THE WIT OF VICOMTE HENRI A Tale of Adventure, Cunning, and the Triumph of Gallantry BOOK ONE:THE JOURNEY AND THE SNARE Chapter I:In Which the Reader Makes the Acquaintance of a Most Unusual Nobleman In that glorious and turbulent year of 1847, when the July Monarchy still held sway over France—though somewhat precariously, like a man balancing upon a tightrope while juggling wine bottles—there lived in the province of Gascony a young nobleman whose reputation was as peculiar as it was widespread. The Vicomte Henri de La Rochefoucauld-Beaumont—or simply Henri to his friends, "that impossible fellow" to his creditors, and "the mad vicomte" to the more conservative members of his family—was possessed of three qualities that, in combination, made him either the most fortunate or the most doomed of men, depending upon whom you asked and at what hour of the day. First, he had an intellect as sharp as a Gascon's blade and twice as quick to strike. Second, he possessed a complete and utter disregard for personal danger that bordered on the theatrical. And third—perhaps most dangerously—he harbored a sense of humor that could not be suppressed, not even at gunpoint. Especially not at gunpoint, as we shall soon discover. Henri was twenty-eight years of age, with the dark curling hair of his Basque ancestors and the laughing gray eyes of a man who found the world to be an endless source of amusement. He was not tall, but he carried himself with such an air of easy confidence that he seemed to tower over larger men. His nose had been broken once in a youthful duel—over a matter of honor involving a lady's parasol and a disputed point of etiquette—and sat slightly askew upon his face, giving him a permanently roguish appearance that women found intriguing and fathers found deeply suspicious. At the time our story begins, Henri found himself in a predicament that would have crushed a lesser man: he was, to put it delicately, temporarily embarrassed in his finances. The family estates in Gascony, though vast and picturesque, produced chiefly grapes, pride, and mosquitoes, none of which could be readily converted into the currency required to maintain a vicomte's position in Parisian society. His creditors—led by the particularly tenacious Monsieur Fournier, a man whose soul was rumored to be kept in a locked strongbox along with his account books—had become increasingly insistent in their demands for payment. Henri's tailor had threatened to expose his debts to the fashionable world. His wine merchant had cut off his credit. Even his valet, the loyal but practical Gaston, had begun to drop hints about seeking employment with a more solvent master. "Gaston," Henri had declared one morning, surveying his nearly empty cellar with the philosophical air of a man who has faced worse disasters (which he had), "we find ourselves at a crossroads. On one path lies ruin, despair, and the humiliation of seeking refuge with my Aunt Mathilde in Provence. On the other—" "Adventure, m'sieur?" Gaston had inquired, with the resigned tone of a man who had heard such speeches before. "Precisely! Adventure, Gaston! Fortune favors the bold, as my dear father used to say, usually just before his boldest investments collapsed entirely. I shall travel to Paris, present myself to my cousin the Duke, and persuade him to advance me the sum necessary to restore my fortunes." "And if he refuses, m'sieur?" Henri had smiled—that particular smile that made his creditors nervous and his friends reach for their swords. "Then I shall think of something else. I always do." And so it was that on a crisp October morning, with the leaves turning gold and crimson across the countryside, the Vicomte Henri de La Rochefoucauld-Beaumont set out upon the road to Paris in his ancient but well-sprung carriage, drawn by two horses of questionable lineage but undeniable spirit. Beside him sat Gaston, who had refused to abandon his master despite the uncertain prospects, and in the dickey perched young Pierre, a stable boy who had been promoted to the position of footman due chiefly to his ability to remain upright while the carriage was in motion. Henri was dressed for travel in a riding coat of bottle-green velvet that had seen better days but still carried an air of distinction, buff breeches, and tall boots that had been polished to a mirror shine by the ever-attentive Gaston. Upon his head sat a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a curling feather, which he fancied gave him the appearance of a cavalier of old, though Gaston had privately observed that it made him look like a man attempting to conceal a parrot. "The road to Paris, Gaston!" Henri exclaimed as they rattled past the gates of his ancestral home. "Think of it! The glittering salons, the beautiful women, the gaming tables where fortune awaits the bold!" "The creditors, m'sieur," Gaston reminded him. "The ones in Paris are even more persistent than the ones in Gascony." "Pah! Creditors are like women, Gaston—they respond to confidence and a well-timed compliment. I shall charm them all." "You owe Monsieur Fournier twelve thousand francs, m'sieur. That is a great deal of charm." "Then I shall be especially charming." They made good progress through the morning, the carriage rolling along the well-maintained post road that wound through the rolling hills of Gascony. The countryside was at its autumnal finest, with vineyards heavy with the last of the harvest and orchards dropping apples upon the grass like nature's own bounty. The air smelled of woodsmoke and ripening fruit, and Henri—ever the optimist—felt his spirits rising with each passing mile. At midday, they stopped at a small inn in the village of Castelnaudary to change horses and take refreshment. The innkeeper, a stout woman with a face like a friendly apple, recognized Henri at once—for his exploits, both financial and amorous, were well-known throughout the province—and greeted him with a mixture of warmth and caution that suggested she had heard about his current difficulties. "M'sieur le Vicomte! What an honor! Will you be taking the main road to Paris, or the old highway through the forest?" "The main road, madame. I am in something of a hurry to reach the capital." The innkeeper's face clouded slightly. "The main road, you say? Well, well. It is faster, to be sure, but..." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "There have been reports of bandits, m'sieur. Rough men who waylay travelers and relieve them of their valuables. The gendarmes have been searching for them, but they are as slippery as eels." Henri laughed—a rich, infectious sound that filled the low-beamed room. "Bandits, madame? In this day and age? I thought such creatures existed only in romances and the imaginations of nervous old ladies." "They are real enough, m'sieur. Last week, they stopped the carriage of Monsieur Dubois, the silk merchant from Toulouse. Took everything he had, they did, and left him tied to a tree. He was found two days later, half-starved and raving about a giant with one eye." "A giant with one eye?" Henri's interest was piqued. "How delightfully theatrical! One might almost wish to encounter such a fellow, if only for the story it would make." Gaston, who had been quietly consuming a bowl of stew in the corner, looked up with alarm. "M'sieur, I beg you—" "Do not trouble yourself, Gaston. I have no intention of seeking out bandits. But if they should seek me out..." Henri's hand drifted to the sword at his side—a fine blade of Toledo steel that had been in his family for three generations. "Well, we shall see what we shall see." They resumed their journey in the early afternoon, the sun beginning its descent toward the western hills. The main road, though well-traveled, grew increasingly lonely as they left the villages behind and entered a stretch of wild country where the forest pressed close upon both sides of the way. Ancient oaks, their branches intertwining overhead, created a kind of natural tunnel through which the carriage passed like a boat navigating a