The Grey Cloak by Harold MacGrath (uplifting book club books .txt) 📕

/> "Take care!"

"I do not know who wore my cloak."

"A while back you said something about truth. You are not telling it now. I will know who killed De Brissac, an honored and respected gentleman, whatever his political opinions may have been in the past. It was an encounter under questionable circumstances. The edict reads that whosoever shall be found guilty of killing in a personal quarrel shall be subject to imprisonment or death. The name of the man who wore your cloak, or I shall hold you culpable and punish you in his stead."

The Chevalier stooped and recovered his hat, but he did not touch the sword.

"It is impossible for me to tell you, Monseigneur. I do not know. The cloak may have been stolen and worn by some one I never saw."

"To whom did you lend the cloak?"

"To tell that might bring another innocent man under a cloud. Besides, I have been absent thirty days; that is a long time to remember so trivial a thing."

"Which is to say that you refuse to tell me?" not without some admiration.

"It is," quietly.

"Your exoneration for the name, Chevalier. The alternative is your resignation from the Guards and your exile."

Exile from Paris was death to the courtier; but the Chevalier was more than a courtier, he was a soldier. "I refuse to tell you, Monseigneur. It is unfair of you to ask me."

"So be it. For the sake of your father, the marquis,-and I have often wondered why you never assume your lawful title,-for the sake of your father, then, who is still remembered kindly by her Majesty, I shall not send you to the Bastille as was my original intention. Your exile shall be in the sum of five years. You are to remain in France. If you rebel and draw your sword against your country, confiscation and death. You are also prohibited from offering your services to France against any nation she may be at war with. If within these five years you set foot inside of Paris, the Bastille, with an additional three years."

"Monseigneur, that is severe punishment for a man whose only crime is the possession of a grey cloak."

"Death of my life! I am not punishing you; I am punishing the man who killed De Brissac. Come, come, Monsieur le Comte," in a kindly tone; "do not be a fool, do not throw away a brilliant career for the sake of a friendship. I who know tell you that it is not worth while. Friendship, I have learned, is but a guise for self-interest."

The Chevalier, having nothing to say, bowed.

"Go, then, to your estates." Mazarin was angry. "Mark me, I shall find this friend of yours, but I shall not remit one hour of your punishment. Messieurs," turning to the musketeers, "conduct Monsieur le Chevalier to his lodgings and remain with him till dawn, when you will show him the road to Orléans. And remember, he must see no one." Then Mazarin went back to the gallery and resumed his game. "What! De Meilleraye, you have won only three louis? Give me the cards; and tell his Grace of Gramont that I am weary of his discords."


"Monsieur le Chevalier," said one of the musketeers, waking the Chevalier from his stupor, "pardon us a disagreeable duty."

The other musketeer restored the Chevalier's rapier.

"Proceed, Messieurs," said the Chevalier, picking up his hat and thrusting his sword into its scabbard; "I dare say this moment is distasteful to us all."

The musketeers conducted him through the secret staircase to the court below. The Duc de Beaufort, who had been waiting, came forward.

"Stand back, Messieurs," said the prince; "I have a word to say to Monsieur le Chevalier."

Mazarin's word was much, but the soldier loved his Beaufort. The two musketeers withdrew a dozen paces.

"Monsieur," said the duke lowly, "that paper, and my word as a gentleman, you shall go free."

"Paper? I do not understand your Highness."

"Come, come, Monsieur," said the duke impatiently; "it is your liberty. Besides, I am willing to pay well."

"Your Highness," coldly, "you are talking over my head. I do not understand a word you say."

Beaufort stared into the Chevalier's face. "Why did you enter De Brissac's . . . ?"

"I have explained all that to monseigneur, the cardinal. Is everybody mad in Paris?" with a burst of anger. "I arrive in Paris at six this evening, and straightway I am accused of having killed a man I have seen scarce a half dozen times in my life. And now your Highness talks of papers! I know nothing about papers. Ask Mazarin, Monsieur. Mazarin knows that I was not in Paris yesterday."

"What!" incredulously.

"Messieurs," called the Chevalier. The musketeers returned. "Tell his Highness for me that monseigneur acquits me of all connection with the De Brissac affair, and that I am being punished and exiled because I happen to possess a grey cloak."

"It is true, your Highness."

"Whom are you shielding?" demanded the prince with an oath. He was alarmed.

"Since I refused to tell his Eminence it is not probable that I shall tell your Highness."

Beaufort left in a rage. The prince's lackey spent a most uncomfortable hour that night when his Highness, son of Monsieur le Duc de Vendôme, retired.

