be passed. 
 
 A man approached them briskly from the chateau. 
 He brought news that a numerous company of monks 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 309 
 
 was descending the valley of the Isere towards Con- 
 dillac. A faint excitement stirred her, and accom- 
 panied by Tressan she retraced her steps and made 
 for the battlements, whence she might overlook their 
 arrival. 
 
 As they went Tressan asked for an explanation of 
 this cortege, and she answered him with Fortunio's 
 story of how things had sped yesterday at La Ro- 
 chette. 
 
 Up the steps leading to the battlements she went 
 ahead of him, with a youthful, eager haste that took 
 no thought for the corpulence and short-windedness of 
 the following Seneschal. From the heights she looked 
 eastwards, shading her eyes from the light of the 
 morning sun, and surveyed the procession which with 
 slow dignity paced down the valley towards Condillac. 
 
 At its head walked the tall, lean figure of the Abbot 
 of Saint Francis of Cheylas, bearing on high a silvered 
 crucifix that flashed and scintillated in the sunlight. 
 His cowl was thrown back, revealing his pale, ascetic 
 countenance and shaven head. Behind him came a 
 coffin covered by a black pall, and borne on the 
 shoulders of six black-robed, black-cowled monks, 
 and behind these again walked, two by two, some 
 fourteen cowled brothers of the order of Saint Francis, 
 their heads bowed, their arms folded, and their hands 
 tucked away in their capacious sleeves. 
 
 It was a numerous cortege, and as she watched its 
 approach the Marquise was moved to wonder by 
 what arguments had the proud Abbot been induced 
 to do so much honour to a dead Condillac and bear 
 his body home to this excommunicated roof. 
 
 Behind the monks a closed carriage lumbered down 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 the uneven mountain way, and behind this rode four 
 mounted grooms in the livery of Condillac. Of Marius 
 she saw nowhere any sign, and she inferred him to be 
 travelling in that vehicle, the attendant servants being 
 those of the dead Marquis. 
 
 In silence, with the Seneschal at her elbow, she 
 watched the procession advance until it was at the 
 foot of the drawbridge. Then, while the solemn 
 rhythm of their feet sounded across the planks that 
 spanned the moat, she turned, and, signing to the 
 Seneschal to follow her, she went below to meet them. 
 But when she reached the courtyard she was surprised 
 to find they had not paused, as surely would have 
 been seemly. Unbidden, the Abbot had gone forward 
 through the great doorway and down the gallery that 
 led to the hall of Condillac. Already, when she arrived 
 below, the coffin and its bearers had disappeared, and 
 the last of the monks was passing from sight in its 
 wake. Leaning against the doorway through which 
 they were vanishing stood Fortunio, idly watching 
 that procession and thoughtfully stroking his mus- 
 tachios. About the yard lounged a dozen or so men- 
 at-arms, practically all the garrison that was left them 
 since the fight with Garnache two nights ago. 
 
 After the last monk had disappeared, she still re- 
 mained there, expectantly; and when she saw that 
 neither the carriage nor the grooms made their ap- 
 pearance, she stepped up to Fortunio to inquire into 
 the reason of it. 
 
 " Surely Monsieur de Condillac rides in that coach," 
 said she. 
 
 "Surely," Fortunio answered, himself looking puz- 
 zled. "I will go seek the reason, madame. Mean- 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 311 
 
 while will you receive the Abbot? The monks will 
 have deposited their burden." 
 
 She composed her features into a fitting solemnity, 
 and passed briskly through to the hall, Tressan ever 
 at her heels. Here she found the coffin deposited on 
 the table, its great black pall of velvet, silver-edged, 
 sweeping down to the floor. No fire had been lighted 
 that morning nor had the sun yet reached the win- 
 dows, so that the place wore a chill and gloomy air 
 that was perhaps well attuned to the purpose that it 
 was being made to serve. 
 
 With a rare dignity, her head held high, she swept 
 down the length of that noble chamber towards the 
 Abbot, who stood erect as a pikestaff at the table- 
 head, awaiting her. And well was it for him that he 
 was a man of austere habit of mind, else might her 
 majestic, incomparable beauty have softened his heart 
 and melted the harshness of his purpose. 
 
 He raised his hand when she was within a sword's 
 length of him, and with startling words, delivered in 
 ringing tones, he broke the ponderous silence. 
 
 "Wretched woman," he denounced her, "your sins 
 have found you out. Justice is to be done, and your 
 neck shall be bent despite your stubborn pride. De- 
 rider of priests, despoiler of purity, mocker of Holy 
 Church, your impious reign is at an end." 
 