green and gold river. Henri, who had been dozing slightly in the warmth of the afternoon, sat up abruptly as the carriage slowed. "What is it, Pierre? Why do we stop?" The boy's voice came back high and frightened. "M'sieur! There is something across the road!" Henri leaned out of the window and felt his pulse quicken with something that was not entirely fear. A large tree trunk—freshly felled, by the look of the pale wood—lay directly across the road, blocking their passage completely. On either side, the forest was dark and still. "A fallen tree," Henri said, keeping his voice light. "How inconvenient. Gaston, be so good as to assist Pierre in clearing it away." But before Gaston could descend from the carriage, figures emerged from the trees on all sides. There were six of them—rough men in patched clothing and wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their faces. Each carried a weapon: pistols, muskets, and in the hands of the largest—a veritable giant of a man with a black patch covering his left eye—a wicked-looking cudgel that could crack a skull like an eggshell. "Good afternoon, gentlemen!" Henri called out, with a cheerfulness that made Gaston wince. "I see you are engaged in road maintenance. How public-spirited of you. However, if you would be so kind as to remove your tree, we should like to continue our journey." The one-eyed giant stepped forward, his single eye narrowing as it fixed upon Henri's fine coat and the gold chain of his watch. "Your journey's ended, pretty gentleman. Step down from the carriage, and be quick about it." Henri regarded the brigand with the expression of a man who has just been presented with an interesting puzzle rather than a deadly threat. He noted several things in quick succession: the giant was indeed large, but he moved with the stiffness of a man who had taken too many blows to the head. The others, though armed, held their weapons awkwardly—farmers and laborers, most likely, driven to crime by desperation rather than inclination. And there, at the back of the group, stood a younger man with nervous eyes and a twitching lip, clutching his pistol as if it were a venomous snake that might bite him at any moment. "I see," Henri said slowly. "We are being robbed. How perfectly medieval. Tell me, my large friend with the ocular impediment—do you also demand that I hand over my fair maiden, or has that particular custom fallen out of favor?" The giant blinked his single eye, confused by Henri's composure. "What? No maidens. Just your money, your watch, and any jewels you might be carrying." "Ah. A practical man. I appreciate that." Henri descended from the carriage with the air of a gentleman arriving at a ball, adjusting his coat and straightening his feathered hat. "May I inquire as to the name of the gentleman who is about to relieve me of my possessions? In the spirit of fair play, you understand. My name is Henri de La Rochefoucauld-Beaumont, Vicomte of—" "Don't care," the giant grunted. "Empty your pockets." "Very well, very well. But I must warn you, you are likely to be disappointed. I am a poor vicomte, I'm afraid. The family fortunes have seen better days. Why, this coat—" he plucked at his sleeve "—is three years old, and these boots have been resoled so many times that the cobbler has named his youngest child after me." "The watch," the giant insisted. "And the ring." Henri sighed and produced his watch—a fine piece with his family crest engraved upon the case. "A gift from my late father. Sentimental value only, I assure you. It doesn't even keep proper time. Gains ten minutes every hour. I've been meaning to have it fixed, but—" "Give it here!" Henri handed over the watch with a theatrical sigh. "There. You see? I am the soul of cooperation. Now, may I inquire—what do you gentlemen do with your ill-gotten gains? Do you maintain a secret lair somewhere? A cave, perhaps, with a map to buried treasure marked with an 'X'? I have always wanted to see such a thing." The giant, who had been examining the watch with his single eye, looked up suspiciously. "Why do you talk so much?" "It is my curse," Henri said mournfully. "My dear mother always said I would talk myself into an early grave. Though I must say, I had hoped for a more dignified end than being shot by brigands on the Paris road. A duel, perhaps, over a matter of honor. Or a tragic fall from a balcony while escaping an angry husband. But one cannot choose one's fate, can one?" While he spoke, Henri was studying his captors with the sharp eye of a man who had spent his youth in gaming halls and salons, learning to read faces and calculate odds. The giant was clearly the leader, but he was not the brains of the operation—that much was obvious from the way he fumbled with the watch and the dull, slow look in his eye. No, someone else was directing this little drama. And Henri suspected he knew who. "You there," he called to the nervous young man at the back. "The fellow with the pistol. You don't look like a natural criminal, if you don't mind my saying so. What is your name?" The young man started, nearly dropping his weapon. "I—don't—" "Leave him alone!" the giant roared. "Jacques, keep your mouth shut!" Jacques. Henri filed the name away. "Jacques," he repeated thoughtfully. "A good name. A solid name. Tell me, Jacques—are you the one who plans these operations? The strategic mind behind this enterprise?" "What? No! I mean—" Jacques glanced fearfully at the giant. "I don't—" "Because I must say, it is quite well organized. The fallen tree as a barrier, the concealed positions in the forest, the coordinated approach—it speaks of military training. Were you a soldier, perhaps? The Napoleonic wars? No, you are too young. But your father, perhaps?" The young man's eyes widened. "How did you—" "Jacques!" the giant bellowed. "Shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you!" But the damage was done. Henri had his opening. He turned his attention fully upon the giant, his manner becoming even more casual, more conversational. "You must forgive my curiosity, my large friend. It is simply that I find myself fascinated by the criminal mind. Tell me—how does one come to pursue such a career? Was it a gradual process, or did you simply wake up one morning and decide, 'Today, I shall become a brigand'?" "Stop talking!" The giant raised his cudgel threateningly. "Of course, of course. I am delaying your work. Very inconsiderate of me." Henri reached into his coat and produced his purse—a disappointingly light leather bag that jingled with only a few coins. "There. My entire fortune, such as it is. Forty-seven francs and some centimes. Not exactly the treasure of the Sierra Madre, is it?" The giant snatched the purse and peered inside, his face darkening. "This is all?" "I fear so. I told you—I am a poor vicomte. Why, I am on my way to Paris precisely to borrow money from my cousin, the Duke. If you had intercepted me on the return journey, you might have done quite well for yourselves. As it is..." Henri shrugged philosophically. "Well, perhaps you could take my carriage? It is rather old, but the horses are sound." The giant was clearly frustrated. He had expected a rich nobleman with pockets full of gold, and instead he had found Henri—a man whose worldly possessions would barely cover a week's worth of groceries. His single eye darted about, seeking something of value. "Your boots," he said finally. "Good leather. Take them off." "My boots?" Henri looked down at his beloved footwear with genuine distress. "But my good fellow, these have been with me through countless adventures! They have walked the streets of Madrid, danced at the Tuileries, and once carried me to safety when I was forced to exit a lady's chamber via the window. They are practically members of the family." "Off!" the giant roared. "Very well, very well." Henri sat down upon the carriage step and began to remove his boots. "But I must warn you—they are rather distinctive. Anyone who sees you wearing them will know at once that they belong to a vicomte. The