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The Grey Cloak by Harold MacGrath

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THE GREY CLOAK

by

HAROLD MACGRATH

Author of _The Puppet Crown_

The Illustrations by Thomas Mitchell Peirce

Grosset and Dunlap
Publishers, New York

1903







[Frontispiece]





MAY


LIKE STEVENSON

SHE LOVES A STORY FOR THE STORY'S SAKE

SO I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO HER

WHOSE BEAUTY I ADMIRE

AND WHOSE HEART AND MIND I LOVE

MY COUSIN

LILLIAN A. BALDWIN





CONTENTS


CHAPTER

I THE MAN IN THE CLOAK
II THE TOILET OF THE CHEVALIER
III THE MUTILATED HAND
IV AN AENEAS FOR AN ACHATES
V THE HORN OF PLENTY
VI AN ACHATES FOR AN AENEAS
VII THE PHILOSOPHY OF PERIGNY
VIII THE LAST ROUT
IX THE FIFTY PISTOLES
X THE MASQUERADING LADIES
XI THE JOURNEY TO QUEBEC
XII A BALLADE OF DOUBLE REFRAIN
XIII TEN THOUSAND LIVRES
XIV BRETON FINDS A MARKER
XV THE SUPPER
XVI THE POET EXPLAINS
XVII WHAT THE SHIP BRINGS
XVIII THE MASTER OF IRONIES
XIX A PAGE FROM MYTHOLOGY
XX A WARRANT OR A CONTRACT
XXI AN INGENIOUS IDEA
XXII MADAME FINDS A DROLL BOOK
XXIII A MARQUIS DONS HIS BALDRIC
XXIV A DISSERTATION ON CHARITY
XXV ORIOLES AND PREROGATIVES
XXVI THE STORY OF HIAWATHA
XXVII ONONDAGA
XXVIII THE FLASH FROM THE FLAME
XXIX A JOURNEY INTO THE HILLS
XXX BROTHER JACQUES' ABSOLVO TE
XXXI THE HUNTING HUT
XXXII A GALLANT POET
XXXIII HOW GABRIELLE DIANE LOVED
XXXIV ABSOLUTION OF PERIGNY
XXXV BROTHER!




NOTE

The author has taken a few liberties with the lives of various
historical personages who pass through these pages; but only for the
story's sake. He is also indebted to the Jesuit Relations, to Old
Paris, by Lady Jackson, and to Clark's History of Onondaga, the legend
of Hiawatha being taken from the last named volume.




THE GREY CLOAK


CHAPTER I

THE MAN IN THE CLOAK.

A man enveloped in a handsome grey cloak groped through a dark alley
which led into the fashionable district of the Rue de Bethisy. From
time to time he paused, with a hand to his ear, as if listening.
Satisfied that the alley was deserted save for his own presence, he
would proceed, hugging the walls. The cobbles were icy, and scarce a
moment passed in which he did not have to struggle to maintain his
balance. The door of a low tavern opened suddenly, sending a golden
shaft of light across the glistening pavement and casting a brilliant
patch on the opposite wall. With the light came sounds of laughter and
quarreling and ringing glasses. The man laid his hand on his sword,
swore softly, and stepped back out of the blinding glare. The flash of
light revealed a mask which left visible only the lower half of his
face. Men wearing masks were frequently subjected to embarrassing
questions; and this man was determined that no one should question him
to-night. He waited, hiding in the shadow.

Half a dozen guardsmen and musketeers reeled out. The host reviled
them for a pack of rogues. They cursed him, laughing, and went on, to
be swallowed up in the darkness beyond. The tavern door closed, and
once more the alley was hued with melting greys and purples. The man
in the cloak examined the strings of his mask, tilted his hat still
farther down over his eyes, and tested the looseness of his sword.

"The drunken fools!" he muttered, continuing. "Well for them they came
not this way."

When he entered the Rue de Bethisy, he stopped, searched up and down
the thoroughfare. Far away to his right he saw wavering torches, but
these receded and abruptly vanished round a corner of the Rue des
Fosses St-Germain l'Auxerrois. He was alone. A hundred yards to his
left, on the opposite side of the street, stood a gloomy but
magnificent hotel, one of the few in this quarter that was surrounded
by a walled court. The hotel was dark. So far as the man in the grey
cloak could see, not a light filled any window. There were two gates.
Toward the smaller of the two the man cautiously directed his steps.
He tried the latch. The gate opened noiselessly, signifying frequent
use.

"So far, so good!"

