Part 13 (1/2)

”Oh, monsieur,” the poor creature said, wondering that, ere now, he had not torn her to pieces or thrust his sword through her, as would likely enough have been done by many of her own kind under a similar breach of faith--”oh, monsieur, my heart is broken, my heart----”

”No matter for your heart,” St. Georges interrupted her peremptorily again; ”tell your story at once. At once, I say!” And again the two standing by wondered that he could master himself so, in spite of his grief; while the girl, seeing that she had best obey him, told with many sobs, which still she could not repress, what had happened.

It was in the early morning, she said, and she and the little thing had slept warm and peacefully together--oh, so peacefully!--and the time had come for her to arise; the hostler had come to knock on her door, for she slept heavily. Then he told her, as he stood outside, that a troop of the Vicomte d'Arpajou's regiment was come in and seeking billets in the town; and she, because she was _une malheureuse_, and also because she had a cousin who rode in the ranks, got up and ran downstairs to get news of him. For his mother had heard nothing of him for many months; they were anxious--oh, so anxious! But it was not his troop, and so, gleaning no news, she had returned to her bedroom, meaning to finish her dressing and to prepare the child.

And then, she went on, sobbing again, and with more wringings of her hands--and then, oh! horror, she found the bed empty and the child gone. Gone! Gone! Gone! Oh, it was terrible! She aroused the other servants with her screams; high and low they sought for it--it might have crept even from the bed--but, no! it was gone. And after half an hour's further search, she, feeling demented, had told her master all and how she had taken charge of the child, and had begged him to let her come to the manoir to see its father. Perhaps, it might yet be found, might, because G.o.d was good, have been found since she had come away. Who knew? Oh! she prayed it might be so--on her knees she prayed----

”My horse!” exclaimed St. Georges, turning to the younger man, Gaston, still standing close by, ”my horse, I beg of you! Lose no time in saddling it. I must go back to the city at once.” And turning his head away from them he murmured: ”My child! My little lonely child! Oh, my child!”

They heard his moan, those three standing there--for now the woman had risen to her feet--and they pitied him. The old man shook his head sadly; he was a father and a grandfather himself; the girl sobbed afresh, and Gaston moved off at once to obey his behest. ”My arm is injured,” he stammered, seeing that the soldier's eye was on it now; ”one of the horses kicked it last night in the stable; but--but--I can still saddle your animal. In an instant, monsieur, in an instant,” and he moved away.

Seeing that he was in pain--indeed, the lad's face was bloodless and also drawn with suffering--and being himself devoured with eagerness to return to the city and seek for his child, St. Georges followed him through the courtyard to where the stables were. And then, noticing that Gaston could not use his wounded arm at all, he saddled his animal with his own hands while the young man stood by helpless, or only able to render him the slightest a.s.sistance with his uninjured arm. And when this was done he led the horse forth to the front of the manoir and mounted it.

”There is no time for me to pay my respects to madame la marquise,” he said to the servitor--”she will understand my lack of courtesy. Yet, since it is impossible I can continue my journey to Paris--even the king's commands must wait now!--I will endeavour not to quit Troyes without bidding her farewell. Will you tell her that, my friend?”

The old man said he would--that he knew madame would understand and sympathize with him--and--and--but ere he could finish whatever he intended to say, St. Georges had put spurs to his horse and was speeding back to Troyes, while following him along the road on foot went the unfortunate servant from the inn, still weeping and bemoaning.

The hostler was standing in the gateway of the auberge as he rode in, his horse already sweating and with foam about its mouth from the pace it had come; and throwing himself off it St. Georges advanced to the man and asked him if he had heard any news of his missing child.

”Nay,” he replied. ”Nay. No news. _Mon Dieu!_ I know not who could have stolen it. 'Tis marvellous. 'Twas none of D'Arpajou's troop, to be sure. And there were no others.”

”None lurking about the inn last night--none sleeping here who might have stolen into the girl's room when she quitted it? Oh! man, I tell you,” he cried, almost beside himself with grief, ”there are those who would have tracked it across France to get at it!” And then, overcome with remorse at having left the child in any other custody but his own, though he had thought it was for the best when he did so, he murmured: ”Why, why, did I not keep it with me? My arm sheltered it when the attack was made at Aignay-le-Duc; no worse than that could have befallen it.”

”None lurking about,” the man repeated, looking up at the great soldier while he chewed a straw. ”None lurking about. _Mon Dieu!_ why did I not think of that before?”

”There _was_ one!” St. Georges exclaimed, ”there was one, then? You saw some man--I know it; I see it in your face. For G.o.d's sake, answer me! Who? Who was it?”

But the hostler was a slow man--one whose mind moved c.u.mbrously, and again he muttered to himself: ”No! No, it could not be he. It----”

”Could not be whom? Oh, do not torture me! Tell me! Tell me!”

”There was one,” the other replied, ”who rode in last night, seeking a bed for himself and a stall for his horse. Yet he could have neither here. We were full, and we knew too that D'Arpajou's horse were on the road. So we sent him away to the _Cheval Rouge_, yet I saw him again late at night in the yard, and, asking him his business, he said that he had lost his glove when here----”

”My G.o.d!” St. Georges exclaimed, more to himself than the man. ”Was it De Roquemaure?”

”De Roquemaure!” the other exclaimed. ”De Roquemaure! _Par hasard_, does monsieur mean the young marquis?”

”Yes, yes. You know him--must know him, since his mother's manoir is so near here. Answer me,” and in his fervour he grasped the man's arm firmly, ”_was it he_?”

The hostler wrenched his arm away from the soldier's nervous grasp; then he answered emphatically--scornfully indeed: ”Was it he? He! De Roquemaure? _Mon Dieu_, no! Not he, indeed!”

”You know him?”

”_Know him?_ Yes. And hate him. A wild beast, _un sauvage_. See here,”

and he pointed to his face, on which was a long, discoloured stain or bruise, ”he gave me that a week or so ago, as he rode out of the inn, because I had not brought his horse quickly enough to please him. Know him? Oh, yes, I know him. And some day, great and strong and powerful seigneur as he is, he shall know me. The seigneurs do not lord it over us always. We shall see!”

”Not De Roquemaure,” St. Georges mused aloud. ”Not De Roquemaure.

Great G.o.d! have we more enemies than one? Into whose hands has my little babe fallen, then?” And again he murmured to himself, ”Not De Roquemaure!”