authorities will be looking for a one-eyed giant in stolen boots. You may find it difficult to move about undetected." The giant hesitated, his hand hovering over the boots. He had not considered this. "What do you mean?" "Simply that these boots are unique. Custom-made by the finest bootmaker in Toulouse. See here—" Henri pointed to a small mark on the heel "—the maker's mark. And the stitching—done by hand, you understand, in a particular pattern that identifies them as mine. Why, if you were to walk into any town in Gascony wearing these, every gendarme would know at once that you had robbed the Vicomte de La Rochefoucauld-Beaumont." The giant frowned, his limited intellect struggling with this new information. "Then... I cannot take them?" "Oh, you can take them. But I would advise against wearing them. Perhaps you could sell them? Though again, any honest bootmaker would recognize them and report you to the authorities." Henri sighed. "It is a dilemma, is it not? Criminal life is far more complicated than one might imagine." While the giant pondered this problem, Henri continued to chatter—about the weather, about the state of the roads, about the recent political situation in Paris. He spoke of his cousin the Duke, embellishing the relationship considerably, and hinted at the powerful friends who would be searching for him if he failed to arrive in the capital on schedule. "The Prefect of Police is a particular friend of mine," he confided. "We were at school together. Charming fellow, though rather too fond of paperwork. I imagine he will be quite distressed when he learns I have been waylaid. There will be searches, rewards offered, that sort of thing. Very tedious for everyone involved." The giant was becoming increasingly agitated. This was not going according to plan. The nobleman should have been terrified, should have handed over his valuables and perhaps even revealed hidden treasures under threat of violence. Instead, he was treating the robbery as a social occasion, chatting away as if they were at a garden party. "Tie him up!" the giant commanded his men. "And the servants too. We'll leave them here and take the carriage." "Ah," Henri said, as rough hands seized his arms. "Now we are getting somewhere. You intend to take the carriage. A sensible decision, though I should warn you—the left wheel has a tendency to come loose on rough terrain. And the brake sticks. You must pull the lever all the way back and then jiggle it slightly to the left." "Gag him!" the giant roared. "No need, no need. I shall be silent as the grave. Though speaking of graves—" Henri allowed himself to be pushed toward a convenient tree "—you don't intend to kill us, do you? Because that would be most unfortunate. For you, I mean. Murder carries the death penalty, whereas simple robbery is merely a matter of imprisonment. And French prisons, while not comfortable, are at least survivable. The food is reportedly quite good in some of them." The giant did not answer. He was busy directing his men to search the carriage for anything of value, while two of the brigands produced ropes and began to bind Henri, Gaston, and young Pierre to separate trees. "M'sieur," Gaston whispered as the ropes tightened around his wrists. "What are we going to do?" "Do, Gaston?" Henri replied, in a voice loud enough to carry to the nearest brigand. "Why, we are going to wait. Patience, my good fellow, is a virtue. And I have always found that if one waits long enough, something interesting is bound to happen." He caught Jacques's eye as the young man passed by, and smiled—that particular smile that had gotten him out of more scrapes than he could count. Jacques looked away quickly, but not before Henri saw the uncertainty in his face. Yes, Henri thought to himself as the ropes were secured and the brigands turned their attention to the carriage. This was not over. Not by a long shot. The giant and his men, having stripped the carriage of everything portable—including the horses' harness, the spare wheel, and even Gaston's spare cravat—prepared to depart. The giant paused before Henri, who was tied to his tree with what he considered excessive thoroughness. "You," the giant said. "You talk too much." "It has been mentioned before," Henri agreed pleasantly. "If you make trouble, I'll come back and shoot you." "Understood. Though I must point out that if you shoot me, you will have murder on your conscience, and I will be dead. Neither outcome seems particularly desirable." The giant shook his head in bafflement and turned away. Within minutes, the brigands had vanished into the forest, taking with them the carriage, the horses, and what little remained of Henri's worldly goods. Henri tested his bonds. They were tight, but not impossibly so. The tree to which he was tied was old and gnarled, with many convenient protrusions and irregularities. And he was, if nothing else, patient. "Gaston," he called softly. "Are you comfortable?" "No, m'sieur." "Pierre?" "No, m'sieur!" The boy's voice was high with fear. "They took everything! What are we going to do?" "We are going to escape, of course," Henri said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "And then we are going to catch those rascals and see them brought to justice. But first—" he began to work his wrists against the rough bark, seeking any point of weakness "—first, we must get free of these ropes." It took nearly an hour of careful, patient work. Henri rubbed the ropes against a sharp edge of bark, gradually fraying the fibers until they began to give way. His wrists were raw and bleeding by the time he finally pulled free, but he was smiling. "There," he said, examining his damaged coat with philosophical resignation. "You see, Gaston? Patience and persistence. The twin virtues of the successful adventurer." He freed Gaston and Pierre, and the three of them stood in the middle of the road, surrounded by the wreckage of their journey. "Now what, m'sieur?" Gaston asked. "We have no carriage, no horses, no money. We are in the middle of nowhere, and the nearest village is hours away by foot." "True," Henri agreed. "But we have something far more valuable, Gaston. We have knowledge." "Knowledge, m'sieur?" "Indeed. We know that our friends the brigands are heading north, toward the old forest road. We know they have our carriage, which is distinctive and easily recognized. We know they have a leader who is strong but not clever, and a lieutenant who is nervous and uncertain. And we know—" Henri's smile widened "—that they have made a fatal mistake." "What mistake, m'sieur?" "They left us alive, Gaston. They left us alive, with our wits about us and our tongues in our heads. And that, my good fellow, is a mistake they will live to regret. Or rather—" he corrected himself with a small laugh "—they will regret it until they are marched off to prison. Come! We have work to do." And with that, the Vicomte Henri de La Rochefoucauld-Beaumont set off down the road at a brisk pace, his ruined boots squelching in the mud and his feathered hat tilted at a defiant angle, already planning the downfall of the brigands who had dared to cross him. Chapter II:In Which Our Hero Discovers the Brigands' Lair and Forms a Daring Plan The walk to the nearest village took three hours, by which time Henri's feet were blistered, Gaston's temper was frayed, and young Pierre had fallen into a state of exhausted silence that suggested he might never speak again. But they reached their destination at last—a small settlement called La Croix-Verte, consisting of a church, a tavern, and a handful of cottages huddled together as if for protection against the vast darkness of the surrounding forest. The tavern keeper, a wizened old man with more nose than face, regarded them with suspicion as they limped through his door. Travelers on foot were rare enough; travelers on foot wearing the remains of fine clothing and looking as if they had been dragged through a hedge backwards were rarer still. "Monsieur," Henri said, leaning upon the counter with what dignity