CHAPTER VI. MONSIEUR DE
GARNACHE KEEPS HIS TEMPER
Night had fallen and it had begun to rain when
Garnache and Valerie reached Grenoble. They entered the town afoot, the
Parisian not desiring to attract attention by being seen in the streets with a
lady on the withers of his horse.
With thought for her comfort, Monsieur de Garnache
had divested himself of his heavy horseman’s cloak and insisted upon her
assuming it, so setting it about her that her head was covered as by a wimple.
Thus was she protected not only from the rain, but from the gaze of the
inquisitive.
They made their way in the drizzle, through the
greasy, slippery streets ashine with the lights that fell from door and window,
Rabecque following closely with the horses. Garnache made straight for his
inn—the Auberge du Veau qui Tete—which enjoyed the advantage of facing the
Palais Seneschal.
The ostler took charge of the nags, and the
landlord conducted them to a room above-stairs, which he placed at
mademoiselle’s disposal. That done, Garnache left Rabecque on guard, and
proceeded to make the necessary arrangements for the journey that lay before
them. He began by what he conceived to be the more urgent measure, and stepping
across to the Palais Seneschal, he demanded to see Monsieur de Tressan at once.
Ushered into the Lord Seneschal’s presence, he
startled that obese gentleman by the announcement that he had returned from
Condillac with Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye, and that he would require an escort
to accompany them to Paris.
“For I am by no means minded to be exposed to such
measures as the tigress of Condillac and her cub may take to recover their
victim,” he explained with a grim smile.
The Seneschal combed his beard and screwed up his
pale eyes until they vanished in the cushions of his cheeks. He was lost in
amazement. He could only imagine that the Queen’s emissary had been duped more
successfully this time.
“I am to gather, then,” said he, dissembling what
was passing through his mind, “that you delivered the lady by force or
strategy.”
“By both, monsieur,” was the short answer.
Tressan continued to comb his beard, and pondered
the situation. If things were so, indeed, they could not have fallen out more
to his taste. He had had no hand in it, one way or the other. He had run with
the hare and hunted with the hounds, and neither party could charge him with
any lack of loyalty. His admiration and respect for Monsieur de Garnache grew
enormously. When the rash Parisian had left him that afternoon for the purpose
of carrying his message himself to Condillac, Tressan had entertained little
hope of ever again seeing him alive. Yet there he stood, as calm and composed
as ever, announcing that singlehanded he had carried out what another might
well have hesitated to attempt with a regiment at his heels.
Tressan’s curiosity urged him to beg for the
details of this marvel, and Garnache entertained him with a brief recital of
what had taken place, whereat, realizing that Garnache had indeed outwitted
them, the Seneschal’s wonder increased.
“But we are not out of the quagmire yet,” cried
Garnache; “and that is why I want an escort.”
Tressan became uneasy. “How many men shall you
require?” he asked, thinking that the Parisian would demand at least the half
of a company.
“A half-dozen and a sergeant to command them.”
Tressan’s uneasiness was dissipated, and he found
himself despising Garnache more for his rashness in being content with so small
a number than he respected him for the boldness and courage he had so lately
displayed. It was not for him to suggest that the force might prove
insufficient; rather was it for him to be thankful that Garnache had not asked
for more. An escort Tressan dared not refuse him, and yet refuse it him he must
have done—or broken with the Condillacs—had he asked for a greater number. But
six men! Pooh! they would be of little account. So he very readily consented,
inquiring how soon Garnache would require them.
“At once,” was the Parisian’s answer. “I leave
Grenoble to-night. I hope to set out in an hour’s time. Meanwhile I’ll have the
troopers form a guard of honour. I am lodged over the way.”
Tressan, but too glad to be quit of him, rose
there and then to give the necessary orders, and within ten minutes Garnache
was back at the Sucking Calf with six troopers and a sergeant, who had left
their horses in the Seneschal’s stables until the time for setting out.
Meanwhile Garnache placed them on duty in the common-room of the inn.
He called for refreshment for them, and bade them
remain there at the orders of his man Rabecque. His reason for this step was
that it became necessary that he should absent himself for a while to find a
carriage suitable for the journey; for as the Sucking Calf was not a post-house
he must seek one elsewhere—at the Auberge de France, in fact, which was situate
on the eastern side of the town by the Porte de Savoie—and he was not minded to
leave the person of Valerie unguarded during his absence. The half-dozen
troopers he considered ample, as indeed they were.
