THE SUPERSTITION OF COUNT FELIX

Among those who found no sleep that night was Count Felix himself. A bold schemer of unbounded ambition, determined to allow no obstacle to stand in his way, he was at the same time both subtle and farsighted. For years he had been preparing for this hour. He had ingratiated himself with the old Duke, who by word had virtually appointed him his successor. He had sought to draw to him all those who were prominent and powerful in the state. He had steadily besieged the affections of Christine de Liancourt. Had she been his wife, or had she even promised to marry him, he would at once have seized the throne, and any rising in favor of the scholar of Passey would have had poor chance of success. She was so well loved that she would have bound to him most of those who were at present his enemies. Christine, however, had persistently supported the claim of the Duke's son, in which Felix had applauded her; and when the time came, had urged that she should go to Passey herself to bring Maurice to Vayenne, since it was almost certain that he would refuse the crown unless strong pressure were brought to bear upon him. Such pressure Christine was certain to use, and not for an instant did Felix doubt that it would be used successfully. By supporting her in this way, Felix disarmed any suspicion she might have, and felt convinced that presently she would consent to marry him. In the meanwhile Maurice must not be allowed to enter Vayenne. To aid him in this set purpose Felix had found a tool ready to his hand in Barbier, an adventurer who had enough crimes to his credit to hang him ten times over, and possessed of the doubtful virtue of loyalty to his employer, no matter how great a scoundrel that employer might be. It was Barbier who had chosen the men who should form the band of pretended robbers and those who should form Mademoiselle de Liancourt's escort. It was his own scheme, he declared to these men, but, as he explained to them, the Count would easily forgive such an affair, and the reward, if not openly given, would be ample. Some of the men may have had their suspicion that the Count knew of the plot, but it is certain that no one of them had a particle of evidence to justify any statement of the kind; nor had they any knowledge that their names figured on the list which Count Felix so carefully preserved.

To kill the young Duke on his journey from Passey to Vayenne seemed the simplest matter possible. That Christine had insisted on Gaspard Lemasle accompanying her as captain of the escort was a pity; but what could one man do against such a combination of enemies? Felix ranked Lemasle among his friends rather than his foes, and should the captain recognize any of his adversaries it would be easy to hang such traitors. It would not be difficult quietly to compass the death of Barbier himself if necessary.

So the Count saw no flaw in his plans. He felt secure, felt certain of grasping his ambition. Now the hour had come, and the unexpected had happened. Lemasle and this priest had succeeded in defending the young Duke. True, Maurice had been wounded, might indeed be dead, but there was no certainty. A body, marred past recognition, might convince the people, and the court, who had seen little or nothing of Maurice; it would be harder to convince Lemasle and Christine, but surely not impossible. This priest was the difficulty; he knew what had become of the Duke. Barbier had declared he was no priest. Who was he? Who was there who could have betrayed this secret to Maurice, or Lemasle, or to Christine? What tale had been told them? Certainly not the true one; only Barbier knew that. Count Felix still felt secure, but had he grasped his ambition? His fingers seemed to touch it, yet could they not grip it. Such success as this was worse than failure.

It was no time for hesitation. The news that the young Duke was dead was even now running through Vayenne like flame among dry sticks. In a few hours the people would have recognized fully that he, Felix, was Duke. The coming hours were precious, and no doubt of the truth of the news must be allowed to transpire. Lemasle and Christine would speedily return, and Lemasle had been captain of the escort and responsible for the young Duke's safety. Prompt orders were issued, therefore, that Captain Lemasle was to be arrested the moment he entered Vayenne, and orders were also given to arrest any priest entering the city, whether he came alone or in Lemasle's company.

Early in the morning Father Bertrand came to the castle to protest against this second order.

"Many priests may enter Vayenne, coming and going about their duty," he said; "are they all to be arrested?"

"Yes, father, all," the Count answered. "They will easily clear themselves; but there is reason to believe that some miscreant—not a priest, probably, but arrayed as one—has had a hand in the young Duke's death."

Father Bertrand continued to protest, but the Count was firm yet courteous, and the priest returned thoughtfully to the Rue St. Romain. He, too, was a man of action, and the Count had raised his curiosity.

Soon afterward Count Felix left the castle on foot, and walked quickly to the Place Beauvoisin, which lay beyond the castle toward the North Gate. Here in times past the nobles had lived, but in these days the old houses there had meaner tenants—Jews who were accounted rich, and shopkeepers who either had made or were making money. There was an air of prosperity in the Place Beauvoisin except in one corner of it, where a faded house stood sideways behind a high wall. The Count entered the square by a narrow way near this house, which was his destination. His summons at a small door in the wall was quickly answered, and he entered without a word to the porter. Every one in the square knew that the beautiful Countess Elisabeth lived at the faded house in the corner, but probably no one knew that Count Felix was a constant visitor there.

The Countess rose from her seat to welcome him, and turned hastily to a young girl with whom she had been talking and laughing the moment before, telling her to go.