he could muster, "I am the Vicomte de La Rochefoucauld-Beaumont. I have been robbed by brigands on the Paris road. I require assistance." The tavern keeper's eyes widened. "Robbed, you say? By the one-eyed giant?" "You know of him?" "Everyone knows of him. He's been terrorizing these parts for months. The gendarmes have searched high and low, but he's as slippery as a greased pig." The old man leaned closer. "They say he has a lair somewhere in the old forest, but no one knows where." Henri's mind raced. "Tell me, monsieur—does this giant have a name?" "They call him Gros-Jean. Used to be a laborer on the Marquis de Saint-Aubin's estate, until he killed a man in a fight and had to take to the woods. He's gathered a band of ruffians around him—deserters, poachers, men with no honest trade." "And the young one? The nervous fellow?" The tavern keeper scratched his chin. "That would be young Jacques. His father was a soldier under Napoleon, died at Waterloo. The boy fell in with bad company after his mother passed." He shook his head sadly. "A waste, that. He was a good lad once." Henri filed this information away. "Now then, monsieur—I need to send a message to the authorities in Toulouse. And I need a horse." "A horse?" The tavern keeper laughed—a dry, rasping sound. "M'sieur, I am a tavern keeper, not a stable master. The nearest horses for hire are in Castelnaudary, six leagues from here." "Then I shall walk to Castelnaudary." "In those boots?" The old man eyed Henri's ruined footwear with amusement. "You'll have no feet left by the time you arrive." Henri looked down at his feet, then at Gaston, then at the tavern keeper. A slow smile spread across his face. "Monsieur, you have just given me an idea." "I have?" "Indeed. Tell me—do you have any old clothes? Peasant's clothing, preferably. Something a poor wanderer might wear?" The tavern keeper looked confused, but he nodded. "My son's old things, perhaps. He moved to the city two years ago. But why—" "Excellent! Gaston, we are going to change our appearance. We are no longer going to be a vicomte and his servant. We are going to be—" Henri paused for dramatic effect "—traveling players!" Gaston stared at him. "Traveling players, m'sieur?" "Exactly! Think about it, Gaston. Gros-Jean and his men are looking for a vicomte in a fine carriage. They are not looking for a pair of ragged actors wandering the roads. And if we can get close to them, learn their habits, discover their weaknesses..." Henri's eyes gleamed with the light of adventure. "Why, we might not only recover our property but see those scoundrels brought to justice as well!" "M'sieur, with respect—this is madness." "Perhaps. But it is also our best chance. Unless you would prefer to walk to Castelnaudary and hope the gendarmes can find Gros-Jean before he sells my horses and spends my watch on wine and women?" Gaston sighed. He had been with Henri long enough to know when his master was set upon a course of action. "Very well, m'sieur. Traveling players, you say?" "Traveling players. And I shall be—" Henri struck a pose "—The Great Alphonso, Master of Mystery and Illusion!" "And what am I to be, m'sieur?" "You, my dear Gaston, shall be my assistant. The loyal but dim-witted Beppo, who does not speak but communicates through gestures and expressive grunts." "I am to be dim-witted?" "And silent. It is essential that you do not speak, Gaston. Your accent is too refined. No one would believe you are a common player." Gaston looked as if he might object, but then he thought better of it. "Very well, m'sieur. I shall be Beppo." "Excellent! Now then, monsieur tavern keeper—about those clothes..." Two hours later, Henri and Gaston emerged from the tavern transformed. Henri wore a patched coat of many colors, a pair of baggy trousers held up by a rope belt, and a wide-brimmed hat adorned with faded ribbons. Gaston was dressed in a shapeless tunic and breeches that might once have been brown but were now the color of old dust. "Perfect!" Henri declared, examining his reflection in a rain barrel. "I look exactly like a man who has spent his life entertaining peasants at village fairs." "You look like a man who has been dressed by a madman, m'sieur." "Thank you, Gaston. That is precisely the effect I was hoping for. Now then—we need to find Gros-Jean's lair. And I believe I know just how to do it." He led the way out of the village and into the forest, following a narrow path that wound through the trees. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the ground, and the air was filled with the sounds of evening birdsong. "M'sieur," Gaston whispered, "how do you know where to go?" "I don't," Henri admitted cheerfully. "But I have a theory. Gros-Jean needs to be close to the road to waylay travelers, but he also needs to be concealed from the authorities. That means his lair is likely somewhere in this forest, within a few hours' walk of the main highway. And—" he paused, holding up a hand "—I believe I see signs of recent passage." He pointed to a patch of disturbed earth where a horse had left a clear print. "Our carriage horses. I would recognize that shoe anywhere—I had it fitted myself only last month." They followed the trail deeper into the forest, moving as quietly as two men in bright clothing could manage. The path grew narrower and more overgrown, and twice they had to detour around fallen trees and patches of dense undergrowth. But the trail was clear enough to follow, and Henri's spirits rose with every step. "You see, Gaston? Fortune favors the bold. And the well-dressed, apparently." "M'sieur, if we are caught—" "We won't be caught. Gros-Jean thinks he has defeated us. He believes we are tied to trees, waiting to be found by some passing farmer. He has no reason to suspect we might follow him." "Unless someone sees us and reports to him." "Then we must ensure we are not seen. Or if we are—" Henri smiled "—we must give them a reason to dismiss us as unimportant." They continued on, and after another hour of walking, they began to smell woodsmoke. Henri motioned for Gaston to be silent, and the two of them crept forward, moving from tree to tree like shadows in the gathering dusk. Ahead, through a break in the foliage, they could see a clearing. And in the center of the clearing, partially concealed by overhanging branches, stood a rough structure built of logs and thatch. It was not quite a house and not quite a barn, but something in between—a brigand's lair, makeshift and temporary, designed to be abandoned at a moment's notice. Smoke rose from a chimney at one end, and light flickered in the windows. Outside, Henri's carriage stood forlornly, the horses tethered to a nearby tree. And gathered around a fire in front of the building were the brigands—six men in total, passing a bottle and laughing at some joke. Henri counted them carefully. The giant Gros-Jean was there, his massive form unmistakable even in the dim light. And there was Jacques, sitting slightly apart from the others, nursing a cup rather than the bottle and staring into the fire with a troubled expression. "There they are," Henri whispered. "Our hosts." "M'sieur, there are six of them." "I can count, Gaston." "And they are armed." "Also noted." "And we are two, with no weapons." "A temporary inconvenience." Henri studied the scene before him, his mind working rapidly. "We need to get closer. We need to learn their routines, their weaknesses. And most importantly, we need to get them to trust us." "Trust us? M'sieur, they robbed us not four hours ago!" "Yes, but they don't know it's us. Look at us, Gaston—we are completely transformed. Even my own mother would not recognize me in this outfit." "Your mother has been dead for fifteen years, m'sieur." "A figure of speech, Gaston. The point is, we have the advantage of surprise. And we are going to use it." He took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the tree, walking boldly into the clearing with his hands raised in a gesture of peace. "Good evening, gentlemen!" he called out in a voice that was slightly