On this errand he departed, wrapped tightly in his
cloak, walking briskly through the now heavier rain.
But at the Auberge de France a disappointment
awaited him. The host had no horses and no carriage, nor would he have until
the following morning. He was sorrow-stricken that the circumstance should
discompose Monsieur de Garnache; he was elaborate in his explanations of how it
happened that he could place no vehicle at Monsieur de Garnache’s disposal—so
elaborate that it is surprising Monsieur de Garnache’s suspicions should not
have been aroused. For the truth of the matter was that the folk of Condillac
had been at the Auberge de France before him—as they had been elsewhere in the
town wherever a conveyance might be procurable—and by promises of reward for
obedience and threats of punishment for disobedience, they had contrived that
Garnache should hear this same story on every hand. His mistake had lain in his
eagerness to obtain a guard from the Seneschal. Had he begun by making sure of
a conveyance, anticipating, as he should have done, this move on the part of
the Condillacs—a move which he did not even now suspect—it is possible that he
might have been spared much of the trouble that was to follow.
An hour or so later, after having vainly ransacked
the town for the thing he needed, he returned wet and annoyed to the Veau qui
Tote. In a corner of the spacious common-room—a corner by the door leading to
the interior of the inn—he saw the six troopers at table, waxing a trifle noisy
over cards. Their sergeant sat a little apart, in conversation with the landlord’s
wife, eyes upturned adoringly, oblivious of the increasing scowl that gathered
about her watchful husband’s brow.
At another table sat four gentlemen—seemingly
travellers, by their air and garb—in a conversation that was hushed at
Garnache’s entrance. But he paid no heed to them as he stalked with ringing
step across the rushstrewn floor, nor observed how covertly and watchfully
their glances followed him as returning, in passing the sergeant’s prompt
salute he vanished through the doorway leading to the stairs.
He reappeared again a moment later, to call the
host, and give him orders for the preparing of his own and Rabecque’s supper.
On the landing above he found Rabecque awaiting
him.
“Is all well?” he asked, and received from his
lackey a reassuring answer.
Mademoiselle welcomed him gladly. His long
absence, it appeared, had been giving her concern. He told her on what errand
he had been, and alarm overspread her face upon hearing its result.
“But, monsieur,” she cried, “you are not proposing
that I should remain a night in Grenoble.”
“What alternative have we?” he asked, and his
brows met, impatient at what he accounted no more than feminine whimsey.
“It is not safe,” she exclaimed, her fears
increasing. “You do not know how powerful are the Condillacs.”
He strode to the fire, and the logs hissed under
the pressure of his wet boot. He set his back to the blaze, and smiled down
upon her.
“Nor do you know how powerful are we,” he answered
easily. “I have below six troopers and a sergeant of the Seneschal’s regiment;
with myself and Rabecque we are nine men in all. That should be a sufficient
guard, mademoiselle. Nor do I think that with all their power the Condillacs
will venture here to claim you at the sword point.”
“And yet,” she answered, for all that she was
plainly reassured, at least in part, “I would rather you had got me a horse,
that we might have ridden to Saint Marcellin, where no doubt a carriage might
be obtained.”
“I did not see the need to put you to so much
discomfort,” he returned. “It is raining heavily.”
“Oh, what of that?” she flung back impatiently.
“Besides,” he added, “it seems there are no horses
at the post-house. A benighted place this Dauphiny of yours, mademoiselle.”
But she never heeded the gibe at her native
province. “No horses?” she echoed, and her hazel eyes looked up sharply, the
alarm returning to her face. She rose, and approached him. “Surely that is
impossible.”
“I assure you that it is as I say—neither at the
post-house nor at any of the inns I visited could I find me a spare horse.”
“Monsieur,” she cried, “I see the hand of
Condillac in this.”
“As how?” he inquired, and his tone again was
quickened by impatience.
“They have anticipated you. They seek to keep you
here—to keep us in Grenoble.”
“But to what end?” he asked, his impatience
growing. “The Auberge de France has promised me a carriage in the morning. What
shall it avail them at Condillac to keep us here to-night?”
“They may have some project. Oh, monsieur! I am
full of fears.”
“Dismiss them,” he answered lightly; and to
reassure her he added, smiling: “Rest assured we shall keep good watch over
you, Rabecque and I and the troopers. A guard shall remain in the passage
throughout the night. Rabecque and I will take turn about at sentry-go. Will
that give you peace?”
“You are very good,” she said, her voice quivering
with feeling and real gratitude, and as he was departing she called after him.
