THE VALOIS SAGA: Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels). Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
whence, no doubt, your too great curiosity drove you?”
“Exactly, madame; you have the gift of divination. I waited, impatiently, for daylight, that I might see where I was, when at half-past four the same duenna returned, again bandaged my eyes, made me promise not to try to raise my bandage, led me outside, accompanied me for a hundred feet, made me again swear not to remove my bandage until I had counted fifty more. I counted fifty, and found myself in the Rue Saint Antoine, opposite the Rue de Jouy.”
“And then”—
“Then, madame, I returned so happy that I paid no attention to the four wretches, from whose clutches I had such difficulty in escaping. Now, madame,” continued La Mole, “in finding a piece of my plume here, my heart trembled with joy, and I picked it up, promising myself to keep it as a souvenir of this glad night. But in the midst of my happiness, one thing troubles me; that is, what may have become of my companion.”
“Has he not returned to the Louvre?”
“Alas! no, madame! I have searched everywhere, in the Étoile d’Or, on the tennis courts, and in many other respectable places; but no Annibal, and no Coconnas”—
As La Mole uttered these words he accompanied them with a gesture of hopelessness, extended his arms and opened his cloak, underneath which at various points his doublet was seen, the lining of which showed through the rents like so many elegant slashes.
“Why, you were riddled through and through!” exclaimed Marguerite.
“Riddled is the word!” said La Mole, who was not sorry to turn to his account the danger he had run. “See, madame, see!”
“Why did you not change your doublet at the Louvre, since you returned there?” asked the queen.
“Ah!” said La Mole, “because some one was in my room.”
“Some one in your room?” said Marguerite, whose eyes expressed the greatest astonishment; “who was in your room?”
“His highness.”
“Hush!” interrupted Marguerite.
The young man obeyed.
“Qui ad lecticam meam stant?” she asked La Mole.
“Duo pueri et unus eques.”
“Optime, barbari!” said she. “Dic, Moles, quem inveneris in biculo tuo?”
“Franciscum ducem.”
“Agentem?”
“Nescio quid.”
“Quocum?”
“Cum ignoto.”8
“That is strange,” said Marguerite. “So you were unable to find Coconnas?” she continued, without evidently thinking of what she was saying.
“So, madame, as I have had the honor of telling you, I am really dying of anxiety.”
“Well,” said Marguerite, sighing, “I do not wish to detain you longer in your search for him; I do not know why I think so, but he will find himself! Never mind, however, go, in spite of this.”
The queen laid a finger on her lips. But as beautiful Marguerite had confided no secret, had made no avowal to La Mole, the young man understood that this charming gesture, meaning only to impose silence on him, must have another significance.
The procession resumed its march, and La Mole, intent on following out his investigation, continued to ascend the quay as far as the Rue Long Pont which led him to the Rue Saint Antoine.
Opposite the Rue Jouy he stopped. It was there that the previous evening the two duennas had bandaged his eyes and those of Coconnas. He had turned to the left, then he had counted twenty steps. He repeated this and found himself opposite a house, or rather a wall, behind which rose a house; in this wall was a door with a shed over it ornamented with large nails and loop-holes.
The house was in the Rue Cloche Percée, a small narrow street beginning in the Rue Saint Antoine and ending in the Rue Roi de Sicile.
“By Heaven!” cried La Mole, “it was here — I would swear to it — in extending my hand, as I came out, I felt the nails in the door, then I descended two steps. The man who ran by crying ‘Help!’ who was killed in the Rue Roi de Sicile, passed just as I reached the first. Let us see, now.”
La Mole went to the door and knocked. The door opened and a mustached janitor appeared.
“Was ist das?” (Who is that?) asked the janitor.
“Ah! ah!” said La Mole, “we are Swiss, apparently.” “My friend,” he continued, assuming the most charming manner, “I want my sword which I left in this house in which I spent the night.”
“Ich verstehe nicht,” (I do not understand,) replied the janitor.
“My sword,” went on La Mole.
“Ich verstehe nicht,” repeated the janitor.
“— which I left — my sword which I left”—
“Ich verstehe nicht.”
“— in this house, in which I spent the night.”
“Gehe zum Teufel!” (Go to the devil!) And he slammed the door in La Mole’s face.
“By Heaven!” cried La Mole, “if I had this sword I have just asked for, I would gladly put it through that fellow’s body. But I have not, and this must wait for another day.”
Thereupon La Mole continued his way to the Rue Roi de Sicile, took about fifty steps to the right, then to the left again, and came to the Rue Tizon, a little street running parallel with the Rue Cloche Percée, and like it in every way. More than this, scarcely had he gone thirty steps before he came upon the door with the large nails, with its shed and loop-holes, the two steps and the wall. One would have said that the Rue Cloche Percée had returned to see him pass by.
La Mole then reflected that he might have mistaken his right for his left, and he knocked at this door, to make the same demand he had made at the other. But this time he knocked in vain. The door was not opened.
Two or three times La Mole made the same trip, which naturally led him to the idea that the house had two entrances, one on the Rue Cloche Percée, the other on the Rue Tizon.
But this conclusion, logical as it was, did not bring him back his sword, and did not tell him where his friend was. For an instant he conceived the idea of buying another sword and cutting to pieces the wretched janitor who so persistently refused to speak anything but German, but he thought this porter belonged to Marguerite, and that if Marguerite had chosen thus, it was because she had her reasons, and that it might be disagreeable for her to be deprived of him.
Now La Mole would not have done anything disagreeable to Marguerite for anything in the world.
Fearing to yield to this temptation he returned about two o’clock in the afternoon to the Louvre.
As his room was not occupied this time he could enter it. The matter was urgent enough as far as his doublet was concerned, which, as the queen had already remarked to him, was considerably torn.
He therefore at once approached his bed to substitute the beautiful pearl-gray doublet for the one he wore, when to his great surprise the first thing he perceived near the pearl-gray doublet was the famous sword which he had left in the Rue Cloche Percée.
La Mole took it and turned it over and over.
It was really his.
“Ah! ah!” said he, “is there some magic under all this?” Then with a sigh, “Ah! if poor Coconnas could be found like my sword!”
Two or