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Title: The Two Dianas, Volume 3 (of 3)

Author: Paul Meurice

Dubious author: Alexandre Dumas

Illustrator: E. Van Meyden

Release date: February 6, 2022 [eBook #67339]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Little, Brown, and company

Credits: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWO DIANAS, VOLUME 3 (OF 3) ***


THE TWO DIANAS.




BY

ALEXANDRE DUMAS.




IN THREE VOLUMES.


VOL. III.




LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO.

BOSTON, LITTLE, BROWN, & CO.

1894.




ILLUSTRATIONS

ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS

DRAWN AND ETCHED BY E. VAN MUYDEN.

The Fatal Joust

A Criminal's Speech against himself

The Forest of Château-Regnault




[Illustration: The Fatal Joust.]




CONTENTS

Chapter

I. Wherein It Seems As If The Misunderstandings
Were About To Begin Again

II. A Criminal's Speech against Himself

III. Justice

IV. Two Letters

V. A Protestant Conventicle

VI. Another Trial

VII. A Perilous Step

VIII. The Imprudence of Precaution

IX. Opportunity

X. Between two Duties

XI. Omens

XII. The Fatal Joust

XIII. A New Order of Affairs

XIV. Results of Gabriel's Vengeance

XV. Change of Temperature

XVI. Guise and Coligny

XVII. Reports and Denunciations

XVIII. A Spy

XIX. An Informer

XX. A Child King and Queen

XXI. End of the Italian Journey

XXII. Two Appeals

XXIII. A Perilous Confidence

XXIV. The Disloyalty of Loyalty

XXV. The Beginning of the End

XXVI. The Forest of Château-Begnault

XXVII. A Glimpse at the Politics of the
Sixteenth Century

XXVIII. The Tumult of Amboise

XXIX. An Act of Faith

XXX. Another Specimen of Politics

XXXI. A Ray of Hope

XXXII. Well-Guarded Slumber

XXXIII. A King's Death-Bed

XXXIV. Adieu, France!

Conclusion




THE TWO DIANAS




CHAPTER I

WHEREIN IT SEEMS AS IF THE MISUNDERSTANDINGS WERE
ABOUT TO BEGIN AGAIN


Arnauld du Thill was not at once taken back to the dungeon which he
occupied in the conciergerie of Rieux. He was taken to a room adjoining
that where the court was sitting, and was left alone for a few moments.

It might be, they told him, that after questioning his adversary, the
judges would desire to hear him further. Left to his own reflections,
the crafty scamp began by congratulating himself upon the effect he had
evidently produced by his clever and bold speech. Brave Martin-Guerre,
notwithstanding the righteousness of his cause, would surely find it
hard to be so persuasive.

At all events Arnauld had gained time. But on thinking matters over more
carefully he could not conceal from himself that he had gained nothing
else. The truth which he had so audaciously distorted would finally
overwhelm him on all sides. Could he hope that Monsieur de Montmorency
himself, whose testimony he had dared to invoke, would take the risk of
using his position to shield the avowed misdeeds of his spy? It was
doubtful, to say the least.

The result of Arnauld's cogitations was that he gradually relapsed from
hope to anxiety, and all things considered, said to himself that his
position was not the most encouraging in the world.

He lowered his head under these discouraging thoughts, when some one
came to take him back to prison.

So the tribunal had not thought best to question him further after
Martin-Guerre's explanations! Another cause for anxiety.

All this, nevertheless, did not prevent Arnauld du Thill, who noticed
everything, from observing that it was not his ordinary jailer who had
come to take him, and was with him at that moment.

Why the change? Were they redoubling their precautions against his
escape? Did they hope to make him confess? Arnauld determined to be on
his guard, and said not a word during the whole walk.

But behold! another cause of amazement. The room to which this new
custodian conducted Arnauld was not the one he ordinarily occupied.

The latter had a barred window and a high chimneypiece, which were
lacking in the other.

However, everything bore witness to the recent presence of a
prisoner,--crumbs of bread still fresh, a half-emptied cup of water, a
straw pallet, and a half-opened chest within which could be seen a man's
clothes.

Arnauld du Thill, who was well used to restraining his emotions, made no
sign of surprise, but as soon as he found himself alone, he hastened to
overhaul the chest.

He found nothing but clothes in it; nothing else to indicate its owner.
But the clothes were of a color and cut which Arnauld seemed to
remember. Especially two jerkins of brown cloth, and yellow tricot
breeches, which were neither of a common shade nor shape.

"Oho," said Arnauld, "that would be strange!"

Just as night began to fall, the unknown jailer entered.

"Hallo, Master Martin-Guerre!" said he, laying his hand familiarly upon
the pensive Arnauld's shoulder in a way to signify that the jailer knew
his prisoner very well, even if the prisoner did not know his jailer.

"What is the matter, pray?" Arnauld asked this very friendly official.

"Well, it's just this, my dear fellow," the man replied; "your affair
seems to be looking brighter and brighter. Who do you suppose has
obtained leave from the judges, and now asks of yourself the favor of a
few moments' conversation?"

"My faith, I can't imagine!" said Arnauld. "How should I know? Who can
it be?"

"Your wife, my friend; even Bertrande de Rolles herself, who is
beginning to see, doubtless, which one of you has the right on his side.
But if I were in your place, I would refuse to receive her,--that I
would."

"Why so?" asked Arnauld du Thill.

"Why?" repeated the jailer. "Why, because she has denied you for so
long, of course! It is quite time for her to come over to the side of
justice and truth, just when to-morrow at the latest the decree of the
court will proclaim it publicly and officially! You agree with me, do
you not? and I will send your ungrateful spouse about her business
without ceremony."

The jailer took a step toward the door, but Arnauld stopped him with a
gesture.

"No, no!" said he, "don't send her away. On the other hand, I want to
see her. In short, since she has obtained leave from the judges, show
Bertrande de Rolles in, my dear friend."

"Hum! Always the same," said the jailer. "Always easy-going and
good-natured. If you allow your wife to reassert her former ascendency
so quickly, you take a great risk. However, that's your business."

The jailer withdrew, shrugging his shoulders compassionately.

Two minutes later he returned with Bertrande de Rolles. It was growing
darker every instant.

"I will leave you alone," said the jailer, "but I shall come to take
Bertrande away before it is quite dark: those are the orders. So you
have hardly a quarter of an hour; use it to quarrel or to make up, as
you choose."

And he left the cell again.

Bertrande de Rolles came forward, shame-faced and with bent head, toward
the pretended Martin-Guerre, who remained seated and silent, leaving it
for her to begin the conversation.

"Oh, Martin!" said she at last, in a weak and hesitating voice, when she
was at his side; "Martin, can you ever forgive me?"

Her eyes were wet with tears, and she was literally trembling in every
limb.

"Forgive you for what?" replied Arnauld, who did not propose to commit
himself.

"Why, for my stupid mistake," said Bertrande. "Of course I did very
wrong not to recognize you. But was there not some excuse for my
mistake, since it seems that at times you were deceived yourself? So it
was necessary, I confess, to make me believe in my error, that the whole
province, Monsieur le Comte de Montgommery, and justice, which knows
everything, should prove to me that you are my true husband, and that
the other is only a fraud and an impostor."

"But let us see," said Arnauld; "which is the acknowledged
impostor,--the one whom Monsieur de Montgommery brought hither, or the
one whom they found in possession of Martin-Guerre's goods and name?"

"Why, the other!" replied Bertrande; "the one who deceived me so, and
whom during the last week I have still called my husband, stupid, blind
fool that I was!"

"Aha, so the thing seems to be pretty well established now, does it?"
asked Arnauld, with emotion.

"_Mon Dieu_! yes, Martin," Bertrande replied in some confusion. "The
gentlemen of the court and your master, the worthy nobleman, told me
just now that they had no longer any doubt, and that you were surely the
true Martin-Guerre, my dear, good husband."

"Ah, indeed," said Arnauld, whose cheek paled in spite of himself.

"Thereupon," continued Bertrande, "they gave me to understand that I
would do well to ask your forgiveness, and to become reconciled to you
before they pronounce judgment; so I asked and obtained leave to see
you."

She stopped a moment, but seeing that her pretended husband gave no sign
of replying, she went on,--

"It is only too certain, good Martin-Guerre, that I have been very
guilty toward you. But I implore you to reflect that it has been
entirely involuntary on my part, as I call the Holy Virgin and the child
Jesus to witness! My first mistake was the not having unmasked and
discovered the fraud of this Arnauld du Thill. But could I imagine that
there could be such a perfect resemblance in the world, and that the
good God would amuse Himself by making two of His creatures so exactly
alike? Alike in feature and in form, but not, it is true, in character
and heart; and it was that difference which should have opened my eyes,
I confess. But why? Nothing warned me to be on my guard. Arnauld du
Thill talked to me of the past just as you yourself would have done. He
had your ring and your papers, and not a single one of his friends or
relatives suspected him. I acted in good faith. I attributed the change
in your disposition to the experience you had gained in your extensive
travels. Consider, my dear husband, that under the name of that stranger
it was you whom I always loved, you to whom I submitted joyfully.
Consider that, and you will forgive me for the first mistake, which led
me--without intending it or knowing it, so help me God!--to commit the
sin for which I shall pass the remainder of my days asking pardon from
Heaven and from you."

Bertrande de Rolles again paused in her justification to see if
Martin-Guerre would not speak to her and encourage her a little. But he
remained persistently silent, and poor Bertrande, with sinking heart,
continued,--

"Even if it be impossible, Martin, for you to bear ill-will toward me
for this first involuntary wrong, the second, unfortunately, deserves
beyond question all your reproaches and all your anger. When you were
not at hand, I might mistake another for you; but when you had presented
yourself, and I had leisure to compare you with the other, I should have
recognized you at once. But consider whether even in that matter my
conduct does not admit of some excuse. In the first place, Arnauld du
Thill was, as you say, in possession of the title and name which belong
to you, and it was extremely repugnant to my feelings to admit a
supposition which would make me guilty. In the second place, I was
hardly allowed to see you and speak with you. When I was confronted with
you, you were not dressed in your ordinary dress, but were wrapped in a
long coat which hid your form and your gait from me. Then, too, I was
kept secluded almost as closely as Arnauld du Thill and yourself, and I
hardly saw either of you except before the court, always separately and
at a considerable distance. In the face of that terrifying resemblance,
what means had I of determining the truth? I made up my mind, almost
haphazard, in favor of him whom I had called my husband just before. I
implore you not to be angry with me for it. The judges to-day assure me
that I was mistaken, and that they have abundant proofs of it. Thereupon
I come to you, penitent and abashed, trusting only in your kind heart
and the love of former days. Was I wrong to rely thus on your
indulgence?"

After this direct question, Bertrande made another pause; but the false
Martin still remained dumb.

Surely, in thus renouncing Arnauld du Thill Bertrande was adopting a
curious method of softening his heart toward her; but she was acting in
perfect good faith, and committed herself more and more irrevocably to
that view which she believed to be the true one, in order to touch the
heart of him whose forgiveness she supposed herself to be imploring.

"As for myself," she resumed humbly, "you will find my disposition much
altered. I am no longer the scornful, capricious, ill-tempered virago
who made life such a burden to you. The cruel treatment which I have
undergone at the hands of that wretched Arnauld, and which ought to have
condemned him in my eyes, has had one good result, at least,--in bending
and taming my spirit; and you may expect to find me in future as easily
managed and obliging as you yourself are gentle and kind-hearted. For
you will be gentle and kind with me as you used to be, will you not? You
are going to prove that now by forgiving me; and then I shall know you
by your good heart, as I know you already by your features."

"So you do recognize me now, do you?" said Arnauld du Thill, at last.

"Oh, yes! indeed, I do," replied Bertrande; "but I blame myself for
having waited for the judgment and decree of the court."

"So you do recognize me?" said Arnauld, persisting in his question. "You
do realize now that I am not that intriguing scoundrel who had the
assurance to call himself your husband no longer ago than last week, but
that I am the real, legitimate Martin-Guerre, whom you have not seen
before for many years? Look at me. Do you recognize me now, and
acknowledge me as your first and only husband?"

"To be sure I do," said Bertrande.

"By what marks do you recognize me?" asked Arnauld.

"Alas!" said Bertrande, frankly, "only by the outward appearance of your
person, I confess. Were you beside Arnauld du Thill and dressed like
him, the resemblance is so exact that very likely I could not tell you
apart even now. I know you for my true husband because I was told that I
was to be taken to him, because you occupy this cell, and not Arnauld's,
and because you receive me with the calm severity which I deserve; while
Arnauld would be trying still to abuse me and deceive me--"

"Wretched Arnauld!" cried Arnauld himself, harshly. "And you, weak and
credulous woman--"

"Don't spare me!" was Bertrande's rejoinder. "I much prefer your
reproaches to your silence. When you have said to me all that you have
at heart--for I know how kind and indulgent you are--you will soften
toward me and forgive me!"

"Very well!" said Arnauld, in a somewhat milder tone. "Don't be
downhearted, Bertrande; we will see."

"Ah!" exclaimed Bertrande, "what did I say? Yes, you are, indeed, my own
dear Martin-Guerre!"

She threw herself at his feet, and bathed his hands with her honest
tears,--for she really believed she was talking with her husband; and
Arnauld du Thill, who was observing her distrustfully, could find no
excuse for the least suspicion. Her expressions of joy and penitence
were not ambiguous.

"Very good!" Arnauld muttered to himself; "you shall pay for all this
some day, ingrate!"

Meanwhile he seemed to give way to an irresistible impulse of affection.

"I am weak, and I feel that I am yielding," said he, pretending to wipe
away a tear which was not there; and, as if in spite of himself, he
breathed a kiss upon the lowly head of the fair penitent.

"What ecstasy!" cried Bertrande; "he has almost forgiven me!"

At this moment the door opened, and the jailer reappeared.

"Humph! Made it up, have you?" said he, testily, as his eye fell upon
the sentimental tableau presented by the happy pair. "I was sure of
it,--you're such a milksop, Martin!"

"What's that? Do you blame him for his kind heart?" said Bertrande.

"Ha, ha! Come, come!" said Arnauld, laughing in the most fatherly way.

"Well, as I said before, it's his business," replied the unmoved jailer;
"and it's my business now to carry out my orders. The time has expired,
and you cannot stay a minute longer, my weeping beauty."

"What! must I leave him already?" asked Bertrande.

"Yes. You will have time enough to see him to-morrow and all the rest of
your days," was the reply.

"True, he will be free to-morrow!" rejoined Bertrande. "To-morrow, dear,
we will begin again our peaceful life of former days."

"Postpone your caresses till to-morrow, too," observed the fierce
jailer, "for now you must leave."

Bertrande kissed once more the hand which Arnauld du Thill held out to
her royally, waved a last adieu to him, and preceded the jailer from the
cell.

As the latter was closing the door, Arnauld called him back.

"May I not have a light, a lamp?" he asked.

"Yes, to be sure, just as you have every evening," said the jailer;
"that is, until curfew,--nine o'clock. By our Lady! we don't treat you
as harshly as Arnauld du Thill; and then, too, your master, the Comte de
Montgommery, is so generous! You are well taken care of to oblige him.
In five minutes I will bring your candle, friend Martin."

The light was brought to him very shortly by a turnkey, who withdrew at
once, wishing the prisoner good-night, and reminding him anew to
extinguish it at curfew.

Arnauld du Thill, when he found himself alone, quickly removed the linen
suit that he wore, and clothed himself no less speedily in one of the
famous suits, composed of a brown jerkin and yellow tricot
small-clothes, which he had discovered in Martin-Guerre's chest.

Then he burned his former costume piece by piece in the flame of his
candle, and mingled the ashes with those which were lying on the hearth.

It was all done in less than an hour; and he was enabled to extinguish
his light and go virtuously to bed even before the curfew tolled.

"Now, we will see!" said he. "I seem to have been beaten before the
court; but it will be very pleasant to succeed in deriving the means of
victory from my defeat."




CHAPTER II

A CRIMINAL'S SPEECH AGAINST HIMSELF


We can readily understand that sleep hardly visited Arnauld du Thill's
eyes that night. He lay stretched upon his straw litter, his eyes wide
open, entirely engrossed with reckoning up his chances, laying plans,
and marshalling his resources. The scheme he had devised, of
substituting himself for poor Martin-Guerre once more, was an audacious
one doubtless, but its very impudence endowed it with some chance of
success.

Since luck favored him so marvellously, should he let his own audacity
betray him?

No; he quickly adopted the course he was to follow, and left himself
free to adapt his movements to events as they might shape themselves,
and to unforeseen circumstances.

When day broke, he examined his costume, found it unexceptionable, and
devoted himself anew to acquiring Martin-Guerre's gait and attitudes.
His mimicry of his double's good-natured demeanor was so perfect as
almost to be exaggerated. It must be confessed that the miserable
blackguard would have made an excellent comedian.

About eight o'clock in the morning, the cell-door grated on its hinges.

Arnauld du Thill suppressed a startled movement, and assumed an air of
tranquil indifference.

The jailer of the night before reappeared, introducing the Comte de
Montgommery.

"The devil! now the crisis is at hand!" said Arnauld du Thill to
himself. "I must be on my guard."

He waited anxiously for Gabriel's first word when he should look at him.

"Good-morning, my poor Martin-Guerre," Gabriel began.

Arnauld breathed again. The Comte de Montgommery had looked him straight
in the face as he called him by name. The misunderstanding began again,
and Arnauld was saved!

"Good-morning, my dear, kind Master," he said to Gabriel, with an
effusiveness of gratitude which was in truth not wholly feigned.

He had the assurance to add,--

"Is there anything new, Monseigneur?"

"The sentence will be pronounced this morning in all probability,"
Gabriel replied.

"At last! God be praised!" cried Arnauld. "I long for the end, I
confess. There is no conceivable doubt now,--nothing more to fear, is
there, Monseigneur? The right will surely triumph?"

"Indeed I hope so," said Gabriel, gazing at Arnauld more intently than
ever. "That villanous Arnauld du Thill is reduced to desperate
remedies."

"Is he really? And what infernal scheme is he hatching now?" asked
Arnauld.

"Would you believe it?" said Gabriel; "the impostor is trying to renew
the old confusion."

"Can it be?" cried Arnauld, with uplifted hands. "What is his pretext,
in God's name?"

"Why, he has the assurance to claim," Gabriel replied, "that after the
hearing was at an end, yesterday, the jailers made a mistake, and took
him to Arnauld's cell, and you to his."

"Is it possible?" said Arnauld, with a capitally feigned gesture of
surprise and indignation. "What proof does he give in support of that
impudent statement,--upon what does he base it?"

"This is what he says," said Gabriel. "It seems that he, like you, was
not taken back at once to prison yesterday. The court, when they
withdrew to consult, thought that they might desire to question one or
both of you further; so the guards left him in the vestibule below, as
they left you in the courtyard. Now he swears that was the cause of
the error, and that it had been the custom to leave Arnauld in the
vestibule and Martin in the courtyard. The jailers, when they went to
take their respective prisoners, naturally confused the one with the
other, according to his story. As for the guards concerned, they are the
same ones who 'have always had charge of the two, and these human
machines only know their prisoners, without being able to distinguish
their persons. He bases his new claims upon such absurd reasons as
those; and he is weeping and shrieking and asking to see me."

"Have you seen him, Monseigneur?" asked Arnauld, eagerly.

"My faith, no!" said Gabriel. "I am afraid of his tricks and his wiles.
He would be quite capable of deceiving me and leading me astray again.
The blackguard is so bold and clever withal."

"Ah, Monseigneur defends him now!" rejoined Arnauld, feigning
discontent.

"I am not defending him, Martin," said Gabriel; "but we must agree that
his brain is full of expedients, and that if he had applied himself to
earning an honest living with half the skill--"

"He's an infamous villain!" cried Arnauld, vehemently.

"How severe you are upon him to-day!" replied Gabriel. "But I was
thinking to myself as I came along, that after all he has not caused
anybody's death; that if his condemnation is pronounced in a few hours,
he will surely be hanged within a week; that capital punishment is
perhaps an excessive penalty for his crimes, and that in short we might,
if you choose, ask for mercy to be shown him."

"Mercy for him!" Arnauld du Thill repeated with some hesitation.

"It requires thought, I know," said Gabriel; "but come now,--you have
thought about it; what do you say?"

Arnauld, with his chin in one hand, and rubbing his cheek with the
other, remained for some seconds pensive without replying; but at last,
having made up his mind, he said firmly,--

"No, no! no mercy! That will be much better."

"Oho!" replied Gabriel, "I did not know you were so vindictive, Martin;
you are not generally so, and only yesterday you were pitying your
adversary, and would have asked nothing better than to save his life."

"Yesterday, yesterday," muttered Arnauld, "yesterday he had not played
us this last trick, which is to my mind more shameful than all the
others."

"That is very true," Gabriel remarked. "So you are very decidedly of the
opinion that the culprit should die?"

"_Mon Dieu_!" replied Arnauld, with a sanctified air, "you know,
Monseigneur, how my soul revolts at violence and revenge, and all deeds
of blood. My heart is torn to be compelled to yield to so cruel a
necessity, but it is a necessity. Consider, Monseigneur, that so long as
this man who resembles me so closely is still in the land of the living,
I can never lead a peaceful, happy life. This last bold stroke which he
has just struck shows that he is incorrigible. If he is sentenced to be
kept in prison he will escape; if he is banished he will return, and
therefore I shall always be anxious and in torment, expecting every
moment that he will come back to worry me, and unsettle my whole life
again. My friends and my wife will never be sure that they really are
dealing with me, and suspicion will always be rife. I must always be on
the watch for renewed struggles and fresh attacks on my identity. In
short, I can never say I am really in possession of my own personality.
Therefore I must in my grief and despair do violence to my character,
Monseigneur; I shall doubtless mourn all the rest of my days for having
caused the death of a fellow-creature; but it must be, it must be!
To-day's imposture removes my last scruples. Arnauld du Thill must die!
I yield to necessity."