“You will be careful of yourself,” she said.
He paused under the lintel, and turned, surprised.
“It is a habit of mine,” said he, with a glint of humour in his eye.
But there was no answering smile from her. Her
face was all anxiety.
“Beware of pitfalls,” she bade him. “Go warily;
they are cruelly cunning, those folk of Condillac. And if evil should befall
you...”
“There would still remain Rabecque and the
troopers,” he concluded.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I implore you to be
careful,” she insisted.
“You may depend upon me,” he said, and closed the
door.
Outside he called Rabecque, and together they went
below. But mindful of her fears, he dispatched one of the troopers to stand
sentry outside her door whilst he and his lackey supped. That done, he called
the host, and set himself at table, Rabecque at his elbow in attendance to hand
him the dishes and pour his wine.
Across the low-ceilinged room the four travellers
still sat in talk, and as Garnache seated himself, one of them shouted for the
host and asked in an impatient tone to know if his supper was soon to come.
“In a moment, sir,” answered the landlord
respectfully, and he turned again to the Parisian. He went out to bring the
latter’s meal, and whilst he was gone Rabecque heard from his master the reason
of their remaining that night in Grenoble. The inference drawn by the astute
lackey—and freely expressed by him—from the lack of horses or carriages in
Grenoble that night, coincided oddly with Valerie’s. He too gave it as his
opinion that his master had been forestalled by the Dowager’s people, and
without presuming to advise Garnache to go warily—a piece of advice that
Garnache would have resented, to the extent perhaps of boxing the fellow’s
ears—he determined, there and then, to keep a close watch upon his master, and
under no circumstances, if possible, permit him to leave the Sucking Calf that
night.
The host returned, bearing a platter on which
there steamed a ragout that gave out an appetizing odour; his wife followed
with other dishes and a bottle of Armagnac under her arm. Rabecque busied
himself at once, and his hungry master disposed himself to satisfy the
healthiest appetite in France, when suddenly a shadow fell across the table. A
man had come to stand beside it, his body screening the light of one of the
lamps that hung from a rafter of the ceiling.
“At last!” he exclaimed, and his voice was harsh
with ill-humour.
Garnache looked up, pausing in the very act of
helping himself to that ragout. Rabecque looked up from behind his master, and
his lips tightened. The host looked up from the act of drawing the cork of the
flagon he had taken from his wife, and his eyes grew big as in his mind he
prepared a judicious blend of apology and remonstrance wherewith to soothe this
very impatient gentleman. But before he could speak, Garnache’s voice cut
sharply into the silence. An interruption at such a moment vexed him sorely.
“Monsieur says?” quoth he.
“To you, sir—nothing,” answered the fellow
impudently, and looked him straight between the eyes.
With a flush mounting to his cheeks, and his brows
drawn together in perplexity, Garnache surveyed him. He was that same traveller
who had lately clamoured to know when he might sup, a man of rather more than
middle height, lithe and active of frame, yet with a breadth of shoulder and
depth of chest that argued strength and endurance as well. He had fair, wavy
hair, which he wore rather longer than was the mode, brown eyes, and a face
which, without being handsome, was yet more than ordinarily engaging by virtue
of its strength and frank ingenuousness. His dress was his worst feature. It
was flamboyant and showy; cheap, and tawdrily pretentious. Yet he bore himself
with the easy dignity of a man who counts more inferiors than superiors.
Despite the arrogant manner of his address,
Garnache felt prepossessed in the newcomer’s favour. But before he could answer
him, the host was speaking.
“Monsieur mistakes...” he began.
“Mistakes?” thundered the other in an accent
slightly foreign. “It is you who mistake if you propose to tell me that this is
not my supper. Am I to wait all night, while every jackanapes who follows me
into your pigsty is to be served before me?”
“Jackanapes?” said Garnache thoughtfully, and
looked the man in the face again. Behind the stranger pressed his three
companions now, whilst the troopers across the room forgot their card-play to
watch the altercation that seemed to impend.
The foreigner—for such, indeed, his French
proclaimed him—turned half-contemptuously to the host, ignoring Garnache with
an air that was studiously offensive.
“Jackanapes?” murmured Garnache again, and he,
too, turned to the host. “Tell me, Monsieur l’Hote,” said he, “where do the
jackanapes bury their dead in Grenoble? I may need the information.”
Before the distressed landlord could utter a word,
the stranger had wheeled about again to face Garnache. “What shall that mean?”
he asked sharply, a great fierceness in his glance.
