"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 hôtel. 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.
"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 hôtel 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.