 Tressan fell back aghast, his face blenching to the 
 lips; for if justice was at hand for her, as the Abbot 
 said, then was justice at hand for him as well. Where 
 had their plans miscarried? What flaw was there that 
 hitherto she had not perceived? Thus he questioned 
 himself in his sudden panic. 
 
 But the Marquise was no sharer in his tremors. Her 
 
3i2 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 eyes opened a trifle wider; a faint colour crept into her 
 cheeks; but her only emotions were of amazement 
 and indignation. Was he mad, this shaveling monk? 
 That was the question that leapt into her mind, the 
 very question with which she coldly answered his 
 outburst. 
 
 "For madness only," she thought fit to add, "could 
 excuse such rash temerity as yours." 
 
 "Not madness, madame," he answered, with chill 
 haughtiness — "not madness, but righteous indigna- 
 tion. You have defied the power of Holy Church as 
 you have defied the power of our sovereign lady, 
 and justice is upon you. We are here to present the 
 reckoning, and see its payment made in full." 
 
 She fancied he alluded to the body in the coffin — 
 the body of her stepson — and she could have laughed 
 at his foolish conclusions that she must account 
 Florimond's death an act of justice upon her for her 
 impiety. But her rising anger left her no room for 
 laughter. 
 
 "I thought, sir priest, you were come to bury the 
 dead. But it rather seems you are come to talk." 
 
 He looked at her long and sternly. Then he shook 
 his head, and the faintest shadow of a smile haunted 
 his ascetic face. 
 
 "Not to talk, madame; oh, not to talk," he an- 
 swered slowly. " But to act, I have come, madame, to 
 liberate from this shambles the gentle lamb you hold 
 here prisoned." 
 
 At that some of the colour left her cheeks; her eyes 
 grew startled: at last she began to realize that all was 
 not as she had thought — as she had been given to 
 understand. Still, she sought to hector it, from very 
 instinct. 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 313 
 
 " Vertudieu!" she thundered at him. "What mean 
 you?" 
 
 Behind her Tressan's great plump knees were 
 knocking one against the other. Fool that he had been 
 to come to Condillac that day, and to be trapped thus 
 in her company, a partner in her guilt. This proud 
 Abbot who stood there uttering denunciations had 
 some power behind him, else had he never dared to 
 raise his voice in Condillac within call of desperate 
 men who would give little thought to the sacredness 
 of his office. 
 
 "What mean you?" she repeated — adding with a 
 sinister smile, "in your zeal, Sir Abbot, you are for- 
 getting that my men are within call." 
 
 "So, madame, are mine," was his astounding an- 
 swer, and he waved a hand towards the array of 
 monks, all standing with bowed heads and folded 
 arms. 
 
 At that her laughter rang shrill through the cham- 
 ber. "These poor shavelings?" she questioned. 
 
 "Just these poor shavelings, madame," he an- 
 swered, and he raised his hand again and made a sign. 
 And then an odd thing happened, and it struck a real 
 terror into the heart of the Marquise and heightened 
 that which was already afflicting her fat lover, Tres- 
 san. 
 
 The monks drew themselves erect. It was as if a 
 sudden gust of wind had swept through their ranks 
 and set them all in motion. Cowls fell back and 
 habits were swept aside, and where twenty monks had 
 stood, there were standing now a score of nimble, 
 stalwart men in the livery of Condillac, all fully armed, 
 all grinning in enjoyment of her and Tressan's dismay. 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 One of them turned aside and locked the door of 
 the chamber. But his movement went unheeded by 
 the Dowager, whose beautiful eyes, starting with 
 horror, were now back upon the grim figure of the 
 Abbot, marvelling almost to see no transformation 
 wrought in him. 
 
 "Treachery!" she breathed, in an awful voice, that 
 was no louder than a whisper, and again her eyes 
 travelled round the company, and suddenly they 
 fastened upon Fortunio, standing six paces from her 
 to the right, pulling thoughtfully at his mustachios, 
 and manifesting no surprise at what had taken place. 
 
 In a sudden, blind choler, she swept round, plucked 
 the dagger from Tressan's belt and flung herself upon 
 the treacherous captain. He had betrayed her in some 
 way; he had delivered up Condillac — into whose 
 power she had yet had no time to think. She caught 
 him by the throat with a hand of such nervous strength 
 as one would little have suspected from its white and 
 delicate contour. Her dagger was poised in the air, 
 and the captain, taken thus suddenly, was palsied with 
 amazement and could raise no hand to defend himself 
 from the blow impending. 
 