"So be it, then, he shall die," said Gabriel. "That is to say, he shall
die if he is condemned, for judgment has not been pronounced yet."

"What do you say? Isn't it certain?" asked Arnauld.

"It is probable, but not certain," was Gabriel's reply. "That devil of
an Arnauld addressed a very crafty and convincing speech to the judges
yesterday."

"Cursed fool that I was!" thought Arnauld.

"While you, on the other hand, Martin," continued Gabriel, "you, who
have just demonstrated to me with such admirable eloquence and
conviction the necessity for Arnauld's death, could not, you will
remember, find a single word to say before the court yesterday, nor
could you adduce a single argument or a single fact to aid in the
triumph of truth. You were confused and remained almost dumb, in spite
of my urgency. Although you had been informed as to your adversary's
arguments, you did not know how to meet and reply to them."

"The reason is, Monseigneur," was Arnauld's response, "that I am at my
ease with you alone, while all those judges frightened me. Besides, I
confess that I relied upon the righteousness of my cause. It seemed to
me that justice would plead for me better than I could for myself. But
that seems not to be the case with these men of the law. They want
words, nothing but words, I can see now. Ah, if it could only begin
again, or if they would hear me even now!"

"Why, what would you do, Martin?"

"Oh, I would pluck up a little courage, and then I would speak. It would
not be a difficult matter by any means to demolish all the proofs and
allegations of Arnauld du Thill."

"I tell you that would not be an easy matter!" said Gabriel.

"Pardon me, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld; "I can see the weak points in
his strategy as clearly as he can see them himself, and if I had been
less timid, and if words had not failed me, I would have told the
judges--"

"Well, what would you have told them, pray? Just tell me."

"What would I have told them? Why, nothing could be simpler."

Thereupon Arnauld du Thill set to work to refute his speech of the
evening before, point by point. He unravelled the events and the
mistakes of the double existence of Martin-Guerre and Arnauld with so
much the more facility, because he had tangled them up himself. The
Comte de Montgommery had left certain matters still obscure in the minds
of the judges, because he had been unable to explain them to his own
satisfaction, but Arnauld du Thill elucidated them with marvellous
clearness. The result of his discourse was to show Gabriel the two
destinies of the honest man and the rascal as clearly and sharply
defined and distinguished, for all the confusion there had been in.
regard to them, as that between oil and water when put in the same
vessel.

"Have you then been collecting information at Paris on your own
account?" asked Gabriel.

"Without doubt I have, Monseigneur; and in case of need I could furnish
proofs of what I say. I am not easily excited, but when I am driven into
my last intrenchments, I can make energetic sorties."

"But," Gabriel continued, "Arnauld du Thill invoked the testimony of
Monsieur de Montmorency, and you do not reply to that."

"Indeed, I do, Monseigneur. It is very true that this Arnauld has been
in the constable's service, but his was a disgraceful employment. He
must have been a sort of spy for him, and that fully explains why he
attached himself to you, to follow you about and watch your movements.
But though such people are employed, they are not acknowledged. Do you
suppose that Monsieur de Montmorency would choose to accept the
responsibility for the doings and sayings of his emissary? No, indeed!
Arnauld du Thill, perched at the bottom of the wall, would not really
dare to call upon the constable; or if he did venture in despair of his
cause, Monsieur de Montmorency would deny him. Now, to sum up--"

And in his clear and logical resume, Arnauld successfully demolished,
bit by bit, the edifice of fraud which he had so skilfully constructed
the preceding day.

With such facility in argument, and such a flow of words, Arnauld du
Thill would have made a very distinguished advocate of our times. He had
the misfortune to live three hundred years too soon. Let us have pity on
his shade!

"I believe that all this is unanswerable," he remarked to Gabriel when
he had finished. "What a pity it is that the judges cannot hear me
again, or that they have not heard me now!"

"They have heard you," said Gabriel.

"How so?"

"Look!"

The door of the cell opened, and Arnauld, entirely bewildered and
somewhat alarmed, saw the president of the tribunal and two of the
judges, standing grave and motionless on the threshold.

"What does this mean?" asked Arnauld, turning toward Gabriel.

"It means," replied Monsieur de Montgommery, "that I suspected my poor
Martin-Guerre's timidity, and wished that his judges, without his
knowledge, should hear the unanswerable speech they have just heard."

"Wonderfully well done!" rejoined Arnauld, breathing freely once more.
"I am a thousand times obliged to you, Monseigneur."

Turning to the judges, he said in a tone which he tried to render
bashful,--

"May I think, may I hope, that my words have really established the
justice of my cause in the enlightened minds which are at this moment
arbiters of my destiny?"

"Yes," said the president; "the proofs which have been furnished us have
convinced us."

"Ah!" said Arnauld du Thill, triumphantly.

"But," continued the president, "other proofs, no less certain and
conclusive, compel us to state that there was a mistake yesterday in
remanding the two prisoners to their cells,--that Martin-Guerre was
taken to yours, Arnauld du Thill, and that you are now occupying his."

"What!--how's that?" stammered Arnauld, thunderstruck. "What do you say
to it, Monseigneur?" he added, addressing Gabriel.

"I say that I knew it," replied Gabriel, sternly. "I say again,
_Arnauld_, that I desired to make you out of your own mouth furnish
proofs of Martin's innocence and your own guilt. You have forced me,
villain, to play a part which I abhor; but your unparalleled insolence
yesterday made me understand that when one enters upon a struggle with
such as you he must use the same weapons, and that frauds can only be
conquered by fraud. However, you have left me nothing to do, but have
been in such haste to betray your own cause that your cowardice has led
you on to meet the trap that was set for you."

"To meet the trap, eh?" echoed Arnauld. "So there was a trap, was there?
But, in any event, you are abandoning your own Martin in my person;
don't deceive yourself about that, Monseigneur!"

"Do not persist, Arnauld du Thill," interposed the president. "The
mistake about the cells was contrived and ordered by the court. You are
unmasked beyond a peradventure, I assure you."

"But since you agree that there was a mistake," cried the irrepressible
Arnauld, "who can assure you, Monsieur le President, that a mistake was
not made in executing your orders?"

"The testimony of the guards and jailers," said the president.


[Illustration: A Criminal's Speech against himself.]


"They are in error," retorted Arnauld. "I am really Martin-Guerre,
Monsieur de Montgommery's squire, and I will not submit to be convicted
in this way. Confront me with your other prisoner, and when we stand
beside one another dare to choose between us,--dare to distinguish
Arnauld du Thill from Martin-Guerre, the culprit from the innocent! As
if there had not already been confusion enough in this cause, you must
needs add to it. Your conscience will prevent your coming to any such
conclusion. I will persist to the end, and in spite of everything, in
crying, 'I am Martin-Guerre!' and I defy the whole world to give me the
lie or to produce facts to contradict me."

The judges and Gabriel shook their heads, and smiled gravely and
sorrowfully at this shameless and unblushing obstinacy.

"Once more, Arnauld du Thill," said the president, "I tell you that
there is no longer any possibility of confusion between Martin-Guerre
and yourself."

"Why not?" said Arnauld. "How can he be recognized? What mark
distinguishes us?"

"You shall know, miserable wretch!" said Gabriel, indignantly.

He made a sign, and Martin-Guerre appeared upon the threshold.

Martin-Guerre without a cloak! Martin-Guerre mutilated, and with a
wooden leg!

"Martin, my good squire," said Gabriel to Arnauld, "after miraculously
escaping from the gallows which you helped him to ascend at Noyon, was
less fortunate at Calais in avoiding an act of vengeance which was only
too justifiable, intended to punish one of your infamous deeds: he was
hurled headlong into an abyss in your stead, and compelled to suffer
amputation of one leg; but by the mysterious working of the divine will,
which is just when it appears most cruel, that catastrophe has now
served to establish a point of distinction between the persecutor and
the victim. The judges here present can no longer be deceived, since
they may now recognize the criminal by his shamelessness, and the
innocent man by his disfigurement."

Arnauld du Thill, pale and overwhelmed, and crushed beneath the terrible
words and withering glances of Gabriel, no longer tried to defend or to
deny himself; the sight of poor crippled Martin-Guerre rendered all his
lies of no effect.

He fell heavily to the floor, an inert mass.

"I am lost!" he muttered,--"lost!"




CHAPTER III

JUSTICE


Arnauld du Thill was, indeed, lost beyond recall. The judges at once met
for deliberation, and within a quarter of an hour the accused was
summoned before them to listen to the following decree, which we
transcribe literally from the records of the time:--


"In consideration of the examination of Arnauld du Thill, called
Sancette, alias Martin-Guerre, now confined in the conciergerie at
Rieux:

"In consideration of the testimony of divers witnesses, to wit,
Martin-Guerre, Bertrande de Rolles, Carbon Barreau, etc., and especially
that of Monsieur le Comte de Montgommery:

"In consideration of the avowals of the accused himself, who, after
trying in vain to deny it, finally confessed his crime:

"From which said examination, depositions, and avowals it appears:

"That said Arnauld du Thill has been duly convicted of fraud, forgery,
false assumption of surname and baptismal name, adultery, rape,
sacrilege, larceny, and other crimes:

"The court has condemned, and does now condemn and sentence said Arnauld
du Thill:

"First. To do penance in front of the church of Artigues, on his knees,
clad only in his shirt, with head and feet bare, having a halter about
his neck, and holding in his hands a torch of burning wax:

"Secondly. To ask pardon publicly of God and the king and the outraged
law, as well of the said Martin-Guerre and Bertrande de Rolles, husband
and wife:

"And this done, said Arnauld du Thill shall be delivered into the hands
of the public executioner, who shall cause him to be led through the
streets and public places of the said village of Artigues, still with
the halter around his neck, until he shall be before the house of said
Martin-Guerre:

"There to be hanged by the neck upon a gallows to be erected to that end
on that spot, and his body to be afterward burned.

"And, in addition, the court has discharged from custody said
Martin-Guerre and said Bertrande de Rolles, and does now remand said
Arnauld du Thill to the judge of Artigues, who will cause this decree to
be carried into effect according to its form and tenor.

"Given at Rieux the 12th day of July, 1558."


Arnauld du Thill listened to this anticipated judgment with a gloomy and
sombre air, although he repeated his confession, recognized the justice
of the decree, and showed some repentance.

"I implore God's clemency," said he, "and the pardon of mankind, and am
disposed to meet my fate like a Christian."

Martin-Guerre, who was present at this scene, furnished fresh proof of
his identity by bursting into tears at the words of his arch-enemy,
hypocritical though they might be.

He conquered his ordinary bashfulness so far as to ask the president if
there were not some means of obtaining mercy for Arnauld du Thill, whom
he freely forgave for the past so far as he was concerned.

But good Martin-Guerre was informed that the king alone had the right to
interpose, and that for such an extraordinary and notorious crime he
would surely refuse to exercise his right of pardon, even though the
judges themselves should ask it of him.

"Yes," Gabriel muttered to himself; "yes, the king would refuse to show
mercy. And yet he may well need that mercy should be shown himself! But
in this case he would do right to be inflexible. No mercy! Never any
mercy! Justice!"

Martin-Guerre's thoughts probably did not resemble his master's; for in
his absolute need to forgive somebody, he at once opened his arms and
his heart to the penitent and humble Bertrande de Rolles.

Bertrande was not even put to the trouble of repeating the prayers and
promises which in her last very useful blunder she had poured out upon
the forger Arnauld du Thill, when she believed she was speaking to her
husband. Martin-Guerre gave her no time to lament anew her errors and
her weakness. He cut short her first attempt to speak with a loud kiss,
and carried her off, triumphant and delighted, to the blissful little
house which he had not seen for so many years.

In front of that very house, which had at last reverted to the hands of
its true owner, Arnauld du Thill, a week after his conviction, suffered
the penalty which his crimes so well deserved.

Folks came from twenty leagues around to be present at the execution,
and the streets of the wretched village of Artigues were more densely
thronged that day than those of the capital.

The culprit, it must be said, showed a certain amount of courage in his
last moments, and at least ended his shameful life exemplarily.

When the executioner had cried aloud to the people three times,
according to custom: "Justice is done!" and while the crowd was slowly
melting away in horrified silence, within the house of the victim of the
culprit's wiles a man was weeping, and a woman praying; they were
Martin-Guerre and Bertrande de Rolles.

His native air, the sight of the locality in which his youth had been
passed, the affection of his kinsfolk and his old friends, and, above
all, the loving attentions of Bertrande, in a very few days banished
from Martin's face every trace of unhappiness.

One evening in this same month of July he was seated under the vine at
his door, after a peaceful, happy day.

His wife was within, busy with her housekeeping cares, but Martin could
hear her coming and going, so that he was not alone; and he looked off
to the right at the sun, which was just setting in all his glory, giving
promise for the morrow of as beautiful a day as that which had just
passed.

Martin did not see a horseman who rode up on his left, and dismounting,
approached him noiselessly.

He stood a moment observing with a grave smile Martin's attitude of
dreamy and peaceful contemplation. Then he reached out his hand, and
without a word touched him on the shoulder.

Martin-Guerre quickly turned, and rose with his hand to his cap.

"What! You, Monseigneur!" he said, with much emotion. "Pardon me, I did
not see you coming."

"Don't apologize, my good Martin," replied Gabriel (for it was he); "I
did not come to disturb your peace of mind, but on the other hand to
assure myself of it."

"Oh, Monseigneur has only to look at me, then!" said Martin.

"That's what I was doing, Martin," observed Gabriel. "So you are happy,
are you?"

"Happier, Monseigneur, than the birds of the air or the fish in the
sea."

"That is easily explained," returned Gabriel, "for you have found rest
and plenty in your own home."

"Yes," said Martin-Guerre, "without doubt that is one of the reasons of
my contentment. It may be that I have travelled sufficiently, seen
enough battles, watched and fasted and suffered in a hundred ways
sufficiently, to have earned the right, Monseigneur, to take pleasure in
refreshing myself with a few days' rest. As for the plenty," he
continued, in more serious fashion, "I have found the house well
supplied,--too well supplied, in fact. The money does not belong to me,
and I don't want to touch it. Arnauld du Thill brought it here, and I
propose to restore it to its rightful owners. Much the greater part of
it belongs to you, Monseigneur, for it was the money intended for your
ransom which he stole. That sum is put aside all ready to be handed to
you. As for the balance, it makes little difference how or where Arnauld
obtained it; the gold would soil my fingers. Master Carbon Barreau
thinks as I do, honest man, and having enough to live on, he declines to
accept the unworthy heritage of his nephew. When the expenses of the
trial are paid, the rest will go to the poor of the province."

"But in that case your property will not amount to much, my poor
Martin," said Gabriel.

"I ask your pardon, Monseigneur. One does not serve a master so generous
and open-handed as yourself for a long while without having something
laid by. I brought a very respectable sum in my wallet from Paris.
Besides, Bertrande's family were comfortably situated, and have left her
some property. In short, we shall still be the magnates of the
neighborhood when I have paid our debts and made all proper
restitution."

"Touching this matter of restitution, Martin, I hope you will not refuse
from my hand that which you scorned as a legacy from Arnauld. I beg you,
my faithful servant, to keep, as a remembrance and a slight recompense,
the sum which you say belongs to me."

"What, Monseigneur?" cried Martin,--"a gift of such magnificence to me!"

"Go to!" replied Gabriel; "do you imagine that I can pretend to pay you
for your devotion? Shall I not always be your debtor? Have no scruples
of pride with me, Martin, and let us say no more about it. It is
understood that you will accept the trifle that I offer you--less to you
than to me, in truth; for you tell me that you do not need this sum to
live in comfort and to be highly considered in your province,
consequently this will not add much to your happiness. Now as to this
happiness of yours; you have not spoken very fully to me about it, but
it ought to consist principally in your return to the loved spots which
your infancy and your youth knew. Am I not right?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, that is quite true," said Martin-Guerre. "I have felt
very contented and happy since I returned, just because I am at home. I
gaze with emotion upon the houses and trees and roads, which no stranger
would ever look at a second time. In fact, it seems that one never
breathes so freely as in the air which he breathed the first day of his
life."

"And your friends, Martin?" asked Gabriel. "I told you that I came to
set my mind at rest on all matters touching your welfare. Have you found
all your old friends again?"

"Alas! Monseigneur, some have died; but I have found a goodly number of
the companions of my early days, and they all seem as fond of me as
ever. They, too, are glad to acknowledge my frankness, my faithful
friendship, and my devotion. My word! but they are ashamed that they
could ever have mistaken Arnauld du Thill for me, for he seems to have
given them some specimens of a nature very different from mine. There
were two or three of them who quarrelled with the false Martin-Guerre
because of his evil actions. You should see how proud and contented they
are now! In short, they all vie with one another in overwhelming me with
tokens of esteem and affection,--in order to make up for lost time, I
fancy. Since we are talking about the causes of my happiness,
Monseigneur, that is a very potent one, I assure you."

"I believe it, good Martin, I can well believe it. Ah, but in speaking
of all the affection which sweetens your life you do not mention your
wife."

"Ah, my wife," replied Martin, scratching his ear with an embarrassed
air.

"To be sure, your wife," said Gabriel, anxiously. "What! it can't be
that Bertrande still torments you as before? Has not her disposition
changed for the better? Is she still ungrateful for the kindness of
heart and the relenting fate which have given her such a loyal and
affectionate husband? Is she still trying, Martin, with her shrewish and
quarrelsome ways, to force you to leave your home and your dear old
haunts a second time?"

"Oh, no, quite the contrary, Monseigneur," said Martin-Guerre; "she
makes me too fond of my haunts and my native province. She waits upon
me, coddles me, and kisses me. No more whims or domestic rebellions. Ah,
indeed she is so sweet and equable as I never remember to have seen her
before. I can't open my mouth that she doesn't come running to me; and
she never waits for me to express my wishes, but seems to divine them.
It is wonderful! and as I am naturally easy-going and good-natured
myself, rather than despotic and domineering, our life is all honey, and
our household the most united and happy one in the world."

"I am glad to hear it," said Gabriel; "but you almost frightened me at
first."

"The reason for that, Monseigneur, was that I feel a little
embarrassment and confusion, if I may say so, when this subject is under
discussion. The sentiment I find in my heart when I examine myself on
that subject is a very singular one, and makes me a little ashamed. But
with you, Monseigneur, I may speak in all frankness and sincerity, may I
not?"

"To be sure," said Gabriel.

Martin-Guerre looked carefully around to see that no one was listening,
and especially that no one was within hearing. Then he said in a low
voice,--

"Well, Monseigneur, I not only forgive poor Arnauld du Thill, at this
moment I bless him. What a service he rendered me! He made a lamb out of
a tigress, an angel out of a devil. I welcome the fortunate results of
his brutal manners, without having to reproach myself for them. For all
tormented and harassed husbands, and they say the number of them is
enormous, I can wish nothing better than a double,--a double
as--persuasive as mine. In short, Monseigneur, although Arnauld du Thill
did most certainly cause me much annoyance and suffering, still do you
not think that those troubles are more than atoned for, if he did but
know it, by his energetic system, whereby he assured my domestic
happiness and tranquillity for the rest of my days?"

"There's no doubt of that," said the young count, smiling.

"I am right, then," said Martin, joyfully, "in blessing Arnauld, even
though I do it in secret, since I am reaping every hour the happy fruits
of his involuntary collaboration. I am somewhat of a philosopher, as you
know, Monseigneur, and I always look on the bright side. Therefore I am
bound to say that Arnauld has done me more good than harm at every
point. He has been my wife's husband in the interim; but he has given
her back to me sweeter than a day in June. He stole my property and my
friends from me temporarily; but thanks to him, my property returns to
my possession in increased amount, and my friends even more closely
bound to me. In fact, he was the means of subjecting me to some very
rough experiences, notably at Noyon and at Calais; but my life to-day
seems only more agreeable for his meddling with it. Wherefore I have
every reason to be, and I am, well satisfied with this good Arnauld."

"You have a grateful heart," said Gabriel.

"Oh, but he whom, before all and above all, my grateful heart ought to
thank and to reverence," continued Martin, becoming serious again, "is
not Arnauld du Thill, my involuntary benefactor, but you, Monseigneur,
you, to whom I really owe all these benefits,--my country, fortune,
friends, and wife!"

"Again I repeat, enough of that, Martin," said Gabriel. "I ask only that
you should have all these good things. And you have them, haven't you?
Tell me again if you are happy."

"I repeat, Monseigneur, I am happier than I have ever been."

"That is all I desire to know," remarked Gabriel. "And now I must go."

"What, go?" cried Martin. "Are you really thinking of going so soon,
Monseigneur?"

"Yes, Martin, there is nothing to keep me here."

"Pardon me, of course there is nothing. When do you mean to leave?"

"This very evening."

"And you never told me!" cried Martin-Guerre. "And I, sluggard! was
dreaming away in utter forgetfulness. But wait, wait, Monseigneur, it
will not be long!"

"Wait for what?" asked Gabriel.

"Why, for me to make my preparations for departure, to be sure!"

He rose nimbly and hastily, and ran to the door of the house.

"Bertrande, Bertrande!" he called.

"Why do you call your wife, Martin?" asked Gabriel.

"To get my things ready, and to say adieu, Monseigneur."

"But that's useless, my good Martin; for you are not going with me."

"What! You are not going to take me, Monseigneur!"

"No, I must go alone."

"Never to return?"

"Not for a long while, surely."

"What fault have you to find with me, Monseigneur, I pray you tell me?"
asked Martin, sadly.

"None at all, my good Martin; you are the most devoted and faithful of
servants."

"Yet you do not take me with you," returned Martin, "although it is
natural that the servant should follow his master, that the squire
should attend upon his lord."

"I have the best of reasons for it, Martin."

"May I venture to ask what they are, Monseigneur?"

"In the first place," replied Gabriel, "it would be downright cruelty
for me to tear you away from this happy life which has come to you so
lately, and from the repose you have so well earned."

"Oh, as for that, it is my duty to accompany you, Monseigneur, and to
serve you to my last hour; and I would give up Paradise, I believe, for
the sake of being at your side."

