# The Evidence of the Sword

https://archive.org/details/Extracted from Everybodys magazine, Feb. 1901, pp. 159-169. Accompanying illustrations omitted.
THE EVIDENCE OF THE SWORD
BY RAFAEL SABATINI
I.
WHEN two men chance to love the same woman, they seldom love each other.
Don Rafael de Molina and I contented ourselves with mutual scorn, all the more bitter on my part since I was the less favored suitor; all the more lofty and disdainful on his, since his wooing prospered passing well.
There were dark rumors abroad concerning the presence in Paris of this sleek and courtly Spaniard. ’Twas said on every hand, and when he was not by—for he wielded a tolerable rapier—that he was a ruffler of the Court of Spain, who, having fallen upon evil days, had pocketed his pride and taken secret service of a not over honorable character under Anne of Austria.
I took scant interest in the knave until he had the audacity to raise his eyes to Mademoiselle de Navéry. Then, of a sudden, I began to lend an ear to those who styled him a foreign spy. And when I saw him succeed with mademoiselle, where I had all but failed; when I saw the bold glance of unmasked meaning in his dark eves when he addressed her, and the fatuous, self-complacent smile wherewith he listened to her answers, I felt convinced that what was said of him was true.
I might have picked a quarrel with him, but I had naught to gain by doing so; for, even if I succeeded in killing him, I should have to reckon with the Cardinal, whose edict against duelling was not a thing with which one might make too free.
I might have told his Eminence what title the Spaniard bore; but such a proceeding was too unworthy, and not to be dreamt of by Léon de Bret.
We were in the month of June, and the King was on the eve of leaving Paris for Blois. It was incumbent upon me, as one of the gentlemen-in-waiting, to accompany the Court. I made bold to ask Mademoiselle de Navéry’s unnecessary permission, and she answered me, with scant waste of compliments and a pretty toss of her fair head, that it was no affair of hers, and that I must follow my inclinations. Yet, when I told her that to follow my inclinations I must follow her, and that, since she went to Blois in the suite of Anne of Austria, I would accompany the King, she bit her lip and dubbed me impertinent. Dubbed me impertinent, pardieu! for uttering words which would have brought a blush to her delicate cheeks and a smile to her red lips had they been uttered by that graceless De Molina.
It was with a heart full of bitterness that I left the Louvre that night, and turned my steps homeward through the slippery streets, for a misty rain had prevailed since noon, and the mud lay deep upon the ground.
Wrapped in my cloak, and a prey to thoughts that took not a pleasant turn, I trudged moodily along until I reached the colonnade which borders the Place Royale. I was about to pass on, when, chancing to raise my head, my attention was arrested by the sight of two men pacing slowly to and fro in the middle of the square.
Now, as I have said, the night was rainy; moreover, had those two gentlemen, in spite of that, still desired to enjoy an innocent promenade, methought it unlikelv that they should choose the precincts of Place Royale to indulge their fancy, saturating their boots and risking a cold by stepping from one pool of water into another.
So I concluded that this was an assignation, and I waited to see another couple arrive, pitying the gentlemen that would have to strip in such weather.
But presently the twain stopped, and from where I stood I could just make out their voices raised in altercation, although I heard not what was said.
Then, of a sudden, they sprang apart. Their cloaks flew from them. There was a familiar rasp, and the white glitter of steel followed by a clash, as, with scarcely a word of warning, those two engaged.
Astonishment and curiosity held me to the pillar against which I leant, and for some moments I watched them as best I could in the uncertain light. I saw the left hand of one of the combatants drop from its upheld position. I watched it running round the waist, then pause, then rise again clutching a short, shining object.
For a moment I marvelled at this, then suddenly I understood, and with a loud cry I dashed forward to prevent what I saw was about to resolve itself into an assassination.
But I had understood too late; for even as I sprang into the square, the victim stretched forward with a lunge. His opponent’s sword moved not to the parry, but his left hand shot out, and the dagger it held turned the stroke aside, while simultaneously he bent forward and transfixed his man by a vigorous thrust.
