The King's Passport by H. Bedford-Jones

Author:H. Bedford-Jones [Bedford-Jones, H.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Action and Adventure
Publisher: Altus Press
Published: 2014-03-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter IX

OFFICER AND PRISONER

UPON one side of the royal Forest of Verrieres, a scant few leagues from Paris, was the king’s pavilion and hunting lodge. Upon the other was a smaller patch of forest known as the Wood of the Hanged Wolf. Forest and wood lay just off the southern route to Versailles and were separated by a road that ran through a village. The one auberge of the village was, naturally, the Hanged Wolf.

Upon a brisk December afternoon a somewhat tattered cavalier on a very fine horse rode into the village from the south. Despite the fresh scar across his cheek—where a bullet had broken the flesh, none who had seen that face with its fierce hawk nose and brooding liquid eyes would ever fail to recognize Cyrano de Bergerac the second time. Coming into the village, he pulled his broken plumed beaver down over his eyes, then suddenly drew his horse to a halt.

It was a Sunday, and into the open village church to the left flocked a number of folk. Three persons caught the attention of Cyrano. Beside an austere, black clad man, obviously the village notary, walked a demure and quite pretty young woman, but her eyes were neither upon her lord and master nor upon the church ahead. They were for the cloaked gallant over to one side—a very handsome young gallant who twirled his mustache with an air and who made certain cabalistic signals to which she responded very cautiously. All three filed into the church, and Cyrano loosed his reins with a chuckle.

“So, my fine d’Artagnan, at least I’ve run you to earth—and at your tricks again,” he said. “Hm! Shows I was right; you’re on the same scent. If Vaugon doubles back toward Paris, he’s bound to pass here, and you’re evidence that he’s not yet passed. Forward, my Pegasus! Repose awaits us.”

Cyrano dismounted in the innyard. The host looked very doubtful when he eyed the rider, very hopeful when he eyed the splendid horse. Cyrano chucked a gold piece into his inquiring palm.

“There’s an earnest,” he said. “I expect to meet friends here. One of them, M. d’Artagnan of his Majesty’s guards—”

“Ah, a friend of M. le Comte d’Artagnan!” exclaimed the host, instantly thawing and bowing low. “Welcome, monsieur! He has been here for a week past. A gallant young man indeed! I have myself tended his wound.”

“What? He’s wounded?” asked Cyrano.

“A scratch in the left arm, a mere nothing, m’sieu, now well healing. Will you enter?”

He entered the auberge, which was empty. He was cold, hungry and tired. By the side of the fireplace was a small table and settle with high back and sides; in this Cyrano esconced himself, hidden from the whole room, and relaxed comfortably to warmth, ease and the dusty bottles of old Chinon placed before him. Small wonder that ten minutes later he was nodding across his table.

He wakened abruptly to voices interspersed with curses. Two men had entered and were at a table behind his settle.

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