Part 7 (1/2)
Montigny smiled whimsically.
”Very salubrious, if it were not for the shooting stars.”
Then as the soldier stared at him he hastened to explain.
”My quip. The shooting star was a Burgundian arrow a cloth-yard long which came winging its way over the walls at noon and made itself at home in my garden. Here is what the arrow carried.”
He pulled from his pouch a small piece of parchment folded and sealed, and handed it to the seeming soldier. The disguised constable took the missive and scanned it narrowly.
”The seal has not been tampered with,” he said to himself. Ren caught him up with a n.o.ble gesture of indignation.
”I never read other people's letters,” he protested.
Thibaut shrugged his shoulders.
”It would have profited you little if you had,” he said, as he broke the seal and turning aside stooped a little to read by the faint fire light what the letter said. It was couched in words that seemed commonplace enough, but Thibaut knew their secret meaning, knew that the Duke of Burgundy would do all that he asked, give him a duchy, give him the girl he coveted, all that he might ask for or l.u.s.t for if he would only play the traitor and deliver Louis into the Duke of Burgundy's hands. As this was precisely what Thibaut was resolved to do, a pleased smile played over his lips as he tossed the parchment into the glowing ashes and watched it wither into nothingness. He turned to Montigny, who was watching him attentively.
”Can you command some safe rogues of your kidney who think better of Burgundian gold than of the fool on the throne?”
Montigny answered him behind his hand. ”Aye. I know of half a dozen stout lads who would pilfer the king from his palace of the Louvre if they were paid well enough for the job,” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his carousing comrades.
Thibaut nodded approval. He thrust some gold into Montigny's ready palm, whispered to him to meet him again to-morrow, and as Montigny rejoined his friends he turned to leave the tavern.
To his surprise he found himself confronted by Villon, who feigning intoxication barred his pa.s.sage with an air of great hilarity. ”You walk abroad late, honest soldier,” he hiccoughed.
”That's my business,” Thibaut answered, trying to pa.s.s, but Villon still delayed him.
”Don't be testy. Come and crack a bottle.”
”I've had enough, and you've had more than enough,” Thibaut growled.
”Go to bed!”
Villon's false good humour changed in a clap.
”You're a d.a.m.ned uncivil fellow, soldier, and don't know how to treat a gentleman when you see one.”
Thibaut began to lose patience.
”Get out of the way!” he said, and gave Villon a little push with his open hand that made him stagger. Villon's voice rose to a yell.
”I will not get out of the way! How do I know you are an honest soldier? How do I know that you are a true man?”
As Villon's voice rose the altercation attracted the attention of the revellers. Montigny glided to Villon's side and whispered him.
”Let him alone, Francois; he's not what he seems.”
”Seems! Who cares what he seems?” Villon shouted. ”It's what he is I want to know. Perhaps he's not an honest soldier at all. Perhap's he's a d.a.m.ned Burgundian spy!”
Thibaut lifted his hand to crush Villon, but the poet's naked dagger menaced him and he paused.
”Fling this drunken dog into the street,” he commanded angrily.