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 hôtel. 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 hôtel. 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. Condé had once said of him that there was not a more
courageous man in France; but he could not escape recalling Condé'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 hôtel. 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'Orléans, Condé, Beaufort, De Longueville,
De Retz. Fool!