An indecisive moment passed, as though the man were nerving himself for
an ordeal of courage and cunning. With a gesture resigning himself to
whatever might befall, he entered the court, careful to observe that
the way out was no more intricate than the way in.

"Now for the ladder. If that is missing, it's horse and away to Spain,
or feel the edge of Monsieur Caboche. Will the lackey be true? False
or true, I must trust him. Bernouin would sell Mazarin for twenty
louis, and that is what I have paid. Monsieur le Comte's lackey. It
will be a clever trick. Mazarin will pay as many as ten thousand
livres for that paper. That fat fool of a Gaston, to conspire at his
age! Bah; what a muddled ass I was, in faith! I, to sign my name in
writing to a cabal! Only the devil knows what yonder old fool will do
with the paper. Let him become frightened, let that painted play-woman
coddle him; and it's the block for us all, all save Gaston and Conde
and Beaufort. Ah, Madame, Madame, loveliest in all France, 'twas your
beautiful eyes. For the joy of looking into them, I have soiled a
fresh quill, tumbled into a pit, played the fool! And a silver crown
against a golden louis, you know nothing about politics or intrigue,
nor that that old fool of a husband is making a decoy of your beauty.
But my head cleared this morning. That paper must be mine. First,
because it is a guaranty for my head, and second, because it is likely
to fatten my purse. It will be simple to erase my name and substitute
another's. And this cloak! My faith, it is a stroke. To the devil
with Gaston and Conde and Beaufort; their ambitions are nothing to me,
since my head is everything."

He tiptoed across the stone flags.

"Faith, this is a delicate operation; and the paper may be hidden
elsewhere into the bargain. We venture, we lose or we win; only this
is somewhat out of my line of work. Self-preservation is not theft;
let us ease our conscience with this sophism . . . Ha! the ladder.
Those twenty louis were well spent. This is droll, good heart. An
onlooker would swear that this is an assignation. Eh well, Romeo was a
sickly lover, and lopped about like a rose in a wind-storm. Mercutio
was the man!"

He had gained the side of the hotel. From a window above came a faint
yellow haze such as might radiate from a single candle. This was the
signal that all was clear. The man tested the ladder, which was of
rope, and it withstood his weight. Very gently he began to climb,
stopping every three or four rounds and listening. The only noise came
from the armory where a parcel of mercenaries were moving about. Up,
up, round by round, till his fingers touched the damp cold stone of the
window ledge; the man raised himself, leaned toward the left, and
glanced obliquely into the room. It was deserted. A candle burned in
a small alcove. The man drew himself quickly into the room, which was
a kind of gallery facing the grand staircase. A sound coming from the
hall below caused the intruder to slip behind a curtain. A lackey was
unbarring the door. The man in the gallery wondered why.

"My very nerves have ears," he murmured. "If I were sure . . . to pay
madame a visit while she sleeps and dreams!" His hand grew tense
around the hilt of his sword. "No; let us play Iago rather than
Tarquinius; let ambition, rather than love, strike the key-note. Greed
was not born to wait. As yet I have robbed no man save at cards; and
as every noble cheats when he can, I can do no less. Neither have I
struck a man in the back. And I like not this night's business."

On the cold and silent night came ten solemn strokes from the clock of
St.-Germain l'Auxerrois. Then all was still again. The man came from
behind the curtain, his naked sword flashing evilly in the flickering
light. He took up the candle and walked coolly down the wide corridor.
The sureness of his step could have originated only in the perfect
knowledge of the topography of the hotel. He paused before a door, his
ear to the keyhole.

"She sleeps! . . . and the wolf prowls without the door!" He mused
over the wayward path by which he had come into the presence of this
woman, who slept tranquilly beyond these panels of oak. He felt a glow
on his cheeks, a quickening of his pulse. To what lengths would he not
go for her sake? Sure of winning her love, yes, he would become great,
rise purified from the slough of loose living. He had never killed a
man dishonorably; he had won his duels by strength and dexterity alone.
He had never taken an advantage of a weakling; for many a man had
insulted him and still walked the earth, suffering only the slight
inconvenience of a bandaged arm or a tender cheek, and a fortnight or
so in bed. Conde had once said of him that there was not a more
courageous man in France; but he could not escape recalling Conde's
afterthought: that drink and reckless temper had kept him where he was.
There was in him a vein of madness which often burst forth in a blind
fury. It had come upon him in battle, and he had awakened many a time
to learn that he had been the hero of an exploit. He was not a
boaster; he was not a broken soldier. He was a man whose violent
temper had strewn his path with failures. . . . In love! Silently he
mocked himself. In love, he, the tried veteran, of a hundred
inconstancies! He smiled grimly beneath his mask. He passed on,
stealthily, till he reached a door guarded by two effigies of Francis
I. His sword accidentally touched the metal, and the soft clang
tingled every nerve in his body. He waited. Far away a horse was
galloping over the pavement. He tried the door, and it gave way to his
pressure. He stood in the library of the master of the hotel. In this
very room, while his brain was filled with the fumes of wine and
passion, he had scribbled his name upon crackling parchment on which
were such names as Gaston d'Orleans, Conde, Beaufort, De Longueville,
De Retz. Fool!