Then, hearing my footsteps, he freed his rapier. Gathering his cloak about him, and lifting it so as to conceal his face, he darted a glance at me from over his shoulder as he turned to run.
“Stop, assassin!” I shouted wildly, as I prepared to give chase. But as I reached the spot of the encounter and cast a sidelong glance at the prostrate figure, something familiar in the outline drew my attention and made me pause.
I turned, and stooping I raised the mud-bespattered head. A pair of eyes, wide open and mutely appealing, looked at me from out of the well-known countenance of Raoul de Navéry, mademoiselle’s brother.
Horrified at my discovery, I dropped on to my right knee, and pillowing his head upon my left, I proceeded to examine thenature of his hurt. ’Twas as I had expected. The murderer’s sword had entered his breast full on the left side, close to the heart. He was bleeding inwardly, and in a few moments would be dead.
I loosened his doublet so that he might breathe with as little pain as possible, and as I did so, I caught a faintly murmured word of thanks.
“Who was it, Ferdinand?” I inquired, taking his hand in mine.
“De Molina,” he answered, in a hoarse whisper. “Foul stroke; he used a dagger.” A spasm of pain crossed his face.
“I know it, mon ami,” I answered. “I saw the parry. The dastard shall account to me.”
He smiled feebly.
“Thanks, dear friend,” he said. Then, after a pause: “Bend lower, Léon,” he murmured; and, as I obeyed, I faintly caught from the dying lips: “He is a spy in the pay of the Queen Mother. There is a plot to poison the Cardinal. Warn him. Take care of my sister, she is——”
He stopped abruptly, and a shudder convulsed his body for a moment; then, with a long-drawn sigh, he became still.
I was at length aroused by the tramp of feet and the jangle of accoutrements, and presently saw a body of men approaching across the square.
At a glance I recognized the uniforms of Richelieu’s guards. Some one carried a lantern swinging on a pike, and, by the scant rays it shed, I discerned with glad astonishment—for I imagined that he was under arrest—the swart face and pointed beard of Rafael de Molina.
But even as I looked his arm went up and his finger pointed towards me, whilst in his soft southern accent came the words:
“Tenez, Monsieur de Bret is still there.”
The next moment, and before I could grasp the situation, I was confronted by an officer and six troopers, and in their wake a morbid, curious crowd of all grades from courtiers to mendicants, which rapidly encircled us, and well-nigh drove me frantic with its babbling.
Molina stood beside the officer, and surveyed me with a glance of malicious triumph which I was puzzled to understand.
“This is a sad business. Monsieur de Bret,” said the officer, with an ominous shake of the head, as, stooping, he put his hand to poor De Navéry’s heart. “Dead,” he muttered. “Worse and worse; and so irregular. No seconds. I am afraid it will fare badly with you, monsieur.”
A light began to break upon my mind.
“Diable!” I ejaculated. “What do you mean?”
He drew himself up, and his foot struck against my sword. I had drawn it when I sprang to De Navéry’s rescue, and I had heedlessly dropped it when I stooped to tend the fallen man.
“There is a witness. Monsieur de Bret,” the officer answered respectfully, but firmly. “This gentleman,” he continued, indicating De Molina with his thumb, saw you fight and recognized you—unfortunately when it was too late. Did you not, monsieur”
“I did,” the Spaniard answered slowly, “and I ran to summon you.”
“Ventre St. Gris!” I cried, springing to my feet and facing them, “this is preposterous!”
“ I am afraid that it is not,” answered the officer coldly. “ I must trouble you for your sword.”
For the moment the thought of opposing him and giving my version of the story occurred to me. Then, realizing how futile this would prove, and that I might but flounder deeper into the quagmire wherein I stood already, I resolved to keep my narrative for the Cardinal’s ear and to deliver it along with De Navéry’s message. Richelieu knew me and held me in some esteem. I might rely upon his justice.
