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Flora, seated near to Gonzague, and conquered by his domination and by the horror of the scene, covered her face with her hands and shuddered. "It’s too horrible," she moaned.
The hunchback nodded to her ironically. "You are severe," he said, dryly. Then he turned to Gonzague. "There is a friend of mine at the door," he said. "May I introduce him?"
Gonzague nodded, and the hunchback advanced to the door of the antechamber.
Chavernay looked after him with haggard eyes. "What spell has the devil got?" he muttered.
Gonzague shrugged his shoulders. "I am amazed; but the knave has my faith, and, if the lady’s taste limps, shall we say her nay?"
XXVIII
THE SIGNATURE OF ÆSOP
By this time the hunchback had opened the door and introduced to the company a dapper, affable gentleman who was habited, as became his calling, for the most part in black; but he lent an air of smartness to his notarial garb by reason that the black of his coat and breeches was of silk, and that he wore a quantity of costly lace. This was Master Griveau, one of the principal notaries of Paris, and a man that had been employed not a little by the Prince de Gonzague. For this reason his face was familiar to most of those present, and the faces of most of those present were familiar to Master Griveau, and Master Griveau nodded and bowed and smirked and smiled, and showed in a hundred little ways with a hundred little airs and graces that he was quite the man of the world and quite at home in fashionable circles. He was accompanied by two of his clerks, who seemed as anxious to efface themselves as their master was to assert his personality.
The hunchback patted the notary on the back with a pat that made him give at the knees and look somewhat ruefully about him as if an earthquake had occurred, and introduced him to the company: "Here, sirs, is my Cupid – nay, better than Cupid, for Cupid had no pockets, whereas Maître Griveau has, and my marriage contract in one of them."
Master Griveau, with the air of one who could take a joke as well as any man if the joke were proffered in august company, produced a large, folded paper bound about with green ribbon. He bowed profoundly to Gonzague. "In accordance," he said, "with monseigneur’s instructions, as conveyed to me by monseigneur’s" – he halted for a moment, and then continued – "Monseigneur’s friend, the deed is prepared and ready for signature. Have I monseigneur’s permission to make a few preparations for the interesting ceremony?"
Gonzague nodded, and the brisk little man, with the aid of his two clerks, pushed a table into place, arranged writing materials, and, seating himself with a great air of formality, investigated a quill pen, spread out his contract, and surveyed the company with the air of one who should say: "I have done, and done well, all that it becometh me to do; it is now for you to play your part in this ceremony."
Gonzague addressed the notary: "Have you entered the names of groom and bride?"
Master Griveau gave a little, protesting cough. "I do not know them, your highness. I have left blank spaces for the names."
Gonzague pointed to Gabrielle, where she sat apart. "The lady is Mademoiselle de Lagardere." Then he turned to the hunchback. "And you, what is your lawful name, Æsop?"
The hunchback made an appeal to Gonzague. "Highness, humor my jest to the end. I have kept my real name a secret long enough; let me keep it secret a little longer. Will you and your friends honor me by signing as witnesses? Then I will fill in the blanks and set down my own name – a name that will make you laugh."
Oriol gave a grin. "Æsop is comic enough."
Lagardere nodded to him. "Æsop is a nickname. My true name will divert you more. Sign, sirs, sign."
Master Griveau, with due solemnity, unfolded the contract and spread it before him. Then he dipped a pen in the ink, and stood waiting for the illustrious company to sign the contract.
"Give me the pen," said Gonzague. He was beginning to tire a little of the comedy, in spite of its element of marvel, and to wish the girl well out of his sight with her hunchback husband. He signed his name and held up the pen. It was eagerly sought for. Taranne gained the privilege of taking it from the fingers of his master. Taranne signed, Nocé signed, Oriol signed, Gironne signed, Choisy signed, Albret signed, Montaubert signed. When the pen was offered to Chavernay, Chavernay put his hands behind his back and shook his head. It came to Navailles to sign last.