higher and more nasal than his normal tone. "Travelers seeking shelter for the night!" The brigands were on their feet in an instant, weapons drawn. Gros-Jean stepped forward, his single eye narrowing suspiciously. "Who goes there?" "A humble entertainer, good sir! The Great Alphonso, at your service!" Henri swept off his ridiculous hat and bowed low. "And my assistant, the silent Beppo. We are traveling players, bound for the fair at Carcassonne, and we find ourselves benighted in this forest. We saw your fire and hoped we might share your warmth." Gros-Jean looked him up and down, taking in the patched clothing and the theatrical manner. "Traveling players?" "The very same! I juggle, I tell fortunes, I perform feats of legerdemain. Beppo here—" Henri gestured to Gaston, who was doing his best to look dim-witted "—assists me and occasionally falls down for comic effect. He is very good at falling down." The giant's suspicion did not abate, but some of the other brigands were beginning to look interested. One of them, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, spoke up. "Can you really tell fortunes?" "Can I? My good fellow, I have predicted the futures of counts and courtesans, generals and grandmothers! I see all, I know all!" Henri struck a dramatic pose. "For a small fee, of course." "We don't pay for entertainment," Gros-Jean growled. "No, no, of course not! I would not dream of asking payment from such... distinguished gentlemen. Merely a place by your fire and perhaps a crust of bread. In exchange, I shall entertain you with my skills." The brigands looked at each other. It was clear that they were bored and in need of distraction, and the novelty of having a traveling player in their midst was appealing. "Let him stay," the scarred man said. "It's been weeks since we had any fun." Gros-Jean hesitated, then shrugged his massive shoulders. "Very well. But if you try anything—" he hefted his cudgel meaningfully "—I'll crack your skull like a walnut." "Understood! Completely! You shall have no trouble from us, I assure you. We are peaceful men, Beppo and I. We live for art, not violence." Henri and Gaston settled themselves by the fire, accepting the offered bread and cheese with grateful smiles. The brigands returned to their drinking, though they kept a watchful eye on the newcomers. "Now then," Henri said, rubbing his hands together. "Who would like their fortune told?" The next two hours were among the most bizarre of Henri's life. He told fortunes using a deck of worn cards he had borrowed from the tavern keeper, spinning tales of love and fortune that had the brigands laughing and nudging each other. He juggled pinecones and stones, performed simple magic tricks with coins and handkerchiefs, and even sang a few bawdy songs that he remembered from his misspent youth. Gaston, meanwhile, played his role as the silent Beppo to perfection. He fell down on cue, made exaggerated gestures of surprise and delight, and generally acted the part of a simple-minded assistant. Only Henri noticed the sharp intelligence in his eyes as he observed the brigands and memorized their faces. Through it all, Henri was watching and listening. He learned that Gros-Jean had been a brigand for three years, ever since he had killed a man in a tavern brawl and been forced to flee. He learned that the scarred man was called Marcel, that he had been a poacher before joining the band, and that he was superstitious to a fault. He learned that the youngest member, a boy of no more than sixteen called Petit-Pierre, had run away from an abusive father and saw the brigands as his only family. And he learned about Jacques. The young man sat apart from the others, drinking slowly and saying little. But when Henri offered to tell his fortune, Jacques accepted, and in the course of the reading, Henri managed to draw him out. "You are troubled," Henri said, studying the cards. "I see conflict in your past. A choice made, perhaps, that you now regret?" Jacques looked up sharply. "What do you know of my past?" "Only what the cards reveal, my friend. They speak of a father who was a soldier, a man of honor. And they speak of a path taken that he would not have approved of." Jacques's hand tightened around his cup. "My father is dead." "I know. He died at Waterloo, fighting for the Emperor. A hero's death." "How did you—" "The cards," Henri said smoothly. "They tell me many things. They tell me that you are not like these others, Jacques. That you have a conscience, a sense of right and wrong that troubles you." Jacques looked away. "You know nothing." "Perhaps. But I know this—you are not meant for this life. The cards speak of a different future for you, if you have the courage to seize it." Before Jacques could respond, Gros-Jean lumbered over, his single eye bleary with drink. "Enough fortune-telling! More songs!" "Of course, of course!" Henri launched into another song, but his mind was racing. He had found the weakness in the brigands' armor. Jacques was the key. If he could turn the young man, the whole enterprise might collapse. The night wore on, and the brigands grew progressively drunker. The bottle passed from hand to hand, and the laughter grew louder and more raucous. Gros-Jean, in particular, seemed determined to drink himself into oblivion, tossing back cup after cup of rough wine with the determination of a man trying to forget something. Henri kept his own consumption to a minimum, pretending to drink while actually pouring most of his wine onto the ground. Gaston, playing the part of the silent assistant, was not expected to drink at all, and thus remained completely sober. By midnight, most of the brigands were sprawled around the fire, snoring loudly. Gros-Jean had passed out in the doorway of the lair, his cudgel still clutched in his hand. Only Jacques remained awake, sitting by the fire and staring into the flames with a haunted expression. Henri rose quietly and moved to sit beside him. "You should sleep," he said softly. "Tomorrow will be a long day." Jacques looked at him, and for a moment, Henri saw the fear and uncertainty in his eyes. "Who are you, really?" "I told you. I am the Great Alphonso." "No." Jacques shook his head. "You're not a traveling player. Your hands are too soft, your speech too educated. You're a gentleman, aren't you?" Henri was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "Yes. I am." "What are you doing here? Why did you come to this place?" "I came because your leader robbed me today. Took my carriage, my horses, my possessions. Left me tied to a tree in the forest." Jacques's eyes widened. "You're—the vicomte?" "The very same. And I have come to recover what is mine, and to see justice done." "Justice?" Jacques laughed bitterly. "There is no justice in this world. Only power and the lack of it." "You sound like a man who has given up hope." "I have seen what hope leads to. Disappointment. Despair. Death." Jacques looked at the sleeping forms of his companions. "These men are my family now. The only family I have left." "They are criminals, Jacques. Thieves and robbers. Is this what your father would have wanted for you?" "My father is dead!" The words came out louder than intended, and Jacques glanced around nervously. But the others were too deeply asleep to notice. "He died for a cause that was lost. For an Emperor who abandoned his men. What did his honor get him? A grave in a foreign field and a widow who starved to death trying to feed her son." Henri was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I cannot speak to your father's choices, or to the injustice of the world. But I can tell you this—you are better than this life, Jacques. I saw it in your face when you helped tie me to that tree. You did not want to be there. You did not want to hurt anyone." "What does it matter what I want? I have nowhere else to go." "You could come with me. To Toulouse, to the authorities. Testify against these men, help bring them to justice, and I will see that you are treated fairly. You are young, Jacques. