_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.

Rapidly De Mortemart told the rest--the c.o.xswain's evidence; the certain doom that must be St. Georges's must be p.r.o.nounced by now, since, outside, the clatter of the Mousquetaires could be heard, proclaiming already clearly enough that the court was up, the sentence awarded.

"I must know all!" Boussac cried, and followed by the other he rushed out. And then he learned the _galerien's_ doom--wheel on the third morning from now.

No wonder the pale-faced girl thought he looked sad as he stood in the gateway bidding De Mortemart a hasty farewell.

"If I can," he said, "I must save him; must if necessary see the king.

I am mousquetaire--I have the right of audience."

"Nothing can save him," the other replied. "He has served Louis, and he has fought against him--on the conquering side. That is enough!"

"Yet," said Boussac, "I will try. I can tell Louis something of his history that may--though the chance is poor, G.o.d knows!--induce him to hold his hand. Or, at least, to let the doom be something less awful than the wheel."

So they parted, the one to take his men back to Rambouillet, the other to try and save St. Georges, vain as he feared the attempt would be.

First, he sought a messenger, a trusty honest man he knew of, himself an old disbanded soldier, and told him he must ride that night on a message of life and death. Would he promise to let nothing stand in his way?--he should be well rewarded.

"Never fear, monsieur. To where must I ride?"

"To Troyes. You can obtain a good horse?"

"Ay! or get a _renfort_ on the road. 'Tis thirty leagues, but I will manage it. What have I to do when there?"

"This. Make for the Manoir de Roquemaure, then see at once _la chatelaine_, Mademoiselle de Roquemaure--she rules it since her mother's death. Next, give her this. Put it into her own hand and no other. In the name of G.o.d fail not! Again I say, it is life or death!"

"Fear not. I will not fail. In half an hour I am on the road. Hark!

the clock strikes from the Tour St. Jacques; 'tis seven o'clock--ere it strikes the same hour in the morning I shall be there and to spare--or dead."

"Brave man! Good soldier! I believe you. Go."

What the old soldier was to give into the hand of Aurelie de Roquemaure was a letter containing the following hastily scribbled words:

"MADEMOISELLE: You spoke to me once of an unhappy gentleman, a _chevau-leger_; asked me if he was dead, and said you had some news would make him happy if he knew it. Mademoiselle, he is not dead, but dies on Monday, on the wheel--Monday morning next at dawn! He has returned to France, fought against Tourville on the high seas, is taken, and, as I say, condemned. If you have any power with the king, if you know aught that may weigh with him, I beseech you lose no effort.

It is Monday morning, I repeat, at dawn that he dies. Your respectful servitor,

"BOUSSAC."

The messenger departed--and about his fidelity he had no doubt, so well did he know him--Boussac mounted his horse and rode to where the three troops of the Mousquetaires now in Paris on guard duty were quartered. Then he made his way to the senior officer in command, begged leave of him on urgent matters of the last importance--so urgent, indeed, did he represent them to be that he stated he was about to seek an after-supper audience of the king--obtained the leave, and, procuring a fresh horse, set out for Versailles.

"I will tell him," he said, "who St. Georges is, whom he believes himself to be. The late duke was Louis's friend in the days when the king's heart was young and fresh--surely he will, at least, grant a reprieve. More especially if I tell him all of De Roquemaure's villainy. As for the sister--if she is what St. Georges told me in his last letter he felt convinced she was--she will do nothing. Yet, _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ who can look in those eyes as I have done and deem her so vile? Surely, surely, though he stands in her way so much, she will not let him go to his doom. Even though she knows for certain he is De Vannes, she will strive to save him. She must!"

It was no easy thing to approach Louis at the after-supper audience, free as the monarch generally made himself for an hour at that period, and in spite of an officer of the Mousquetaires being a more or less favoured person. For there were many who had greater claims than a mousquetaire to the royal ear, the royal salutation--a finger to the hat for a man, the hat lowered to the right ear for a lady--to the royal smile.

There were, to wit, the bishops, the ladies of the court, the marshals and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, the ministers and many others. And to-night the king was, and had been for some days, so depressed, so for him almost angry, that few took this period for presenting pet.i.tions or requests.

His great fleet was shattered by the hereditary enemies of France--since the Spanish Armada no fleet had ever been so shattered!--his power and might were broken, even if for a time only; and though he had told Tourville--with that royal graciousness which scarcely ever deserted him--that he was satisfied "he had done his best," he was in no humour for granting boons.

What hope was there that a mousquetaire should obtain aught from him that night; should even be able to approach him? Above all, what hope that such a request as Boussac's--that one of his own subjects who had helped in the shattering of his great fleet should be pardoned--was likely to be granted?