With a proud glance at De Molina I lifted the baldric unconsciously over my head, nor did I understand the officer’s puzzled stare until I saw that from it hung an empty scabbard.
The officer looked about him, whilst the swelling crowd set up a curious murmur, and some callous ones laughed, even in the presence of the dead, at my embarrassment.
Then noting that De Navéry’s sword lay under him, the officer stooped, and lifting my naked rapier from the ground returned it to its sheath.
“The evidence is complete," he muttered, and again he shook his head. “Monsieur de Bret, I pity you. ’Tis a hanging matter."
He turned his back abruptly upon me, and bidding two men take up the corpse, ordered the others to surround me.
“Way there!”
“Make way!” cried the guards that preceded me, and with the butt-end of their pikes they persuaded the crowd to let us through.
II.
Ventre St. Gris, but my position was an unenviable one! And as I sat ruminating in the dark upon my prison bed I realized it to the full. The news would be all over Paris by then that Léon de Bret had killed a man in the Place Royale.
The King would know and the Cardinal would know—which troubled me but little—and Renée de Navéry would know, which troubled me overmuch.
What would she think? Had the Spaniard carried the news to her, and had he, perchance—since he accused me of killing the man whom he had killed—also accused me of his full crime? Would he dare to say that I had struck a foul blow, and that I had not merely killed Raoul de Navéry, but murdered him?
The grating of a key in the door interrupted my miserable thoughts and reminded me of supper.
I turned to greet my jailer with an oath for having kept me waiting thus long, when, to my surprise, a cloaked and hooded figure entered the dismal chamber, and I heard a woman’s voice, which I recognized in a moment and which set my nerves a-tingling with excitement.
“Thank you. Monsieur le Capitaine,” she said; “you may leave us.”
Quéniart, the officer in command of the chaletet, set down the lantern upon the dirty deal table and bowed respectfully.
“For five minutes the order says, madame,” he murmured, bowing, whilst I watched him in a dull fashion, wondering what she had come to say, and what new torture Heaven willed me to endure.
At length, when the door had closed upon him, she tore back her hood, and, removing her mask, showed me a face white and drawn with pain, and a pair of eyes red from weeping.
“Monsieur de Bret," she said in trembling accents, “what does it mean?”
I started, for in her voice I detected the old ring of the days—before that accursed Spaniard came between us—when she had not been so sparing in her favors. I was bewildered, and justly might I have asked her the very question that she put to me.
“What does it mean. Monsieur de Bret?” she repeated.
“What does all Paris say?” I asked at length.
“That you have killed my brother,” she answered brokenly.
“And you—you believe it?”
“Believe it?” she echoed in amazement. “Do I believe it Should I be here if I did?”
“Thank God!” I cried fervently.
“But you were there. Monsieur de Bret, when he died. Do you know who killed him?”
“He told me,” I answered. “It was——”
“Molina,” she cried. “Ah, you see I know. Am I not right?”
“You are, indeed,” I said, marvelling from what source she had derived her information.
“Aye, ’tis as I thought. Oh, why did not Raoul heed my warning? I told him so often that Molina was a spy of the Queen’s, and that naught would deter him from ridding himself of such an opponent as Raoul might become if he were able to prove what was being whispered everywhere, for Raoul was a Cardinalist. But as God lives, I will avenge my brother,” she ended passionately. “This Spanish hound shall not live to see to-morrow dawn.”
“Hush, child,” I cried. “’Tis not for frail women to talk of vengeance.”
“But I have no one in the world. Monsieur de Bret,” she wailed,” and Raoul has no one but me to look to for justice.”
“Since when has Léon de Bret ceased to be counted among your friends—yours and your poor brother’s? Moreover, mademoiselle, Raoul entrusted me with a secret before he died, and with a mission which I shall fulfil to-morrow. Then others shall reckon with Rafael de Molina, and if he escapes the wheel I do not know Monseigneur de Richelieu.”