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don't waste it in the company of thieves." Jacques was silent for a long time, staring into the fire. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. "If I help you—if I testify—what will happen to me?" "You will be arrested, certainly. But as an accomplice who turned state's evidence, you will likely receive a reduced sentence. A few years in prison, perhaps. And then—" Henri spread his hands "—freedom. A chance to start again." "And if I refuse?" "Then I will find another way. But it will be harder, and more dangerous for everyone. Including you." Jacques looked at Henri, really looked at him, and something in his expression shifted. "You are either the bravest man I have ever met, or the most foolish. Coming here, alone, into the lion's den..." "I prefer to think of myself as resourceful. And I am not alone—I have Beppo." "The silent one? He is your servant, isn't he?" "My valet, actually. Though he prefers the term 'gentleman's gentleman.'" Jacques shook his head in disbelief. "You are mad." "Probably. But madmen have their uses. They see the world differently than ordinary men. They see possibilities where others see only obstacles." Henri stood up, brushing off his ridiculous costume. "Think about what I have said, Jacques. I will be here until morning. If you decide to help me, meet me by the stream at dawn. If not—" he shrugged "—then I wish you luck. You will need it." He walked back to his place by the fire and lay down, closing his eyes but remaining alert. Beside him, Gaston stirred slightly. "M'sieur?" the valet whispered. "Yes, Gaston?" "Did it work?" "I don't know. We will find out at dawn." "And if he does not come?" "Then we will have to improvise. As always." Gaston sighed. "I hate it when you improvise, m'sieur." "I know, Gaston. I know." They lay in silence, listening to the snores of the sleeping brigands and the crackle of the dying fire. Outside, an owl hooted in the darkness, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled at the moon. Henri smiled in the darkness. This was adventure, real adventure—not the tame sort one found in Parisian salons, but the genuine article, dangerous and unpredictable and utterly exhilarating. Tomorrow, he thought, would be an interesting day. Chapter III:In Which Dawn Brings Both Danger and Opportunity Henri woke before the sun, his internal clock—honed by years of late nights and early mornings—rousing him from a light sleep. He opened his eyes slowly, taking in the scene around him without moving. The fire had burned down to embers, casting a ruddy glow over the clearing. The brigands were still asleep, sprawled in various undignified positions around the dying flames. Gros-Jean snored loudly in the doorway of the lair, his cudgel still clutched in his massive hand like a child's favorite toy. But Jacques was gone. Henri's heart sank. Had the young man fled? Had he gone to warn the others? Or—worse—had he simply decided that Henri's offer was not worth the risk? He nudged Gaston awake. "Get up. Quietly." Gaston opened his eyes, instantly alert. "M'sieur?" "Jacques is missing. We may need to leave quickly." They rose silently, gathering their few possessions. Henri's mind raced, calculating odds and planning contingencies. If Jacques had betrayed them, they would have to run. But which way? The forest was dark and unfamiliar, and the brigands knew these woods far better than he did. "M'sieur," Gaston whispered, pointing. A figure was emerging from the trees—a slender shape moving toward them with careful steps. Henri tensed, ready to flee, then relaxed as he recognized Jacques. The young man looked as if he had not slept. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale in the pre-dawn light. But his expression was resolute. "I will help you," he said, without preamble. "But you must promise me—promise me—that you will speak for me. That you will tell them I helped you willingly." "I promise," Henri said. "On my honor as a gentleman." Jacques nodded, as if that was enough. "Then listen carefully. The others will sleep for another hour at least—they drank enough to fell an ox. Gros-Jean always sleeps longest. He will not wake before noon." "Good. That gives us time." "Time for what?" Henri smiled—that particular smile that had preceded some of his most outrageous exploits. "Time to turn the tables, my dear Jacques. Time to show these gentlemen that they have picked the wrong vicomte to rob." He outlined his plan quickly, speaking in low tones. Jacques listened, his eyes widening with each detail. "You are mad," he said when Henri finished. "Completely mad." "So I have been told. But will it work?" Jacques considered. "Perhaps. If everything goes exactly as you say. But if anything goes wrong—" "Then we improvise. Come, Jacques—we have work to do." The first step was to secure the weapons. Henri and Gaston moved quietly among the sleeping brigands, collecting pistols and knives and placing them in a pile well out of reach. The brigands were so deeply asleep that they did not stir, even when Gaston accidentally kicked a discarded cup that clattered across the ground. "Like babes in arms," Henri murmured. "It is almost too easy." "Don't tempt fate, m'sieur." "Nonsense, Gaston. Fate and I are old friends. She enjoys a good joke as much as anyone." With the weapons secured, they turned their attention to Gros-Jean. The giant was a problem—too large to move, too dangerous to leave awake. Henri studied him for a moment, then turned to Jacques. "Is there any rope? Anything to bind him?" "Inside. There is a storeroom with supplies." "Show me." They entered the lair—a dark, foul-smelling space that served as both shelter and repository for the brigands' ill-gotten gains. Henri's eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light, and he saw his own possessions scattered among the clutter: his carriage trunk, his spare clothing, even his father's watch, tossed carelessly onto a rough table. "There," Jacques said, pointing to a coil of rope in the corner. Henri retrieved it, testing its strength. "This will do. Now then—let us truss up our large friend like a Christmas goose." They worked quickly, binding Gros-Jean's hands and feet while he snored on. The giant was so deeply asleep that he did not wake even when Gaston accidentally dropped a heavy pistol belt on his stomach. "Remarkable," Henri observed. "I have never seen a man so insensible to his surroundings. One might almost admire his commitment to slumber." With Gros-Jean secured, they turned their attention to the other brigands. These were easier to deal with—Henri simply took their weapons and piled them with the others, then used additional rope to bind their hands behind their backs. One by one, they woke to find themselves prisoners, their faces a mixture of confusion and outrage. "What is this?" Marcel the poacher demanded. "Jacques, what have you done?" "What he should have done long ago," Henri said, stepping forward. "Turned from crime to justice." "You!" Marcel's eyes widened as he recognized Henri beneath the theatrical makeup and ridiculous clothing. "The vicomte!" "The very same. I hope you will forgive my little deception. The Great Alphonso sends his regards." The brigands cursed and struggled, but they were bound too tightly to escape. Henri watched them with a mixture of amusement and pity. "Gentlemen," he said, "I must inform you that your criminal career has come to an end. You will be handed over to the authorities, tried for your crimes, and sentenced to appropriate punishment. I would advise you to cooperate—it may go easier with you if you do." "Traitor!" one of them shouted at Jacques. "You'll hang for this!" "No," Henri said firmly. "Jacques will not hang. He has chosen the path of redemption, and I will see that he is treated fairly. As for the rest of you—" he shrugged "—that depends on the judge." He turned to Gaston. "My dear fellow, would you be so good as to gather our possessions? I believe we have a carriage to reclaim." "At