"Now for the happy pair," Navailles said. As he spoke he turned to where the hunchback and Gabrielle stood together silent, a strangely contrasted bride and bridegroom – youth and age, so it seemed, beauty and ugliness, sin and purity. Truly, it appeared to be what Chavernay thought it and called it – a damnable alliance.
While the signing had been toward the hunchback had spoken softly one sentence to his bride. "Gabrielle," he said, "if I die here, I die as I have lived – your lover."
And Gabrielle had answered him in the heart of her heart: "I love you, my lover."
Now, when Navailles addressed him, the hunchback moved forward, and waved away the little, glittering crowd of gentlemen that gathered about Master Griveau at the table, ordering them to move. "Make space, sirs, for my wife and me. I need elbow-room for my signature."
He advanced to the table, holding Gabrielle by the hand, and still, though the humor of the situation had endured so long, even the wine-flushed men and the wine-flushed women seemed almost as conscious as Chavernay of the tragedy that underlay the humor of the play. All fell back and left a free table for the hunchback and his bride. Master Griveau settled himself comfortably in his seat and took up his pen. Turning to the hunchback, he began: "Give me your names, your surnames, your birthplaces – "
The hunchback interrupted him: "Have you signed?"
"Certainly," Master Griveau answered, something astonished at being thus carelessly treated.
"Then, by your leave," said the hunchback, and dexterously edged the indignant notary out of the chair. "Leave the rest to me. Back, friends, till I finish." Pushing the chair aside, he restrained with a sweep of his arm the advancing crowd of gentlemen eager to see the name that Æsop would acknowledge.
While Master Griveau, with a very much offended air, edged himself into the circle of Gonzague’s friends as one that had earned the right to move freely in such company, the hunchback began rapidly to fill in the blank spaces on the parchment before him.
Master Griveau felt it his duty to say a few words of protest on behalf of the slightly offended majesty of the law. "A very extraordinary ceremony, highness."
Gonzague smiled ironically, but cared nothing for the offended majesty of the law, so long as his own purposes were being served. "Æsop is an extraordinary man," he said.
The hunchback, who had overheard this conversation, pointed with the feather of the pen he had just been using to Gonzague. "You are right, prince," he said. Then he gave the pen to Gabrielle and whispered to her, so low that no one heard him: "Sign Gabrielle de Nevers."
The girl took the pen from his hand and signed boldly, though she signed that signature for the first time in her young life.
The hunchback took the pen from her fingers. "Now my turn." Deliberately and swiftly he signed his name and flung down the pen. Then he moved back a little way from the table and drew Gabrielle behind him. He turned to the expectant company. "Come and see, sirs. You will stare, I promise you."
All were eager to press forward and read the signature, but all restrained their desire until the curiosity of the master of the house was satisfied. Gonzague advanced leisurely to the table, relieved to think the comedy had come to an end, and that he had satisfactorily rid himself of an incubus. He bent carelessly over the parchment, and then sprang back with face as pale and eyes as wild and lips as trembling as if on the pitiful piece of sheepskin he had seen some terror as dread as the face of Medusa. His twitching mouth whispered one word, but that word was "Lagardere!" and that word was repeated on the lips of every man and woman that watched him.
Before the eyes of all present a new miracle happened, more marvellous than its predecessor, for the hunchback suddenly stiffened himself and became erect and soldierly; the hunchback swept back the grizzled locks that had so long served to conceal his features; the hunchback stood before them a strong and stalwart man, with drawn sword in his hand. Stretching out his arm, he extended the sword between Gonzague and the parchment and touched with its point the signature that was still wet upon its surface.
In a terrible voice he cried: "Lagardere, who always keeps his tryst! I am here!"
For a moment that seemed sempiternal a kind of horrible silence reigned over the room. It was hard to understand what had happened. The startled guests stared at one another, terrified by the terror on Gonzague’s face, amazed at the metamorphosis of the hunchback, shuddering at the name of Lagardere. The first to recover courage, composure, and resolution was Gonzague himself. He sprang from the table to where his friends stood together and drew his sword.