"Yes, but it is my duty not to abuse your zeal, for which I am grateful
with all my heart," said Gabriel. "In the second place, the sad casualty
which befell you at Calais will not allow you hereafter to render me
such active service as you have done formerly."

"It is true, alas! Monseigneur, that I can no longer light by your side,
or attend you in the saddle. But at Paris, at Montgommery, or in the
field even, there are many confidential commissions with which you can
still intrust the poor cripple, I hope, and which he will execute to the
best of his ability."

"I know it, Martin; and I might perhaps be selfish enough to accept your
sacrifice were it not for a third reason."

"May I know that, Monseigneur?"

"Yes," Gabriel replied with melancholy gravity; "but only on condition
that you will not seek to go to the bottom of it, and that you will be
content with it, and not persist any further in following me."

"It must be a very serious and very imperious reason, then,
Monseigneur?"

"It is a sorrowful and unanswerable one, Martin," said Gabriel, in a
hollow voice. "Until now my life has been an honorable one; and if I had
chosen to allow my name to be uttered more freely it would have been a
glorious one. In fact, I believe that I may claim, without boasting, to
have rendered France and her king great and valuable services; for to
speak only of St. Quentin and Calais, I think I may say that at those
two places I discharged my debt to my country to the full."

"Who knows it better than I?" said Martin-Guerre.

"Very true, Martin; but in the same degree as this first part of my life
has been loyal and unselfish and open to the broad light of day, the
balance of my days will be passed in gloom and fear, always seeking to
hide itself in the darkness. Doubtless, I shall have the same vigor at
my command; but it will be exerted for a cause which I cannot avow, and
to attain an end which I must conceal. Thus far, in the open field,
before God and man, it has been my pleasure to strive manfully and
joyously for the reward of gallantry. Hereafter it is my duty, in
darkness and suffering, to avenge a crime. Hitherto I have fought; now I
must punish. From being a soldier of France I have become the executor
of the will of God."

"Holy Jesus!" cried Martin-Guerre, with hands clasped as if in
supplication.

"Therefore," continued Gabriel, "I must needs undertake alone this
ill-omened task,--in which I pray Heaven to employ my arm only, not my
will, and in which I desire to be merely the blind instrument, not the
guiding and directing brain. Since I ask, since I hope and trust, that
my fearful duty will employ only half of my own being, how can you think
that I would dream of associating you with it?"

"That is very true, and I understand, Monseigneur," said the faithful
squire, with lowered head. "I thank you for having condescended to give
me this explanation, much as it grieves me; and I accept it, as I
promised to do."

"I thank you, too, for your submissiveness," replied Gabriel; "for I
assure you that your devotion helps to lighten the heavy burden which is
almost too much for me even now."

"But, Monseigneur, is there absolutely nothing that I can do to serve
you at this crisis?"

"You can pray God, Martin, to spare me the necessity of taking the
initiative in this struggle, which I contemplate with such bitter pain.
You have a devout heart, and have led an honest and pure life, my
friend, and your prayers may be of more help to me now than your arm."

"I will pray, Monseigneur, I will pray,--how ardently I need not tell
you!"

"And now, adieu, Martin," said Gabriel; "I must leave you and return to
Paris, to be prepared and on the spot whenever it pleases God to give
the signal. All my life I have defended the right, fighting on the side
of justice; may God remember that in my favor at the supreme hour of
which I speak! May He mete out justice to His servant, even as I have
done to mine!"

With his eyes upturned to heaven, the noble youth repeated,--

"Justice! justice!"

For six months past, whenever Gabriel's eyes had been open, they were
generally intently fixed upon that Heaven at whose hands he asked for
justice; when they were closed, he seemed always to see once more the
gloomy Châtelet, in his gloomier reflections, which would at such times
make him cry aloud, "Vengeance!"

Ten minutes later he tore himself away with great difficulty from the
tearful farewells of Martin-Guerre and Bertrande de Rolles, who had come
at her husband's summons.

"Adieu, adieu, good Martin, my faithful friend!" he said, releasing his
hands almost by force from the fervent grasp of his squire, who was
kissing and sobbing over them. "I must go now. Adieu! We shall meet
again."

"Adieu, Monseigneur! God preserve you!--oh, I pray that He will preserve
you!"

Poor Martin, choked with grief, could say no more than that.

Through his tears he saw his master and benefactor remount his horse in
the fast-gathering darkness, which soon hid from his eyes the sombre
figure of the horseman, as it had hidden his life from him for a long
time past.




CHAPTER IV

TWO LETTERS


After the happy ending of the complicated trial between the two
Martin-Guerres, Gabriel de Montgommery disappeared again for several
months, and resumed his wandering, mysterious, and apparently
purposeless existence. Again he was seen and recognized in twenty
different places; nevertheless, he was never far away from the
neighborhood of Paris and the court, always standing back in shadow, so
that he might see everything without being seen.

He awaited events; but events arranged themselves very little to his
liking. The soul of the young man, entirely absorbed by one idea, did
not yet see its way clear to the issue which his righteous vengeance
awaited.

The only important occurrence in the world of politics during these
months was the conclusion of peace by the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis.

The Constable de Montmorency, jealous of the exploits of the Duc de
Guise, and of the new claims to the gratitude of the nation and to his
master's favor which his rival was acquiring every day, had finally
extorted Henri's consent to that treaty through the all-powerful
influence of Diane de Poitiers.

The treaty was signed April 3, 1559. Although concluded in the full tide
of victory, it was hardly advantageous to France.

She retained the three bishoprics Metz, Toul, and Verdun, with their
dependencies; she was to keep Calais for eight years only, and to pay
eight hundred thousand crowns to Great Britain if the place was not
restored within that period (but it never was restored, and the eight
hundred thousand crowns were never paid). France regained possession of
St. Quentin and Ham, and retained Turin and Pignerol in Piedmont.

But Philip II. obtained unconditional cession of the strong posts of
Thionville, Marienbourg, and Hesdin. The walls of Thérouanne and Yvoy
were razed. He caused the restitution of Bouillon to the bishopric of
Liège, the Isle of Corsica to Genoa, and to Philibert of Savoy the
greater part of Savoy and Piedmont, which had been conquered under
François I.; finally, he insisted upon his own marriage with the king's
daughter Élisabeth, and that the Duke of Savoy should be united to the
Princess Marguerite. These terms were very advantageous for him, and he
could have demanded none more favorable even after the battle of St.
Laurent.

The Duc de Guise, coming back in hot haste and furious with rage from
the army, warmly and not unjustly accused Montmorency of treason, and
the king of fatal weakness in having thus surrendered by a stroke of the
pen what the Spanish forces had failed to wrest from France after thirty
years of successful fighting.

But the harm was done, and the ominous discontent of Le Balafré was of
no avail to repair it.

Gabriel found no satisfaction in this state of things. His vengeance
pursued the man in the person of the king, not the king to the detriment
of the nation. He would have been glad to avenge himself with his
country behind him, but not against her.

However, he made a note in his mind of the natural resentment of the Duc
de Guise at seeing the sublime efforts of his genius paralyzed and
rendered of no account by underhand intriguing.

The wrath of a Coriolanus might well, if occasion offered, serve to aid
Gabriel's projects. Besides, François de Lorraine was not the only
malcontent in the kingdom,--far from it.

One day Gabriel encountered near the Pré-aux-Clercs Baron de la
Renaudie, whom he had not seen since the morning conference in the Rue
St. Jacques.

Instead of avoiding a familiar face whenever he saw it approaching, as
he had been in the habit of doing, Gabriel accosted the baron.

The two men seemed made to appreciate each other; they were much alike
in more than one respect,--notably in steadfastness and energy of
character. Both were born for action, and were passionately devoted to
every just cause.

After exchanging salutations, La Renaudie said confidently,--

"Well, I have seen Master Ambroise Paré. You are one of us, are you
not?"

"In heart, yes; but in appearance, no," Gabriel replied.

"And when may we expect that you will give yourself to our cause
absolutely and without concealment?"

"I will no longer hold with you the selfish language which perhaps
angered you against me," Gabriel replied. "On the other hand, I answer
thus: I will be at your service when you need me, and when I no longer
need you."

"That is generous, indeed!" was La Renaudie's response. "As a gentleman
I admire, but as a party man I cannot hope to imitate you. However, if
you but await the moment when we need the help of all our friends, know
that moment has arrived."

"Pray, what has happened?" asked Gabriel.

"A secret blow is in preparation against those of the Religion. They
propose to get rid of all the Protestants at once."

"What leads you to think so?"

"Why, they scarcely take pains to hide it," replied the baron. "Antoine
Minard, President of the Parliament, said boldly at a council meeting at
St. Germain that it was necessary to strike a decisive blow, if they did
not wish to become a sort of republic like the Swiss States."

"What! he uttered the word 'republic'?" cried Gabriel, in surprise.
"Doubtless he exaggerated the danger so that an exaggerated remedy might
be applied."

"Not so much," rejoined La Renaudie, in a lower tone. "He did not
exaggerate very much, in truth; for we, too, have changed our views
somewhat since our meeting in Calvin's chamber, and Ambroise Paré's
ideas do not seem so bold to us to-day; and then, you see, they are
driving us to extreme measures."

"In that case," said Gabriel, eagerly, "I may be one of you sooner than
I thought."

"That is pleasant to hear," cried La Renaudie.

"In what direction must I keep my eyes?" asked Gabriel.

"Upon the parliament," said the baron, "for there the issue will be
joined. The Evangelical party has a strong minority there,--Anne
Dubourg, Henri Dufaur, Nicolas Duval, Eustache de la Porte, and twenty
others. To the harangues which call for the vigorous prosecution of
heretics, the adherents of Calvinism reply by demanding the convocation
of a general council to deal with religious affairs in accordance with
the terms of the decrees of Constance and Bâle. They have right on
their side; therefore it will be necessary to use violence against them.
But we are watching, and do you watch with us."

"Very well," said Gabriel.

"Remain at your house in Paris until you are notified that we have need
of you," continued La Renaudie.

"That will be painful for me," observed Gabriel; "but I will do it,
provided that you do not leave me to pine in idleness too long. You have
written and talked enough, I should think, and now you ought to lay
aside words for deeds."

"That is my opinion," rejoined La Renaudie. "Hold yourself in readiness,
and be tranquil."

They parted, and Gabriel walked thoughtfully away.

In his thirst for vengeance, was he not allowing his conscience to go
astray somewhat? Already it seemed to be driving him on toward civil
war; but since events would not come to him, he must go to them.

That same day he returned to his house in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul,
where he found his faithful Aloyse alone. Martin-Guerre was no longer
there; André had remained with Madame de Castro; Jean and Babette
Peuquoy had returned to Calais with the intention of going thence to St.
Quentin, whose gates had been opened to the loyal weaver by the treaty
of Cateau-Cambrésis.

Thus the master's return to his lonesome abode was more melancholy even
than usual. Ah, but did not the motherly old nurse love him enough for
all? We despair of picturing the worthy creature's joy when Gabriel
informed her that he had come to stay with her for some time in all
probability. He lived in most absolute secrecy and solitude, to be sure;
but he was there by her side, and very rarely left the house. Aloyse
could feast her eyes on him, and wait upon him. It was a long time since
she had been so happy.

Gabriel, smiling sadly upon her, envied her loving heart its happiness.
Alas! he could not share it with her. His life henceforth was even to
himself a terrible enigma, of which he both dreaded and longed to know
the solution.

Thus his days passed in impatience and apprehension, anxious and bored
for more than a month.

As he had promised his nurse, he hardly ever left the house; but
sometimes in the evening he would go and prowl around the Châtelet, and
on his return would shut himself up for hours at a time in the funeral
vault, whither the unknown bearers had secretly brought his father's
body.

Gabriel seemed to take a gloomy pleasure in going back thus to the day
when the outrage had been put upon him, that he might keep up his
courage with his wrath.

When he looked upon the forbidding walls of the Châtelet, but above all
when he contemplated the marble tomb where the sufferings of that noble
life had finally found rest, the terrible morning when he had closed the
eyes of his murdered father came back to him in all its horror.

Then his hands would move convulsively, his hair stand on end, and his
chest heave with passion; and he would emerge from that terrible
communion with the dead with his hatred renewed and more bitter than
ever.

During such moments of anguish, Gabriel regretted having allowed his
vengeance to follow in the wake of circumstances, for it seemed
insupportable to him to have to wait for it.

His blood boiled to think that while he was waiting so patiently his
murderous enemies were triumphant and joyous. The king sat peaceably on
his throne at the Louvre. The constable was growing rich on the miseries
of the people, and Diane de Poitiers rioting in infamous debauchery.

This state of things could not last. Since God's vengeance was sleeping,
and the sufferings of the oppressed were growing daily greater, Gabriel
determined that he would do without the help of God or man, or rather
that he would constitute himself the instrument of divine justice and of
human wrath.

Thereupon, carried away by an irresistible impulse, he would place his
hand on the hilt of his sword, and make a motion as if to go and seek
his revenge.

But then his conscience would awake and remind him of Diane de Castro's
letter, written at Calais, in which his beloved had implored him not to
undertake to chastise with his own hand, and not to strike even the
guilty unless he were to do it involuntarily, and by the will of God.

Then he would read again that affecting missive, and involuntarily let
his sword fall back into its scabbard. Stricken with remorse, he would
resign himself once more to wait.

Gabriel was one of those men who are born for action, but have not
executive ability. His vigor and energy were marvellous when supported
by an army, or a small party, or even one great man; but he was not
fitted by nature to carry out extraordinary achievements alone, even for
a good object, and still less when they were to end in a crime. He was
neither a powerful prince nor a startling genius by birth, and the power
and the will to take the initiative were equally lacking in him.

When beside Coligny, and again when with the Duc de Guise, he had
accomplished marvellous exploits. But now, as he had given Martin-Guerre
to understand, his task was a very different one; instead of having
enemies to fight in the open field, he had to chastise a king, and there
was no one to assist him in that fearful work.

Nevertheless he still relied upon the same men who had formerly lent him
their powerful aid,--Coligny the Protestant, and the ambitious Duc de
Guise.

A civil war for the defence of religious truth, a revolution to assist
in the triumph of a great genius,--such were the objects of Gabriel's
secret hopes. The death or deposition of Henri II., or at all events his
punishment, would be the result of either of the uprisings. Gabriel
would show himself in the second rank, but as one worthy to be in the
first. He would faithfully keep the oath he had sworn to the king
himself; he would visit his perjury upon his children and his children's
children.

If these two chances failed him, then he would have no other resource
but to leave everything to God.

But it seemed at first as if these two chances were not likely to fail
him. One day, it was the 13th of June, 1559, Gabriel received two
letters almost at the same time.

The first was handed to him about five o'clock in the afternoon by a
mysterious individual, who refused to deliver it except to himself in
person, and would not deliver it to him until he had compared his
features with the details of an exact description.

This letter read as follows:--


FRIEND AND BROTHER,--The hour has come; the persecutors have thrown away
their masks. Let us thank God! Martyrdom leads to victory.

This evening at nine o'clock call at the house with a brown door, Number
11 Place Maubert.

You must strike three blows upon the door at regular intervals. A man
will open it and will say to you, "Do not enter, for you cannot see
clearly." You will reply, "I have my light with me." He will then lead
you to a stairway with seventeen steps, which you must ascend in
darkness. At the top another acolyte will thus accost you, "What do you
seek?" Reply, "What is right." You will then be shown into an
unfurnished room where some one will whisper in your ear the password,
"Genève," to which you will reply with the counter-sign, "Gloire."
Thereupon you will be at once conducted to those who have need of you
to-day.

Till this evening, friend and brother, prudence and courage. Burn this
letter.

                             L. R.


Gabriel called for a lighted lamp, burned the letter in the messenger's
presence, and replied simply,--

"I will be there."

The man bowed and withdrew.

"Well," said Gabriel, "at last the Reformers are losing their patience."

About eight o'clock, as he was still deep in thought concerning La
Renaudie's summons, Aloyse entered his room with a page in the Lorraine
livery.

He brought a letter which read thus:--


MONSIEUR AND DEAR FRIEND,--I have been six weeks at Paris, having taken
my leave of the army, where there was nothing more for me to do. I am
assured that you also nave been at home for some time. Why have I not
seen you? Have you forgotten me in these days of short memories and
ingratitude? No, I know you too well; it is impossible.

Come to me, pray. I will expect you, if you please, to-morrow morning at
ten in my apartments at the Tournelles.

Come, if only that we may condole with each other on the profit that has
been made of our success.

              Your very affectionate friend,

                             François de Lorraine.


"I will be there," said Gabriel to the page.

When the boy had withdrawn,--

"Well, well," he thought, "the ambitious man too is awake."

Thus encouraged by a twofold hope, he set out a quarter of an hour
later for the Place Maubert.




CHAPTER V

A PROTESTANT CONVENTICLE


The house Number 11 Place Maubert, where La Renaudie had appointed a
rendezvous with Gabriel, belonged to an advocate named Trouillard. It
was already vaguely pointed at among the people as a place of resort for
heretics; and the fact that psalms were sometimes heard sung there in
the evening gave some credibility to these dangerous rumors. But after
all they were only rumors, and it had never occurred to the police to
investigate them.

Gabriel had no difficulty in finding the brown door, and following his
instructions, he knocked three times at regular intervals.

The door opened as if of itself, but a hand seized Gabriel's in the
darkness within, and a voice said,--

"Do not enter, for you cannot see clearly."

"I have my light with me," replied Gabriel, following the formula
prescribed by the letter.

"Enter, then," said the voice, "and follow the hand that guides you."

Gabriel obeyed, and took a few steps in that way; then the hand released
its hold, and the voice said,--

"Go on by yourself now."

Gabriel felt with his foot the first step of a staircase; he ascended,
counting seventeen steps, then stopped.

"What do you seek?" said a different voice.

"What is right," was his reply.

A door opened at once in front of him, and he entered a room very dimly
lighted.

A man was there alone; he approached Gabriel and said in a low tone,--

"Genève."

"Gloire," returned the young count at once.

The man then struck a bell, and La Renaudie himself entered by a
concealed door.

He came directly to Gabriel and pressed his hand affectionately.

"Do you know what took place in parliament to-day?" he asked.

"I have not left my house until now," replied Gabriel.

"You will learn all about it here, then," said La Renaudie. "You have
not yet bound yourself to us, but no matter; we will bind ourselves to
you. You shall know our plans, and our strength; there shall be nothing
concealed from you henceforth in the affairs of our party, while you may
remain free to act alone or with us as you choose. You have told me that
you were one of us in spirit, and that is sufficient. I do not even ask
your word as a gentleman not to disclose anything that you may see or
hear. With you it is a needless precaution."

"Thanks for your confidence," said Gabriel, much affected. "I will give
you no cause to repent it."

"Come in with me," continued La Renaudie, "and stay by my side; I will
tell you the names of those of our brethren whom you do not know. You
can judge for yourself of everything else. Come."

He took Gabriel's hand, pressed the secret spring of the concealed door,
and together they entered a large oblong hall, where about two hundred
persons were gathered.

A few torches scattered here and there cast only a dim light upon the
moving groups. Otherwise there was no furniture, nor hangings, nor
seats; a common wooden pulpit for the preacher or orator,--that was all.

The presence of a score or so of women explained, but did not justify
(let us hasten to say), the scandalous reports which were spread among
the Catholics as to these secret nocturnal meetings of the Reformers.

No one noticed the entrance of Gabriel and his guide. All eyes and all
thoughts were fixed upon him who stood on the rostrum at that moment, a
sectary of sad mien and grave speech.

La Renaudie told Gabriel his name.

"It is Nicolas Duval, a councillor of parliament," he said beneath his
breath. "He is just beginning to describe what took place to-day at the
Augustins. Listen."

And Gabriel listened.

"Our regular place of meeting at the palace," the orator continued,
"being occupied by the preparations for the celebration of Princess
Élisabeth's marriage, we sat temporarily for the first time at the
Augustins; and in some mysterious way the appearance of that
unaccustomed apartment made us from the very first feel a vague
presentiment that something out of the usual course would occur.

"However, Giles Lemaître, the president, opened the sitting in the
customary form; and there seemed to be nothing to justify the
apprehensions by which some of us had been disturbed.

"The question that had been discussed the Wednesday preceding was
reopened. It related to the regulation of religious opinion. Antoine
Fumée, Paul de Foix, and Eustache de la Porte spoke successively in
favor of toleration, and their eloquent and vigorous language seemed to
have made a marked impression on the majority.

"Eustache de la Porte resumed his seat amid loud applause, and Henri
Dufaur was just opening his mouth to complete the conquest of those who
were still hesitating, when suddenly the great door opened, and the
usher of parliament announced in a loud voice, 'The king!'

"The president did not seem in the least surprised, but descended
hastily from his chair to meet the king. All the members arose in
confusion, some altogether amazed, others very calm, as if they quite
anticipated the event.

"The king entered, accompanied by the Cardinal de Lorraine and the
constable.

"'I do not come to disturb your labors, Messieurs of the parliament,' he
said in the first place, 'but to assist them.'

"After a few meaningless compliments, he concluded his remarks thus:--

"'Peace has been concluded with Spain; but the fomenters of scandalous
heresies have taken advantage of the wars in which we have been engaged
to gain a foothold in the kingdom; and they must be stamped out, now
that the war is over. Why have you not ratified the edict against the
Lutherans which I caused to be submitted to you? However, I repeat, go
on freely in my presence with the deliberations you have already begun.'

"Henri Dufaur, who had the floor, boldly resumed his speech at the
king's command, pleaded earnestly for liberty of conscience, and even
ventured to add to his outspoken discourse some sorrowful but severe
strictures upon the measures adopted by the king's government.

"'Do you complain of disturbances?' he cried. 'Very well, we know their
author.' I might reply as Elias replied to Ahab, "It is thou who
tormentest Israel!"'

"Henri II. bit his lips and turned pale, but said nothing.

"Then Dubourg rose, and gave utterance to still more direct and weighty
remonstrances.