once, m'sieur." While Gaston collected their belongings, Henri turned to Jacques. "Now then—we must get these men to the authorities. But first, there is one more thing I need to do." "What is that?" Henri smiled. "Wake our sleeping giant." Gros-Jean woke to find himself bound hand and foot, his single eye blinking in confusion at the morning light. He struggled against his bonds, his massive muscles bulging, but Henri had tied the knots with care, and they held firm. "Good morning, my large friend," Henri said cheerfully. "I trust you slept well?" "You!" The giant's voice was a roar of rage. "I'll kill you! I'll tear you apart!" "Yes, yes, very frightening. But I'm afraid you are in no position to carry out your threats. You see, while you were enjoying your slumber, my associate and I—" he gestured to Gaston "—have been busy. Your men are captured, your weapons are secured, and your criminal enterprise is at an end." "Traitor!" Gros-Jean bellowed at Jacques. "I'll have your guts for garters!" "I doubt that very much," Henri said. "In fact, I suspect the only thing you will be having in the near future is a lengthy conversation with the judge in Toulouse. And possibly a date with the guillotine, if your crimes are severe enough." The giant's struggles grew more frantic, but he was securely bound. After a few minutes, he collapsed back against the ground, panting with exertion. "What do you want?" he growled. "Why haven't you killed me?" "Kill you?" Henri looked genuinely shocked. "My good fellow, I am a gentleman, not a murderer. I want nothing more than to see you brought to justice through proper legal channels. And perhaps—" he added with a smile "—to recover my property, which you so rudely took from me." He turned to Jacques. "Now then—we need to transport these men to the nearest town. Can your carriage accommodate them all?" "It will be crowded," Jacques said. "But yes." "Excellent. Then let us proceed." It took nearly an hour to load the prisoners into the carriage. Gros-Jean alone required the combined efforts of Henri, Gaston, and Jacques to move—he was simply too large and heavy for any one man to handle. But eventually, they were all secured, tied to the seats and to each other in a manner that made escape impossible. Henri climbed onto the driver's seat, taking the reins with a sense of satisfaction. Beside him sat Gaston, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his ridiculous costume. Jacques rode inside with the prisoners, his pistol ready in case anyone tried anything. "And so," Henri said, "our adventure draws to a close." "Not quite, m'sieur," Gaston reminded him. "We still need to reach the authorities. And these are dangerous men." "Dangerous men who are securely bound and outnumbered. I like our odds." He flicked the reins, and the carriage lurched forward. The journey to the nearest town—Castelnaudary, where they had stopped the day before—would take several hours. Henri intended to make the most of them. The ride was uneventful, though not comfortable. The prisoners complained constantly, cursing Henri and Jacques with equal fervor. Gros-Jean, in particular, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of threats and insults, which he delivered in a voice that could probably be heard in the next county. Henri ignored them all, humming a cheerful tune as he drove. He was in excellent spirits. Not only had he recovered his property and captured the brigands, but he had done so with style and panache. This was the sort of adventure that would make a wonderful story in the salons of Paris. "M'sieur," Gaston said quietly, "I must congratulate you. Your plan worked perfectly." "Thank you, Gaston. Though I must admit, I had my doubts. If Jacques had not agreed to help us..." "But he did. And that is what matters." "Yes." Henri glanced back at the lair, now disappearing behind the trees. "I hope he will be all right. He is young, and he has made mistakes. But he has a good heart. I can see it in his eyes." "You intend to help him?" "I gave him my word, Gaston. And a gentleman never breaks his word." They reached Castelnaudary in the early afternoon, rolling into the town square with a carriage full of bound prisoners. The townspeople stared in amazement as Henri pulled up before the town hall and climbed down, looking for all the world like a triumphant general returning from battle. "Monsieur le Maire!" he called out. "I have captured the brigands who have been terrorizing your district!" The mayor—a small, nervous man with a perpetually worried expression—emerged from his office, blinking in the sunlight. "What? Who are you?" "Henri de La Rochefoucauld-Beaumont, Vicomte of Gascony. And these—" he gestured to the carriage "—are the criminals known as Gros-Jean and his band. I have captured them single-handedly and present them to you for justice." The mayor's eyes widened. "Gros-Jean? The one-eyed giant?" "The very same." "But—how?" Henri smiled. "That, monsieur, is a long story. Perhaps we could discuss it over a glass of wine? I find that I am quite parched after my adventures." The next few hours were a blur of activity. The gendarmes were summoned, the prisoners were transferred to the town jail, and Henri found himself the center of attention for the entire town. Everyone wanted to hear his story, and he was more than happy to oblige, embellishing the details with each retelling until he began to believe his own exaggerations. "And then," he told a rapt audience in the town square, "I looked the giant in his single eye and said, 'You have made a mistake, my friend. You have robbed the wrong man.'" "What did he say?" someone asked. "He said—" Henri lowered his voice dramatically "—'I will kill you.' But I simply smiled and replied, 'You may try, but you will find that intelligence always triumphs over brute force.'" The crowd murmured in admiration. Henri basked in their adulation, feeling more alive than he had in months. It was evening before things began to calm down. The prisoners were securely locked away, the authorities in Toulouse had been notified, and Henri had been promised a substantial reward for his bravery. He sat now in the town's best inn—admittedly not saying much—enjoying a hot meal and a bottle of excellent wine. Gaston sat across from him, looking more like himself now that he had changed out of his ridiculous costume. Jacques sat beside him, still nervous but visibly relieved. "Well," Henri said, raising his glass, "to justice. And to new friends." "To justice," Gaston echoed. "To new friends," Jacques added, his voice barely audible. They drank. Henri set down his glass and turned to Jacques. "Now then, my young friend. We must discuss your future." Jacques looked down at his hands. "I know. I will go to prison." "Yes. For a time. But I have spoken to the magistrate, and he has agreed to take your cooperation into account. With luck, you will serve no more than a year or two. And when you are released—" Henri reached into his coat and produced a folded paper "—you will have this." Jacques took the paper and unfolded it. His eyes widened. "A letter of recommendation?" "To my cousin, the Duke. He is always in need of reliable men, and I have told him of your courage and your decision to turn from crime. He will find a place for you, I am certain." "But—why?" Jacques's voice was choked with emotion. "Why would you do this for me? I helped rob you. I tied you to a tree." "And you helped me capture the others. You chose the path of right when it would have been easier to stay silent. That takes courage, Jacques. More courage than facing a loaded pistol." Henri leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine. "Besides, I have a feeling about you. You will make something of yourself, given the chance. And I have always enjoyed being right about such things." Jacques stared at the letter, tears in his eyes. "Thank you, m'sieur. Thank you." "Don't thank me yet. You still have prison ahead of you. But when you come out—" Henri smiled "—the world will be waiting." The next morning, a detachment