“But you, dear friend!” she cried. “Oh, I had forgotten your position! Forgive my selfishness. I am distraught with grief at what has happened. You are a prisoner.”
“True,” I muttered, “but I shall have something to say to-morrow to Monseigneur de Richelieu. If only I could prove my own innocence conclusively—” I paused abruptly as a thought occurred to me.
“I have it!” I cried presently. “Ma vie, but you may count upon me. I shall be freed to-morrow.”
We were interrupted by a knock, and she was forced to say farewell.
As I led her to the door, after she had readjusted her mask, “Do nothing, mademoiselle, until you hear from me,” I whispered. “Your brother will be avenged.”
There was more that I might have said, but her grief commanded respect and circumspection, and so I contented myself with kissing her hand and cutting short her grateful words by throwing wide the door.
When she was gone I found that I had much to think of and ponder over. I had said that her brother would be avenged, and it was incumbent upon me to discover a manner wherein my promise might be fulfilled.
But I could not do it. I tried a score of times to drive my thoughts into such a channel. Unconsciously they would drift back again to Renee de Navéry, and again I would see the flash in her eyes; again I would hear her call Molina a Spanish hound. .…
And in the dark I rubbed my hands softly together and chuckled gleefully to myself—for love is a monstrous selfish thing—remembering only that none stood between Renee and me, and gloating fiendishly over the discovery that she had but feigned a preference for Molina in order to unmask a traitor, and to defend her brother from the danger by which she rightly fancied him assailed.
I was ever sanguine, and the dawn of hope which brightened the blackness of my cell was rosy and full of promise.
She had found me gloomy, sullen, and despondent; ready for the airy death-dance of Montfaucon. She had left me elated, joyful, and confident that to-morrow would restore me my liberty, my sword, and the right to woo her.
’Twas a pleasant enough dream, and it abided with me until I fell asleep.
Morning found me cheerful and much refreshed in spirit, but famished in body, for those sons of dogs who kept the châtelet had left me supperless.
I was beginning to fear that the Quéniart had made too sure that I should be hanged, and with a saintly solicitude for the welfare of my soul had deemed it best that I should fast a while in preparation.
But in the end my breakfast came. A scanty one, ’tis true; half a tough capon—from which soup had been boiled for every other inmate of the prison before it was roasted—and a demi-litre of wine which was first cousin to vinegar. Still I partook of it. And if it did not give me strength, at least it duped my hunger for the while, and paved the way for a hearty meal which I hoped to reckon with anon.
Scarce had I finished when Quéniart returned, and after a hasty toilet I announced myself ready to accompany him to the Hotel Richelieu.
A coach was hired at my expense, for Quéniart was too well known in Paris to render it pleasant for a gentleman to walk swordless beside him.
“Hi, Master Quéniart,” I exclaimed as we were leaving, “will you be good enough to bring my sword? I am indeed mistaken if his Eminence does not order it to be returned to me within the hour.”
The captain’s eyebrows were lifted in surprise.
“You are sanguine, monsieur,” he ejaculated. Then bending his head, “It may serve as evidence,” he said.
“And what of that?” I cried.
“There is blood upon it.”
I started despite myself at the unwelcome news.
“When did you see the blade?” I inquired sharply.
“Last night when it was handed to me by the officer who arrested you.”
He spoke the truth, I knew, and so I concluded that the blade must have received its stains while lying on the ground beside the wounded man. I pondered for a moment, then lifting my eyes to his face:
“Bring the sword,” I said decidedly. “What signifies a little blood when there is one who swears he saw me slay the man, and a score who saw me with the body in my arms before it had gone cold?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and turned to do my bidding, although he tired not of telling me how mad I was until we stood in the presence of the Cardinal.
Never was an audience granted me with such despatch. Scarcely had we been announced when the crimson portière which masked the door of Richelieu’s cabinet was lifted by an usher, and—
“His Eminence will see Monsieur de Bret immediately,” he cried.