Grinning from the high shelves were the Greek masks, Comedy and
Tragedy. The light from the candle gave a sickly human tint to the
marble. He closed the door.

"Now for the drawer which holds my head; of love, anon!"

He knelt, placing the candle on the book-ledge. Along the bottom of
the shelves ran a series of drawers. These he opened without sound,
searching for secret bottoms. Drawer after drawer yawned into his
face, and his heart sank. What he sought was not to be found. The
last drawer would not open. With infinite care and toil he succeeded
in prying the lock with the point of his sword, and his spirits rose.
The papers in this drawer were of no use to any one but the owner. The
man in the grey cloak cursed under his breath and a thrill of rage ran
through him. He was about to give up in despair when he saw a small
knob protruding from the back panel of the drawer. Eagerly he touched
the knob, and a little drawer slid forth.

"Mine!" With trembling fingers he unfolded the parchment. He held it
close to the candle and scanned each signature. There was his own,
somewhat shaky, but nevertheless his own. . . . He brushed his eyes,
as if cobwebs of doubt had suddenly gathered there. Her signature!
Hers! "Roses of Venus, she is mine, mine!" He pressed his lips to the
inken line. Fortune indeed favored him . . . or was it the devil?
Hers! She was his; here was a sword to bend that proud neck. Ten
thousand livres? There was more than that, more than that by a hundred
times. Passion first, or avarice; love or greed? He would decide that
question later. He slipped the paper into the pocket of the cloak.
Curiosity drew him toward the drawer again. There was an old
commission in the musketeers, signed by Louis XIII; letters from Madame
de Longueville; an unsigned _lettre-de-cachet_; an accounting of the
revenues of the various chateaus; and a long envelope, yellow with age.
He picked it out of the drawer and blew away the dust. He read the
almost faded address, and his jaw fell. . . . "To Monsieur le Marquis
de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death."

He was not conscious how long a time he stared at that address. Age
had unsealed the envelope, and the man in the grey cloak drew out the
contents. It was in Latin, and with some difficulty he translated it.
. . . So rapt was he over what he read, so nearly in a dream he knelt
there, that neither the sound of a horse entering the court nor the
stir of activity in the armory held forth a menace.

"Good God, what a revenge!" he murmured. "What a revenge!"

Twice, three times, and yet again he drank of the secret. That he of
all men should make this discovery! His danger became as nothing; he
forgot even the object of his thieving visit.

"Well, Monsieur?" said a cold, dry voice from the threshold.

The man in the grey cloak leaped to his feet, thrusting the letter into
the pocket along with the cabal. His long rapier snarled from its
scabbard, just in time. The two blades hung in mid air.

"Nicely caught," said the cold, dry voice again. "What have you to
say? It is hanging, Monsieur, hanging by the neck." The speaker was a
man of sixty, white of hair, but wiry and active. "Ha! in a mask, eh?
That looks bad for you. You are not a common thief, then? . . . That
was a good stroke, but not quite high enough. Well?"

"Stand aside, Monsieur le Comte," said the man in the cloak. His tones
were steady; all his fright was gone.

The steel slithered and ground.

"You know me, eh?" said the old man, banteringly. His blade ripped a
hole in the cloak. "You have a voice that sounds strangely familiar to
my ears."

"Your ears will soon be dull and cold, if you do not let me pass."

"Was it gold, or jewels? . . . Jesus!" The old man's gaze, roving a
hair's breadth, saw the yawning drawers. "That paper, Monsieur, or you
shall never leave this place alive! Hallo! Help, men! To me,
Gregoire! Help, Captain!"

"Madame shall become a widow," said the man in the mask.

Back he pressed the old man, back, back, into the corridor, toward the
stairs. They could scarce see each other, and it was by instinct alone
that thrust was met by parry. Up the rear staircase came a dozen
mercenaries, bearing torches. The glare smote the master in the eyes,
and partly dazzled him. He fought valiantly, but he was forced to give
way. A chance thrust, however, severed the cords of his opponent's
mask.

"You?"