of gendarmes arrived from Toulouse to collect the prisoners. Their commander, a stern-faced captain with a magnificent mustache, listened in amazement as Henri recounted his adventure. "Remarkable," the captain said when Henri finished. "Absolutely remarkable. You are a credit to your class, m'sieur." "Thank you, Captain. Though I must confess, I rather enjoyed myself." "Enjoyed yourself? Being robbed and kidnapped?" "The adventure, Captain. The challenge of outwitting my enemies. It is not often that a gentleman has the opportunity to test himself so thoroughly." The captain shook his head, clearly unable to understand such a perspective. "Well, in any case, you have done the district a great service. These brigands have been a thorn in our side for months. The reward will be substantial, I assure you." "Reward?" Henri waved a hand dismissively. "Keep it. Or rather—" he glanced at Jacques, who was being led away in chains "—use it to help that young man when he is released. He deserves a second chance." The captain looked surprised, but he nodded. "As you wish, m'sieur." Henri watched as the prisoners were loaded into a wagon for transport to Toulouse. Gros-Jean cast one final, baleful glance in his direction, but Henri simply smiled and tipped his hat. "Farewell, my large friend! Perhaps we will meet again—under more civilized circumstances, I hope!" The giant's only response was a stream of curses that would have made a sailor blush. With the brigands gone, Henri turned to Gaston. "Well, my good fellow. Shall we continue our journey?" "To Paris, m'sieur?" "To Paris. I have a cousin to visit, and a fortune to restore. And after our little adventure—" Henri's eyes sparkled "—I suspect I will have no shortage of listeners for my story." They climbed into the carriage—now restored to its proper condition, with fresh horses and all their belongings secured. Henri took the reins, and with a flick of his wrist, they were off, rolling down the road toward the capital and whatever adventures awaited them there. Behind them, the town of Castelnaudary faded into the distance. But the story of the vicomte who had outwitted a band of brigands was only beginning to spread. BOOK TWO:THE TRIUMPH OF WIT Chapter IV:In Which Justice Is Served and a Legend Is Born The trial of Gros-Jean and his band took place three weeks later in the Palais de Justice in Toulouse. It was, by all accounts, one of the most sensational cases the city had seen in years. The courtroom was packed to capacity with spectators eager to see the notorious brigands and the daring nobleman who had brought them to justice. Henri attended every day, sitting in the front row with the relaxed air of a man at the theater rather than a participant in a criminal proceeding. He was dressed in his finest clothes—a coat of midnight blue velvet, a waistcoat of silver brocade, and a cravat tied with the precision that only Gaston could achieve. His broken nose, rather than detracting from his appearance, gave him a rakish charm that drew admiring glances from the ladies in the gallery. The prosecution presented its case with methodical thoroughness. Witness after witness took the stand—farmers who had been robbed, merchants who had been waylaid, gendarmes who had pursued the brigands through the forest without success. The evidence was overwhelming, and the defendants' guilt was never in doubt. But the real drama of the trial came not from the prosecution, but from the defense—or rather, the lack thereof. Gros-Jean, when given the opportunity to speak, simply glowered at the judges and muttered about "that devil in the fancy coat." Marcel the poacher tried to blame everything on his leader, claiming he had been coerced into participating. The others followed suit, each trying to shift responsibility to someone else. Only Jacques spoke with any dignity. When his turn came, he stood before the court and confessed his crimes without excuse or evasion. "I was wrong," he said simply. "I allowed myself to be led astray by bad company and desperation. But I have seen the error of my ways, and I am prepared to accept whatever punishment the court sees fit." The judges were visibly impressed. When they retired to deliberate, the consensus in the courtroom was that Jacques would receive a lighter sentence than the others. Henri, meanwhile, was called upon to testify about his capture and escape. He did so with theatrical flair, embellishing the details until his adventure sounded like something from a novel. The spectators listened in rapt attention, gasping at the appropriate moments and laughing at his witty asides. "And then," Henri concluded, "I looked at the giant—Gros-Jean, I mean—and I said to myself, 'Henri, this man may be stronger than you, but he is certainly not smarter. And so I resolved to defeat him not with force, but with wit.'" "And did you succeed, Monsieur le Vicomte?" the presiding judge asked, though he already knew the answer. "I did, Your Honor. Though I must confess, I had help. My valet, Gaston, was invaluable. And young Jacques—" he turned to look at the defendant "—showed courage and decency when it mattered most. I hope the court will take that into account." The judges did. When they returned with their verdict, Gros-Jean was sentenced to twenty years in the galleys—a fate that made the giant pale beneath his tan. Marcel and the others received sentences ranging from ten to fifteen years. And Jacques, to the surprise of no one who had been paying attention, was given only three years, with the possibility of early release for good behavior. "Thank you, m'sieur," Jacques whispered as he was led away. "Thank you for everything." "Don't thank me," Henri replied. "Thank yourself. You made the right choice." With the trial concluded, Henri found himself the toast of Toulouse. Every hostess in the city wanted him at her salon. Every newspaper wanted to interview him. Every young man wanted to shake his hand and hear his story firsthand. Henri enjoyed the attention, but he did not let it go to his head. He knew that his adventure, while exciting, was not the stuff of genuine heroism. He had been lucky, that was all. Lucky and clever. "You are too modest, m'sieur," Gaston told him one evening, as they prepared for yet another dinner party. "What you did was remarkable." "What I did was foolish, Gaston. I walked into a den of thieves with nothing but a disguise and a clever tongue. I could have been killed." "But you weren't." "No." Henri smiled. "I wasn't. And that, my dear fellow, is what makes it a good story." He adjusted his cravat and examined his reflection in the mirror. "Now then—shall we go and charm the good people of Toulouse?" The weeks turned into months, and still Henri's fame did not fade. His story spread beyond Toulouse, carried by travelers and newspapers to Paris and beyond. By the time he finally reached the capital—having been delayed by a seemingly endless series of invitations and celebrations—he was already something of a celebrity. His cousin, the Duke, received him with a mixture of amusement and admiration. "Henri, you impossible fellow!" the Duke exclaimed, embracing him warmly. "I have been hearing about your exploits for weeks. Robbed by brigands, eh? And then you captured them single-handedly?" "Not entirely single-handedly, cousin. I had help." "Yes, yes, your valet. And the young brigand who turned against his fellows. But still—it is the stuff of legend!" The Duke poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Henri. "I must say, I am impressed. I always knew you had spirit, but this—this is something else entirely." "Thank you, cousin." "And your financial difficulties? I assume you have come to ask for assistance?" Henri smiled. "Actually, cousin, I find that my financial difficulties have largely resolved themselves." "Oh?" "The reward for capturing the brigands was substantial. And several newspapers paid me for the rights to publish my story. And—" he paused for effect "—a certain publisher has offered me a rather generous advance for a book."