Pointing to where Lagardere stood, with Gabrielle clinging to his arm, he cried: "He must not escape! Your swords, friends! It is but one man!"
But even as he spoke, and while Lagardere was waiting with lifted sword for the inevitable attack, Chavernay crossed the room and stood at Lagardere’s side. "We shall be two!" he cried, and drew his sword.
At the same moment the doors of the antechamber opened, and Cocardasse and Passepoil, with their naked swords in their hands, entered and ranged themselves on the side of Lagardere.
"We shall be three!" said Cocardasse.
"We shall be four!" said Passepoil.
The situation was changed, but the situation was still perilous. On the one side of the splendid room stood Lagardere, with Chavernay, Cocardasse, and Passepoil, their gleaming weapons ready for attack. On the other side, with a great gap of space between the two parties, stood Gonzague and his cluster of light friends, every man of whom had bared his rapier and was ready to obey the summons of his chief. Behind these the women huddled together, some screaming, but the most part too frightened to scream. Flora, overstrained, had fainted.
Lagardere taunted Gonzague. "Come, monseigneur," he said, "are you afraid? The odds are not so favorable as they were at Caylus."
With a writhing face Gonzague screamed to his friends: "Charge!"
And Lagardere answered with a ringing cry: "I am here!"
In another moment the two parties would have met and blended in battle; but before Gonzague’s followers could obey his command and follow his lead, they were stiffened into immobility by a sudden knocking at the golden doors. At that unexpected sound every sword was lowered, and then from beyond a stern voice came, commanding: "Open, in the king’s name!"
XXIX
THE DEAD SPEAKS
Immediately the golden doors were flung open, and Bonnivet entered from the supper-room, followed by a company of soldiers.
Gonzague turned to Bonnivet, indignant and bewildered. "What does this mean?" he gasped.
Bonnivet’s answer was to salute with his sword, as he announced: "His majesty the king!" And through the double line of soldiers Louis of France entered the room with the Princess de Gonzague on his arm.
The king looked with astonishment at the strange scene before him – the fainting women, the two camps of armed men, the scattered furniture. The Princess de Gonzague looked only at the girl, who now hung so lovingly upon the arm of Lagardere.
"Why have I been sent for?" the king asked.
And instantly Lagardere answered him: "To witness my restoration of Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Nevers to her mother." As he spoke he moved towards the princess, and gave Gabrielle to her out-stretched arms.
The Princess gave a cry of joy. "She has the face of Louis! She is my child!"
Gonzague tried to speak, and failed; tried to speak again, and succeeded: "Your highness, I again declare that I gave the true Gabrielle de Nevers to her mother. I have the page torn from the register of the chapel of Caylus in this sealed packet." As he spoke he held out a small sealed packet, which he had drawn from his breast.
The king turned to Lagardere. "What do you say to this?"
Lagardere answered: "That I have kept my word. I have given back her daughter to the princess. I will now unmask the murderer."
Again the king questioned him: "Where are your witnesses?"
Lagardere turned and pointed with his drawn sword to Gonzague: "You are the first."
Gonzague, trying hard to recover his composure, raged at him: "Madman!"
Lagardere turned to the king and spoke more solemnly: "The second is in the grave."
Gonzague laughed. "The dead cannot speak."
Lagardere still looked menacingly at Gonzague. "To-night the dead will speak. The proofs of your guilt are in that sealed packet, stolen from me by assassins in your pay."
Gonzague turned to the king, protesting: "Sire!"
Lagardere interrupted him: "Monseigneur, he is going to say that that packet contains only the birth-lines of Mademoiselle de Nevers – but there is more than that."
Louis of Orleans turned his steady gaze on Louis of Gonzague, and read little to comfort him in the twitching face of his life-long friend. "Break the seals, Louis," he commanded.