 But the Abbot stepped suddenly to her side and 
 caught her wrist in his thin, transparent hand. 
 
 "Forbear," he bade her. "The man is but a tool." 
 
 She fell back — dragged back almost by the Abbot 
 — panting with rage and grief; and then she noticed 
 that during the moment that her back had been turned 
 the pall had been swept from the coffin. The sight of 
 the bare deal box arrested her attention, and for the 
 moment turned aside her anger. What fresh surprise 
 did they prepare her? 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 315 
 
 No sooner had she asked herself the question than 
 herself she answered it, and an icy hand seemed to 
 close about her heart. It was Marius who was dead. 
 They had lied to her. Marius's was the body they had 
 borne to Condillac — those men in the livery of her 
 stepson. 
 
 With a sudden sob in her throat she took a step 
 towards the coffin. She must see for herself. One way 
 or the other she must at once dispel this torturing 
 doubt. But ere she had taken three paces, she stood 
 arrested again, her hands jerked suddenly to the 
 height of her breast, her lips parting to let out a 
 scream of terror. For the coffin-lid had slowly raised 
 and clattered over. And as if to pile terror for her, a 
 figure rose from the box, and, sitting up, looked round 
 with a grim smile; and the figure was the figure of a 
 man whom she knew to be dead, a man who had died 
 by her contriving — it was the figure of Garnache. 
 It was Garnache as he had been on the occasion of his 
 first coming to Condillac, as he had been on the day 
 they had sought his life in this very room. How well 
 she knew that great hooked nose and the bright, 
 steely blue eyes, the dark brown hair, ash-coloured at 
 the temples where age had paled it, and the fierce, 
 reddish mustachios, bristling above the firm mouth 
 and long, square chin. 
 
 She stared and stared, her beautiful face livid and 
 distorted, till there was no beauty to be seen in it, 
 what time the Abbot regarded her coldly and Tressan, 
 behind her, turned almost sick with terror. But not 
 the terror of ghosts was it afflicted him. He saw in 
 Garnache a man who was still of the quick — a man 
 who by some miracle had escaped the fate to which 
 
3i6 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 they supposed him to have succumbed; and his terror 
 was the terror of the reckoning which that man would 
 ask. 
 
 After a moment's pause, as if relishing the sensation 
 he had created, Garnache rose to his feet and leapt 
 briskly to the ground. There was nothing ghostly 
 about the thud with which he alighted on his feet be- 
 fore her. A part of her terror left her; yet not quite all. 
 She saw that she had but a man to deal with, yet she 
 began to realize that this man was very terrible. 
 
 "Garnache again!" she gasped. 
 
 He bowed serenely, his lips smiling. 
 
 "Aye, madame," he told her pleasantly, "always 
 Garnache. Tenacious as a leech, madame; and like a 
 leech come hither to do a little work of purification." 
 
 Her eyes, now kindling again as she recovered from 
 her recent fears, sought Fortunio's shifty glance. Gar- 
 nache followed it and read what was in her mind. 
 
 "What Fortunio has done," said he, "he has done 
 by your son's authority and sanction." 
 
 " Marius ? " she inquired, and she was almost fearful 
 lest she should hear that by her son he meant her step- 
 son, and that Marius was dead. 
 
 "Yes, Marius," he answered her. "I bent him to 
 my will. I threatened him that he and this fellow of 
 his, this comrade in arms so worthy of his master, 
 should be broken on the wheel together unless I were 
 implicitly obeyed. If they would save their lives, this 
 was their chance. They were wise, and they took it, 
 and thus afforded me the means of penetrating into 
 Condillac and rescuing Mademoiselle de La Vau- 
 vraye." 
 
 "Then Marius — ?" She left her question un- 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 317 
 
 finished, her hand clutching nervously at the bosom of 
 her gown. 
 
 "Is sound and well, as Fortunio truthfully will have 
 told you. But he is not yet out of my grasp, nor will 
 be until the affairs of Condillac are settled. For if 
 I meet with further opposition here, broken on the 
 wheel he shall be yet, I promise you." 
 
 Still she made a last attempt at hectoring it. The 
 long habit of mastership dies hard. She threw back 
 her head; her courage revived now that she knew 
 Marius to be alive and sound. 
 