"I will send for you presently, Lucille," she said. Then when the door had closed she held out her hands to the Count. "I have been expecting you."

Felix bent over her hand for a moment.

"I come to you with all my joys and sorrows," he said, "with all my ambitions, my successes, and my failures."

"Yes; and I am glad. You know that, Felix," she answered. "To-day you touch your ambition."

"You have heard the news then? I sometimes wonder how news, bad news, can come into this sweet retreat."

"Bad news, Felix?"

"Is it not bad, since Maurice is dead?"

The woman looked at him for a moment, and then turned away.

"Why attempt to deceive me?" she said.

By common consent the Countess Elisabeth was pronounced beautiful. As a rule the beauty of really beautiful women is so marked in certain particulars that it excites criticism, and opinions will differ concerning it. But there is another kind of beauty, not so perfect, not comparable with any recognized standard, which nevertheless has something in it which appeals to all opinions. Countess Elisabeth was such a woman. She was fair, delicate-looking, and her coloring was wonderful; yet there was strength behind this seemingly fragile beauty—strength of purpose, strength of endurance. No one considered her of much importance in Vayenne. She seemed to live a retired life in the faded house in the Place Beauvoisin, her chief companion being a young girl, a distant relative, usually spoken of as Mademoiselle Lucille. Those who were inclined to be romantic gave the Countess a lover, some one in the past who had died or perchance proved faithless. They might have remodelled their ideas of her romance had they seen the color in her cheeks as she spoke to Felix.

"Does not the news spell fortune for you?" she went on after a pause. "All obstacles are removed by it."

"Yes. It seems so."

"Seems! What difficulty can remain?" And then she said suddenly, "You had no hand in his death, Felix?"

"No," he answered; "and yet your very question should show you something of the difficulty which still surrounds me. Others in Vayenne will ask that question, too, since the death occurs so opportunely for me."

"Why manufacture troubles?" she said. "Did ever a man yet step to a place of power without making enemies? I have always held that Maurice was not the man to reign in Montvilliers. His own father delivered the kingdom to you. Have I not urged you to take it when the time came, and chance a rising in Maurice's favor? It would never have come. Vayenne has looked upon you as the old Duke's successor too long."

"The way has always seemed easy when you have pointed it out to me," said Felix.

"Yes. I have been strangely generous," the Countess answered. "For your sake I have made no complaint when prudence suggested your marriage with Christine de Liancourt."

"You know, Elisabeth, that it is prudence alone which suggests it."

"Yes; I have vanity enough to believe that." And there was the suspicion of a long sigh in her answer.

"Advise me, my dearest lady," he said, leaning toward her. "You are my strength, my living talisman. Shall I strike now or delay?"

"Delay! For what?"

"I have not seen Maurice dead. He may have escaped. There is always the possibility. If he were to return now, he would come wearing a halo of romance. Shall I strike or wait?"

"Strike, Felix."

"And Christine?"

"Is it necessary—now?" she asked.

"I fear so."

"Still I say strike, Felix."

"You give me courage," he said. "You give me hope. So it has ever been. An hour ago I was beset with doubts. They are gone. Love mocks at them."

He held out his arms to her, but she only gave him her hand.

"Nothing more at such a moment?" he said.

"It is a moment that there can be nothing more," she answered. "Remember, I do not urge your marriage with Christine now."

"It is necessary; believe me, I would not marry her if I could help it."

"So we come to the parting ways."

"But you have always known that such a marriage was inevitable if I would possess the throne in peace."

"Circumstances are changed, Felix; I do not know it now. My Lord Duke has chosen his Duchess. He may come to me for advice if he will; he must go to her for love."

"It is sacrifice. My love is here with you."

"Think so if it helps you, but it is my hand only, Felix."

"And for the first time in my life I find it hard and cruel," he answered, raising it to his lips.

She laughed, an unexpected laugh, as one may laugh at a grim jest which cuts deep into the very soul.

"I do not understand you," he said.

"Did ever a man understand a woman yet? Let it suffice that I have deeper learning, and understand you perfectly. Go, Felix. This is no time for such riddles as trying to understand a woman. Your strong hand is wanted at the helm of affairs now."

"Good advice again, but nothing more."

"Can a man have everything for the asking?" she answered, and, laughing again, she passed from the room.

Felix went back to the castle, her advice ringing in his ears, all else forgotten for the moment. There was a subtle affinity between this woman and himself; he felt it, recognized it, bowed to it. She understood him, perhaps, better than any one else did. He felt better in her company, yet while he told her of his ambitions, there was much in his scheming which he dared not tell her. She was a good woman, and he had perception enough to think it strange that she should love him. Beyond that, his thoughts concerning her touched chaos, touched all that was most selfish in himself. He called it love, but there were moments when he understood himself well enough to know that such love as his, could she fully know it, might breed hate in her; and he would almost as soon have lost the crown as her good-will. Something of superstition there may have been in this; he had called her his living talisman, and the term had real meaning for him; perhaps deep down in his nature there were good inspirations which had never been granted an opportunity of rising to the surface.