Quéniart’s great fingers closed over my hand.
“Good luck,” he whispered.
I pushed my way through the idle crowd of clients, and the next moment I stood in the Cardinals presence, and face to face with Don Rafael de Molina.
Richelieu, who was seated at his writing-table, raised his head as I entered, and darted a quick glance at me.
“Monsieur de Bret,” said he, “I am sorely disappointed in you. What have you to say?”
“That your Eminence has been misinformed,” I answered stoutly.
He perked his head on one side, and studied me attentively through eyes that wore a sleepy look—an infallible sign that he was wide awake.
“Do you mean that you. did not kill Monsieur de Navéry?” he inquired slowly.
“I did not, Monseigneur.”
Richelieu turned to Molina, and the words he spoke made my heart bound within me.
“ I know Monsieur de Bret for a man of honor,” he said quietly, “and in the face of your accusation, I looked for an excuse from him for having broken the edict, but never for a denial such as you have heard.”
A deprecatory smile, full of significance and venom, swept over the foreigner’s swart countenance.
“However,” continued the Cardinal, “let us hear what Monsieur de Bret may have to say. Perchance it would puzzle him to satisfactorily explain how he came to be found in so compromising a position by the guard.”
Briefly I told him what I have set down here concerning it, suppressing, however, the facts that a dagger had been employed, and that in the man who returned with the guard I had recognized the perpetrator of the deed. I also omitted, for reasons of my own, Navéry’s dying message.
When I had done, the Cardinal, whose eyes had been rivetted on my face whilst I spoke, turned again to Molina.
“Are you certain that it was Monsieur de Bret whom you saw?” he inquired, with marked coldness.
“Por Dios y la Virgen!” cried the Spaniard, forgetting in whose presence he stood, “have I not said so? Think you I should accuse a man unless I were positive? Moreover, since my word appears to be insufficient, was not his sword found drawn?”
“True,” mused the Cardinal, looking at me again. “Still, Monsieur de Bret has satisfactorily explained that he drew it to rush to the assistance of Monsieur de Navéry.”
“Has your Eminence forgotten that there is blood upon his sword?” exclaimed Molina with a sneer.
The Cardinal frowned, perchance at the Spaniard’s tone, perchance at the fresh piece of evidence.
“There is more upon my sword than you will relish. Monsieur I’Etranger,” I cried hotly, whereat his Eminence looked pleased, and the foreigner changed color slightly, for he could not tell how much was known to me of the encounter.
“I dropped my sword,” I continued, “when I raised Navéry from the ground, and the blood that flowed from his wound must have stained it where it lay. But we are wasting words. Since my sword has been mentioned as evidence, let it be produced. At my request Captain Quéniart has brought it with him. He waits now in the ante-chamber. If your Eminence will order it to be brought in, I imagine it will tell us something that will surprise Monsieur de Molina.”
The Cardinal raised his eyebrows, and glanced from one to the other of us. Then, without a word, he touched a small hand-bell.
“Call Captain Quéniart,” he said to the lackey who answered the summons.
A moment later the burly soldier appeared.
“Now, Monseigneur,” I said, taking the weapon, which, at a sign from the Cardinal, Quéniart surrendered to me.
“your Eminence has wielded a rapier yourself if Fame speak truly, and you are well acquainted with the points and virtues of the weapon.”
He smiled, evidently pleased by the memories I had aroused in his priestly heart.
“It was my good fortune,” I went on, “to take this sword to an armorer’s a week ago, so that a new blade might be fitted to it. Will your Eminence be good enough to look closely at the edge, and see what it has to say concerning last night’s doings.”
I drew the sword as I spoke, and I now presented the hilt to Richelieu.
He took it from me with a puzzled air, while Molina and Quéniart, actuated by different feelings, went nearer than deference ordained.
Richelieu looked at the blade, then, with a slight exclamation, he rose and walked over to the window.