 "Fine words," she sneered. " But who are you that 
 you can threaten so and promise so?" 
 
 "I am the Queen-Regent's humble mouthpiece, 
 madame. What I threaten, I threaten in her name. 
 Ruffle it no longer, I beseech you. It will prove little 
 worth your while. You are deposed, madame, and 
 you had best take your deposition with dignity and 
 calm — in all friendliness do I advise it." 
 
 " I am not yet come so low that I need your advice," 
 she answered sourly. 
 
 "You may before the sun sets," he answered, with 
 his quiet smile. "The Marquis de Condillac and his 
 wife are still at La Rochette, waiting until my business 
 here is done that they may come home." 
 
 "His wife?" she cried. 
 
 "His wife, madame. He has brought home a wife 
 from Italy." 
 
 "Then — then — Marius ? " She said no more than 
 that. Maybe she had no intention of muttering even 
 so much of her thoughts aloud. But Garnache caught 
 the trend of her mind, and he marvelled to see how 
 strong a habit of thought can be. At once upon hear- 
 
318 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 ing of the Marquis's marriage her mind had flown 
 back to its wonted pondering of the possibilities of 
 Marius's wedding Valerie. 
 
 But Garnache dispelled such speculations. 
 
 "No, madame," said he. "Marius looks elsewhere 
 for a wife — unless mademoiselle of her own free will 
 should elect to wed him — a thing unlikely." Then, 
 with a sudden change to sternness — "Mademoiselle 
 de La Vauvraye is well, madame?" he asked. 
 
 She nodded her head, but made no answer in words. 
 He turned to Fortunio. 
 
 "Go fetch her," he bade the captain, and one of the 
 men unlocked the door to let Fortunio out upon that 
 errand. 
 
 The Parisian took a turn in the apartment, and 
 came close to Tressan. He nodded to the Seneschal 
 with a friendliness that turned him sick with 
 fright. 
 
 "Well met, my dear Lord Seneschal. I am rejoiced 
 to find you here. Had it been otherwise I must have 
 sent for you. There is a little matter to be settled 
 between us. You may depend upon me to settle it 
 to your present satisfaction, if to your future grief." 
 And, with a smile, he passed on, leaving the Seneschal 
 too palsied to answer him, too stricken to disclaim his 
 share in what had taken place at Condillac. 
 
 "You have terms to make with me?" the Marquise 
 questioned proudly. 
 
 " Certainly," he answered, with his grim courtesy. 
 "Upon your acceptance of those terms shall depend 
 Marius's life and your own future liberty." 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 "That within the hour all your people — to the 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 319 
 
 last scullion — shall have laid down their arms and 
 vacated Condillac." 
 
 It was beyond her power to refuse. 
 
 "The Marquis will not drive me forth?" she half 
 affirmed, half asked. 
 
 "The Marquis, madame, has no power in this 
 matter. It is for the Queen to deal with your in- 
 subordination — for me as the Queen's emissary." 
 
 "If I consent, monsieur, what then?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled quietly. 
 
 "There is no 'if,' madame. Consent you must, 
 willingly or unwillingly. To make sure of that have I 
 come back thus and with force. But should you de- 
 liver battle, you will be worsted — and it will be very 
 ill for you. Bid your men depart, as I have told you, 
 and you also shall have liberty to go hence." 
 
 "Aye, but whither?" she cried, in a sudden frenzy 
 of anger. 
 
 "I realize, madame, from what I know of your cir- 
 cumstances that you will be well-nigh homeless. You 
 should have thought of how one day you might come 
 to be dependent upon the Marquis de Condillac's 
 generosity before you set yourself to conspire against 
 him, before you sought to encompass his death. You 
 can hardly look for generosity at his hands now, and 
 so you will be all but homeless, unless — " He paused, 
 and his eyes strayed to Tressan and were laden with a 
 sardonic look. 
 
 "You take a very daring tone with me," she told 
 him. "You speak to me as no man has ever dared to 
 speak." 
 
 "When the power was yours, madame, you dealt 
 with me as none has ever dared to deal. The ad- 
 
320 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 vantage now is mine. Behold how I use it in your own 
 interests; observe how generously I shall deal with 
 you who deal in murder. Monsieur de Tressan," he 
 called briskly. The Seneschal started forward as if 
 some one had prodded him suddenly. 
 
 "Mu — monsieur?" said he. 
 
 "With you, too, will I return good for evil. Come 
 hither." 
 
