4. CHAPTER IV.
At the hour appointed that night, for the contest between the
chess players, Marchand, accompanied by Le Moyne and Challus,
made his appearance in the apartments of René Laudonniere.
Those of Alphonse D'Erlach were already occupied by four or
five trusty fellows; and the arms which filled the apartment were
ample for the defence of the party, while in the building, against
any number assailing from without. The foresight of Alphonse
had made all the necessary preparations, to encounter any foe,
who might, after the explosion, attempt to carry their object in a
bold way. He had no fear of this, but his habitual forethought
led to the precautions. Meanwhile, of the designs against him
and of the means taken for his safety, Laudonniere had not the
slightest suspicion. His thoughts were occupied with one danger
only—that of being beaten by Marchand. He valued himself
upon his play—was one of those persons who never suffer themselves
to be beaten when they can possibly help it—even by a
lady. If our captain made any preparations, that day, it was for
the supper that night, and the contest which was to follow it.
His instruction, on the first matter, given to his cook, he retired
to his chamber and exercised himself throughout the day in a
series of studies in the game—planning new combinations to be
brought into play, if possible, in the contest which was to follow.
His welcome to Marchand declared the opinion which he himself
entertained of his studies.
“I shall beat you, Marchand.”
“You can't—you shan't,” was the ready answer; “you're
not my match, captain.”
This answer piqued Laudonniere.
“We shall see—we shall see; not your match! Well! we
shall see.”
We need not waste time upon the preliminaries of the contest.
Enough that, about ten o'clock at night, we find the rival players
placed at the table; the opposing pieces arrayed in proper order
of battle, with Le Moyne and Challus, looking on with faces filled
with expectation and curiosity. The face of Alphonse D'Erlach
might also be perceptible, in a momentary glance over the
shoulders of one or other of the parties; but his movements were
capricious, and, passing frequently between his own and the chamber
of Laudonniere, he only looked at intervals upon the progress
of the game. Unhappily, the details of this great match, the
several moves, and the final position of the remaining pieces, at
the end of the contest, have not been preserved to us, though it is
not improbable that the painter Le Moyne, as well as Challus,
took notes of it. Enough, that Laudonniere put forth all his skill,
exercised all his caution, played as slowly and heedfully as possible,
and was—but we anticipate. Marchand, on the contrary,
seemed never more indifferent. He scarcely seemed to look at
the board—played promptly, even rapidly, and wore one of those
cool, almost contemptuous, countenances which seemed to say,
“I know myself and my enemy, and feel sure that I have no
cause of fear.” That his opinions were of this character is beyond
all question; but, though his countenance expressed as
much, Laudonniere reassured himself with the reflection that Marchand
was well understood to be one of those fortunate persons
who know admirably how to disguise their real emotions, however
deeply they may be excited or anxious. Laudonniere's self-esteem
was not deficient, in the absence of better virtues. He had
his vanity at chess, and the game was so played, that the issue
continued doubtful, except possibly to one of the spectators,
almost to the last moment. Leaving the parties at the board,
silent and studious, let us turn to the counsels of the conspirators,
whom we must not suppose to be idle all this time.
They had assembled—half a dozen of them at least—and were
in close conference at the quarters of La Roquette, at the opposite
extremity of the fortress. They were all excited to the highest
pitch of expectation. The hour was drawing nigh for the attempt,
and all eyes were turned upon Le Genré.
“It is half past eleven,” he exclaimed, “and the thing is to be
done. But what is to be done, if those men whom we hold doubtful
should take courage, and, in the moment of uproar take arms
against us? We have made no preparations for this event.
Now, this firing the train from my lodgings is but the work of a
boy. It may be done by any body. It is more fitting that, with
six or eight select men, well armed, I should be in reserve, ready
to encounter resistance should there be any after the explosion.”
Villemain, a youth of twenty-two, a dark, sinister-looking person,
slight and short, promptly volunteered to fire the train. His offer
was at once accepted.
“It is half-past eleven, you say? I will go at once,” said Villemain.
“We will go with you,” cried La Roquette and Stephen Le
Genevois in the same breath.
“No! no! not so!” said Le Genré. “You have each duties to
perform. You must scatter yourselves as much as possible, so as to
increase the alarm at the proper moment. There will be little
danger, I grant you, with Laudonniere, and that imp of the devil,
D'Erlach, out of the way; but it must be prepared for. Once
show the rest that these are done for, and we shall do as we think
proper.”
“What a fortunate thing for us is this game of chess. It disposes
of the only persons we could not so easily have managed;”
said Fourneaux. “Boxes them up, as one may say, so that they
only need a mark upon them to be ready for shipment.”
“And yet, somehow, I could wish,” said Le Genevois, “that
Marchand were not among them. I like that fellow. He is so
bold, so blunt, and plays his game just as if it were his religion.”
“I could wish to save the painter, if any,” remarked La Roquette;
“but at all events, we shall inherit his pictures.”
“Bah! let the devil take him and them together! Why bother
about such stuff; what's his pictures of the country to us,
when the country itself is our own, to keep or to quit just as it
pleases us? We are wasting time. Where's Villemain?”
“Here—ready!”
“Depart, then,” said Le Genré; “the sooner you light the
match after you reach my quarters, the better. We shall be ready
for the blast.”
“He is gone!” said Fourneaux.
“Let us follow, and each to his task;” cried Le Genré. “Each
of you take care of the flying timbers; find you covers as you
may. My men are mustered behind the old granary.
Adieu, my
friends,—the time has come!”
With these words, the company dispersed, each seeking his
several position and duty. Let us adjourn our progress to the chamber
of Laudonniere, where that meditative gamester still sits deliberate,
with knotted brow, watching the movements of Marchand.