To-day it was her advice that filled his thoughts. She, too, had called him my Lord Duke, even as Jean the dwarf had done. Was the spirit of prophecy in them both? Why had the dwarf called him so? Truly he was a fool, but might there not be method in such folly? He would see the dwarf and question him. So as soon as he returned to the castle, he gave orders that Jean was to be found without delay and brought to him.

The dwarf was sought for in the castle, in the Church of St. Etienne, and in the streets, but was nowhere to be found. He had been seen in the city during the morning, but no one could tell where he had gone. He was quite a public character in Vayenne, everybody knew him, but how he lived, or where he was to be found at any given moment, nobody knew. It was agreed, however, that there were times when he was not seen at all for days together. The failure to find him now only made the Count more eager to see him, and a diligent search went on throughout the day.

And all the while Jean sat in the corner of a room in the empty house by the wall, his legs doubled under him, his arms folded in his loose tunic, his head dropped forward upon his breast. He was as motionless as a squatting idol, and any one who had ever seen him thus might well believe that there was something mysterious about him. Jean was not hiding from the Count, he had no idea that he was being looked for; he had a problem to consider, and he had come into this solitude to solve it. He had heard of the death of the young Duke, had seen Barbier as he rode to and from the castle yesterday. He had heard of the Count's orders to arrest Captain Lemasle and any priest who entered Vayenne. Was the Duke really dead? How was friend Roger to be warned? The problem was evidently a difficult one to solve, for the dwarf sat for hours in the corner, never changing his position, scarcely making a movement the whole time.

Toward dusk, when the lights had begun to blink from windows, and the taverns and cafÉs were filling with men eager to discuss the news, he climbed to the roof, and clambered down the face of the wall to his boat hidden in the sunken archway. With a few vigorous strokes he sent it out into the stream, landing presently at the same spot where he had landed Herrick. He made fast the boat, and went quickly to the house among the trees.

"Farmer Jacques at home?" he said as he pushed open the door.

"'Tis the limb of Satan," the farmer cried. "Come in. Art hungry? Here's provender."

"You call me a devil and give me the welcome of an angel," said Jean. "There are great things afoot, Farmer Jacques."

"To dreamers like thou art there always are."

"And the river yonder separates you from the world," said Jean. "When were you in the city last?"

"A week ago."

"That's an eternity when things are afoot," said the dwarf.

"True. I was minded to go the other day," said Jacques, "for things have happened on this side of the river too. My horse was stolen in the night."

"Stolen!"

"Ay; saddle and all; and next day, toward evening, came trotting home again. What he'd done with the thief I know not."

"I'm glad he came back," said the dwarf thoughtfully.

"He'd been ridden hard, I could tell that," said the farmer.

"And not by a thief, perhaps," said Jean. "The young Duke, they say, is dead, Farmer Jacques."

"What, the Passey scholar?"

"So they say yonder." And the dwarf nodded his head in the direction of the city. "It is said that some tried to rescue him and failed; and there are some who would arrest these men if they could. That's news for you, farmer."

"Bad news, Jean."

"It's good news to hear you call it so," said the dwarf, leaning toward his companion. "One of these rescuers was a priest, who will perchance come again to Vayenne. He might pass this way. If he does, Farmer Jacques, stop him, and say: 'All priests entering Vayenne are to be arrested.'"

"I'll do it. I don't hold with hangings over the castle gates. Would they hang a priest, think you?"

"This one they would; and for that matter all priests have necks as other men have," the dwarf returned.

"That's ribald talk," said Jacques, who was a religious man and had no liking for jests concerning priests.

"Crooked as my limbs, but a fact for all that, just as they are. I meant no jest. I've said what I came to say, and I'll get back. They watch the gate carefully to-night, and were I too late they might question me."

Jean's friendship with the farmer was not one of full confidence. Jacques knew nothing of the flat-bottomed boat and the dwarf's private entrance into Vayenne. So Jean started briskly along the road, and not until he was well out of sight did he turn aside and make his way back to his hidden landing-place. There he waited until near the dawn, listening for footsteps, or the beating hoofs of a horse, in the silence of the night.

They came some hours afterward, but Jean had recrossed the river then. Herrick drew up in the shelter of the trees by the landing-place, and looked across the river toward the city. He was bare-headed, and no longer wore the priest's robe. He had thrown that aside before he emerged from the forest. It would mark him to those he had fought with there, some of whom had doubtless returned to Vayenne. How was he to enter the city? The sound of a heavy wagon crunching its way slowly along the road gave him inspiration. Dismounting quickly, he led his horse round to the back of the shed Jean had plundered the other night. There was no one about, and he fastened the bridle to a staple in the woodwork.

"You're as good an animal as the one we stole, so that debt is paid," he said; and then he hastened after the wagon going in the direction of Vayenne.