 The Seneschal approached, wondering what was 
 about to take place. The Marquise watched his 
 coming, a cold glitter in her eye, for — keener of 
 mental vision than Tressan — she already knew the 
 hideous purpose that was in Garnache's mind. 
 
 The soldiers grinned; the Abbot looked on with an 
 impassive face. 
 
 "The Marquise de Condillac is likely to be home- 
 less henceforth," said the Parisian, addressing the 
 Seneschal. "Will you not be gallant enough to offer 
 her a home, Monsieur de Tressan?" 
 
 "Will I?" gasped Tressan, scarce daring to believe 
 his own ears, his eyes staring with a look that was 
 almost one of vacancy. "Madame well knows how 
 readily." 
 
 "Oho?" crowed Garnache, who had been observing 
 madame's face. "She knows? Then do so, monsieur; 
 and on that condition I will forget your indiscretions 
 here. I pledge you my word that you shall not be 
 called to further account for the lives that have been 
 lost through your treachery and want of loyalty, pro- 
 vided that of your own free will you lay down your 
 Seneschalship of Dauphiny — an office which I can- 
 not consent to see you filling hereafter." 
 
 Tressan stared from the Dowager to Garnache and 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 321 
 
 back to the Dowager. She stood there as if Garnache's 
 words had turned her into marble, bereft of speech 
 through very rage. And then the door opened, and 
 Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye entered, followed 
 closely by Fortunio. 
 
 At sight of Garnache she stood still, set her hand on 
 her heart, and uttered a low cry. Was it indeed Gar- 
 nache she saw — Garnache, her brave knight-errant? 
 He looked no longer as he had looked during those days 
 when he had been her gaoler; but he looked as she 
 liked to think of him since she had accounted him 
 dead. He advanced to meet her, a smile in his eyes 
 that had something wistful in it. He held out both 
 hands to her, and she took them, and there, under the 
 eyes of all, before he could snatch them away, she had 
 stooped and kissed them, whilst a murmur of — 
 
 "Thank God! Thank God!" escaped from her lips 
 to heaven. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" he remonstrated, 
 when it was too late to stay her. "You must not; it 
 is not seemly in me to allow it." 
 
 He saw in the act no more than an expression of the 
 gratitude for what he had done to serve her, and for 
 the risk in which his life had been so willingly placed 
 in that service. Under the suasion of his words she 
 grew calm again; then, suddenly, a fear stirred her 
 once more in that place where she had known naught 
 but fears. 
 
 "Why are you here, monsieur? You have come 
 into danger again?" 
 
 "No, no," he laughed. "These are my own men — 
 at least, for the time being. I am come in power this 
 time, to administer justice. What shall be done with 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 this lady, mademoiselle?" he asked; and knowing well 
 the merciful sweetness of the girl's soul, he added, 
 "Speak, now. Her fate shall rest in your hands." 
 
 Valerie looked at her enemy, and then her eyes 
 strayed round the room and took stock of the men 
 standing there in silence, of the Abbot who still re- 
 mained at the table-head, a pale, scarce-interested 
 spectator of this odd scene. 
 
 The change had come so abruptly. A few minutes 
 ago she had been still a prisoner, suffering tortures at 
 having heard that Marius was to return that day, and 
 that, willy-nilly, she must wed him now. And now she 
 was free it seemed: her champion was returned in 
 power, and he stood bidding her decide the fate of her 
 late oppressors. 
 
 Madame's face was ashen. She judged the girl by 
 her own self; she had no knowledge of any such infinite 
 sweetness as that of this child's nature, a sweetness 
 that could do no hurt to any. Death was what the 
 Marquise expected, since she knew that death would 
 she herself have pronounced had the positions been 
 reversed. But — 
 
 "Let her go in peace, monsieur," she heard made- 
 moiselle say, and she could not believe but that she 
 was being mocked. And as if mockery were at issue, 
 Garnache laughed. 
 
 "We will let her go, mademoiselle — yet not quite 
 her own way. You must not longer remain unrestrained, 
 madame," he told the Marquise. "Natures such as 
 yours need a man's guidance. I think you will be 
 sufficiently punished if you wed this rash Monsieur de 
 Tressan, just as he will be sufficiently punished later 
 when disillusionment follows his present youthful 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 323 
 
 ardour. Make each other happy, then," and he waved 
 his arms from one to the other. "Our good Father, 
 here, will tie the knot at once, and then, my Lord 
 Seneschal, you may bear home your bride. Her son 
 shall follow you." 
 