There was a gurgling sound, a coughing, and the elder sank to his
knees, rolled upon his side, and became still. The man in the grey
cloak, holding the mask to his face, rushed down the grand staircase,
sweeping aside all those who barred his path. He seemed possessed with
strength and courage Homeric; odds were nothing. With a back
hand-swing of his arm he broke one head; he smashed a face with the
pommel; caught another by the throat and flung him headlong. In a
moment he was out of the door. Down the steps he dashed, through the
gate, thence into the street, a mob yelling at his heels. The light
from the torches splashed him. A sharp gust of wind nearly tore the
mask from his fingers. As he caught it, he ran full into a priest.

"Out of the way, then, curse you!"

Before the astonished priest, who was a young man, could rise from the
pavement where the impact had sent him sprawling, the assailant had
disappeared in the alley. He gained the door of the low tavern, flung
it open, pushed by every one, upsetting several, all the while the
bloody rapier in one hand and the mask held in place by the other. The
astonished inmates of the tavern saw him leap like a huge bird and
vanish through one of the windows, carrying the sash with him. But a
nail caught the grey cloak, and it fluttered back to the floor. Scarce
a moment had passed when the pursuers crowded in. When questioned, the
stupefied host could only point toward the splintered window frame.
Through this the men scrambled, and presently their yells died away in
the distance.

A young man of ruddy countenance, his body clothed in the garments of a
gentleman's lackey, stooped and gathered up the cloak.

"Holy Virgin!" he murmured, his eyes bulging, "there can not be two
cloaks like this in Paris; it's the very same."

He crushed it under his arm and in the general confusion gained the
alley, took to his legs, and became a moving black shadow in the grey.
He made off toward the Seine.


Meanwhile terror stalked in the corridors of the hotel. Lights flashed
from window to window. The court was full of servants and mercenaries.
For the master lay dead in the corridor above. A beautiful young
woman, dressed in her night-robes, her feet in slippers, hair
disordered and her eyes fixed with horror, gazed down at the lifeless
shape. The stupor of sleep still held her in its dulling grasp. She
could not fully comprehend the tragedy. Her ladies wailed about her,
but she heeded them not. It was only when the captain of the military
household approached her that she became fully aroused. She pressed
her hand against her madly beating heart.

[Illustration: She pressed her hands against her madly beating heart.]

"Who did this?" she asked.

"A man in a mask, Madame," replied the captain, kneeling. He gently
loosed the sword from the stiffening fingers. The master of
twenty-five years was gone.

"In a mask?"

"Yes, Madame."

"And the motive ?"

"Not robbery, since nothing is disturbed about the hotel save in
monsieur's library. The drawers have all been pulled out."

With a sharp cry she crossed the corridor and entered the library. The
open drawers spoke dumbly but surely.

"Gone!" she whispered. "We are all lost! He was fortunate in dying."
Terror and fright vanished from her face and her eyes, leaving the one
impassive and the other cold. She returned to the body and the look
she cast on it was without pity or regret. Alive, she had detested
him; dead, she could gaze on him with indifference. He had died,
leaving her the legacy of the headsman's ax. And his play-woman? would
she weep or laugh? . . . She was free. It came quickly and penetrated
like a dry wine: she was free. Four odious years might easily be
forgiven if not forgotten. "Take him to his room," she said softly.
After all, he had died gallantly.

Soon one of the pursuers returned. He was led into the presence of his
mistress.

"Have they found him?"

"No, Madame. He disappeared as completely as if the ground had
swallowed him. All that can be added is that he wore a grey cloak."

"A grey cloak, did you say?" Her hand flew to her throat and her eyes
grew wild again. "A grey cloak?"

"Yes Madame; a grey cloak with a square velvet collar."

"Ah!" said the captain, with a singular smile. He glanced obliquely at
madame. But madame lurched forward into the arms of one of her
waiting-women. She had fainted.




CHAPTER II

THE TOILET OF THE CHEVALIER DU CEVENNES

The Chevalier du Cevennes occupied the apartment on the first floor of
the Hotel of the Silver Candlestick, in the Rue Guenegaud. The
apartment consisted of three rooms. In all Paris there was not to be
found the like of them. They were not only elegant, they were simple;
for true elegance is always closely allied to simplicity. Persian rugs
covered the floors, rugs upon which many a true believer had knelt in
evening prayer; Moorish tapestries hung from the walls, making a fine
and mellow background for the various pieces of ancient and modern
armor; here and there were Greek marbles and Italian vases; and several
spirited paintings filled the gaps left between one tapestry and
another. Sometimes the Chevalier entertained his noble friends, young
and old, in these rooms; and the famous kitchens of Madame Boisjoli,
the landlady of the Candlestick, supplied the delicacies of his tables.
Ordinarily the Chevalier dined in the cheery assembly-room below; for,
like all true gourmands of refinement, he believed that there is as
much appetite in a man's ears and eyes as in his stomach, and to feed
the latter properly there must be light, a coming and going of old and
new faces, the rumor of voices, the jest, and the snatch of song.