Lagardere spoke, exultingly: "Yes, break the seals and read your doom, assassin. The packet contains only the birth-lines of Mademoiselle de Nevers, but still it contains the proof I ask. As Nevers lay dying in my arms, he dipped his finger in his blood and traced on the parchment the name of his murderer. Open the packet and see what name is there."
Now, while he was speaking, Gonzague began to tremble like a man that has the trembling sickness; but as Lagardere continued he seemed by a desperate effort to stiffen himself, and, moving slowly, unobserved by those present, who were for the most part busy with looking upon Lagardere, he neared a candelabrum. As Lagardere uttered his last command, Gonzague thrust the packet that he held into the flame of the candle, and in a moment the flame ran along the paper, lapping it and consuming it. The king and Lagardere both saw the despairing deed.
The king was the first to speak. "Louis!" he cried, and could say no more.
Gonzague dropped the burning paper from his fingers, and it fell in ashes upon the floor.
Lagardere lifted his sword in triumph. "The dead speaks! There was nothing written on that paper. His name was not there, but his own deed has set it there."
The eyes of all were fixed upon the face of Gonzague, and the face of Gonzague was an ugly sight to see. Hatred and despair struggled there for mastery – hatred and despair, and the hideous sense of hopeless, ignominious, public failure after a lifetime of triumphant crime.
"Louis!" cried the king again. "Louis! Assassin!"
In a moment Gonzague’s sword was unsheathed, and he leaped across the space that divided him from Lagardere, striking furiously for Lagardere’s heart. But Lagardere was ready for him, and, with a familiar trick of the fencing-schools, wrenched Gonzague’s weapon from his fingers and flung it to the floor. A dozen hands seized Gonzague – the hands of those that once had been proud to call themselves his friends.
Lagardere turned to the king, appealingly: "Monseigneur, I cry a favor. Let me support this quarrel with my sword, and God defend the right."
The king was silent for a few seconds, trying to set himself right with a world that had suddenly changed for him. Surely, it would be better to let it end so, whatever came of it. He turned to Lagardere, and bowed his head in silent approval: "As you will."
Suddenly, then, the Princess de Gonzague, clinging to the child in her arms, cried out, calling to Chavernay: "Monsieur de Chavernay, in yonder alcove lies the sword of my dead husband. Fetch it, and give it to Monsieur de Lagardere."
In a frightful silence Chavernay crossed the room, entered the alcove, and came forth holding the sword of Louis de Nevers in his hand – the sword that Louis de Nevers had used so valiantly on the night of Caylus. Silently he offered it to Lagardere, and silently Lagardere, giving the weapon he held to Cocardasse, took the sword of Nevers from the hands of Chavernay. Thereafter Lagardere stooped and picked up the fallen sword of Gonzague. Then, advancing towards his enemy, he made a sign to those that held him to release their captive – a sign that was immediately obeyed. He held out the weapon by its blade to Gonzague, who caught it. In another moment the two men were engaged in combat.
On the walls the impassive portraits of the Three Louis looked on while one of the Three Louis fought for his shameful life, while another of the Three Louis sat in heart-broken judgment upon him, and while the widow of another of the Three Louis sat clasping in her arms the child she had surrendered in the moat of Caylus so many years ago.
Gonzague was a fine swordsman, and Gonzague fought for his life, but he did not fight long. Suddenly Lagardere’s arm and Lagardere’s sword seemed to extend, the blade gleamed in the flare of the flambeaux, and Gonzague reeled and dropped.
"Nine," said Cocardasse, thoughtfully.
Passepoil placed his forefinger between his brows. "The thrust of Nevers," he murmured.
Lagardere lifted his blood-dyed sword and saluted the picture of Louis of Nevers. "After the lackeys the master. Nevers, I have kept my word."
Then he let fall his weapon, for the soft arms of Gabrielle were about his neck.