 But the Marquise blazed out now. She stamped her 
 foot, and her eyes seemed to have taken fire. 
 
 "Never, sir! Never in life !" she cried. "I will not 
 be so constrained. I am the Marquise de Condillac, 
 monsieur. Do not forget it!" 
 
 " I am hardly in danger of doing that. It is because 
 I remember it that I urge you to change your estate 
 with all dispatch, and cease to be the Marquise de 
 Condillac. That same Marquise has a heavy score 
 against her. Let her evade payment by this meta- 
 morphosis. I have opened for you, madame, a door 
 through which you may escape." 
 
 "You are insolent," she told him. "By God, sir! 
 I am no baggage to be disposed of by the will of any 
 man." 
 
 At that Garnache himself took fire. Her anger 
 proved as the steel smiting the flint of his own nature, 
 and one of his fierce bursts of blazing passion whirled 
 about her head. 
 
 "And what of this child, here?" he thundered. 
 "What of her, madame? was she a baggage to be dis- 
 posed of by the will of any man or woman? Yet you 
 sought to dispose of her against her heart, against her 
 nature, against her plighted word. Enough said!" he 
 barked, and so terrific was his mien and voice that the 
 stout-spirited Dowager was cowed, and recoiled as he 
 advanced a step in her direction. "Get you married. 
 Take you this man to husband, you who with such 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 calmness sought to drive others into unwilling wedlock. 
 Do it, madame, and do it now, or by the Heaven 
 above us, you shall come to Paris with me, and you'll 
 not find them nice there. It will avail you little to 
 storm and shout at them that you are Marquise de 
 Condillac. As a. murderess and a rebel shall you be 
 tried, and as both or either it is odds you will be 
 broken on the wheel — and your son with you. So 
 make your choice, madame." 
 
 He ceased. Valerie had caught him by the arm. At 
 once his fury fell from him. He turned to her. 
 
 "What is it, child?" 
 
 "Do not compel her, if she will not wed him," said 
 she. " I know — and she did not — how terrible a 
 thing it is." 
 
 "Nay, patience, child," he soothed her, smiling 
 now, his smile as the sunshine that succeeds a thunder- 
 storm. 
 
 "It is none so bad with her. She is but coy. They 
 had plighted their troth already, so it seems. Besides, 
 I do not compel her. She shall marry him of her own 
 free will — or else go to Paris and stand her trial and 
 the consequences." 
 
 "They had plighted their troth, do you say?" 
 
 "Well — had you not, Monsieur le Seneschal?" 
 
 "We had, monsieur," said Tressan, with conscious 
 pride; "and for myself I am ready for these immediate 
 nuptials." 
 
 "Then, in God's name, let Madame give us her 
 answer now. We have not the day to waste." 
 
 She stood looking at him, her toe tapping the 
 ground, her eyes sullenly angry. And in the end, 
 half-fainting in her great disdain, she consented to do 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF GARNACHE 325 
 
 his will. Paris and the wheel formed too horrible an 
 alternative; besides, even if that were spared her, 
 there was but a hovel in Touraine for her, and 
 Tressan,for all his fat ugliness, was wealthy. 
 
 So the Abbot, who had lent himself to the mummery 
 of coming there to read a burial service, made ready 
 now, by order of the Queen's emissary, to solemnize a 
 wedding. 
 
 It was soon done. Fortunio stood sponsor for 
 Tressan, and Garnache himself insisted upon handing 
 the Lord Seneschal his bride, a stroke of irony which 
 hurt the proud lady of Condillac more than all her 
 sufferings of the past half-hour. 
 
 When it was over and the Dowager Marquise de 
 Condillac had been converted into the Comtesse de 
 Tressan, Garnache bade them depart in peace and at 
 once. 
 
 "As I have promised, you shall be spared all prose- 
 cution, Monsieur de Tressan," he assured the Sene- 
 schal at parting. "But you must resign at once the 
 King's Seneschalship of Dauphiny, else will you put 
 me to the necessity of having you deprived of your 
 office — and that might entail unpleasant conse- 
 quences." 
 
 They went, madame with bowed head, her stubborn 
 pride broken at last as the Abbot of Saint Francis had 
 so confidently promised her. After them went the 
 Abbot and the lackeys of Florimond, and Fortunio 
 went with these to carry out Garnache's orders that 
 the men of the Dowager's garrison be sent packing at 
 once, leaving with the Parisian, in the great hall, just 
 Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 SAINT MARTIN'S EVE 
 
 UNEASY in his mind, seeking some way to tell 
 the thing and acquit himself of the painful task 
 before him, Garnache took a turn in the apartment. 
 