“That Grenoble may be witnessing the funeral of a
foreign bully by to-morrow, Monsieur l’Etranger,” said Garnache, showing his
teeth in a pleasant smile. He became conscious in that moment of a pressure on
his shoulder blade, but paid no heed to it, intent on watching the other’s
countenance. It expressed surprise a moment, then grew dark with anger.
“Do you mean that for me, sir?” he growled.
Garnache spread his hands. “If monsieur feels that
the cap fits him, I shall not stay him in the act of donning it.”
The stranger set one hand upon the table, and
leaned forward towards Garnache. “May I ask monsieur to be a little more
definite?” he begged.
Garnache sat back in his chair and surveyed the
man, smiling. Quick though his temper usually might be, it was checked at
present by amusement. He had seen in his time many quarrels spring from the
flimsiest of motives, but surely never had he seen one quite so self-begotten.
It was almost as if the fellow had come there of set purpose to pick it with
him.
A suspicion flashed across his mind. He remembered
the warning mademoiselle had given him. And he wondered. Was this a trick to
lure him to some guet-apens? He surveyed his man more closely; but the
inspection lent no colour to his suspicions. The stranger looked so frank and
honest; then again his accent was foreign. It might very well be that he was
some Savoyard lordling unused to being kept waiting, and that his hunger made
him irritable and impatient. If that were so, assuredly the fellow deserved a
lesson that should show him he was now in France, where different manners
obtained to those that he displayed; yet, lest he should be something else,
Garnache determined to pursue a policy of conciliation. It would be a madness
to embroil himself just then, whether this fellow were of Condillac or not.
“I have asked you, monsieur,” the stranger
insisted, “to be a little more definite.”
Garnache’s smile broadened and grew more friendly.
“Frankly,” said he, “I experience difficulty. My remark was vague. I meant it
so to be.”
“But it offended me, monsieur,” the other answered
sharply.
The Parisian raised his eyebrows, and pursed his
lips. “Then I deplore it,” said he. And now he had to endure the hardest trial
of all. The stranger’s expression changed to one of wondering scorn.
“Do I understand that monsieur apologizes?”
Garnache felt himself crimsoning; his self-control
was slipping from him; the pressure against his shoulder blade was renewed, and
in time he became aware of it and knew it for a warning from Rabecque.
“I cannot conceive, sir, that I have offended,”
said he at length, keeping a tight hand upon his every instinct—which was to
knock this impertinent stranger down. “But if I have, I beg that you will
believe that I have done so unwittingly. I had no such intent.”
The stranger removed his hand from the table and
drew himself erect.
“So much for that, then,” said he, provokingly
contemptuous. “If you will be as amiable in the matter of the supper I shall be
glad to terminate an acquaintance which I can see no honour to myself in
pursuing.”
This, Garnache felt, was more than he could
endure. A spasm of passion crossed his face, another instant and despite
Rabecque’s frantic proddings he might have flung the ragout in the gentleman’s
face; when suddenly came the landlord unexpectedly to the rescue.
“Monsieur, here comes your supper now,” he
announced, as his wife reentered from the kitchen with a laden tray.
For a moment the stranger seemed out of
countenance. Then he looked with cold insolence from the dishes set before
Garnache to those which were being set for himself.
“Ah,” said he, and his tone was an insult
unsurpassable, “perhaps it is to be preferred. This ragout grows cold, I
think.”
He sniffed, and turning on his heel, without word
or sign of salutation to Garnache, he passed to the next table, and sat down
with his companions. The Parisian’s eyes followed him, and they blazed with
suppressed wrath. Never in all his life had he exercised such self-control as
he was exercising then—which was the reason why he had failed to achieve
greatness—and he was exercising it for the sake of that child above-stairs, and
because he kept ever-present in his mind the thought that she must come to
grievous harm if ill befell himself. But he controlled his passion at the cost
of his appetite. He could not eat, so enraged was he. And so he pushed the
platter from him, and rose.
He turned to Rabecque, and the sight of his face
sent the lackey back a pace or two in very fear. He waved his hand to the
table.
“Sup, Rabecque,” said he. “Then come to me above.”
And followed, as before, by the eyes of the
stranger and his companions, Garnache strode out of the room, and mounting the
stairs went to find solace in talk with Valerie. But however impossible he
might find it to digest the affront he had swallowed, no word of the matter did
he utter to the girl, lest it should cause her fears to reawaken.