At this moment the Chevalier was taking a bath, and was splashing about
in the warm water, laughing with the joyous heart of a boy. With the
mild steam rose the vague perfume of violets. Brave as a Crillon
though he was, fearless as a Bussy, the Chevalier was something of a
fop; not the mincing, lisping fop, but one who loved physical
cleanliness, who took pride in the whiteness of his skin, the clarity
of his eyes. There had been summer nights in the brilliant gardens of
La Place Royale when he had been pointed out as one of the handsomest
youths in Paris. Ah, those summer nights, the cymbals and trumpets of
_les beaux mousquetaires_, the display of feathers and lace, unwrought
pearls and ropes of precious stones, the lisping and murmuring of
silks, the variety of colors, the fair dames with their hoods, their
masks, their elaborate coiffures, the crowds in the balconies! All the
celebrities of court might be seen promenading the Place; and to be
identified as one above many was a plume such as all Mazarin's gold
could not buy.

"My faith! but this has been a day," he murmured, gazing wistfully at
his ragged nails. "Till I entered this tub there was nothing but lead
in my veins, nothing but marble on my bones. Look at those boots,
Breton, lad; a spur gone, the soles loose, the heels cracked. And that
cloak! The mud on the skirts is a week old. And that scabbard was new
when I left Paris. When I came up I looked like a swashbuckler in one
of Scudery's plays. I let no one see me. Indeed, I doubt if any would
have recognized me. But a man can not ride from Rome to Paris, after
having ridden from Paris to Rome, changing neither his clothes nor his
horse, without losing some particle of his fastidiousness, and, body of
Bacchus! I have lost no small particle of mine."

"Ah, Monsieur Paul," said the lackey, hiding the cast-off clothing in
the closet, "I am that glad to see you safe and sound again!"

"Your own face is welcome, lad. What weather I have seen!" wringing
his mustache and royal. "And Heaven forfend that another such ride
falls my lot." He smiled at the ruddy heap in the fireplace.

What a ride, indeed! For nearly two weeks he had ridden over hills and
mountains, through valleys and gorges, access deep and shallow streams,
sometimes beneath the sun, sometimes beneath the moon or the stars,
sometimes beneath the flying black canopies of midnight storms, always
and ever toward Paris. He had been harried by straggling Spaniards; he
had drawn his sword three times in unavoidable tavern brawls; he had
been robbed of his purse; he had even pawned his signet-ring for a
night's lodging: all because Mazarin had asked a question which only
the pope could answer.

Paris at last!--Paris the fanciful, the illogical, the changeable, the
wholly delightful Paris! He knew his Paris well, did the Chevalier.
He had been absent thirty days, and on the way in from Fontainebleau,
where he had spent the preceding night at the expense of his
signet-ring, he had wondered what changes had taken place among the
exiles and favorites during this time. What if the Grande Mademoiselle
again headed that comic revolution, the Fronde, as in the old days when
she climbed the walls at Orleans and assumed command against the forces
of the king? What if Monsieur de Retz issued orders from the Palais
Royal, using the same-pen with which Mazarin had demanded his
resignation as Archbishop of Paris? In fact, what if Madame de
Longueville, aided by the middle class, had once more taken up quarters
in the Hotel de Ville? Oh! so many things happened in Paris in thirty
days that the Chevalier would not have been surprised to learn that the
boy Louis had declared to govern his kingdom without the assistance of
ministers, priests, and old women. Ah, that Fronde! Those had been
gallant days, laughable, it is true; but every one seemed to be able to
pluck a feather from the golden goose of fortune. He was eighteen
then, and had followed the royal exodus to Germain.

The Chevalier sighed as he continued to absorb the genial heat of the
water. The captain at the Porte Saint Antoine had told him that the
Grande Mademoiselle was still in exile at Blois, writing lampoons
against the court and particularly against Mazarin; that De Retz was
biting his nails, full of rage and impotence against those fetters
which banishment casts around men of action; that Madame de Longueville
was conducting a love-intrigue in Normandy; and that Louis had to
borrow or beg his pocket-money. Strange as it seemed to the Chevalier,
Paris was unchanged.

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