 Mademoiselle leaned against the table, which was 
 still burdened by the empty coffin, and observed him. 
 His ponderings were vain ; he could find no way to tell 
 his story. She had said that she did not exactly love 
 this Florimond, that her loyalty to him was no more 
 than her loyalty to her father's wishes. Nevertheless, 
 he thought, what manner of hurt must not her pride 
 receive when she learned that Florimond had brought 
 him home a wife? Garnache was full of pity for her 
 and for the loneliness that must be hers hereafter, 
 mistress of a vast estate in Dauphiny, alone and 
 friendless. And he was a little sorry for himself and 
 the loneliness which, he felt, would be his hereafter; 
 but that was by the way. 
 
 At last it was she herself who broke the silence. 
 "Monsieur," she asked him, and her voice was 
 strained and husky, "were you in time to save Flori- 
 mond?" 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle," he answered readily, glad 
 that by that question she should have introduced the 
 subject. " I was in time." 
 
 "And Marius ? " she inquired. "From what I heard 
 you say, I take it that he has suffered no harm." 
 
 "He has suffered none. I have spared him that he 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S EVE 
 
 might participate in the joy of his mother at her union 
 with Monsieur de Tressan." 
 
 "I am glad it was so, monsieur. Tell me of it." Her 
 voice sounded formal and constrained. 
 
 But either he did not hear or did not heed the 
 question. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said slowly. "Florimond is 
 coming — " 
 
 "Florimond?" she broke in, and her voice went 
 shrill, as if with a sudden fear, her cheeks turned white 
 as chalk. The thing that for months she had hoped 
 and prayed for was come at last, and it struck her 
 almost dead with terror. 
 
 He remarked the change, and set it down to a 
 natural excitement. He paused a moment. Then: 
 
 "He is still at La Rochette. But he does no more 
 than wait until he shall have learned that his step- 
 mother has departed from Condillac." 
 
 " But — why — why — ? Was he then in no haste 
 to come to me?" she inquired, her voice faltering. 
 
 "He is — " He stopped and tugged at his mus- 
 tachios, his eyes regarding her sombrely. He was close 
 beside her now, where he had halted, and he set his 
 hand gently upon her shoulder, looked down into that 
 winsome little oval face she raised to his. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he inquired, "would it afflict you 
 very sorely if you were not destined, after all, to wed 
 the Lord of Condillac?" 
 
 "Afflict me?" she echoed. The very question set 
 her gasping with hope. "No — no, monsieur; it 
 would not afflict me." 
 
 "That is true? That is really, really true?" he 
 cried, and his tone seemed less despondent. 
 
328 SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 "Don't you know how true it is?" she said, in such 
 accents and with such a shy upward look that some- 
 thing seemed suddenly to take Garnache by the throat. 
 The blood flew to his cheeks. He fancied an odd 
 meaning in those words of hers — a meaning that set 
 his pulses throbbing faster than joy or peril had ever 
 set them yet. Then he checked himself, and deep 
 down in his soul he seemed to hear a peal of mocking 
 laughter — just such a burst of sardonic mirth as had 
 broken from his lips two nights ago when on his way 
 to Voiron. Then he went back to the business he had 
 in hand. 
 
 "I am glad it is so with you," he said quietly. "Be- 
 cause — because Florimond has brought him home a 
 wife." 
 
 The words were out, and he stood back as stands a 
 man who, having cast an insult, prepares to ward the 
 blow he expects in answer. He had looked for a storm, 
 a wild, frantic outburst; the lightning of flashing, 
 angry eyes; the thunder of outraged pride. Instead, 
 here was a gentle calm, a wan smile overspreading her 
 sweet, pale face, and then she hid that face in her 
 hands, buried face and hands upon his shoulder and 
 fell to weeping very quietly. 
 
 This, he thought, was almost worse than the tem- 
 pest he had looked for. How was he to know that 
 these tears were the overflow of a heart that was on 
 the point of bursting from sheer joy? He patted her 
 shoulder; he soothed her. 
 
 " Little child," he whispered in her ear. " What does 
 it matter? You did not really love him. He was all 
 unworthy of you. Do not grieve, child. So, so, that 
 is better." 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S EVE 329 
 
 She was looking up at him, smiling through the 
 tears that suffused her eyes. 
 
 "I am weeping for joy, monsieur," said she. 
 