The sun shone through the leaded panes and fell upon the steel, which glittered brightly save here and there where a shiny patch of reddish brown had deadened its lustre. For some moments he examined it attentively, then, turning, he bent his dark, penetrating eye upon the Spaniard.
“You have been over-zealous in the cause of justice. Monsieur de Molina,” he said coldly. “This sword has not been used since this blade was fitted to it.”
Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet Molina could not have been more taken aback. He turned pale to the lips, and darted a furious glance at the Cardinal. There was a moment’s silence, then Richelieu spoke:
“Monsieur de Bret, you are released. Quéniart, we must look elsewhere for the culprit; you may go. Monsieur de Molina, you also may retire.”
“Might I suggest that Monsieur de Molina should submit his rapier to a like examination,” I ventured to remark.
The Spaniard drew himself up stiffly.
“We do not carry swords for ornament in Spain,” he answered proudly, “as I shall be happy to prove to you if you have reason to doubt the fact.”
Then, before I had time to reply:
“There may be dints upon the edge. Does your Eminence desire to see them?”
“It would be useless,” the Cardinal answered carelessly. “You may go.”
III.
When we were alone I gave the Cardinal the fullest details of what I knew.
“I half suspected it was thus,” he said when I had finished. “And he used a dagger, you say. The dastard! But what am I to do? He has killed Navéry, of that I am assured. He may be plotting against my life, that also I do not doubt. But what proofs can I offer the Court of Spain He is a spy of the Queen’s, and that makes it more dangerous still. I would consign him to the wheel if I dared, but—” He paused, frowned, and lapsed into thought.
“If, peradventure. Monsieur de Molina were to involve himself one of these evenings in a brawl, and receive a thrust in the windpipe or in low quarte methinks your Eminence’s riddle would be well solved, and Raoul de Navéry most fitly avenged.”
“True,” he mused, “’twould be a great blessing.”
“But an unlikely one while the edict is so strictly observed.”
His glittering eye rested upon me for a moment. Then he laughed.
“I understand,” he said. “Well, if you know of any one inclined to avenge De Navéry, and to save me from poisoning, the edict shall be forgotten for once.”
I thanked him, and told him that I thought I knew of such a man, whereupon he dismissed me with his blessing.
“You are a tolerable swordsman, I know,” he said, as I took up my hat, “and I have every confidence in your skill. But what if he use a dagger again?”
“I trust he will. Monseigneur,” I answered; “I am reckoning upon it.”
From the Hotel Richelieu I wended my way towards the house of my late friend, De Navéry. Renée welcomed me with a glad cry and a smile which lighted up the sorrowful darkness of her countenance.
I did but remain until I had told her what had taken place, and what was likely to follow, then, leaving her, I went to dine, grim memories haunting me of my last repast.
To take Molina at his word, and ask him to prove to me that they did not carry swords for ornament in Spain, would have meant a duel—a duel with seconds, wherein he would have been compelled to follow the rules of honorable play. That I could have killed him under such circumstances I did not for a moment doubt. But it would be too easy an end for him. To let him feel himself mastered; to compel him to have recourse to that assassin’s trick of his, and then, when he imagined himself triumphant, to beat him with his own cards, that would be something like revenge. And for that a brawl was needed.
Towards nightfall, therefore, I repaired to the “Green Pillar,” in the Rue St. Honore, which I knew he frequented. The gods were with me, for I found him there at play with half a dozen others.
I seated myself apart, unnoticed, and awaited an opportunity.
Presently it came.
“Come, host, another bottle of Armagnac. And let it be of the best, rascal, for we will drink to Don Rafael de Molina’s safe journey home.”
This was news that caused me no great astonishment.
“Does Monsieur de Molina contemplate leaving Paris?” I inquired, turning towards the party. “I am not surprised, for such an interview as he had this morning with the Cardinal is apt to make one’s liver pale. I am glad to learn it in time, however; for I should have been deeply grieved had he left us without learning the opinion which I have had an opportunity of forming of this worthy gentleman, and which I imagine will be shared by all honorable men when the truth is known.”
