The Grey Cloak | Page 4

he murmured. "What a revenge!"
Twice, three times, and yet again he drank of the secret. That he of all
men should make this discovery! His danger became as nothing; he
forgot even the object of his thieving visit.

"Well, Monsieur?" said a cold, dry voice from the threshold.
The man in the grey cloak leaped to his feet, thrusting the letter into the
pocket along with the cabal. His long rapier snarled from its scabbard,
just in time. The two blades hung in mid air.
"Nicely caught," said the cold, dry voice again. "What have you to say?
It is hanging, Monsieur, hanging by the neck." The speaker was a man
of sixty, white of hair, but wiry and active. "Ha! in a mask, eh? That
looks bad for you. You are not a common thief, then? . . . That was a
good stroke, but not quite high enough. Well?"
"Stand aside, Monsieur le Comte," said the man in the cloak. His tones
were steady; all his fright was gone.
The steel slithered and ground.
"You know me, eh?" said the old man, banteringly. His blade ripped a
hole in the cloak. "You have a voice that sounds strangely familiar to
my ears."
"Your ears will soon be dull and cold, if you do not let me pass."
"Was it gold, or jewels? . . . Jesus!" The old man's gaze, roving a hair's
breadth, saw the yawning drawers. "That paper, Monsieur, or you shall
never leave this place alive! Hallo! Help, men! To me, Grégoire! Help,
Captain!"
"Madame shall become a widow," said the man in the mask.
Back he pressed the old man, back, back, into the corridor, toward the
stairs. They could scarce see each other, and it was by instinct alone
that thrust was met by parry. Up the rear staircase came a dozen
mercenaries, bearing torches. The glare smote the master in the eyes,
and partly dazzled him. He fought valiantly, but he was forced to give
way. A chance thrust, however, severed the cords of his opponent's
mask.

"You?"
There was a gurgling sound, a coughing, and the elder sank to his knees,
rolled upon his side, and became still. The man in the grey cloak,
holding the mask to his face, rushed down the grand staircase,
sweeping aside all those who barred his path. He seemed possessed
with strength and courage Homeric; odds were nothing. With a back
hand-swing of his arm he broke one head; he smashed a face with the
pommel; caught another by the throat and flung him headlong. In a
moment he was out of the door. Down the steps he dashed, through the
gate, thence into the street, a mob yelling at his heels. The light from
the torches splashed him. A sharp gust of wind nearly tore the mask
from his fingers. As he caught it, he ran full into a priest.
"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