Part 34 (1/2)

_Ciel!_ what eyes, when he faced the old _herisson_, De Rennie!”

”Ah, bah! His eyes! Curse them, and him, too! He is a traitor.”

”All the same, he is handsome. I wonder how many women love him?”

But now they stood apart from the courtyard to look at a troop of the Mousquetaires Noirs riding away from the precincts of the court itself--where they had been on guard all day--and to admire their trappings and bravery. And the pale-faced girl, who seemed--like many other pale-faced, cadaverous girls!--to have a great appreciation of manly beauty, tugged at her companion's arm, and bade her observe the two handsome officers in conversation under the gateway.

”See, Manon, see!” she exclaimed. ”There is the one who said he was son to the Duc de----”

”I hate all dukes,” interrupted the other, ”and all the _n.o.blesse_.

They grind the poor.”

”Yet he seemed kind. He would have saved that one, I do believe, if he could. And how he spoke to the judge--as he himself speaks to others--like to a dog! And his companion, the officer of Mousquetaires who does not follow the troop. _Mon Dieu! il est beau aussi._ How many handsome men we see to-day!”

”_Ah! voyons_,” exclaimed the other, grimacing irritably, ”_les beaux!

les beaux_! Nothing but _les beaux_! Some day, Babette, you will regret your admiration of the men.”

”He looks pale and troubled, does that mousquetaire,” the girl replied, taking no heed of the elder woman's reproofs; and then they pa.s.sed on to the foul quarter of Paris where they dwelt, and where dukes' sons and handsome mousquetaires did not often obtrude themselves.

Had she been able to overhear the commencement of the conversation between De Mortemart and that officer of Mousquetaires she would probably not have wondered at the pallor which overspread the latter's face, nor at his look of trouble.

When the young fellow had fled out of the court, unable to remain and hear that doom p.r.o.nounced on St. Georges, which he knew must come, he had gone straight to the guardroom with the intention of removing the three men of his troop whom he had brought with him to Paris in charge of their prisoner. Their work was done in Paris, he knew; it was best they should take the road hack to Rambouillet at once. It was but eight leagues, and the summer nights were long; they could ride that easily and regain their quarters almost without halting.

But as he entered the room set apart for officers preparatory to summoning his men, he saw that which prevented him from doing so for some little time longer. He saw, seated in a deep wooden chair, his wig off, and fast asleep in that chair--with a flask of wine by his side--an officer of the guard for the day, whose face he knew very well indeed. The Regiment de Grance was not always quartered at such dead-and-alive places as Rambouillet; it was sometimes accorded the privilege of being in attendance on the court itself--since it was officered from the aristocrats as a rule, the colonel generally being an exception, and selected because of his services--and at Versailles it had, not long ago, been thrown in with the Mousquetaires Noirs.

”_Tiens_, Boussac!” the young fellow cried, slapping the sleeping officer on the shoulder, and disturbing his slumbers; ”rouse yourself, man; the court will be up directly--already your brother officer is chuckling that his guard hour will not last half a one.”

”De Mortemart!” cried Boussac, springing from his seat and grasping the newcomer's hand with his own, while with the other he clapped his wig on. ”De Mortemart--what brings you here? Have you got the route, is the regiment returned to Paris?”

”No such chance, _mon ami_, our luck is out. Neither Paris, nor, _ma foi_! a campaign for us--we are stewed up in Rambouillet for another year. And, _peste_! the only woman there worth a pistole has turned out the vilest of creatures. We cannot even sup with her now, or take a gla.s.s of ratafia or a cup of chocolate from her hands.”

”That is not well. But what--what--brings you here? Come, tell me,”

and drawing the wine flask toward him he poured out a drink for his comrade. ”And you look sad, De Mortemart; is it because of the 'vilest of creatures'?”

Then, without more ado, his friend told what had brought him to Paris and in the vicinity of the _cours criminel_.

As he proceeded with his story--telling it all from the beginning, when la belle Louvigny had sent to the commandant, apprising him of an escaped _galerien_ in her house--he marvelled at the excitement which took possession of his auditor. At the statement that the betrayed man was branded, was in truth an escaped galley slave, Boussac had sprung to his feet and commenced to pace the guardroom; when he described the scene he had witnessed between him and Madame de Louvigny, he could contain himself no longer.

”The man, De Mortemart, the man!” he broke out, ”describe him to me.”

And without giving his friend time to do so, he went on:

”Tall, slight, long brown hair, curling at the ends, gray eyes--deep and clear. Gentleman to the tips of his fingers; a soldier above all.”

”Ay, he has been a soldier.”

”And his name--his name, my friend. It must be St. Georges. Come from England, you say, with the English fleet. It _is_ St. Georges!”

”Nay, his name he will not tell. But this I know: he was once of the Chevaux-Legers of Nivernois.”

”My G.o.d! it is he!” and overcome with excitement Boussac sank back into his seat again.