"'I consider, Sire,' said he, 'that there are certain crimes which
should be pitilessly punished, such as adultery, blasphemy, and perjury,
but which are condoned every day amid the prevailing licentiousness of
the time. But of what are the men accused who are thus to be delivered
over to the hand of the executioner? Is it of _lèse-majesté_? They
never omit the name of the prince in their prayers. They have never
preached revolution or treason. What! Because they have discovered the
great vices and the shameful shortcomings of the Roman hierarchy, by the
light of the Holy Scriptures, and because they have demanded that they
should be reformed, have they assumed a license which makes them worthy
of the stake?'

"Still the king never moved; but we could see that he was with
difficulty restraining an outburst of indignation.

"Giles Lemaître, the president, basely essayed to foment his mute
wrath.

"'Talk about heretics!' cried he, with feigned indignation. 'Let us deal
with them as with the Albigenses; Philippe Auguste burned six hundred of
them in one day.'

"This violent language perhaps served our cause better than the more
moderate steadfastness of our friends. It became evident that the final
result would be at least evenly balanced.

"Henri II. understood that, and determined to carry everything with a
sudden _coup d'état_.

"'Monsieur le Président is right,' said he; 'we must put an end to
these heretics, or they will escape us. To begin with, Monsieur le
Connétable, let those two rebels be arrested on the spot.'

"With his finger he pointed out Henri Dufaur and Anne Dubourg, and then
hurriedly left the hall, as if he could no longer contain himself.

"I need not tell you, friends and brothers, that Monsieur de Montmorency
obeyed the king's orders. Dubourg and Dufaur were seized and carried
away while occupying their seats as councillors of parliament, and we
were left in utter consternation.

"Giles Lemaître alone found courage to speak:--

"'It is just,' said he. 'So may all those be punished who dare to fail
of respect to the majesty of royalty!'

"But as if to give the lie to his words, the guards at that moment
entered the hall, and proceeded to execute orders which they produced,
by arresting De Foix, Fumée, and De la Porte, all of whom had spoken
before the king appeared at all, and had confined themselves to
defending the principle of toleration in matters of religion, without
suggesting the least reproach against the sovereign.

"Thus it became evident that it was not for their remonstrances uttered
in the king's presence, but simply for their religious opinions, that
five members of parliament, inviolable by law, had been charged with a
capital crime, by means of a shameful subterfuge."

Nicolas Duval ceased to speak. Mutterings of grief and anger had
interrupted him twenty times, only to follow more closely than ever his
description of that momentous and stormy session, which to us at this
distance in time seems as if it must have been told of another assembly,
and bears a startling resemblance to scenes that were enacted two
hundred and thirty years later.

But there was this important difference,--that at the later epoch it was
liberty and not royalty which had the last word to say!

The minister David followed Nicolas Duval upon the rostrum.

"Brothers," said he, "before we take counsel together, let us lift up
our voices and our hearts to God with a psalm, that He may quicken the
spirit of truth in us."

"Psalm forty!" cried several voices in the assemblage, and they all
began to sing the stirring words of that psalm.

It was an extraordinary selection to calm excited imaginations. It was
much more like a strain of menace, it must be confessed, than like a
prayer for guidance.

But wrath was uppermost at that moment in those sturdy souls, and it was
with marvellous impressiveness that all present joined in singing these
verses, in which the lack of poetic talent was replaced by the emotion
which animated them:--


    "Gens insensés, où avez-vous les cœurs
        De faire guerre à Jésus-Christ?
        Pour soutenir cet Ante-Christ,
     Jusques à quand serez persécuteurs?
              Traîtres abominables!
              Le service des diables,
        Vous allez soutenant:
              Et de Dieu les édits
              Par vous sont interdits
        À tout homme vivant."[1]


The last stanza was especially significant:--


    "N'empêchez plus la predication,
        De la parole et vive voix
        De notre Dieu, le roi des rois!
     Où vous verrez sa malédiction,
           Sur vous, prompte s'étendre,
           Qui vous fera descendre
        Aux enfers ténébreux,
           Où vous serez punis
           Des maux qu'avez commis
        Par tourmens douloureux."[2]


The psalm at an end, it was as if this appeal to God had relieved the
oppressed heart at once; silence was restored, and the assemblage was in
readiness to deliberate.

La Renaudie was the first to speak, in order to state concisely the
condition of affairs and its import.

"Brothers," said he, from where he stood on the floor, "being thus
brought face to face with an unprecedented proceeding which overturns
all preconceived notions of right and justice, we have now to decide
what course of conduct should be adopted by the adherents of the
Reformed religion. Shall we still suffer our burdens patiently, or shall
we act? Such are the questions which each one of us must propound to his
own conscience and answer according to its dictates. You see that our
oppressors propose nothing less than a general massacre, and propose to
strike us out from the list of the living, as one erases a badly written
word from a manuscript. Shall we wait like sheep for the fatal blow; or
shall we rather (since law and justice are thus violated by those very
persons whose sacred duty it is to protect them) try to do justice with
our own hands, and to that end temporarily substitute force for law? It
is for you to reply, friends and brothers."

La Renaudie made a short pause, as if to afford time for all their
intellects to digest the momentous question; then he resumed, desirous
at once to facilitate and hasten the conclusion:--

"Those whom the cause of religion and of truth should hand together are
unfortunately, as we all know, divided into two factions,--that of
Geneva, and that of the nobility; but when face to face with danger and
a common foe, it is fitting, it seems to me, that we should have only
one heart and one will. The members of both factions are alike invited
to state their opinions and suggest the remedies that occur to them. The
advice which offers the best chance of success should be unanimously
adopted, from whatever quarter it comes; and now, my friends and
brothers, speak freely and confidently."

La Renaudie's speech was followed by a considerable period of
hesitation.

Those who listened to him were lacking in just those two qualities,
courage and confidence; and in the first instance, notwithstanding the
bitter indignation which really filled all their hearts, the power of
royalty then enjoyed such great prestige that the Reformers, who were
novices at conspiring, did not dare to express at once and without
reserve their ideas on the subject of armed rebellion. They were devoted
to their opinions, and determined as a body; but each individual
recoiled before the responsibility of striking the first blow. They were
all ready to follow, but no one dared to lead.

Then, too, as La Renaudie had said, they were suspicious of one another;
neither of the two parties knew whither the other would lead it; and
their objects were, in truth, too dissimilar to make the choice of roads
and guides a matter of indifference to them.

The Geneva faction were really aiming at the foundation of a republic,
while that of the nobility simply desired to bring about a change of
dynasty.

The elective forms of Calvinism, the principle of equality which was
everywhere inculcated by the new church, tended directly toward the
republican system as it was in vogue in the Swiss cantons; but the
nobility did not wish to go so far, and would have been content, in
accordance with the advice of Élisabeth of England, to depose Henri
II., and replace him with a Calvinist king. The Prince de Condé's name
was whispered about as a suitable selection.

It would be difficult to imagine two more diametrically opposed elements
co-operating in a common cause.

Therefore, Gabriel saw regretfully that after La Renaudie's address the
two almost hostile camps eyed each other askance, without appearing to
think of drawing conclusions from the premises he had so boldly laid
down.

A moment or two passed in this unfortunate indecision, amid a confused
murmuring of many voices. La Renaudie could but ask himself whether he
had not, by being too blunt and outspoken, unwittingly done away with
all the effect of Nicolas Duval's recital; but having started on that
course, he determined to put everything to the touch, to win or lose
all, and so he thus addressed a thin, puny little man with bristling
eyebrows and bilious appearance, who made one of a group near him:--

"Well, Lignières, are you not going to speak to our brothers, and tell
them what you have at heart?"

"So be it!" replied the little man, and his gloomy countenance lighted
up. "I will speak; but I will not yield an inch, or extenuate anything."

"Go on,--you are among friends," said La Renaudie. While Lignières was
on his way to the rostrum the baron whispered to Gabriel,--

"That is a dangerous instrument to make use of Lignières is a
fanatic,--whether in good or bad faith I know not,--who urges everything
to extremes, and is always more repellent than attractive. But no
matter! We must know at any price what we have to rely upon, must we
not?"

"Yes," said Gabriel, "so that all these closed hearts may open to emit
the truth."

"Lignières and his doctrines hot from Geneva will wake them up, never
fear," rejoined La Renaudie.

The orator plunged at once _in médias res_.

"The law has brought about its own condemnation," said he. "What
resource remains? An appeal to force, and nothing else. You ask what we
ought to do! If I do not reply to that question, here is something which
will reply for me."

He held up a silver medal.

"This medal," he continued, "is far more eloquent than any words of
mine. For the benefit of those who are too far away to see it I will say
what it represents. It bears the image of a flaming sword cutting off
the blossom of a lily, whose stalk bends and falls near by; the sceptre
and the crown are rolling in the dust."

Then he added, as if he feared that he might be misunderstood,--

"Medals ordinarily serve to commemorate accomplished facts; may this one
serve as prophetic of something yet to occur! I will say no more."

Indeed, he had said enough. He came down from the pulpit amid the
plaudits of an inconsiderable portion of the assembly, and the in
mutterings of a much larger number.

But the general attitude was of stupefied silence.

"Well," said La Renaudie, in a low voice, to Gabriel, "that is clearly
not the right chord to strike. We must try another."

"Monsieur le Baron de Castelnau," he continued aloud, addressing a young
man of thoughtful appearance and handsomely clad, who was leaning
against the wall ten feet from him,--"Monsieur de Castelnau, have you
not a word to say to us?"

"I might perhaps have had nothing to say independently; but I should
like to say a word or two in reply," the young man responded.

"We are all attention," said La Renaudie.

"This young man," he added, speaking in Gabriel's ear again, "belongs to
the party of the nobility; and you should have seen him at the Louvre
the day you brought the news of the capture of Calais. Castelnau is
frank, loyal, and brave. He will set up his flag as boldly as
Lignières, and we shall see if he will be received any more warmly."

Castelnau mounted one of the steps of the rostrum, and spoke from that
slight elevation.

"I will begin," he said, "like the orators who have preceded me. We have
been iniquitously attacked; let us use like weapons to defend ourselves.
Let us do in the open field, amid the panoply of war, what they have
done in parliament among the red robes! But I differ in opinion from
Monsieur de Lignières as to the rest. I, too, have a medal to show you.
Here it is; it is not his. From a distance it seems to you to resemble
the crowns from the royal mint which we carry in our purses, and in
fact, like them, it does bear the stamp of a crowned head; but in lieu
of 'Henricus II, rex Galliæ,' its legend reads, 'Ludovicus XIII., rex
Galliæ.'[3] I have done."

The Baron de Castelnau left his place with his head proudly erect. His
allusion to the Prince de Condé was flagrant. Those who had applauded
Lignières muttered at his words, and vice versa.

But the large majority of those present were still motionless and
speechless between the two minorities.

"What do they want, pray?" Gabriel softly asked La Renaudie.

"I am afraid that they don't want anything," was the baron's reply.

At that moment the advocate Des Avenelles asked a hearing.

"This is their man, I fancy," La Renaudie remarked. "Des Avenelles is my
host when I am in Paris,--an honest and sagacious fellow, but too
cautious, almost to timidity even. His word will be law with them."

Des Avenelles from the beginning justified La Renaudie's prediction.

Said he: "We have listened to many bold and even audacious words; but
has the moment really arrived to utter them? Are we not going a little
too fast? We are shown a very worthy and lofty purpose, but not a word
is said as to the means of attaining it. They must needs be criminal. My
heart is more oppressed by the severities to which we are subjected than
that of any other member of this assemblage. But when we have so many
prejudices to overcome, should we add to the burden by casting upon the
cause of our religion the odium of an assassination?--yes, of an
assassination; for you cannot obtain by any other means the result which
you dare to propose."

Des Avenelles was interrupted by almost unanimous applause.

"What did I say?" whispered La Renaudie. "This advocate is the real
expositor of their views."

Des Avenelles continued,--

"The king is in the very bloom and flower of his vigor. To wrest the
throne from him, he must be hurled headlong from it. What living man
would take upon himself that act of violence? Kings are divine, and God
only has the right to govern them. Ah, suppose that some accident, some
unforeseen ill, some blow struck by a private hand, should take away the
king's life at this moment, and leave the guardianship of an infant
monarch in the hands of those arrogant subjects who are our veritable
oppressors!--then it would be this guardianship, and not royalty itself,
the Guises and not François II., against whom our attacks would be
directed. Civil war would be not only justifiable but laudable, and
revolution a sacred duty, and I would be the first to cry, 'To arms!'"

This energetic moderation moved the assembly to admiration; and fresh
tokens of approbation were showered upon Des Avenelles as a recompense
for his prudent courage.

"Ah!" muttered La Renaudie to Gabriel, "I regret now having asked you to
come, for you will begin to compassionate us."

But Gabriel, lost in thought, was saying to himself,--

"No, I have no right to reproach them for their weakness, for it is much
like my own. While I was secretly relying upon them, they seem to have
been relying upon me."

"What do you mean to do, pray?" cried La Renaudie to his triumphant
host.

"To maintain a legal attitude and wait!" replied the advocate, firmly.
"Anne Dubourg, Henri Dufaur, and three others of our friends in
parliament have been arrested; but who says that they will dare to
convict them, or even to accuse them? My opinion is that any overt act
of violence on our part would result simply in provoking reprisals on
the part of those in authority. And who knows that our moderation may
not be the salvation of the victims? Let us have the tranquillity of
conscious strength, and the dignity which befits a righteous cause. Let
us leave all the wrong-doing to our persecutors. Let us wait. When they
see that we are moderate in our demands, but resolute, they will think
twice before declaring war upon us,--just as I implore you, friends and
brothers, to think twice before you give them the signal for reprisals."

Des Avenelles ceased, and the applause was renewed.

The advocate, vain of his success, desired to confirm his victory.

"Let all who agree with me raise their hand," he added.

Almost every hand was raised to assure Des Avenelles that he had spoken
the mind of the gathering.

"Let us see, then," said he: "our decision is--"

"To decide nothing at all," interposed Castelnau.

"To postpone until a more favorable moment any extreme measures," Des
Avenelles concluded, casting an angry glance at the interrupter.

The minister David suggested singing another psalm to beseech God to
deliver the poor prisoners.

"Come, let us be going," said La Renaudie to Gabriel; "all this annoys
and angers me. These people only know how to sing. They have nothing
seditious but their psalms."

When they were on the street they walked along in silence, both deeply
absorbed in their reflections.

At the Pont Notre Dame they parted, La Renaudie returning to the
Faubourg St. Germain, and Gabriel going toward the Arsenal.

"Adieu, Monsieur d'Exmès," said the former. "I am sorry to have caused
you to waste your time thus. But believe me, I pray, when I assure you
that this is not our last word. The prince, Coligny, and some of our
most reliable heads were absent this evening."

"My time with you has not been wasted," replied Gabriel. "You will be
convinced of that very shortly."

"So much the better, so much the better," rejoined La Renaudie.
"Nevertheless, doubt--"

"Have no doubt at all," said Gabriel. "It was necessary for me to know
if the Protestants were really beginning to lose patience. It is of more
use to me than you can imagine to have learned that they are not tired
out yet."


[Footnote 1: "Ye men of wrath, why thus conspire ye
                  To wage mad war against your Saviour Christ,
                  By showing favor to this Anti-Christ,
             Till ye yourselves shall persecutors be?
                    Ye doers of evil,
                    The works of the Devil,
                  You thus are upholding:
                    And with impious hands
                    From the Lord's high commands
                  Are the people withholding."]

[Footnote 2: "No longer now, with loud unseemly noise,
                 Seek to delay the utterance of the word
                 Of the great King of Kings, our God the Lord!
              Else shall His malediction from the skies,
                     Upon ye descending,
                     To woe never-ending
                 In hell's darkest recess
                     Consign ye, to languish
                     In torment and anguish
                 Your sins to redress."]

[Footnote 3: These two rare and curious medals are to be seen to-day
in the "Cabinet des Médailles."]




CHAPTER VI

ANOTHER TRIAL


The disaffection of the Protestants having failed him, there remained
still one more hope of assistance for Gabriel in his thirst for
vengeance; namely, that furnished by the ambition of the Duc de Guise.

Consequently he was very prompt the next morning at ten o'clock in
keeping the appointment François de Lorraine had made with him at the
Tournelles.

It was evident that the young Comte de Montgommery was expected; for as
soon as his name was announced he was shown into the presence of him who
was now called the conqueror of Calais, thanks to Gabriel's daring
scheme.

Le Balafré came eagerly forward to meet him, and grasped both his hands
affectionately.

"Ah, here you are at last, my forgetful friend," said he. "I have been
obliged to send for you, to follow you into your retirement, and if I
had not done so God only knows when I should have seen you! Why is it?
Why have you not been to visit me since my return?"

"Monseigneur," said Gabriel, in a low tone, "much distressing anxiety--"

"Ah! There it is! I was sure of it!" the duke interrupted him. "So they
were false, were they, to the promises they made you h They deceived
you, and insulted and tormented you. Oh, I was very suspicious that
there was some infamy at the bottom of it all! My brother, the Cardinal
de Lorraine, who was present when you arrived at the Louvre from Calais,
and heard you spoken of as the Comte de Montgommery, imagined, with his
priestly keenness, that you were destined to be the dupe or the victim
of those people. Why did you not apply to him? He might have been of
some assistance to you in my absence."

"I thank you, Monseigneur," replied Gabriel, gravely, "but you are
mistaken, I assure you. All their promises to me were redeemed with the
utmost exactitude."

"Oho, but you have such a way of saying it, my friend!"

"I speak as I feel, Monseigneur; but I will repeat that I make no
complaints, and that the promises upon which I relied have been
fulfilled--to the letter. So let us talk no more of my affairs, I beg,
for you know that subject of conversation was never agreeable to
me, and it is to-day more painful than ever. I ask you, Monseigneur, in
pity not to insist upon your kindly meant inquiries."

The duke was struck with Gabriel's dolorous tone.

"Very well, my friend," said he; "I shall be afraid now of touching
unintentionally upon some one of your scarcely healed scars, and I will
question you no further about yourself."

"Thanks, Monseigneur," was Gabriel's reply, in a dignified tone, by no
means free from emotion.

"But I wish you to be sure of this," continued Le Balafré, "that at all
times and places, and for any purpose whatsoever, my influence, my
fortune, and my life are at your service, Gabriel; and that if I am ever
to be so fortunate as that you should need my help, you have but to hold
out your hand to grasp mine."

"Thanks, Monseigneur," Gabriel said again.

"That being agreed between us," said the duke, "on what subject is it
your pleasure that we should converse?"

"Why, of yourself, Monseigneur," replied the young count,--"of your
glory and of your future plans; those are the subjects which interest
rue. In them you will find the magnet which has drawn me to you in all
haste at your first call."

"My glory? my plans for the future?" retorted François de Lorraine,
with a shake of the head. "Alas! those are gloomy subjects of
conversation for me as well."

"What mean you, Monseigneur?" Gabriel exclaimed.

"What I say, my friend. Yes, I confess that I did think I had won some
renown; it seemed to me that my name deserved to be pronounced with some
respect in France to-day, and with a certain degree of awe throughout
Europe. And since my not unworthy past made it my duty to think of the
future, I was forming plans based upon my reputation, and dreaming of
great achievements,--great for my country, and for myself as well. I
would have accomplished them, I have faith to believe--"

"Well, Monseigneur?" said Gabriel, inquiringly.

"Well, Gabriel, since my return to this court six months since, I have
ceased to believe in my glory, and have abandoned all my plans."

"Why so, in God's name?"

"Why, in the first place, don't you know of the shameful treaty with
which they have crowned our victories? If we had been forced to raise
the siege of Calais, if the English still had the gateways of France in
their hands,--in short, if defeat at all points had demonstrated the
insufficiency or incompetency of our forces, and the impossibility of
continuing an unequal conflict, we could not have been asked
to sign a more unfavorable and dishonorable treaty than that of
Cateau-Cambrésis."

"That is true, Monseigneur," Gabriel remarked; "and every one grieves to
think that such a magnificent harvest yielded so little fruit."

"Oh, well," rejoined the duke; "how can you expect me to sow for people
who know so little about reaping? And then, too, have they not forced me
to remain ingloriously idle by this glorious peace of theirs? There is
my sword, doomed for a long time to rust in its scabbard. War everywhere
at an end, at whatever cost, puts an end at the same time to my fair
dreams of glory; and between ourselves that was one of the main objects
sought to be accomplished."

"But you are no less mighty even in this forced inaction, Monseigneur,"
said Gabriel. "You are respected at court, worshipped by the people, and
dreaded by foreign nations."

"Yes, I believe I am beloved at home, and feared abroad," Le Balafré
replied; "but do not tell me, my friend, that I am respected at the
Louvre. While they are thus publicly reducing to nought the certain
results of our success, they are threatening my private influence as
well. When I returned from the North, whom did I find in greater favor
than ever? That insolent, beaten hound of St. Laurent fame,--that
Montmorency, whom I detest!"

"Oh, no more than I do, surely!" muttered Gabriel.

"It was by his influence and for his own purposes that this peace for
which we are all blushing was concluded. Not content with thus making my
efforts appear of less account, he was very careful to look after his
own interests in the treaty, and to have the amount of his ransom after
being taken prisoner at St. Laurent repaid to him,--for the second or
third time, I believe! To such a degree does he speculate upon his
defeat and disgrace."

"And does the Duc de Guise enter upon a rivalry with such as he?" asked
Gabriel, with a disdainful smile.

"He shudders at the thought, my friend; but you can see that it is
forced upon him! You can see that Monsieur le Connétable is protected
by something stronger than glory or renown,--by some person more
powerful than the king himself! You can see that my services can never
equal those of Madame Diane de Poitiers, whom may the lightning wither!"

"Oh, that God might listen to you!" muttered Gabriel.

"What has that woman done to the king, in Heaven's name?" continued the
duke. "Are the people really in the right when they speak of philters
and charms? For my part, I believe that they are bound together by some
stronger tie than love. It cannot be passion alone which thus
indissolubly connects them; it must be fellowship in crime. I would
swear that remorse has a place among their souvenirs of the past, and
that they are more than lovers,--they are accomplices!"

