He did not like it.There was an ugly smack of intrigue in the air, puzzling to a plain soldier.Nor did he like the look of the streets now dim in the twilight.On his way to the gates they had been crammed like a barrel of salt fish, and in the throng there had been as many armed men as if an enemy made a leaguer beyond the walls.There had been, too, a great number of sallow southern faces, as if the Queen-mother had moved bodily thither a city of her countrymen.But now as the dark fell the streets were almost empty.The houses were packed to bursting--a blur of white faces could be seen at the windows, and every entry seemed to be alive with silent men.But in the streets there was scarcely a soul except priests, flitting from door to door, even stumbling against his horse in their preoccupation.Black, brown, and grey crows, they made Paris like Cartagena.The man's face took a very grim set as he watched these birds of ill omen.What in God's name had befallen his honest France?...He was used to danger, but this secret massing chilled even his stout heart.It was like a wood he remembered in Florida where every bush had held an Indian arrow, but without sight or sound of a bowman.There was hell brewing in this foul cauldron of a city.
He stabled his horse in the yard in the Rue du Coq, behind the glover's house where he had lain the night before.Then he set out to find supper.
The first tavern served his purpose.Above the door was a wisp of red wool, which he knew for the Guise colours.Inside he looked to find a crowd, but there was but one other guest.Paris that night had business, it seemed, which did not lie in the taverns.
That other guest was a man as big as himself, clad wholly in black, save for a stiff cambric ruff worn rather fuller than the fashion.He was heavily booted, and sat sideways on a settle with his left hand tucked in his belt and a great right elbow on the board.Something in his pose, half rustic, half braggart, seemed familiar to Gaspard.The next second the two were in each other's arms.
"Gawain Champernoun!" cried Gaspard."When I left you by the Isle of Pines I never hoped to meet you again in a Paris inn? What's your errand, man, in this den of thieves?""Business of state," the Englishman laughed."I have been with Walsingham, her Majesty's Ambassador, and looked to start home to-night.But your city is marvellous unwilling to part with her guests.What's toward, Gaspard?""For me, supper," and he fell with zest to the broiled fowl he had ordered.
The other sent for another flask of the wine of Anjou, observing that he had a plaguy thirst.
"I think," said Gaspard, at last raising his eyes from his food, "that Paris will be unwholesome to-night for decent folk.""There's a murrain of friars about," said Champernoun, leisurely picking his teeth.
"The place hums like a bee-hive before swarming.Better get back to your Ambassador, Gawain.There's sanctuary for you under his cloak."The Englishman made a pellet of bread and flicked it at the other's face.
"I may have to box your ears, old friend.Since when have I taken to shirking a fracas? We were together at St.John d'Ulloa, and you should know me better.""Are you armed?" was Gaspard's next question.
Champernoun patted his sword."Also there are pistols in my holsters.""You have a horse, then?"
"Stabled within twenty yards.My rascally groom carried a message to Sir Francis, and as he has been gone over an hour, I fear he may have come to an untimely end.""Then it will be well this night for us two to hold together.I know our Paris mob and there is nothing crueller out of hell.The pistolling of the Admiral de Coligny has given them a taste of blood, and they may have a fancy for killing Luteranos.Two such as you and I, guarding each other's backs, may see sport before morning, and haply rid the world of a few miscreants.What say you, camerado?""Good.But what account shall we give of ourselves if someone questions us?""Why, we are Spanish esquires in the train of King Philip's Mission.Our clothes are dark enough for the dons' fashion, and we both speak their tongue freely.Behold in me the Senor Juan Gonzalez de Mendoza, a poor knight of Castile, most earnest in the cause of Holy Church.""And I," said the Englishman with the gusto of a boy in a game, "am named Rodriguez de Bobadilla.I knew the man, who is dead, and his brother owes me ten crowns....But if we fall in with the Spanish Ambassador's gentlemen?""We will outface them."
"But if they detect the imposture?"
"Why, wring their necks.You are getting as cautious as an apple-wife, Gawain.""When I set out on a business I like to weigh it, that I may know how much is to be charged to my own wits and how much I must leave to God.To-night it would appear that the Almighty must hold us very tight by the hand.
Well, I am ready when I have I drunk another cup of wine." He drew his sword and lovingly fingered its edge, whistling all the while.
Gaspard went to the door and looked into the street.The city was still strangely quiet.No roysterers swaggered home along the pavements, no tramp of cuirassiers told of the passage of a great man.But again he had the sense that hot fires were glowing under these cold ashes.The mist had lifted and the stars were clear, and over the dark mass of the Louvre a great planet burned.The air was warm and stifling, and with a gesture of impatience he slammed the door.By now he ought to have been drinking the cool night on the downs beyond Oise.
The Englishman had called for another bottle, and it was served in the empty tavern by the landlord himself.As the wine was brought in the two fell to talking Spanish, at the sound of which the man visibly started.His furtive sulky face changed to a sly friendliness."Your excellencies have come to town for the good work," he said, sidling and bowing.
With a more than Spanish gravity Gaspard inclined his head.
"When does it start?" he asked.
