Part 28 (1/2)
”But, perhaps, monsieur may have a voice in the matter.”
”Probably; but as monsieur has not paid for it, and is at present lodged in the Chatelet on account of his escapade with Mademoiselle d'Estanay, we may let that objection pa.s.s.” And Maitre Barou chuckled.
”In that case, let me see the corselet.”
”Here it is, monsieur.”
I tried it on, and finding it would suit, and that the workmans.h.i.+p was of rare excellency, demanded the price.
Barou hummed as he tapped the s.h.i.+ning steel with his finger and glanced at me from under his bushy brows.
”Monsieur must have but lately joined the guards?” he asked, ignoring my question.
”A matter of a few hours.”
”Ah! I thought so. I know them all, monsieur. First there is Messire Blaise de Lorgnac, the lieutenant----”
”Maitre Barou, it will take till to-morrow to go over the names. What is your price?”
”Ho! ho! messire, you grow impatient. 'Tis Aranguez plate this, as you may see--the best work of Spain, down to the buckles. Ho! ho! messire, only two good things ever came from Spain: one is good armour, and the other pretty women----”
”And I presume, Maitre Barou, they are both expensive things; but the price of your corselet, for my time is short.”
”Fifty pistoles, then.”
”'Tis a long sum, and I am not sure of the proof.”
Maitre Barou looked at me reproachfully. Seizing a poniard he glanced at the blade for a moment, touched the point with the tip of his finger, and then raising the weapon brought it down with his full force on the corselet. The dagger glanced off from the mirror-like surface and buried itself deep in the hard wood of the counter.
”There, monsieur!” And Barou looked at me triumphantly. It was a shrewd enough test, and I closed the bargain, paying him his money then and there, and bidding him send the mail to De Lorgnac's house.
”And the name, monsieur?”
”The Chevalier d'Orrain.”
As Barou was making an entry on a slate I heard a step behind me, and turning saw it was La Marmotte. She made no sign of recognition, however, but went straight up to Barou, to whom she handed a small package, giving him some instructions in a low tone. Taking the hint I gave a casual glance or so at the things around me, and then strolled out of the shop. I walked very slowly up the street in the direction opposite De Lorgnac's house, and I had scarce gone a hundred paces when La Marmotte caught me up, and asked me somewhat abruptly if I knew of a place called the Pa.s.sage of Pity. I replied that I did, and she then told me to meet her there in an hour's time, and to be sure I was well armed. For answer I touched the hilt of my sword; and, with a nod to me, she crossed the street and disappeared up a narrow, winding alley.
I kept on at the leisurely pace I was going at, wondering to myself if I were walking into a snare or not. But, although caution is a very good thing, still there are times when one should be prepared to take risks, and I held this was such an occasion. Having now reached the head of the Rue Tiquetonne I quickened my pace, and was soon in the Vallee de Misere. I avoided the bridge, and, crossing the river by a ferry boat, was soon in the purlieus of the Sorbonne. Every inch of this locality was familiar to me, and at last I reached the cloisters of the Mathurins, a few yards from which lay the narrow by-street which the quaint wit of the Parisian _badaud_ had christened the Pa.s.sage of Pity. It was dark and short--so short, indeed, that an active boy, standing at one end of it, might easily have thrown a stone against the high wall of a house built athwart the other end of the road, apparently barring all progress beyond. This was not the case, however, for the narrow arch, that was to all appearance the entrance to the house, gave access to a small flight of steps, worn with age, that led towards a gallery opening upon the Rue de la Harpe.
In the wall towards the right of this arch, about a man's height from the ground, was a small niche containing a figure of the Virgin, and beneath was that which, perhaps, had given its name to the street, for someone had traced in shaky characters upon the wall the words: ”_Avez pitie_!”
Beneath these words, written in blood long since browned with age, could still be seen the impress of a hand that had been red too, as if the unfortunate writer had supported himself thus whilst tracing his miserable words.
The steps leading to the gallery beyond the archway were known as ”The Little Steps of Mercy,” and to get at the entrance door of the house itself, which was in part built over the pa.s.sage, it was necessary to go along the gallery, in the side of which it was placed, in an almost invisible gloom, that added not a little to the mystery surrounding the place. Another curious thing about this little by-street was that every house, and there were not many, appeared deserted. Hardly a soul ever pa.s.sed by day along its dim length, which was always in shadow, except at high noon, when the sunlight forced its way in a line of white light along the forbidding pa.s.sage. By night no one was ever seen, and, indeed, there were few who would have ventured along the Pa.s.sage of Pity when the sun went down.
Here, then, I stood at the appointed time, staring at the surly row of houses on either side of me and at the dead wall in my face. Twice I paced up and down the length of the street; but there was no sign of La Marmotte. On the second occasion, however, as I came back, the door of the house on the right-hand side nearest the arch opened slightly, and I heard her voice.
”Enter, monsieur.”
For one little moment I hesitated, and then boldly slipped in. As I did so the door was immediately shut, and I found myself in almost total darkness.