The Comte de Montgommery shivered from head to foot.

"Do you not agree with me, Gabriel?" Le Balafré asked him.

"I do, indeed, Monseigneur," replied Gabriel, in a hollow voice.

"And to put the finishing touch to my humiliation," the duke went on,
"do you know, my friend, what reward I found awaiting me here at Paris,
over and above the monstrous treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis? The immediate
revocation of my appointment as lieutenant-general of the kingdom. These
extraordinary functions became unnecessary in time of peace, so I was
told; and without a word of warning, without even a word of thanks, they
erased that title, just as one throws upon the dust-heap a piece of
drapery which is of no further use."

"Is it possible that no more consideration than that was shown you?"
cried Gabriel, desirous to add fuel to the fire which was burning in
that incensed heart.

"Why should they show more consideration to a superfluous servant?" said
the duke, with clinched teeth. "As for Monsieur de Montmorency, that is
another affair altogether. He was and he remains constable. That, mind
you, is an honor of which they do not think of depriving him, and which
he has earned by forty years of defeat and failure! Oh, by the cross of
Lorraine, if the war-wind blows again, they may come and go on their
knees to me and implore me, and call me the savior of my country! I will
send them to their constable then; let him save them if he can. That is
his business, and the duty that devolves upon the office he holds. But
for myself, since they condemn me to idleness, I accept the sentence,
and will take my ease until the dawn of better days."

Gabriel, after a pause, replied with much gravity of manner,--

"This determination on your part is a grievous one, Monseigneur, and I
greatly deplore it; for I was just about to make a proposition to you--"

"Useless, my friend, useless!" exclaimed Le Balafré. "My mind is made
up. And then, too, I repeat, and you know it as well as I, the peace has
taken from us every hope of renown."

"Pardon, Monseigneur," rejoined Gabriel, "but the peace is the one thing
that makes my plan feasible."

"Really?" said François de Lorraine, tempted in spite of himself.
"Pray, is it some bold stroke like the siege of Calais?"

"Something still bolder, Monseigneur."

"How can that be?" exclaimed the duke. "Upon my word, you have succeeded
in arousing my curiosity thoroughly."

"May I tell you about it, then?"

"To be sure you may; in fact, I beg you to do so."

"Are we quite alone?"

"Entirely; not a living soul is within the sound of our voices."

"Well, then, Monseigneur," Gabriel began resolutely, "this is what I
have to say to you: This king and this constable choose to dispense with
your services; why do not you dispense with them? They have ejected you
from the office of lieutenant-general of the kingdom; assume it once
more on your own responsibility."

"How do you mean? Explain yourself!" said the duke.

"Monseigneur, foreign princes fear you, the people adore you, and the
army is at your command to a man; you are already more of a king in
France than the king himself. You are king by right of genius, he only
because the crown is on his head. Dare to speak with the voice of a
master, and the nation will listen to you like obedient subjects. Will
Henri II. be any stronger in the Louvre than you in your camp? He who
now speaks to you will be proud and happy to be the first to address you
as 'your Majesty.'"

"Well, this is an audacious and daring scheme of yours, Gabriel,"
commented the Duc de Guise.

But he did not give the least sign of irritation; on the contrary, his
features wore a smile under their simulated expression of surprise.

"If it is an audacious scheme, it is a heart of extraordinary daring to
which I propose it," replied Gabriel, firmly. "I speak for the good of
France. We need a great man for king. Is it not calamitous that all your
ideas of grandeur and of conquest should be thus disgracefully impeded
by the caprice of a wanton and the jealousy of a favorite? If you were
once at the helm with unfettered hands, where would your genius stop?
You would renew the glory of Charlemagne."

"You know the house of Lorraine can trace its descent from him!" said Le
Balafré, eagerly.

"Who could doubt it after seeing you in action?" replied Gabriel. "Be in
your turn another Hugh Capet for the Valois."

"Yes, but suppose I should be only a Constable de Bourbon?"

"You slander yourself, Monseigneur. The Constable de Bourbon called
foreigners to his assistance,--foes they were too. You need make use of
none but your own country's forces."

"But where are these forces, which, according to you, are at my
disposal?" asked Le Balafré.

"Two parties are offered to you," was Gabriel's reply.

"Who are they, pray?--for you see I allow you to go on, as if all this
were something more than a mere figment of your imagination. Who are
these two parties?"

"The army and the Protestants, Monseigneur," Gabriel answered. "You have
it in your power to assume the position of a military chieftain at
once."

"A usurper!" exclaimed Le Balafré.

"Say a conqueror! But if you would prefer, Monseigneur, be the king of
the Huguenots."

"How about the Prince de Condé?" said the duke, smiling.

"He is fascinating and clever, but you are great and brilliant. Do you
suppose that Calvin would hesitate between you?--and there is no doubt
that the son of the cooper of Noyon is the dictator of his party. Say
one word, and to-morrow you have at your command thirty thousand
Reformers."

"But I am a Catholic prince, Gabriel."

"Glory is the true religion of heroes like yourself, Monseigneur."

"I should involve myself in trouble at Rome."

"That will be an excuse for making yourself her master."

"Ah, my friend, my friend!" rejoined the duke, looking keenly at
Gabriel, "you hate Henri II. bitterly!"

"As much as I love you, I confess," said the youth, with noble
frankness.

"I prize your sincerity, Gabriel," said Le Balafré, with a more serious
manner; "and to prove it to you, I will lay bare my heart to you."

"And my heart will close its door forever upon what you may confide to
it."

"Listen, then," continued the duke. "I will confess that I have before
now sometimes dreamed of this end which you suggest to me to-day. But I
think you will agree with me, my friend, in this, that when one sets out
with such a goal in view, he should at least be reasonably sure of
reaching it, and that to hazard such a step prematurely is to invite
destruction."

"True," replied Gabriel.

"Very well," the duke went on, "do you really consider that the time is
ripe for the fulfilment of my ambition? Preparations for so momentous a
stroke should be made long beforehand, and men's minds must be made up
and ready to second them. Now, do you believe that the people have
accustomed themselves in advance, so to speak, to the idea of a change
of dynasty?"

"They are accustomed to it," said Gabriel.

"I doubt it," returned the duke. "I have commanded armies, have defended
Metz and taken Calais, and have twice been lieutenant-general of the
kingdom; but all that is not sufficient. I have not yet come near enough
to royal power. Doubtless there are discontents, but factions are not a
people. Henri II. is young, clever, and brave, and he is the son of
François I. There is no such danger in delay as to make one dream of
dispossessing him."

"And so you hesitate, Monseigneur?" asked Gabriel.

"I do more than that, my friend, I refuse," replied Le Balafré. "Ah, if
Henri II. should die suddenly to-morrow, by accident or disease--"

"So he thinks of that as well!" said Gabriel to himself. "Well,
Monseigneur, if that unexpected blow should fall, what would you do?" he
continued aloud.

"Then," rejoined the duke, "with a young and inexperienced king,
altogether under my influence, I would become in some sort the regent of
the kingdom. And if the queen-mother or Monsieur le Connétable
undertook to act in opposition to me; if the Protestants raised a
revolution,--if, in short, the State should be in danger and needed a
firm hand at the helm, opportunities would arise of themselves, and I
should become almost necessary. In such a case your scheme might be very
welcome, my friend, and I would gladly hearken to you."

"But until then," said Gabriel,--"until this very improbable death of
the king?"

"I will resign myself to wait, my friend, and will content myself with
preparations for the future. And if the seeds sown in my mind bear fruit
only for my son, it will be because God so willed it."

"Is this your last word, Monseigneur?"

"It is my last word," replied the duke. "But I am no less grateful to
you, Gabriel, for having had this confidence in my destiny."

"And I, Monseigneur, am grateful to you for having had so much
confidence in my discretion."

"Yes," rejoined the duke; "it is understood that all that has passed
between us is as if it had never been said."

"Now I will take my leave," said Gabriel, rising.

"What, already!" exclaimed the duke.

"Yes, Monseigneur, I have learned what I desired to know. I will
remember your words; they are safely buried in my heart, yet I will
remember them. Excuse me, but it was essential for me to ascertain
whether the royal ambition of the Duc de Guise was still slumbering.
Adieu, Monseigneur."

"_Au revoir_, my friend."

Gabriel left the Tournelles even more gloomy and anxious than when he
had entered there.

"So," said he to himself, "both the human auxiliaries upon whom I
thought I could rely have failed me. I have none but God to look to
now!"




CHAPTER VII

A PERILOUS STEP


Diane de Castro in her apartments in the royal palace was meanwhile
leading a miserable existence of grief and mortal terror.

Yet every tie was not broken that bound her to him who had loved her so
dearly. Almost every week André the page was sent to the Rue des
Jardins St. Paul, to make inquiries of Aloyse concerning Gabriel's
welfare.

The information which he brought back to Diane was far from reassuring.
The young Comte de Montgommery was always the same,--moody and anxious
and gloomy. The good nurse could not speak of him that her eyes did not
fill with tears, and her cheeks lose their color.

Diane hesitated fora long while. Finally, one morning during this same
month of June she took a decided step in order to put an end to her
dread.

She wrapped herself in a very modest cloak, hid her face under a veil,
and left the Louvre at an hour when people were scarcely stirring there,
accompanied by André alone, with the purpose of visiting Gabriel at his
house.

Since he avoided her and made no sign, she would go to him.

Surely a sister might visit her brother! Indeed, was it not her duty to
warn him or console him?

Unfortunately, all the courage which it had cost Diane to resolve upon
that step was to be in vain.

Gabriel also selected the lonely hours of the early morning for his
wanderings, which he had by no means abandoned; and when Diane knocked
with trembling hand at the door of his house, he had already been gone
more than half an hour.

Should she await his return? It was always uncertain, and a too long
absence from the Louvre might expose Diane to slander.

But no matter; she determined to wait at least until the expiration of
the time she had set aside for the visit.

She inquired for Aloyse, for she also desired to see her, and question
her with her own lips.

André escorted his mistress into an unoccupied room, and went to inform
the nurse.

Not for many years, not since the happy days of Montgommery and
Vimoutiers, had Aloyse and Diane met,--the woman of the people and the
daughter of the king.

Yet both their lives had been engrossed by the same thought, and anxiety
upon the same subject still filled their days with dread, and robbed
their nights of sleep.

So when Aloyse, coming hurriedly into the room, would have bowed low
before Madame de Castro, Diane threw herself into the good woman's arms,
and warmly embraced her, saying as she used to say in the old days,--

"Dear nurse!"

"What, Madame!" exclaimed Aloyse, moved to tears, "do you really
remember me? Do you recognize me?"

"Do I remember you! do I recognize you!" returned Diane; "you might as
well ask me if I remember Enguerrand's house, or if I would recognize
the Château de Montgommery!"

Meanwhile Aloyse with clasped hands was looking at Diane more
attentively.

"How beautiful you are!" she cried, sighing and smiling at once.

She smiled, for she had dearly loved the young girl who had developed
into the beautiful lady before her. She sighed, for as she dwelt upon
her lovely features she could better estimate Gabriel's wretchedness.

Diane understood this look, which was both melancholy and enraptured,
and hastened to say, with a slight blush,--

"I have not come to talk of myself, nurse."

"Is it of him, then?" said Aloyse.

"Of whom else, pray? for to you I can lay bare my heart. How unfortunate
that I did not find him! I came to console him and myself at the same
time. How is he? Always dejected and despairing, is he not? Why has he
not been once to the Louvre to see me? What does he say? What is he
doing? Tell me, oh, pray tell me, nurse!"

"Alas! Madame," replied Aloyse, "you are quite right in thinking that he
is dejected and despairing. Imagine--"

Diane interrupted her.

"Wait a moment, good Aloyse," said she; "before you begin I have a word
to say. I could stay here till to-morrow listening to you, you know,
without growing weary, or without noticing the flight of time. But I
must return to the Louvre before my absence is noticed. So promise me
one thing: when I have been here an hour, whether he has returned or
not, tell me so, and send me away."

"But, Madame," said Aloyse, "I am quite capable of forgetting the hour
myself, and I should not grow weary of talking to you any sooner than
you would of listening to me, you see."

"What can we do, then?" asked Diane. "I dread the effect of our combined
weakness."

"Let us intrust the difficult duty to some third person," said Aloyse.

"The very thing! André."

The page, who had remained in an adjoining room, undertook to rap at the
door when an hour had passed.

"And now," said Diane, taking her seat by the nurse's side, "we can talk
at our ease, and tranquilly, if not joyfully."

But this interview, though of the deepest interest to these two
afflicted creatures, was nevertheless full of difficulty and bitterness.

In the first place, neither of them knew how far the other was cognizant
of the terrible secrets of the Montgommery family.

Then, too, in what Aloyse did know of her young master's later life
there were many troublesome matters which she was afraid to mention. In
what way could she explain his long absences, his sudden returns, his
preoccupation, and his silence?

At last, however, the good nurse did tell Diane all that she knew,--that
is to say, all that she had seen; and Diane while listening to her
doubtless experienced a delicious pleasure in hearing Gabriel spoken of,
mingled though it was with deep grief at learning such sad news of him.

In truth, Aloyse's revelations were not of a nature calculated to calm
Madame de Castro's apprehensions, but rather to rekindle them; for this
earnest and impassioned witness of the young count's anguish and
suffering brought vividly before Diane's mind all the torments by which
his life was harassed.

Diane became more and more fully persuaded that if she wished to save
those whom she loved it was high time for her to intervene.

An hour is quickly gone, no matter how painful the subject of
conversation. Diane and Aloyse were startled and amazed when Andre's rap
was heard at the door.

"What! already?" they cried in one breath.

"Well, be it so!" said Diane. "I am going to stay just a quarter of an
hour longer."

"Be careful, Madame!" said the nurse.

"You are right, nurse; I must and will go now. But one word: in all that
you have told me of Gabriel you have omitted--I mean, does he never
speak of me?"

"Never, Madame, I must agree."

"Oh, it is better so!" sighed Diane.

"And he would do better still never even to think of you any more."

"Do you believe, nurse, that he does think of me, then?" asked Madame de
Castro, eagerly.

"I am only too sure of it, Madame," said Aloyse.

"Nevertheless, he carefully avoids me; he even shuns the Louvre."

"If he does avoid the Louvre, Madame," said Aloyse, shaking her head,
"it is not because of her whom he loves."

"I understand," thought Diane, shuddering; "it is because of him whom he
hates.

"Oh!" she said aloud, "I must see him,--absolutely I must."

"Do you wish me, Madame, to tell him from you to go to the Louvre to
seek you?"

"No, no,--not to the Louvre!" exclaimed Diane, in alarm. "Don't let him
come to the Louvre! I will see--I will be on the lookout for another
opportunity like this morning. I will come here again myself."

"But suppose that he has gone out again?" observed Aloyse. "What day
will you come, what week,--can you tell at all? He will wait for you;
have no fear of that."

"Alas!" said Diane, "poor king's child that I am, how can I say that at
such a day or such an hour I shall be free? However, if it is possible,
I will send André on before to warn him."

At this moment the page rapped a second time, fearful that he had not
been heard before.

"Madame," he cried, "the streets and squares about the Louvre are
beginning to be thronged."

"I am coming," replied Madame de Castro; "I am coming.

"Well, we must part, my good nurse," she continued. "Embrace me as you
used to do when I was a child, you know, in the old, old happy days."

While Aloyse, unable to utter a word, held Diane close to her breast,--

"Oh, watch over him! take good care of him!" she said in the nurse's
ear.

"As I did when he was a child, in the old, old happy days," said Aloyse.

"Oh, better, even better, Aloyse! In that time he was not in such sore
need."

Diane left the house without having met Gabriel, and half an hour later
she was safely in her apartments at the Louvre. But if she had no reason
to feel disturbed at the result of the hazardous step she had taken, her
anguish and dread on the subject of Gabriel's unknown designs were even
greater than before.

The forebodings of a woman's loving heart are apt to be only too
accurate forecasts of the future.

Gabriel did not return home until the day was well advanced. The heat
was intense, and he was wearied in body and mind.

But when Aloyse uttered Diane's name and told of her visit, he stood
erect with new life, his chest heaving and his heart throbbing.

"What did she want? What did she say? What did she do? Oh, why was I not
here? Come, tell me everything, Aloyse,--every word, every movement."

He took his turn at questioning the nurse, hardly giving her time to
reply.

"She wants to see me?" he cried. "She has something to say to me? And
she doesn't know when she may be able to come again? Oh, Aloyse, Aloyse,
I cannot wait in such uncertainty! surely you can see that. I shall go
to the Louvre at once."

"To the Louvre! Oh, Heaven preserve us!" ejaculated Aloyse, in terror.

"Yes, to be sure," replied Gabriel, calmly. "I am not banished from the
Louvre, so far as I know; and the man who had the honor of restoring
Madame de Castro to liberty at Calais surely has the right to pay his
respects to her in Paris."

"Of course," said Aloyse, trembling like a leaf; "but Madame de Castro
was very particular to say that you were not to come to the Louvre to
see her."

"Have I anything to fear there?" said Gabriel, proudly. "That would be
one reason more for me to go."

"No," replied the nurse; "it was probably on her own account that Madame
de Castro feared your coming."

"Her reputation would suffer much more from a secret and surreptitious
action, if discovered, than from a public visit in broad daylight, such
as I propose to pay,--such as I will pay her to-day, at this moment."

He called for a servant to bring him a change of clothes.

"But, Monseigneur," said poor Aloyse, at the end of her arguments,
"Madame de Castro herself has remarked that you have shunned the Louvre
hitherto. You have not thought best to go there once since your return."

"I have not been to see Madame de Castro because she has not summoned
me," said Gabriel. "I have avoided the Louvre because I had no reason to
go there; but to-day a feeling that I cannot resist urges me to go
(although my action may result in nothing), for Madame de Castro wishes
to see me. I have sworn, Aloyse, to allow my own will to slumber, and to
leave everything to God and my destiny, and I am going to the Louvre at
once."

Thus Diane's step bade fair to produce the opposite effect from that
contemplated by her.




CHAPTER VIII

THE IMPRUDENCE OF PRECAUTION


Gabriel met with no opposition to his entrance to the Louvre. Since the
taking of Calais the name of the young Comte de Montgommery had been
heard too often for any one to think of refusing him leave to enter the
suite of apartments occupied by Madame de Castro.

Diane, with one of her women, was engaged at the moment on some
fancy-work. Very frequently she involuntarily let her hands fall in her
lap, and would sit and dream about her interview with Aloyse that
morning.

Suddenly André entered in great bewilderment.

"Madame, Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès!" he announced. (The boy had not
ceased to call his old master by that name.)

"Who? Monsieur d'Exmès! here!" Diane repeated, overwhelmed.

"Yes, Madame, he is close behind me," said the page. "Here he is."

Gabriel appeared at the door, doing his best to control his emotion. He
bowed low to Madame de Castro, who, in her confusion, did not at first
return his salute.

However, she dismissed the page and her maid with a gesture, and they
were left alone. Then they approached, and their hands met in a cordial
grasp.

For some seconds they remained with hands joined, gazing at each other
in silence.

"You thought best to come to my house, Diane," said Gabriel at last, in
a deep voice. "You wished to see me, to speak with me; so I have
hastened to you."

"Did it need that action on my part, Gabriel, to apprise you that I
wanted to see you? Did you not know it well enough without that?"

"Diane," Gabriel replied with his sad smile, "I have given sufficient
proofs of courage heretofore, so I may venture to confess that in coming
to the Louvre, I am afraid."

"Afraid of whom?" asked Diane, who was herself afraid of the effect of
her own question.

"Afraid of you!--of myself!" replied Gabriel.

"And that is why you chose rather to forget our former affection?--I
speak of the legitimate and sanctified side of it," she hastened to add.

"I should have preferred to forget everything, I confess, Diane, rather
than put foot inside the Louvre. But alas! I could not. And the proof--"

"The proof?"

"The proof is that I seek you always and everywhere; that though
dreading your presence I would have given anything in the world to see
you a moment in the distance. The proof is, too, that while prowling
about Fontainebleau, or Paris, or St. Germain, around the royal
châteaux, instead of desiring what I was supposed to be on the lookout
for, it has been you, your sweet and lovely face, a sight of your dress
among the trees, or on some terrace, that I have longed for and invoked
and coveted! Last of all the proof lies in this fact: that you had only
to take one step toward me to make me forget prudence, duty, terror,
everything! And here I am in the Louvre, which I ought to shun. I reply
to all your questions. I feel that all this is hazardous and insane,
nevertheless I do it. Have I given you proof enough now, Diane?"

"Oh, yes, Gabriel, yes," said Diane, hastily, trembling with excitement
and emotion.

"Ah, would to Heaven that I had been wiser," continued Gabriel, "and had
adhered to my former resolution to see you no more, to flee from you if
you summoned me, and to keep silence if you questioned me! That would
have been much better for both of us, Diane, believe me. I knew what I
was doing. I preferred to cause you anxiety rather than real grief. Oh,
my God! why am I without power to withstand your voice and your look?"

Diane began to understand that she had really been wrong in her desire
to be relieved from her mortal uncertainty. Every subject of
conversation was painful for them, every question concealed a danger.
Between these two beings whom God had created for happiness perhaps,
there was no possibility of aught but doubt and peril and misery, thanks
to the machinations of man.

But since Diane had thus challenged fate, she had no desire to avoid it;
quite the contrary. She would go to the bottom of the abyss to which her
anxiety had exposed her, though she were to find there nought but
despair and death.

After a thoughtful silence, she began thus:--

"I was desirous to see you, Gabriel, for two reasons;

"I had an explanation to make to you in the first instance, as well as
one to ask at your hands."

"Speak, Diane," replied Gabriel. "Lay bare my heart, and rend it at your
will. It is yours."

"In the first place, Gabriel, I felt that I must let you know why, after
I received your message, I did not at once assume the veil you sent back
to me, and enter some convent immediately, as I expressed my intention
of doing in our last sad interview at Calais."