I had risen and stood facing the Spaniard, and giving him back scowl for scowl.
“You mean?” he inquired in a voice of suppressed wrath.
That you are a liar and a murderer. Monsieur l’Espagnol,” I answered coolly, “and that Monsieur de Navéry met his death at your hands.”
A charming scene of confusion followed, as with a vigorous, “Madre de Dios!” the Spaniard kicked aside his chair.
“Outside, monsieur!” I shouted, pointing to the door, and making myself heard above the din. “Sortons!”
And then, with many an oath and angry word, we burst through the door pêle-mêle into the courtyard beyond.
We fought as we stood, in hats and cloaks. There were no formalities. De Molina was in too great a hurry, and I guessed his reason.
For a good Aye minutes I played the fellow in the uncertain light of a couple of lanterns, and showed him that I was his master, yet forebore to press him too hard; but waited, with my eyes keeping good watch over his left hand.
At last it came. The onlookers stood ranged against the wall to the right. Away from these Molina led me; retreating under my attack, and I following as if his designs were unknown to me. At last the other side of the quadrangle was reached, and in the shadow that enveloped us he thought himself safe from detection.
His left hand dropped as on the previous night, but I saw not the glitter I looked for, and yet I knew that he had drawn his dagger. But there were many eyes upon him, and even in the darkness a lack of caution might betray his motive. He must be wary lest they should interrupt the fight in the very moment of his victory. Possibly he did not care whether he was discovered or not, if only he had time to kill me before the interruption came.
I pressed him hard, and whilst I did so I loosened the fastenings of my cloak with my other hand as though I desired to cast the garment from me. Then I feinted, and lunged under his guard. My sword was within an inch of his breast when his poniard met it, and sent it past him. Simultaneously he offered me his point, a triumphant leer upon his face.
But he had reckoned without my knowledge of his ways. I had dragged the loosened cloak from my back, and held it on my arm. With a sweep of it, I dashed his blade aside.
I saw the look of terror come into his upturned face. I heard the cry of horror which burst from the onlookers. Before they could interfere, however, Don Rafael de Molina lay writhing in the throes of death.
So cautious had he been that not one of those who stood there so much as suspected his foul play, and when they saw him fall ’neath my murderous stroke, a dozen swords leapt from their scabbards, and with angry cries of “Shame!” and “Murder!” they flung themselves upon me.
But when I shouted to them to look at his left hand they paused to do my bidding. And when they saw the dagger which was grasped by the nerveless fingers of the dead, they sheathed their swords and hushed their angry cries; whilst when I told them that ’twas thus that De Molina had killed De Navéry, there were some amongst them who spat upon the corpse.
Half an hour later I stood swordless, and under arrest, in the guardroom of the châtelet, awaiting the officer. When Quéniart entered and beheld me, he rubbed his eyes and spluttered out an oath.
“What, again!” he ejaculated. “Ventre St. Gris, Monsieur de Bret, but you are like to hang this time, whether the edge of your sword be battered or not.”
Nevertheless, it came not to pass as he predicted, for next day I was liberated, and I knelt in Nôtre Dame at the requiem mass for Raoul de Navéry. The season was not propitious for the advancement of my suit, and so I determined to accompany the Court to Blois next day, and leave my wooing until I should return, when perchance Renee’s grief might have abated.
I paid her a visit that evening, and she received me kindly, and overwhelmed me with words of praise and gratitude, until I felt myself as great an historical personage as Bayard or Du Guesclin. But when I came to say farewell she looked surprised.
“You are going to Blois?” she said.
“Yes, mademoiselle; I accompany the Court.”
“You craved my permission three days ago,” she murmured, studying the pattern of the carpet with great intentness, and I cannot remember granting it.”
My heart beat fast and furiously, “Will you grant it now?” I inquired,
“No, monsieur,” she said, lifting her eyes to mine, “I will not. I cannot spare you.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1950, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 73 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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