The Grey Cloak | Page 2

directed his steps. He tried the
latch. The gate opened noiselessly, signifying frequent use.
"So far, so good!"
An indecisive moment passed, as though the man were nerving himself
for an ordeal of courage and cunning. With a gesture resigning himself
to whatever might befall, he entered the court, careful to observe that
the way out was no more intricate than the way in.
"Now for the ladder. If that is missing, it's horse and away to Spain, or
feel the edge of Monsieur Caboche. Will the lackey be true? False or
true, I must trust him. Bernouin would sell Mazarin for twenty louis,
and that is what I have paid. Monsieur le Comte's lackey. It will be a
clever trick. Mazarin will pay as many as ten thousand livres for that
paper. That fat fool of a Gaston, to conspire at his age! Bah; what a
muddled ass I was, in faith! I, to sign my name in writing to a cabal!
Only the devil knows what yonder old fool will do with the paper. Let
him become frightened, let that painted play-woman coddle him; and
it's the block for us all, all save Gaston and Condé and Beaufort. Ah,
Madame, Madame, loveliest in all France, 'twas your beautiful eyes.
For the joy of looking into them, I have soiled a fresh quill, tumbled
into a pit, played the fool! And a silver crown against a golden louis,
you know nothing about politics or intrigue, nor that that old fool of a
husband is making a decoy of your beauty. But my head cleared this
morning. That paper must be mine. First, because it is a guaranty for
my head, and second, because it is likely to fatten my purse. It will be
simple to erase my name and substitute another's. And this cloak! My
faith, it is a stroke. To the devil with Gaston and Condé and Beaufort;
their ambitions are nothing to me, since my head is everything."
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.