"Have I reproached you in the least as to that, Diane?" returned
Gabriel. "I told André to say to you that I gave you back your promise,
and those were no mere empty words on my part; I meant what I said."

"I also mean to become a nun, Gabriel, and be sure that I have simply
postponed carrying out my resolve."

"But why, Diane,--why renounce the world in which you were made to
shine?"

"Set your mind at rest upon that point, dear friend; it is not
altogether to remain faithful to the oath I took, but to satisfy the
secret longing of my soul as well, that I intend to leave this world
where I have suffered so bitterly. I must have peace and rest, and I
know not now where to find either except with God. Do not envy me this
last refuge."

"Oh, but I do envy you!" said Gabriel.

"But you see," continued Diane, "I have had a good reason for not at
once carrying out my unalterable purpose; I wished to be sure that you
gratified the request I made in my last letter,--that you forbore to
make yourself judge and executioner; that you did not attempt to
anticipate God's will."

"If one only could anticipate it!" muttered Gabriel.

"In short, I hoped," Diane went on, "that I might be able, in case of
need, to throw myself between the two men whom I love, but who abhor
each other; and who can say that I might not thus prevent a disaster, or
a crime? Surely you do not blame me for such a thought as that,
Gabriel?"

"I cannot blame an angel for doing what the angelic nature prompts,
Diane. You have been very generous, but it is easy to understand it of
you."

"Ah!" cried Madame de Castro, "how can I know that I have been generous,
or to what extent I am generous now? I am wandering in darkness and at
hazard! Besides, it is upon that very point that I wish to question you,
Gabriel; for I desire to know my destiny in all its horror."

"Diane, Diane, it is a fatal curiosity!" said Gabriel.

"No matter!" replied Diane, "I will not live in this fearful perplexity
and anxiety another day. Tell me, Gabriel, have you become convinced
that I am really your sister, or have you absolutely lost all hope of
ever learning the truth as to that strange secret? Tell me, I ask,--nay,
I implore you!"

"I will tell you," said Gabriel, mournfully. "Diane, there is an old
Spanish proverb which says that we must always be prepared for the
worst. I have, therefore, accustomed myself, since our parting, to look
upon you in my thoughts as my sister. But the truth is that I have
obtained no new proof; only, as you say, I have no more hope, no more
means of acquiring proof."

"God in Heaven!" cried Diane. "The--he who might furnish these proofs,
was he no longer alive when you returned from Calais?"

"He was, Diane."

"Ah, I see, then, that the sacred promise made to you was not redeemed?
Who, then, told me that the king had received you with wonderful favor?"

"All that was promised, Diane, was strictly performed."

"Oh, Gabriel, with what an ominous expression you say that! What fearful
puzzle still underlies all this, Holy Mother of God!"

"You have asked me, Diane, and you shall know the whole," said Gabriel.
"You shall share equally with me in my awful secret. And, indeed, I
shall be glad to know what you think of what I am about to disclose to
you,--whether, after you have heard it you will still persist in your
clemency, and whether your tone and your features and your movements
will not in any event belie the words of forgiveness which may come to
your lips.--Listen."

"I listen in fear and trembling, Gabriel."

Thereupon, Gabriel, in a breathless, quivering voice, told Madame de
Castro the whole sombre story: of the king's reception of him, and how
Henri had again reaffirmed his promise; the remonstrances which Madame
de Poitiers and the constable had seemed to be making to him; of the
night of feverish anguish that he had passed; of his second visit to the
Châtelet, his descent into the bowels of the pestilence-laden prison,
and the lugubrious narrative of Monsieur de Sazerac,--in short,
everything.

Diane listened without interrupting him, without an exclamation or a
movement, as mute and rigid as a statue, her eyes fixed in their
sockets, and her very hair fairly standing on end.

There was a long pause when Gabriel had finished his gloomy story. Then
Diane tried to speak, but could not, for her tongue refused to perform
its office. Gabriel seemed to feel a dreadful species of pleasure as he
observed her anguish and her terror. At last, she succeeded in
ejaculating,--

"Mercy for the king!"

"Ah!" cried Gabriel, "do you ask for mercy for him? Then you, too, must
judge him guilty! Mercy? Ah, your very appeal is a condemnation! Mercy?
He deserves death, does he not?"

"Oh, I did not say that," replied Diane, in dismay.

"Indeed you did say it, in effect! I see that you agree with me, Diane.
You think and feel as I do. But we come to different conclusions in
accordance with the difference in our natures. The woman pleads for
mercy, and the man demands justice!"

"Ah!" cried Diane, "rash, insane creature that I am! Why did I tempt you
to come to the Louvre?"

As she said these words some one rapped softly at the door.

"Who is there? What is wanted? _Mon Dieu_!" exclaimed Madame de Castro.

André partially opened the door.

"Excuse me, Madame," said he, "a message from the king."

"From the king!" echoed Gabriel, whose face lighted up.

"Why do you bring me this letter now, André?"

"Madame, they told me it was urgent."

"Very well, give it me. What does the king want of me? You may go,
André. If there is any reply, I will call you."

André left the room. Diane broke the seal of the king's letter, and
read in a low tone, and with increasing terror, what follows:--


MY DEAR DIANE,--I am told that you are at the Louvre; do not go out, I
beg you, until I have visited you in your apartments. I am at a sitting
of the council which is likely to end at any moment. When I leave the
council-chamber I will come immediately to you. Expect me very soon.

It is a long while since I have seen you alone! I am in low spirits, and
feel that I must have a few moments' talk with my beloved daughter.
Farewell for the moment.

                             HENRI.


Diane, with colorless cheeks, crumpled the letter in her hands when she
had read it.

What should she do?

Dismiss Gabriel at once? But suppose on his way out he should meet the
king, who might arrive at any moment!

Should she keep the youth with her? The king would find him there when
he came in.

To warn the king would excite his suspicion, while on the other hand to
warn Gabriel would simply arouse his anger by seeming to dread it.

A meeting between these two men, each of whom was so threatening to the
other, now appeared inevitable, and it was she herself, Diane, who would
gladly shed her own blood to save them, who had brought about the fatal
encounter!

"What does the king write to you, Diane?" asked Gabriel, with an assumed
tranquillity which was belied by the trembling of his voice.

"Nothing, nothing, really," replied Diane. "A reminder of the reception
this evening."

"Perhaps I discommode you, Diane," Gabriel remarked. "If so, I will go."

"No, no, don't go!" cried Diane, hastily. "But then," she continued, "if
you have any business which demands your immediate attention elsewhere,
I should not like to detain you."

"That letter has troubled you, Diane. I fear that I have wearied you,
and will take my leave."

"You weary me, my friend! Can you believe it?" said Madame de Castro.
"Was it not I who went in search of you, in some measure? Alas! I fear,
very imprudently. I will see you again, but not here--at your own house.
The first opportunity that presents itself for me to get away, I will
come to see you, and resume this sweet though painful interview. I
promise you. Rely upon me. At the moment, you are right, I confess; I am
somewhat preoccupied and in pain. I feel as if I were in a burning
fever--"

"I see, Diane, and I will leave you," replied Gabriel, sadly.

"We shall meet again soon, my friend," said she. "Now go, go!"

She accompanied him as far as the door.

"If I keep him here," she thought, "it is certain that he will see the
king; if he goes away at once, there is at least a chance that they may
not meet."

Yet she hesitated still, and was anxious and tremulous.

"Pardon me, Gabriel," said she, quite beside herself, as they stood on
the threshold; "just a word more. _Mon Dieu_! Your narrative has upset
me so that it is hard for me to collect my thoughts. What was I about to
ask you? Ah, I know! Just one word, but one of much importance. You have
not yet told me what you intend to do. I begged for mercy, and you
cried, 'Justice!' Pray tell me how you hope to obtain justice!"

"I do not know yet," said Gabriel, gloomily; "I trust in God for the
event and the opportunity."

"For the opportunity!" repeated Diane, with a shudder. "For the
opportunity,--what do you mean by that? Oh, come back, come back! I
cannot let you go, Gabriel, until you have explained to me that word
'opportunity;' stay, I implore you!"

Taking his hand, she led him back into the room.

"If he meets the king elsewhere," thought poor Diane, "they will be
quite alone,--the king without attendants, and Gabriel with his sword at
his side; whereas if I am present, I can at least throw myself between
them, and implore Gabriel to withhold his hand, or intercept his blow.
Yes, he must remain.

"I feel better now," said she, aloud. "Remain, Gabriel, and let us renew
our conversation, and do you give me the explanation I ask. I am much
better."

"No, Diane; you are even more excited than you were," replied Gabriel.
"Do you know what has come into my mind as an explanation of your
alarm?"

"No, indeed, Gabriel. How should I know?"

"Well," said Gabriel, "just as your cry for mercy was an avowal that the
crime was patent in your eyes, so your present apprehensions show that
you believe the chastisement would be legitimate. You dread my vengeance
for the culprit; and since you appreciate the justice of it, you are
keeping me here to warn him of possible reprisals on my part, which,
though they might terrify and afflict you, would not astonish
you,--which would, on the other hand, seem quite natural to you. Am I
not right?"

Diane was startled, so truly had the blow struck home. Nevertheless,
collecting all her force, she said,--

"Oh, Gabriel, how can you believe that I could conceive such thoughts of
you? You, my own Gabriel, a murderer! you deal a blow from behind at one
who could not defend himself! Impossible! It would be worse than a
crime; it would be dastardly. Do you imagine that I am trying to keep
you? Oh, no, far from it; go whenever you please, and I will open the
door for you. I am perfectly calm; _mon Dieu_, yes!--perfectly calm upon
this point at least. If anything worries me, it is no such idea as that,
I assure you. Leave me, leave the Louvre, with your mind at rest. I will
come again to your house to finish our conversation. Go, my friend, go!
You see how anxious I am to keep you!"

As she spoke she had led him into the anteroom, where the page was in
attendance. Diane thought of ordering him to stay with Gabriel until he
had left the Louvre; but that precaution would have betrayed her
suspicion.

However, she could not resist the impulse to call André to her side by
a sign, and whisper in his ear,--

"Do you know if the council is at an end?"

"Not yet, Madame," replied André, beneath his breath. "I have not yet
seen the councillors leave the hall."

"Adieu, Gabriel," resumed Diane, aloud, with much animation. "Adieu, my
friend. You almost force me to send you away, to prove that I have no
such object as you allege in keeping you here. Adieu!--but for only a
short time."

"For only a short time," said the youth, with a melancholy smile, as he
pressed her hand.

He left her: but she stood looking after him until the last door had
closed behind him.

Then returning to her room, she fell upon her knees before her
_prie-Dieu_, weeping bitterly, and with palpitating heart.

"O _mon Dieu_, _mon Dieu_!" she prayed, "in Jesus' name, watch over him
who is perhaps my brother, as well as over him who is perhaps my father!
Preserve the two beings whom I love, O my God! Thou alone canst do it
now."




CHAPTER IX

OPPORTUNITY


In spite of her earnest efforts to prevent it, or rather because of
those very efforts, events occurred as Madame de Castro had foreseen and
dreaded.

Gabriel had gone from her presence sorrowful and agitated. Diane's fever
had communicated itself to him in some measure, and clouded his eyes and
confused his thoughts.

He passed mechanically down the stairways and along the familiar
corridors of the Louvre, without paying much attention to exterior
objects.

Nevertheless, as he was on the point of opening the door of the great
gallery, he did remember that on his return from St. Quentin it was
there that he had met Mary Stuart, and through the intervention of the
young queen-dauphine had succeeded in reaching the king's presence,
where the first fraud and humiliation had been practised upon him.

For he had not been deceived and outraged on one occasion only; several
times had his enemies trampled upon his hope before its life was finally
extinct. After he had first been made their dupe, he would have done
well to expect similar treatment, and to have anticipated such
exaggerated and cowardly interpretations of the letter of a sacred
agreement.

While these irritating reminiscences were coursing through his brain, he
opened the door and entered the gallery.

At the other end of the gallery, the corresponding door opened at the
same moment.

A man entered.

It was Henri II.,--Henri, the author of, or at least the principal
accessory in, the foul and dastardly deception which had forever
withered Gabriel's heart and poisoned his life.

The king came forward alone, unarmed and unattended.

The offender and the offended, for the first time since the perpetration
of the outrage, found themselves face to face, alone, and scarcely one
hundred feet apart,--a distance which could be traversed in twenty
seconds with twenty steps.

We have said that Gabriel had stopped short, motionless and rigid as a
statue,--like a statue of Vengeance or of Hatred.

The king halted, as he suddenly espied the man whom for nearly a year he
had seen only in his dreams.

The two stood thus for a moment without moving, as if mutually
fascinated by each other.

In the whirl of sensations and thoughts which filled Gabriel's brain,
the poor fellow in his distraction could fix upon no course to adopt,
and form no resolution. He waited.

As for Henri, despite his proved courage, the sensation that he
experienced was beyond question fear; but at the humiliating thought he
held his head erect, banished his first cowardly impulse, and made up
his mind what to do.

To call fur help would have been to show fear; to retire as he had come
would have been to flee.

He pursued his way toward the door, where Gabriel remained as if nailed
to the spot.

Moreover, a superior force, a sort of irresistible and fatal
fascination, urged him on toward the pale phantom who seemed to be
waiting for him.

The perplexities of his destiny began to unfold themselves around him.

Gabriel experienced a species of blind, instinctive satisfaction as he
saw him approach; but still he could not succeed in evolving any
distinct thought from the clouds that obscured his intellect. He simply
laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

When the king was within a few steps of Gabriel, the personal dread
which he had previously thrust away seized him anew, and held his heart
fast, as it were in a vice.

He said to himself in a vague way that his last hour had come, and that
it was just.

However, his step did not falter. His feet seemed to carry him along of
their own accord, and independently of his own dazed will. It is thus
that somnambulists go about.

When he was directly in front of Gabriel, so that he could hear his
quick breathing, and might touch him with his hand, he mechanically
raised his hand to his velvet cap, and saluted the young count.

Gabriel did not acknowledge the salute. He maintained his marble-like
attitude; and his hand, like that of a graven image, never left his
sword.

In the king's eyes Gabriel was no longer a subject, but a messenger of
God, before whom he must bow; while to Gabriel Henri was no longer a
king, but a man, who had slain his father, and to whom he owed nothing
but bitter hatred.

However, he allowed him to pass without doing aught, and without a word.

The king, on his part, did not move aside nor turn around nor express
any feeling at such lack of respect.

When the door had closed between the two men, and the charm was broken,
each of them awoke, as it were, rubbed his eyes, and asked himself,--

"Was it not a dream?"

Gabriel slowly left the Louvre. He did not regret the lost opportunity,
nor did he repent that he had allowed it to escape him.

He felt a sort of confused joy.

"My prey is coming to me," he thought; "already he is fluttering around
my nets, and getting within reach of my spear."

He slept that night more soundly than he had done for a long while.

The king, however, was not so tranquil. He went on to Diane's
apartments, where she was expecting him, and welcomed him with such
transports of delight as we can imagine.

But Henri was absorbed and restless. He did not venture to speak of the
Comte de Montgommery, although he fancied that Gabriel was doubtless
coming from his daughter's apartments when they met. However, he did not
choose to touch that chord; therefore, while he had set out to pay Diane
this visit in a spirit of effusive affection and confidence, he
maintained from beginning to end an air of suspicion and constraint.

He then returned to his own apartments, sad and gloomy. He felt
displeased with himself and others, and his sleep that night was very
troubled and broken.

It seemed to him that he was becoming involved in a labyrinth from which
he should never come out alive.

"However," he said to himself, "I offered myself to that man's sword
to-day in a measure; so it is evident that he does not wish to kill me."

The king, in order to distract his thoughts and seek forgetfulness for
his troubles, determined to leave Paris for a time. During the days
immediately following his encounter with the Comte de Montgommery, he
went successively to St. Germain, Chambord, and Madame de Poitiers's
Château d'Anet.

Toward the close of the month of June he was at Fontainebleau.

He was constantly moving about, and had the appearance of a man wishing
to drown his trouble in motion and noise and excitement.

The approaching fêtes in connection with his daughter Élisabeth's
marriage with Philip II. afforded an excuse as well as opportunity for
this feverish need of continual action.

At Fontainebleau he desired to entertain the Spanish ambassador with the
spectacle of a great hunt in the forest, and it was appointed to take
place on the 23d of June.

The day broke hot and threatening, and the weather became very
tempestuous.

Nevertheless Henri did not countermand the orders he had given, for the
excitement would surely be no less in a storm.

He selected the fleetest and highest-mettled horse in his stables, and
followed the hunt with a sort of fury; and it happened at one time that
carried away by his own ardor and the temper of his horse, he
outstripped all his companions, lost sight of the hunt completely, and
missed his way in the forest.

Clouds were piling up in the sky, and ominous rumblings were heard in
the distance. The storm was about to break.

Henri, leaning forward upon his foaming steed, whose headlong pace he
made no attempt to slacken, but on the contrary, urging him on with
voice and spur, rode on and on, more swiftly than the wind, among the
trees and rocks; the dizzy gallop seemed to suit his humor, for he
laughed loud and long.

For a few moments he had forgotten his troubles.

Suddenly his horse reared in terror; a dazzling flash lighted up the
sky, and the sudden apparition of one of those huge white rocks which
abound in the forest of Fontainebleau, towering aloft at a corner of the
path, had startled him.

A loud peal of thunder increased twofold the fear of the skittish
animal. He bounded forward, and the sudden movement broke the rein close
to the bit, so that Henri entirely lost control.

Then began a furious, fearful mad race.

The horse, with mane erect, foaming flanks, and rigid legs, shot through
the air like an arrow.

The king, clinging to the animal's neck to save himself from falling,
his hair on end, and his clothes blowing about in the wind, vainly tried
to seize the rein, which would have been of no use in his hands.

Any one seeing the horse and his rider pass thus in the tempest would
have infallibly taken them for a vision from the infernal regions, and
would have thought only of exorcising the evil spirit with the sign of
the cross.

But no one was at hand; not a living soul, not an inhabited dwelling.
That last chance of safety which the presence of a fellow-man affords to
one in peril was lacking to this anointed horseman.

Not a woodcutter, not a beggar, not a poacher, not even a thief, to save
this crowned king!

The pouring rain, and the more and more frequent peals of thunder, ever
nearer at hand, drove the maddened steed to an even more headlong and
terrific pace.

Henri, with staring eyes, tried in vain to recognize the path along
which the fatal race was being run. At last he did succeed in fixing his
position at a certain cleared space among the trees, and then he fairly
shook with terror, for the path led straight to the summit of a steep
rock, whose perpendicular wall overhung a deep chasm, a veritable abyss!

The king did his utmost to stop the horse with his hand and voice, but
to no purpose.

To throw himself from the saddle was to break his neck against some
tree-trunk or granite bowlder, and it was better not to resort to that
desperate measure until the last moment.

In any event Henri felt that he was lost, and full of remorse and dread,
was already commending his soul to God.

He did not know at just what part of the path he was, or whether the
precipice was close at hand or at some distance; but he must be ready,
and he was just about to let himself to the ground, at all hazards.

At this moment, as he cast a last look about him in all directions, he
saw a man at the end of the path, mounted like himself, but standing
beneath the shelter of an oak.

At that distance he could not recognize the man, whose features and
form, in addition, were hidden by a long cloak and a broad-rimmed hat.
But it was doubtless some gentleman who had lost his way in the forest,
as he himself had done.

At last Henri felt that his safety was assured. The path was narrow, and
the stranger had only to move his horse forward a step or two to block
the king's passage; or by simply reaching out his hand he might stop him
in his headlong course.

Nothing could be easier; and even though there were some risk attending
it, the unknown, on recognizing the king, ought not to think twice about
incurring the risk to save his master.

In less than one twentieth of the time it has taken to read these words,
the three or four hundred paces which separated Henri from his rescuer
had been traversed.

Henri, to attract attention, uttered a cry of distress and waved his
hand. The stranger saw him, and made a movement; he was doubtless making
ready.

But oh, in terror's name! although the maddened horse passed directly
before the unknown horseman, he failed to make the slightest attempt to
stop him.

Indeed, it seemed as if he fell back somewhat, to avoid any possible
contact.

The king uttered a second cry, no longer appealing and imploring, but of
rage and despair.

However, he thought that the iron feet of his horse seemed to be now
striking on stone, and not on the sod. He had arrived at the fatal
precipice.

He whispered the name of God, released his foot from the stirrup, and
let himself fall to the ground, at every risk.

The rebound carried him some fifteen paces away; but miraculously, as it
appeared, he fell upon a little mound of moss and grass, and sustained
no injury. It was full time! Less than twenty feet away was the sheer
precipice.

The poor horse, amazed at being thus relieved of his burden, gradually
lessened his pace, so that when he reached the edge of the chasm, he had
time to measure its width, and instinctively threw himself upon his
haunches, with flaming eyes and disordered mane, and foam flying from
his distended nostrils.

But if the king had been still upon his back, the shock of his sudden
stop would surely have thrown him into the abyss.

Having offered a fervent prayer of thanksgiving to God, who had so
evidently protected him, and having soothed and remounted his horse, his
first thought was to hasten back and vent his anger upon the wretch who
would so basely have left him to die, except for the intervention of
God.

The stranger had remained in the same spot, still motionless beneath the
folds of his black cloak.

"Wretch!" cried the king, when he had approached within ear-shot. "Did
you not see the danger I was in? Did you not recognize me, regicide? And
even though it were not your king, ought you not to rescue any man in
such peril of his life, when you have only to stretch out your arm to do
it, miscreant?"

The stranger did not move, nor did he reply; he simply raised his head
slightly, which was shaded from Henri's eyes by his broad felt hat.

The king recoiled as he recognized the pale and dejected features of
Gabriel. He said no more, but muttered to himself, lowering his head,--

"The Comte de Montgommery! Then I have nothing more to say."

And without another word, he put spurs to his horse and galloped off
into the forest.