 " For you ? " quoth he. " Vertudieul There is no end 
 to the things a woman weeps for!" 
 
 Unconsciously, instinctively almost, she nestled 
 closer to him, and again his pulses throbbed, again 
 that flush came to overspread his lean countenance. 
 Very softly he whispered in her ear: 
 
 "Will you go to Paris with me, mademoiselle?" 
 
 He meant by that question no more than to ask 
 whether, now that here in Dauphiny she would be 
 friendless and alone, it were not better for her to 
 place herself under the care of the Queen-Regent. But 
 what blame to her if she misunderstood the question, 
 if she read in it the very words her heart was longing 
 to hear from him? The very gentleness of his tone 
 implied his meaning to be the one she desired. She 
 raised her hazel eyes again to his, she nestled closer 
 to him, and then, with a shy fluttering of her lids, a 
 delicious red suffusing her virgin cheek, she answered 
 very softly: 
 
 "I will go anywhere with you, monsieur — any- 
 where." 
 
 With a cry he broke from her. There was no fancy- 
 ing now; no possibility of misunderstanding. He saw 
 how she had misread his question, how she had 
 delivered herself up to him in answer. His almost 
 roughness startled her, and she stared at him as he 
 stamped down the apartment and back to where she 
 stood, seeking in vain to master the turbulence of his 
 feelings. He stood still again. He took her by the 
 shoulders and held her at arms' length, before him, 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 
 
 thus surveying her, and there was trouble in his keen 
 eyes. 
 
 " Mademoiselle, mademoiselle ! " he cried. "Valerie, 
 my child, what are you saying to me?" 
 
 "What would you have me say?" she asked, her 
 eyes upon the floor. "Was I too forward? It seemed 
 to me there could not be question of such a thing 
 between us now. I belong to you. What man has ever 
 served a woman as you have served me ? What better 
 friend, what nobler lover did ever woman have ? Why 
 then need I take shame at confessing my devotion?" 
 
 He swallowed hard, and there was a mist before his 
 eyes — eyes that had looked unmoved on many a 
 scene of carnage. 
 
 "You know not what you do," he cried out, and his 
 voice was as the voice of one in pain. "I am old." 
 
 "Old?" she echoed in deep surprise, and she looked 
 up at him, as if she sought evidence of what he stated. 
 
 "Aye, old," he assured her bitterly. "Look at the 
 grey in my hair, the wrinkles in my face. I am no likely 
 lover for you, child. You'll need a lusty, comely young 
 gallant." 
 
 She looked at him, and a faint smile flickered at the 
 corners of her lips. She observed his straight, hand- 
 some figure; his fine air of dignity and of strength. 
 Every inch a man was he; never lived there one who 
 was more a man; and what more than such a man 
 could any maid desire? 
 
 "You are all that I would have you," she answered 
 him, and in his mind he almost cursed her stubborn- 
 ness, her want of reason. 
 
 "I am peevish and cross-grained," he informed her, 
 " and I have grown old in ignorance of woman's ways. 
 
SAINT MARTIN'S EVE 331 
 
 Love has never come to me until now. What manner 
 of lover, think you, can I make?" 
 
 Her eyes were on the windows at his back. The 
 sunshine striking through them seemed to give her the 
 reply she sought. 
 
 "To-morrow will be Saint Martin's Day," she told 
 him; "yet see with a warmth the sun is shining." 
 
 "A poor, make-believe Saint Martin's Summer," 
 said he. "I am fitly answered by your allegory." 
 
 "Oh, not make-believe, not make-believe," she 
 exclaimed. "There is no make-believe in the sun's 
 brightness and its warmth. We see it and we feel it, 
 and we are none the less glad of it because the time 
 of year should be November; rather do we take the 
 greater joy in it. And it is not yet November in your 
 life, not yet by many months." 
 
 "What you say is apt, perhaps," said he, " and may 
 seem more apt than it is since my name is Martin, 
 though I am no saint." Then he shook off this mood 
 that he accounted selfish; this mood that would take 
 her — as the wolf takes the lamb — with no thought 
 but for his own hunger. 
 
 "No, no!" he cried out. "It were unworthy in me!" 
 
 "When I love you, Martin?" she asked him gently. 
 
 A moment he stared at her, as if through those clear 
 eyes he would penetrate to the very depths of her 
 maiden soul. Then he sank on to his knees before her 
 as any stripling lover might have done, and kissed her 
 hands in token of the fact that he was conquered. 
 
 THE END 
 
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