The Chevalier espied a yellow calèche , Mademoiselle de Longueville herself in the act of entering it. Mademoiselle was the only person he knew to be in the confidence of Diane.

"Messieurs, will you permit me to speak to Mademoiselle de Longueville?" he asked.

"Do you think that monsieur can see mademoiselle?" said one to the other, humorously.

"It is too dark for him to see her. His Eminence said nothing about Monsieur le Chevalier speaking to any one he could not see."

"Thanks, Messieurs, thanks!" And the Chevalier hastened to the
calèche . "Mademoiselle . . ."

"Monsieur," she interrupted, "I have a message for you. A certain lady whom we both know requests me to say that she forbids you further to address her. Her reasons . . . Well, she gives none. As for me, Monsieur, I believe you to be a gentleman and a man of honor who is above exile and calumny."

"God bless you, Mademoiselle. Tell her for me that whatever her indictments are, I am innocent; and that we do not love when we do not trust."

She gave him a curious glance. "You have not yet discovered who she is?"

"No, Mademoiselle. Will you tell me?"

"She is . . . No; to tell you would be wrong and it would do you no good. Forget her, Chevalier. I should." And she drew the curtain and ordered her lackeys to drive on.

"It is snowing," said the Chevalier, irrelevantly, when the musketeers rejoined him.

"So it is, so it is," one replied. "Put on your hat, Monsieur, or my word for it, you will catch a devil of a chill."

The Chevalier put on his hat. "Five years . . . his Eminence said five years?"

"Yes, Monsieur. But what are five years to a man like yourself? You have youth and money, and the little Rochellaises are pretty. My word! the time will pass quickly enough. Come; we will go to your lodging. Did his Eminence say anything about wine, Georges?" to his companion.

"Nothing prohibitory. I once heard him say ' Bonum vinum laetificat cor hominis .'"

"What does that mean?"

"Good wine rejoices the heart of man. Let us watch for the dawn with the Chevalier, who is a man in all things. Monsieur, whoever your friend may be, I hope he is not without gratitude."

"Yes, yes! Let's off to the Chevalier's. The Candlestick has some fine burgundy. It is cold and wine warms the heart."

The Chevalier burst into a despairing laugh, "Wine! That is the word, my comrades. On to the Candlestick!" he cried in a high voice. He caught the musketeers by the arms and dragged them toward the gate. "Wine rejoices the heart of man: and one forgets. Let Mazarin take away my liberty; praise be to Bacchus, he can not take away my thirst! And oh! I shall be thirsty these five long years. On to the Candlestick! I know a mellow vintage; and we three shall put the candle out to-night."

And the three of them made off for the Candlestick.


Dawn. A Swiss leaned sleepily against one of the stone abutments which supported the barriers of the Porte Saint Antoine. These barriers would not be raised for the general public till nine; yet the Swiss, rubbing his gummed eyes, saw the approach of three men, one of whom was leading a handsome Spanish jennet. The three men walked unevenly, now and then laughing uproariously and slapping one another on the back. Presently one stepped upon a slippery cobble and went sprawling into the snow, to the great merriment of his companions, who had some difficulty in raising the fallen man to his feet.

"Go along with you, Messieurs," said the Swiss enviously; "you are all drunk."

"Go along yourself," said Georges, assuming a bacchanalian pose.

"What do you want?" asked the Swiss, laughing.

"To pass this gentleman out of the city," said Georges; "and here is the order."

"Very good," replied the Swiss.

The Chevalier climbed into the saddle. Breton was to follow with the personal effects. The barriers creaked, opened the way, and the Chevalier passed forth. There was a cheering word or two, a waving of hats, and then the barriers fell back into place. A quarter of a mile away, having reached an elevation, the exile stopped his horse and turned in the saddle. As he strained his bloodshot eyes toward the city, the mask of intoxication fell away from his face, leaving it worn and wretched. The snow lay everywhere, white, untrampled, blinding. The pale yellow beams of the sun broke in brilliant flashes against the windows of the Priory of Jacobins, while above the city, the still sleeping city, rose long spiral threads of opal-tinted smoke.

Five years. And for what? Friendship. How simple to have told Mazarin that he had loaned the cloak to Victor de Saumaise. A dozen words. His head was throbbing violently and his throat was hot. He took off his hat and the keen air of morning cooled his damp forehead. Five years. He could see this year drag itself to its dismal end, and another, and another, till five had come and gone, each growing infinitely longer and duller and more hopeless. Of what use were youth and riches without a Paris? Friendship? Was he not, as Mazarin had pointed out, a fool for his pains? It was giving away five years of life and love. A word? No. He straightened in the saddle, and the fumes of wine receded from his brain, leaving a temporary clearness. Yes,