"He would not kill me," he said to himself, seized with a death-like
tremor; "but it seems that he would let me die."

Gabriel, once more alone, repeated with a gloomy smile,--

"I feel that my prey is coming nearer, and the hour is approaching."




CHAPTER X

BETWEEN TWO DUTIES


The marriage contracts of Élisabeth and Marguerite de France were to be
signed at the Louvre on the 28th of June, and the king returned to Paris
on the 25th, more cast down and preoccupied than ever.

Especially since Gabriel's last appearance, his life had become a
torment to him. He avoided being left alone, and constantly sought means
of banishing temporarily the sombre thought by which he was possessed,
so to speak.

But he had not mentioned that second encounter to a single soul; he was
at once anxious and afraid to unbosom himself on the subject to some
devoted and faithful heart; for he himself no longer knew what to think
or what course to adopt, and the fearful thought which haunted him had
thrown his mind into utter confusion.

Finally he determined to open his heart to Diane de Castro.

Diane had surely seen Gabriel again, he said to himself; there was no
question that the young count had just left her when he encountered him
the first time, so that Diane might possibly know his plans. In that
case, she could and she ought either to set her father's mind at rest or
to warn him; and Henri, despite the bitter doubts with which he was
ceaselessly assailed, did not believe his beloved daughter capable of
treachery toward him, or of conniving at it.

A mysterious instinct seemed to whisper to him that Diane was no less
anxious than he. In fact, Diane de Castro, although she knew nothing of
the two strange meetings which had taken place between the king and
Gabriel, was equally ignorant as to what had become of the latter during
the last few days. André, whom she had despatched several times to the
house in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul to learn something of Gabriel's
movements, had brought her no information. He had disappeared from Paris
again. We have seen him haunting the king at Fontainebleau.

In the afternoon of June 26 Diane was sitting pensively in her
apartments, quite alone, when one of her women came hurriedly in to
announce the king.

Henri's face wore its ordinary grave expression. After the first
greetings, he plunged at once into the matter in hand, as if to throw
off his troublesome anxiety at the first opportunity.

"Dear Diane," said he, gazing intently into his daughter's eyes, "it is
a long time since we have spoken together of Monsieur d'Exmès, who has
now taken the title of Comte de Montgommery. It is a long time also
since you have seen him, is it not? Tell me."

Diane at Gabriel's name turned pale and shuddered.

"Sire," she replied, "I have seen Monsieur d'Exmès once only since my
return from Calais."

"Where did you see him, Diane?" asked the king.

"At the Louvre, Sire, in this very room."

"About a fortnight ago, was it not?"

"I should think it was about that time, Sire," replied Madame de Castro.

"I suspected as much," returned the king.

He paused a moment, as if to rearrange his ideas.

Diane observed him attentively and fearfully, trying to divine the
purpose of his unexpected question.

But Henri's serious expression seemed impenetrable.

"Excuse me, Sire," she said, mustering all her courage. "May I venture
to ask your Majesty why, after your long silence as to him who saved me
from disgrace at Calais, you have done me the honor to pay me this visit
to-day, and at this hour, expressly, I should judge, to interrogate me
about him?"

"Do you wish to know, Diane?" asked the king.

"Sire, I am so bold," she replied.

"Very well, then, you shall know all," said Henri; "and I pray that my
confidence may invite and induce yours. You have often told me that you
loved me, my child."

"I have said it, and I say it again, Sire," cried Diane: "I love you as
my sovereign, my benefactor, and my father."

"Therefore I may reveal everything to my loyal and loving daughter,"
said the king; "so listen, Diane."

"I listen with all my soul, Sire."

Henri then described his two encounters with Gabriel,--the first in the
gallery of the Louvre, and the other in the forest of Fontainebleau. He
told Diane of the strange demeanor, as of mute rebellion, which the
young man had adopted, and how on the first occasion he had declined to
raise his hand to salute his king, and the second time had declined to
raise his hand to save his life.

Diane at this recital could not conceal her grief and her alarm. The
conflict which she so dreaded between Gabriel and the king had already
manifested itself on two occasions, and might soon appear again in a
still more dangerous and terrible form.

Henri, affecting not to notice his daughter's emotion, ended with these
words:--

"These are serious offences, are they not, Diane? They almost amount to
_lèse-majesté_! And yet I have concealed these insults from everybody,
and dissembled my indignation, because this young man has really
suffered at my hands in the past, notwithstanding the glorious service
he has rendered my kingdom, which ought doubtless to have been rewarded
much more generously." Fixing a piercing glance upon Diane, the king
continued,--

"I do not know, Diane, nor do I wish to know, whether you have been made
acquainted with the wrong I have done Monsieur d'Exmès; I only wish you
to feel that my silence has been due to my appreciation of that wrong
and my regret for it. But is it not imprudent for me to maintain
silence? Do not these outrages give warning of others more flagrant
still? Ought I not to have an eye to Monsieur d'Exmès? Upon these
points I have come, Diane, to ask for your friendly advice."

"I am grateful for your confidence in me, Sire," replied Diane,
sorrowfully, being thus forced to choose between the duty which she owed
respectively to the two men who were dearest to her on earth.

"It is a very natural confidence, Diane," the king returned. "Well?" he
added, observing that his daughter seemed to be at a loss.

"Well, Sire," replied Diane, with an effort, "I think that your Majesty
is right, and that for you to take some notice of Monsieur d'Exmès's
movements will perhaps be the wisest course you can adopt."

"Do you think, then, Diane, that my life is in danger from him?" asked
Henri.

"Oh, I did not say that, Sire!" cried Diane, warmly. "But Monsieur
d'Exmès seems to have been wounded to the quick, and there may be
danger perhaps--"

Poor Diane stopped abruptly, quivering with the torture she was
undergoing, the perspiration standing on her forehead in great beads.
This species of denunciation, which her moral sense had almost torn from
her, was very repugnant to her noble heart.

But Henri put a wholly different construction upon her very evident
distress.

"I understand you, Diane," said he, rising and pacing heavily to and
fro. "Yes, I foresaw it clearly. You see I must be suspicious of this
young man; but to live with this Damocles's sword forever hanging over
my head is impossible. The obligations of kings are not the same as
those by which other gentlemen are governed. I propose to take effective
measures to protect myself against Monsieur d'Exmès."

He walked toward the door as if to leave the room, but Diane threw
herself in his path.

What, Gabriel to be accused and perhaps imprisoned! And it was she,
Diane, who had betrayed him! She could not abide the thought. After all,
Gabriel's words had not been so full of menace.

"Sire, one moment, pray!" she cried. "You are mistaken; I swear that you
are mistaken! I have not said a word to imply that your doubly sacred
head is in danger. Nothing in Monsieur d'Exmès's confidences could ever
make me suspect him capable of crime. Otherwise, great God! would I not
have told you everything?"

"Very true," said Henri, stopping once more; "but what did you mean to
say, then, Diane?"

"I meant to say simply that I thought it would be well for your Majesty
to avoid as far as possible these vexatious encounters where an offended
subject is enabled to show his forgetfulness of the respect due to his
king. But a regicide's failure to show respect is a very different
matter. Sire, would it be worthy of you to try to remedy one unjust act
by another equally iniquitous?"

"No, surely not; I had no such intention," said the king; "and I have
proved it by keeping these occurrences to myself. Since you have
dissipated my suspicions, Diane; since you will answer for my bodily
safety to your own conscience and before God; and since in your opinion
I may be perfectly tranquil--"

"Tranquil!" Diane interrupted with a shudder. "Ah, I didn't go so far as
that, Sire. With what a terrible load of responsibility you overwhelm
me! On the contrary, your Majesty ought to be careful and on your
guard--"

"No," said the king, "I cannot live in a condition of never-ending dread
and apprehension. For two weeks I have entirely ceased to enjoy life.
This state of affairs must come to an end. One of two things must
happen: either trusting in your word, Diane, I shall go tranquilly on
with my life, thinking of the welfare of my realm, and not of my
enemy,--in short, without troubling myself further about Vicomte
d'Exmès; or I shall see that this man who bears me ill-will is put
where he can no longer injure me, by giving information of his outrages;
and since I occupy too proud and lofty a position to defend myself, I
shall leave that task to those whose duty it is to safeguard my person."

"And who are they, Sire?" asked Diane.

"Why, Monsieur de Montmorency, first of all, as constable and
commander-in-chief of the army."

"Monsieur de Montmorency!" echoed Diane, with an accent of horror.

That detested name at once recalled to her mind all the misfortunes of
Gabriel's father, his long and harsh captivity, and his death. If
Gabriel in turn should fall into the constable's hands, a like fate was
in store for him, and his destruction was certain.

In her imagination Diane saw him whom she had loved so dearly immured in
a dungeon without light or air, and dying there in one night, or, more
fearful still, lingering on for twenty years, and dying at the last
cursing God and man, but more than all Diane the traitress, who with her
equivocal and hesitating words had basely betrayed him.

There was no proof that Gabriel wished to slay the king, or would be
able to do it, while there was no room for doubt that the bitter enmity
of Monsieur de Montmorency would have no mercy on Gabriel.

Diane went over all this in her mind in a few seconds, and when the king
finally propounded the direct question to her,--

"Well, Diane, what advice do you give me? Since you are better able than
I to form an opinion as to the perils which beset my path, your word
shall be my law. Ought I to think no more about Monsieur d'Exmès, or
ought I, on the other hand, to busy myself with him exclusively?"

She replied in an agony of terror at his last words, "I have no other
counsel to offer your Majesty than that of your own conscience. If any
other than a man whom you had offended, Sire, had failed to show proper
respect to you, or had basely abandoned you when in danger of your life,
you would not, I fancy, have come to ask my advice as to the fit
punishment to be meted out to the culprit. Therefore some very weighty
motive must have constrained your Majesty to adopt a policy of silence
which seems to imply forgiveness. Now I confess that I can see no reason
why you should not continue to act as you have begun; for it seems to me
that if Monsieur d'Exmès had been capable of meditating a crime against
you, he could hardly have expected two fairer opportunities than those
which were offered him in a lonely gallery in the Louvre, and in the
forest of Fontainebleau on the edge of a precipice--"

"You need say no more, Diane," said Henri; "and I will not ask you
another question. You have banished a serious anxiety from my heart, and
I thank you sincerely for it, my dear child. Let us say no more about
this. Now I shall be able to devote my thoughts freely to our
approaching marriage festivities. I desire that they shall be
magnificent, and that you shall be as magnificent as they. Diane, do you
hear?"

"I beg your Majesty to excuse me," said Diane; "but I was just about to
ask leave to absent myself from these festivities. I should much prefer,
if I must confess it, to remain here by myself."

"What!" exclaimed the king; "but do you know, Diane, that this will be
truly a royal display? There will be games and tournaments, all on the
most splendid scale, and I myself shall be one of those who hold the
lists against all comers. What pressing affairs can you have to keep you
away from such superb spectacles, my darling daughter?"

"Sire," replied Diane, in a tone of the utmost gravity, "I have to
pray."

A few minutes later the king quitted Madame de Castro, with his heart
relieved of part of its anguish.

But alas! he left poor Diane with so much the more anguish at her heart.




CHAPTER XI

OMENS


The king, thenceforth almost free from the anxiety which had weighed
upon him, urged on most energetically the preparations for the
magnificent fêtes which he proposed to provide for his fair city of
Paris, on the occasion of the happy marriages of his daughter Élisabeth
with Philip II., and his sister Marguerite with the Duke of Savoy.

Very happy marriages, in sooth, and which surely deserved to be
celebrated with such rejoicing and splendor. The author of Don Carlos
has told us so well that we need not repeat it, what was the result of
the first. We shall see to what the preliminaries of the other led.

The contract of marriage between Philibert Emmanuel and Marguerite de
France was to be signed on the 28th of June.

Henri caused the announcement to be made that on that and the two
following days there would be lists open at the Tournelles for tilting
and other knightly sports.

And upon the pretext of paying a higher compliment to the bride and
groom, but really to gratify his own intense passion for sport of that
nature, the king declared that he would himself be among the
challengers.

But on the morning of the 28th the queen, Catherine de Médicis, who at
that time scarcely ever showed herself in public, sent an urgent request
to the king for an interview with him.

Henri, we need not say, acquiesced at once in his wife's desire.

Catherine thereupon entered his apartment in much emotion.

"Ah, dear Sire," she exclaimed as soon as she saw him, "in Jesus' name,
I implore you not to leave the Louvre until the end of this month of
June."

"Why so, Madame, pray?" asked Henri, amazed at this unexpected request.

"Sire, because you are threatened by great peril during these last few
days."

"Who has told you that?" demanded the king.

"Your star, Sire, which appeared last night in an observation made by
myself and my Italian astrologer, with most threatening indications of
danger,--of mortal danger!"

We must know that Catherine de Médicis about this time began to devote
herself to those magical and astrological practices which very rarely
deceived her in the whole course of her life, if we may trust the
memoirs of the time.

But Henri was a confirmed scoffer in this matter of reading the stars,
and he smilingly replied to the queen,--

"Well, Madame, if my star portends danger, it may come to me here as
well as elsewhere."

"No, Sire," Catherine replied; "it is beneath the vault of heaven and in
the open air that peril awaits you."

"Really!--a tempest perhaps?" said Henri.

"Sire, do not joke about such things!" retorted the queen. "The stars
are the written word of God."

"Well, then, we must agree," said Henri, "that the divine handwriting is
generally very obscure and confused."

"How so, Sire?"

"The erasures seem to me to make the text unintelligible, so that each
one may decipher it almost to suit himself. You have read, Madame, in
the celestial conjuring book, as you say, that my life is threatened if
I quit the Louvre?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Very well. Now, Forcatel only last month saw something very different
there. You think highly of Forcatel, Madame, I believe?"

"Yes," said the queen; "he is a learned man, who has already learned to
read in the book where we are just beginning to spell."

"Know, then, Madame," rejoined the king, "that Forcatel read for me in
these stars of yours this beautiful verse, which has no other fault
except that it is utterly unintelligible:--"


"'If this is not Mars, dread his image.'"


"In what does that prediction weaken the one I have told you of?" asked
Catherine.

"Just wait, Madame!" said Henri: "I have somewhere the nativity which
was cast for me last year. Do you remember what destiny it foretold for
me?"

"Very indistinctly, Sire."

"According to that horoscope, Madame, it is written in the stars that I
shall die in a duel! Surely, that would be a rare and novel experience
for a king. But a duel, in my humble opinion, is not the image of Mars,
but the god himself."

"What is your conclusion from that, Sire?"

"Why, this, Madame: that since all these prophecies are contradictory
and inconsistent, the surest way is to have no faith in any of them. The
deceitful things give one another the lie, you can see yourself."

"So your Majesty will persist in leaving the Louvre during the next few
days?"

"Under any other circumstances I should be most happy, Madame, to
gratify you by remaining with you; but I have promised and publicly
announced that I would be present at these festivities; so I must attend
them."

"At all events, Sire, you will not enter the lists, will you?"

"There, again, my pledged word requires me, to my great regret, to
refuse you, Madame. But what possible danger can there be for me in
these sports? I am grateful to you from the bottom of my heart for your
solicitude; yet let me assure you that your fears are altogether
imaginary, and that to yield to them would be to imply a false belief
that danger could possibly attend this courtly, good-natured jousting,
which I by no means propose to have done away with on my account."

"Sire," rejoined Catherine, "I am accustomed to give way to your will,
and to-day again I resign myself, but with grief and alarm at my heart."

"You will come to the Tournelles, Madame, will you not?" said the king,
kissing Catherine's hand,--"were it for no other object than to applaud
my prowess with the lance and convince yourself of the absurdity of your
fears."

"I will obey you to the end," replied the queen, as she withdrew.

Along with all the court, except Diane de Castro, Catherine was present
at the first day's tilting, where throughout the day the king crossed
lances with all comers.

"Well, Madame, the stars seem to have been mistaken," he said jokingly
to the queen in the evening.

Catherine sadly shook her head.

"Alas!" said she, "the month of June is not yet at an end."

The second day, the 29th, likewise passed off equally uneventfully.
Henri did not leave the lists; and his good fortune was in proportion to
his daring.

"You see, Madame, that the stars proved deceptive as to this day also,"
he again observed to Catherine, when they returned to the Louvre.

"Ah, Sire, now I only dread the third day!" cried the queen.

The last day of the tournament, June 30, was Friday, and was intended to
be the most brilliant and splendid of the three, and to bring the
festivities to a fitting close.

The four challengers were--

The king, who wore a white and black favor,--the colors of Madame de
Poitiers;

The Duc de Guise, who wore white and pink;

Alphonse d'Este, Duc de Ferrare, who wore yellow and red; and

Jacques de Savoie, Duc de Nemours, whose colors were black and yellow.

Says Brantôme:--


"These four princes were the most skilful knights who could be found at
that time, not in France alone, but in all countries. Thus on that day
they performed prodigies of valor; and it was impossible to know to whom
the palm should be awarded, although the king was one of the best and
most expert horsemen in his realm."


Fortune seemed to divide her favors with impartial hand among these four
dexterous and renowned challengers; and as course succeeded course, and
the day drew to its close, it was hard to say to which of them the honor
of the tournament belonged.

Henri was throughout in an almost feverish state of excitement. He was
in his element in all such sports and passages-at-arms; and he was quite
as eager to be victorious on such occasions as on a real battle-field.

However, the evening came on apace, and the trumpets and clarions
sounded the signal for the last course.

It was Monsieur le Duc de Guise's turn to hold the lists, and he did it
in such knightly fashion as to win hearty applause from the ladies and
the assembled multitude.

Then the queen, who began to breathe freely once more, rose from her
seat.

It was the signal for departure.

"What! is everything over?" cried the excited and jealous king. "Wait,
Mesdames, wait a moment! Is it not my turn to run a course?"

Monsieur de Vieilleville reminded the king that he had opened the lists;
that the four challengers had all run the same number of courses: that
they had all met with equal success, to be sure, and no one could be
declared victor, but that the lists were closed and the day at an end.

"What!" retorted Henri, impatiently; "if the king is the first to enter
the lists, he should be the last to leave them. I do not choose that the
day should end in this way. See, there are still two unbroken lances."

"But there are no more assailants, Sire," replied Monsieur de
Vieilleville.

"I beg your pardon," said the king; "do you not see that man who has
kept his visor down all the time, and has not yet run? Who is it,
Vieilleville?"

"Sire, I don't know,--I had not noticed him."

"Monsieur," said Henri, approaching the unknown, "you will, if you
please, break this last lance with me."

The individual addressed did not reply for a moment, but at last in a
deep and solemn voice, which he struggled to control, he said,--

"I beg your Majesty to allow me to decline this honor."

The tone of his voice caused Henri, without knowing why, to feel a
strange uneasiness mingled with his feverish excitement.

"Allow you to decline! no, I cannot allow that, Monsieur," said he, with
a gesture of nervous anger.

Then the stranger silently raised his visor.

For the third time within a fortnight, the king saw the pale and
dejected countenance of Gabriel de Montgommery.




CHAPTER XII

THE FATAL JOUST


At sight of the solemn and ominous features of the young count, the king
felt an involuntary tremor of surprise, perhaps of terror, which set
every nerve quivering.

But he would not confess to himself, still less let others observe that
first shudder, which he at once repressed. His heart reacted against his
instinct; and just because he had been afraid for one second, he
afterward exhibited a degree of courage which amounted to recklessness.

Gabriel said again in his slow, grave tones,--

"I implore your Majesty not to persist in your desire!"

"Nevertheless I do persist in it, Monsieur de Montgommery," the king
replied.

His perception being obscured by so many contending emotions, Henri
imagined that he could detect a sort of challenge in Gabriel's words,
and the tone in which they were uttered. Alarmed by the sudden return of
that anxious feeling which Diane de Castro had relieved temporarily, he
bore up vigorously against his weakness, and determined to have done
with this dastardly terror, which he deemed unworthy of himself,--Henri
II., a son of France, and a king!

Therefore he said to Gabriel with a firmness that was almost overdone,--

"Make your preparations, Monsieur, to run a course against me."

Gabriel, whose whole being was in as confused and overwrought a state as
that of the king, bowed without replying.

At that moment, Monsieur de Boisy, the grand equerry, approached the
king and said to him that the queen had sent him to implore his Majesty
to tilt no more that day for love of her.

"Say to the queen," replied Henri, "that it is just for love of her that
I am going to run this one course."

Turning to Monsieur de Vieilleville, he said,--

"Come, Monsieur de Vieilleville, put on my armor at once."

In his preoccupation, he demanded from Monsieur de Vieilleville a
service which was an attribute of the office of Monsieur de Boisy, the
grand equerry, and Monsieur de Vieilleville in his surprise respectfully
reminded him of that fact.

"To be sure!" said the king, putting his hand to his forehead. "What has
become of my brains, I wonder?"

He met Gabriel's cold and statue-like glance, and continued
impatiently,--

"But no, I was right. Was it not Monsieur de Boisy's place to finish his
commission from the queen, by reporting my words to her? I knew
perfectly well what I was doing and what I said! Give me my armor,
Monsieur de Vieilleville."

"That being so, Sire," said Monsieur de Vieilleville, "and since your
Majesty is absolutely determined to break one lance more, I beg to
remind you that it is my turn to run against you, and I claim my right.
In fact, Monsieur de Montgommery did not present himself at the opening
of the lists, and only entered when he believed them closed."

"You are right, Monsieur," said Gabriel, earnestly; "and I will gladly
withdraw, and give place to you."

But in the count's eagerness to shun the combat with him, the king
persisted in fancying that he detected the insulting reflections of an
enemy upon his courage.

"No, no!" he replied, stamping his foot on the ground. "It is against
Monsieur de Montgommery and no other that I propose to run this course,
and there has been enough delay! Give me my armor."

He met the count's fixed, stern gaze with a proud and haughty glance,
and without more words he put his head forward that Monsieur de
Vieilleville might adjust his casque.

Clearly his destiny had blinded him.

