'Yes,I,'he answered,with abominable coolness.'I,priest,monk,Churchman,clerk.You look surprised,but mark you,sir,there is a change going on.Our time is coming,and yours is going.What hampers our lord the king and shuts him up in Blois,while rebellions stalk through France?Lack of men?No;but lack of money.Who can get the money for him--you the soldier,or I the clerk?A thousand times,I!Therefore,my time is coming,and before you die you will see a priest rule France.'
'God forbid it should be you,'I answered scornfully.
'As you please,'he answered,shrugging his shoulders,and assuming in a breath a mask of humility which sat as ill on his monstrous conceit as ever nun's veil on a trooper.'Yet it may even be I;by the favour of the Holy Catholic Church,whose humble minister I am.'
I sprang up with a great oath at that,having no stomach for more of the strange transformations,in which this man delighted,and whereof the last had ever the air of being the most hateful.
'You villain!'I cried,twisting my moustaches,a habit I have when enraged.'And so you would make me a stepping-stone to your greatness.You would bribe me--a soldier and a gentleman.Go,before I do you a mischief.That is all I have to say to you.
Go!You have your answer.I will tell you nothing--not a jot or a tittle.Begone from my room!'
He fell back a step in his surprise,and stood against the table biting his nails and scowling at me,fear and chagrin contending with half a dozen devils for the possession of his face.'So you have been deceiving me,'he said slowly,and at last.
'I have let you deceive yourself'I answered,looking at him with scorn,but with little of the fear with which he had for a while inspired me.'Begone,and do your worst.'
'You know what you are doing,'he said.'I have that will hang you,M.de Marsac--or worse.'
'Go!'I cried.
'You have thought of your friends,'he continued mockingly.
'Go!'I said.
'Of Mademoiselle de la Vire,if by any chance she fall into my hands?It will not be hanging for her.You remember the two Foucauds?'--and he laughed.
The vile threat,which I knew he had used to my mother,so worked upon me that I strode forward unable to control myself longer.
In another moment I had certainly taken him by the throat and squeezed the life out of his miserable carcase,had not Providence in its goodness intervened to save me.The door,on which he had already laid his hand in terror,opened suddenly.
It admitted Simon,who,closing it;behind him,stood looking from one to the other of us in nervous doubt;divided between that respect for the priest which a training at the Sorbonne had instilled into him,and the rage which despair arouses in the weakest.
His presence,while it checked me in my purpose,seemed to give Father Antoine courage,for the priest stood his ground,and even turned to me a second time,his face dark with spite and disappointment.'Good,'he said hoarsely.'Destroy yourself if you will!I advise you to bar your door,for in an hour the guards will be here to fetch you to the question.'
Simon cried out at the threat,so that I turned and looked at the lad.His knees were shaking,his hair stood on end.
The priest saw his terror and his own opportunity.'Ay,in an hour,'he continued slowly,looking at him with cruel eyes.'In an hour,lad!You must be fond of pain to court it,and out of humour with life to throw it away.Or stay,'he continued abruptly,after considering Simon's narrowly for a moment,and doubtless deducing from it a last hope,'I will be merciful.Iwill give you one more chance.'
'And yourself?'I said with a sneer.
'As you please,'he answered,declining to be diverted from the trembling lad,whom his gaze seemed to fascinate.'I will give you until half an hour after sunset this evening to reconsider the matter.If you make up your minds to accept my terms,meet me then.I leave to-night for Paris,and I will give you until the last moment.But,'he continued grimly,'if you do not meet me,or,meeting me,remain obstinate--God do so to me,and more also,if you see the sun rise thrice.'
Some impulse,I know not what,seeing that I had no thought of accepting his terms or meeting him,led me to ask briefly,'Where?'
'On the Parvis of the Cathedral,'he answered after a moment's calculation.'At the north-east corner,half an hour after sunset.It is a quiet spot.'
Simon uttered a stifled exclamation.And then for a moment there was silence in the room,while the lad breathed hard and irregularly,and I stood rooted to the spot,looking so long and so strangely at the priest that Father Antoine laid his hand again on the door and glanced uneasily behind him.Nor was he content until he had hit on,as he fancied,the cause of my strange regard.
'Ha!'he said,his thin lip curling in conceit at his astuteness,'I understand you think to kill me to-night?Let me tell you,this house is watched.If you leave here to meet me with any companion--unless it be M.d'Agen,whom I can trust,Ishall be warned,and be gone before you reach the rendezvous.
And gone,mind you,'he added,with a grim smile,'to sign your death-warrant.'
He went out with that,closing the door behind him;and we heard his step go softly down the staircase.I gazed at Simon,and he at me,with all the astonishment and awe which it was natural we should feel in presence of so remarkable a coincidence.
For by a marvel the priest had named the same spot and the same time as the sender of the velvet knot!
'He will go,'Simon said,his face flushed and his voice trembling,'and they will go.'
'And in the dark they will not know him,'I muttered.'He is about my height.They will take him for me!'
'And kill him!'Simon cried hysterically.'They will kill him!
He goes to his death,monsieur.It is the finger of God.'