Monsieur de Savoie came to renew Catherine de Médicis's entreaties that
the king would leave the field.

As Henri did not trouble himself to reply to these urgent
representations, the duke added in a low tone,--

"Madame Diane de Poitiers, Sire, also asked me to warn you secretly to
be on your guard against him with whom you are to dispute this bout."

At Diane's name, Henri started in spite of himself, but again he
repressed his emotion.

"Shall I show myself a craven, then, before my beloved?" he asked
himself.

And he maintained the dignified silence of one who is importuned to
depart from an unalterable resolution.

Meanwhile, Monsieur de Vieilleville, while adjusting his armor, took
occasion to say to him beneath his breath,--

"Sire, I swear by the living God that for three nights I have dreamed of
nothing but that some mishap would befall you to-day, and that this last
day of June would be a fatal one for you."[4]

But the king did not appear to have heard him; he was already armed, and
he seized his lance.

Gabriel was handed his, and also entered the lists.

The two combatants mounted their horses and took the field.

A deep, awful silence pervaded the entire assemblage; all eyes were so
intent upon the spectacle before them that breathing seemed almost to be
suspended.

However, the constable and Diane de Castro being absent, every one in
that vast throng, except Madame de Poitiers, was in ignorance of the
fact that there were between the king and the Comte de Montgommery any
causes of enmity or any wrongs to be avenged. No one clearly foreboded a
bloody issue to a mock combat. The king, accustomed to these sports
unattended with danger, had shown himself in the arena a hundred times
within three days, under conditions which apparently differed in no
respect from those existing at this moment.

And yet there was a vague sensation of something awe-inspiring and out
of the common course in this adversary who had remained shrouded in
mystery until the very end, in his significant reluctance to enter the
lists,--likewise in the king's stubborn obstinacy; and in the face of
this unknown danger, every one waited in breathless silence. Why? No one
could have told. But a stranger arriving at that moment, and observing
the expression on every face, would have said,--

"Some critical event is about to take place."

There was terror in the very air.

One extraordinary circumstance demonstrated clearly the sinister
complexion of the thoughts of the throng.

In ordinary combats, and as long as they lasted, the clarions and
trumpets never ceased their deafening flourishes. They were the very
incarnation of the spirit of enjoyment that pervaded the tournament.

But when the king and Gabriel entered the lists, the trumpets suddenly,
as if by common consent, were still; not a sound was to be heard from
one of them, and the pervading horrified expectancy became doubly
painful in that unwonted silence.

The two champions felt even more than the spectators the influence of
these extraordinary tokens of disquiet which seemed to fill the air, so
to speak.

Gabriel no longer thought or saw,--in fact, he hardly breathed. He went
on mechanically and as if in a dream, doing by instinct what he had
formerly done under similar circumstances, but guided in some measure by
a secret and potent will, which surely was not his own.

The king was even more passive and lost in abstraction than he. He also
seemed to have a sort of cloud before his eyes, and had the appearance
of acting and moving in a mental phantasmagoria, which was neither
reality nor a dream.

Every now and then a ray of light shone in upon his brain, so that he
reviewed clearly and all at once the predictions which the queen had
made two days before, as well as those of his horoscope, and those of
Forcatel. Suddenly, by the help of some awe-inspiring gleam of
intelligence, he understood the meaning and the correlation of all those
ominous auguries. A cold sweat bathed him from head to foot. For an
instant he felt an almost irresistible impulse to give up the combat and
leave the lists; but the thousands of eyes that were gazing eagerly upon
him nailed him to his place.

Moreover, Monsieur de Vieilleville was just giving the signal for the
onset.

The die was cast. Forward! and God's will be done!

The two horses set off at a gallop, at that moment being more
intelligent and less blinded perhaps than their riders, heavily barbed
and armored.

Gabriel and the king met in the centre of the arena. Their lances came
together and were shattered upon their shields, and they passed on
without any other mishap.

So the presentiments of evil had been false! There was a great murmur of
satisfaction uttered with one accord by all those lightened hearts. The
queen cast a grateful glance toward heaven.

But their rejoicing was premature.

The horsemen were still within the lists. After having galloped each to
the opposite end from that at which he had entered, they must return to
their respective points of departure, and thus meet a second time.

But what danger was to be apprehended now? They would pass without
coming in contact.

But whether because of his anxiety, whether it was by intention or by
accident (for who besides God can tell the reason?), Gabriel, when he
rode back, did not throw away, as the custom was, the broken shaft of
the lance, which had been left in his hand. He carried it lowered in
front of him.

As he rode along at a gallop, the shaft came in contact with Henri's
head.

The visor of the casque was broken by the force of the blow, and the
lance pierced the king's eye and came out at his ear.

Not more than half of the spectators, who were already rising to leave
the lists, witnessed that fearful blow; but those who did gave utterance
to a loud cry, which told the others.

Meanwhile Henri had let his reins drop from his hands, and clinging to
his horse's neck, had reached the end of the arena, where Messieurs de
Vieilleville and de Boisy were waiting to receive him.

"Ah, I am killed!" were the king's first words.

Then he muttered,--

"Let no one molest Monsieur de Montgommery! It was no more than just--I
forgive him."

And with that he lost consciousness.

We will not try to depict the confusion that ensued. Catherine de
Médicis was carried from the spot, half dead with grief and terror. The
king was at once borne to his own apartment at the Tournelles, without
regaining consciousness for an instant.

Gabriel dismounted and stood leaning against the barrier as motionless
as if turned to stone, and seemingly overcome with horror at the blow he
had struck.

The king's last words had been understood and repeated, and no one
ventured to molest Gabriel; but every one around was whispering, and
looking askance at him in awe.

Admiral de Coligny, who had been a spectator of the tournament, alone
had courage to approach the young count; and as he passed by at his left
side, he said to him in a low voice,--

"A terrible accident, my friend! I know well that it was all chance; our
ideas and the speeches you heard, as La Renaudie has informed me, at the
meeting in the Place Maubert, surely had no connection with this
fatality. No matter! although you cannot be punished for what was but an
accident, be on your guard. I advise you to disappear for a time, and to
get away from Paris, if not from France. Rely always upon me; _au
revoir_."

"Thanks," Gabriel replied without moving,

A mournful and feeble smile flickered about his colorless lips while the
Protestant leader was speaking to him.

Coligny nodded to him, and went on.

Some moments later, the Duc de Guise, who had superintended the king's
removal, also came toward Gabriel, as he was giving certain orders to
the attendants.

He passed very near the young count, on the right side, and as he
passed, whispered in his ear,--

"An unfortunate blow, Gabriel! But no one can blame you for it; you are
only to be pitied. But just think! if any one had overheard our
conversation at the Tournelles, what fearful conjectures the
evil-disposed might draw from this very easily explained but very
distressing accident! But it makes no difference, for I am powerful now;
and I am always your friend, as you know. However, do not show yourself
for a few days; but do not leave Paris,--that would be useless. If any
one should dare to make a criminal accusation against you, remember what
I say to you: rely upon me everywhere and always, and in any emergency."

"Thanks, Monseigneur," said Gabriel again, in the same tone, and with
the same melancholy smile.

It was very clear that both the Duc de Guise and Coligny had, not an
absolute conviction, but a vague suspicion, that the accident which they
pretended to deplore had not been altogether unintentional. In their
hearts, the religious zealot and the ambitious noble, without wishing to
do violence to their respective consciences, were satisfied,--the latter
that Gabriel had seized at any risk the opportunity to make himself
useful to the fortune of a patron whom he adored, and the former that
the fanaticism of the young Huguenot had attained sufficient strength to
urge him on to deliver his oppressed brethren from their persecutor.

Therefore both felt in duty bound to say a few words to their discreet
and devoted auxiliary: and that explains why they had, one after the
other, approached him as we have related, and Gabriel's appreciation of
their motives had made him receive their double error with that sad
smile.

Meanwhile the Duc de Guise had returned to the anxious groups who were
standing around. Gabriel cast a glance about him, saw the alarmed
curiosity with which he was regarded, and with a deep sigh determined to
leave the fatal spot.

He returned to his house in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul without
molestation or question.

At the Tournelles the king's apartment was closed to everybody except
the queen and their children and the surgeons who had come to the relief
of the royal patient.

But Fernel and all the other doctors very soon recognized the fact that
there was no hope, and that Henri II. must die.

Ambroise Paré was at Peronne, and it did not occur to the Duc de Guise
to send for him.

The king lay in an unconscious state for four days.

On the fifth day he came to himself sufficiently to give some
orders,--notably to command that his sister's marriage should be
celebrated at once.

He saw the queen also, and made certain suggestions to her concerning
his children and the affairs of the kingdom.

Then fever seized him; he became delirious, and suffered torments.

At last, on the 10th of July, 1559, on the day following that on which,
in accordance with his last wish, his weeping sister Marguerite had
married the Duke of Savoy, Henri II. breathed his last, after eleven
long days of agony.

The same day Madame Diane de Castro took her departure, or rather her
flight, for her old home,--the Benedictine convent at St. Quentin, which
had been reopened after the peace of Cateau-Cambrésis.


[Footnote 4: "Mémoires de Vincent Carloix," secretary to Monsieur
de Vieilleville.]




CHAPTER XIII

A NEW ORDER OF AFFAIRS


For the mistress, as well as for the favorite male dependant of a king,
true death comes, not with death itself, but with disgrace.

Consequently the son of the Comte de Montgommery might feel that he had
taken ample vengeance for his father's horrible entombment and death
upon both the constable and Diane de Poitiers, if through his
instrumentality those two guilty ones should fall from power to exile,
and from lofty and brilliant position to obscurity.

It was this result that Gabriel was still awaiting in the gloomy and
anxious solitude of his dwelling, where he had buried himself after the
fatal blow of June 30. It was not his own punishment that he dreaded, if
Montmorency and his accomplice should remain in power, but he loathed
the thought of their chastisement being remitted. He therefore waited.

During the eleven days that elapsed before Henri's agony was relieved by
death, the Constable de Montmorency had put forth every effort to retain
his share of influence in the government. He had written to all the
princes of the blood, urging them to take their seats in the council of
the young king. Above all, he had impressed the consequence of this
proceeding upon Antoine de Bourbon, King of Navarre, the next heir to
the throne after the king's brothers. He had written him to make all
haste, inasmuch as the least delay would enable strangers to assume a
supremacy from which they could not afterward be easily dislodged. In
fact, he had sent couriers here and there in all directions, urging some
and imploring others, and had omitted nothing in his vigorous attempts
to form a party capable of making head against that of the Guises.

Diane de Poitiers, despite her deep affliction, had done her best to
second his efforts, for her fate now was indissolubly connected with
that of her old lover.

With him in power she might still reign, to good effect at all events,
although not openly.

When, on the 10th of July, 1559, the eldest son of Henri II. was
proclaimed king by the herald-at-arms, under the name of François II.,
the young prince was only sixteen; and although he had in the eyes of
the law attained his majority, his youth and inexperience, as well as
his feeble health, would compel him, for several years at least, to
relinquish the conduct of affairs to a minister who in his name would be
far more powerful than himself.

Now who should be that minister,--say rather, that tutor,--the Duc de
Guise or the constable; Catherine de Médicis or Antoine de Bourbon?

That was the question of absorbing interest on the day following the
death of Henri II.

On that day François II. was to receive the deputies of parliament at
three o'clock. The person whose name he should present to them as that
of his minister might well be saluted by them as their real sovereign.

All energies were therefore bent in that direction; and on the morning
of the 12th of July Catherine de Médicis and François de Lorraine both
waited upon the young king, upon the pretext that they had come to offer
him their condolence, but really to whisper their advice into his ear.

The widow of Henri II., with such an important end in view, had even
broken through the etiquette which required that she should remain in
seclusion for forty days.

Catherine de Médicis, although slighted and cast aside by her husband,
had felt for the last twelve years the first symptoms of that vast and
far-reaching ambition which governed the rest of her life.

But since she could not be regent over a king who had attained his
majority, her only chance was to reign by the hand of a minister who was
devoted to her interests.

The Constable de Montmorency would not meet the occasion; for he had
under the late reign contributed in no slight degree to the substitution
of the influence of Diane de Poitiers for that which Catherine might
legitimately have exercised. The queen-mother had not forgiven his
actions in that regard, and thought much more seriously about chastising
him for his always harsh and often cruel treatment of her.

Antoine de Bourbon would have been a more docile instrument in her
hands; but he was of the Reformed religion, and his wife, Jeanne
d'Albret, had her own ambition to satisfy; and then, too, his title as a
prince of the blood might arouse dangerous desires in him if conjoined
with the real power of a minister.

The Duc de Guise remained; but would François de Lorraine acknowledge
with good grace the queen-mother's right to exercise a sort of moral
authority, or would he refuse to admit anybody to a share in his power?

The last point was one on which Catherine was very anxious to be
enlightened; and so she welcomed with joy the prospect of an interview
in the king's presence which chance had brought about between her and
the duke on the morning in question.

She determined to find or to invent opportunities to test Le Balafré,
and to ascertain his disposition toward her.

But the Duc de Guise was no less expert in politics than in war, and
maintained a careful watch upon himself.

This prologue to the drama took place at the Louvre, in the royal
apartment where François II. had been installed the day before; and the
only _dramatis personæ_ were the queen-mother, Le Balafré, the young
king, and Mary Stuart.

François and his youthful queen contrasted with the cold and selfish
ambitions of Catherine and the Duc de Guise were like two fascinating
children, frankly and ingenuously in love with each other, and ready to
bestow their confidence upon the first passer-by who should be adroit
enough to win their hearts.

They were in sincere affliction for the death of the king their father;
and Catherine found them very sad and cast down.

"My son," said she to François, "it is well for you to shed these tears
to the memory of him whom you, above all others, should regret. You know
that I share your bitter grief. However, you must remember that you have
other duties than those of a son to fulfil. You are also a father,--the
father of your people. After you have paid this fitting tribute of
sorrow to the past, turn your face to the future. Remember that you are
king, my son,--I should say your Majesty, to use a form of address which
will remind you of your duties and your rights at the same time."

"Alas!" said François, shaking his head, "it is a very heavy burden,
Madame, this sceptre of France, for the hands of sixteen years to carry;
and nothing warned me to expect that my inexperienced and light-minded
youth would so soon be overwhelmed with such a weighty responsibility."

"Sire," Catherine replied, "accept with resignation and gratitude the
office which God lays upon you; it will be for those who surround and
love you to lighten your burden to the best of their ability, and to add
their efforts to your own to assist you to bear it worthily."

"Madame, I thank you," murmured the young king, much embarrassed to know
what reply to make to these advances.

Mechanically he glanced toward the Duc de Guise, as if to ask the advice
of his wife's uncle.

At his very first step as king, even in his mother's presence, the poor
youth, with the crown on his head, seemed instinctively to appreciate
the pitfalls which lay in his path.

But the Duc de Guise said, with no sign of hesitation,--

"Yes, Sire; your Majesty is right,--thank the queen, thank her with all
your heart, for her kind and encouraging words. But be not content with
being grateful to her; tell her boldly that among those who love you and
whom you love she occupies the foremost place, and that for that reason
you ought to and do rely upon her invaluable maternal co-operation in
the difficult task which you have been called upon so young to
undertake."

"My uncle De Guise is a faithful interpreter of my thoughts, Madame,"
said the delighted young king to his mother; "and even if I do not
repeat his words for fear that I may weaken their force, consider them,
I pray, Madame and beloved mother, as if I had myself uttered them, and
vouchsafe to promise me your priceless help in my weakness."

The queen-mother had already favored the Duc de Guise with a grateful
and approving glance.

"Sire," she said to her son, "the little talent that I can boast of is
at your service, and I shall be proud and happy every time that you care
to consult me. But I am only a woman; and you need beside your throne a
defender who knows how to wield a sword. The strong arm and manly vigor
that are requisite your Majesty will doubtless discover among those
whose alliance and relationship make you look naturally to them for
support."

Thus Catherine lost no time in paying her debt to the Duc de Guise for
his fair words.

A tacit bargain was thus made between them by a single glance; but let
us say at once that it was not sincerely entered into on either side,
and was not destined, as we shall see, to be of long duration.

The young king understood his mother, and encouraged by a glance from
Mary, held out his hand timidly to Le Balafré.

With that grasp of the hand he conferred upon him the government of
France.

However, Catherine de Médicis did not choose to allow her son to bind
himself prematurely, nor until the Duc de Guise had given to herself
certain pledges of his goodwill.

So she anticipated the king, who would probably have gone on to confirm
his confidential impulse by some formal promise, and was the first to
speak.

"In any event, Sire, before you have a minister, your mother has, not a
favor to ask at your hands, but a demand to make."

"Say, then, a command, Madame," replied François. "Speak, I beg you."

"Well, then, my son," Catherine continued, "I refer to a woman who has
done me much harm, but has injured France even more. It is not for us to
censure the failings of one who is more than ever sacred in our eyes
now. But unfortunately your father is no more, Sire; his will is no
longer supreme in this château; and yet this woman, whom I will not
call by name, dares still to remain here, and to inflict upon me the
outrage of her presence even to the end. During the king's protracted
unconsciousness, it was suggested to her that it was not decent for her
to remain at the Louvre. 'Is the king dead?' she asked. 'No, he still
breathes.' 'Very well! none but he has the right to give orders to me.'
And she had the brazen impudence to remain."

The Duc de Guise interrupted the queen-mother at this point, and
hastened to say,--

"Pardon me, Madame, but I think that I know his Majesty's intentions
with regard to her of whom you are speaking."

Without other preamble, he struck a bell, and a valet appeared.

"Let Madame de Poitiers be informed," said he, "that the king wishes to
speak with her at once."

The valet bowed, and withdrew to carry out the order. The young monarch
gave no sign whatever of surprise or dissatisfaction at seeing his
authority thus taken from his hands without a word from him. The fact is
that he was overjoyed at anything that tended to lessen his
responsibility, and release him from the necessity of giving orders or
acting as king.

However, Le Balafré thought best to give to his proceeding the sanction
of royal approbation.

"I trust I do not presume too far, Sire," he continued, "in feeling
confident of your Majesty's wishes touching this matter?"

"No, surely not, my dear uncle," François replied eagerly. "Go on,
pray. I know beforehand that whatever you do will be well done."

"And what you say is well said, darling," whispered Mary Stuart, softly,
in her husband's ear.

François blushed with pride and pleasure. For a word or a glance of
approbation from his adored Mary he would, in very truth, have bartered
and abandoned all the kingdoms on earth.

The queen-mother awaited with impatient curiosity the course which the
Duc de Guise proposed to adopt.

She thought best, however, to add, as much to break the silence as to
better signify her own purpose,--

"She whom you have sent for, Sire, may well, in my opinion, leave the
Louvre in the possession of the only legitimate queen of the late king,
as well as the charming queen of the present one;" here she bowed
graciously to Mary Stuart. "Has not this beautiful and wealthy lady her
superb royal Château d'Anet, where she can seek shelter and
consolation?--a much more royal and superb establishment, certainly,
than my modest dwelling of Chaumont-sur-Loire."

The Duc de Guise said nothing, but did not fail to note down that hint
in his mind.

We must avow that he hated Diane de Poitiers no less bitterly than
Catherine de Médicis did. For it was Madame de Valentinois who up to
that time, to please the constable, had used all her influence to hinder
and frustrate Le Balafré's fortune and his schemes; and she doubtless
would have succeeded in relegating him forever into obscurity if
Gabriel's lance had not shattered the enchantress's power when it struck
down Henri II. in the prime of life.

But François de Lorraine's day of vengeance had come at last, and he
knew how to hate as well as to love.

At this moment the usher announced in a loud voice,--

"Madame le Duchesse de Valentinois."

Diane de Poitiers entered, evidently in much anxiety, but with her head
still erect as of yore.




CHAPTER XIV

RESULTS OF GABRIEL'S VENGEANCE


Madame de Valentinois made a slight reverence to the young king, a still
slighter one to Catherine de Médicis and Mary Stuart, but seemed not to
see the Duc de Guise.

"Sire," said she, "your Majesty has sent me your commands to appear
before you--"

She checked herself. François II., at once indignant and embarrassed by
the insolent bearing of the ex-favorite, hesitated, blushed, and finally
said,--

"Our uncle De Guise has consented to take it upon himself to make known
our intentions with regard to you, Madame."

Diane turned slowly toward Le Balafré, and seeing the bitter, mocking
smile which was playing about his lips, tried to wither him with the
most imperious of her Juno-like glances.

But Le Balafré was much less easily frightened than his royal nephew.

"Madame," said he to Diane, after bestowing a profound salute upon her,
"the king has noticed your sincere grief, caused by the terrible
calamity which has overwhelmed us all. He is grateful to you for it. His
Majesty trusts that he anticipates your dearest wish by permitting you
to leave the court for a more retired spot. You are at liberty to go as
soon as you find it convenient; this evening, for instance."

A tear of rage appeared in Diane's flaming eye.

"His Majesty has gratified my most earnest desire," said she. "What is
there here for me to do now? I have nothing so much at heart as to
withdraw to my place of exile, Monsieur, at the earliest possible
moment, never fear!"

"Everything turns out for the best, then," replied the Duc de Guise,
carelessly playing with the knots of his velvet cloak. "But, Madame," he
added more gravely, and imparting to his words the significant accent of
an order, "your Château d'Anet, which you owe to the benevolence of the
late king, is something too worldly, too exposed, and too frivolous a
retreat for a desolate recluse like yourself. Therefore Queen Catherine
offers you in exchange for it her Château de Chaumont-sur-Loire, which
is farther from Paris, and proportionately better suited to your present
tastes and needs, I presume. It will be at your disposal as soon as you
desire."

Madame de Poitiers very well understood that this pretended exchange was
simply a mask to cover an arbitrary confiscation. But what could she do?
How resist? She no longer possessed either influence or power. All her
friends of the day before were her enemies of to-day. She must needs bow
to fate, and she did so.

"I shall be only too happy," said she, in a hollow voice, "to offer to
the queen the magnificent domain which I owe to the generosity of her
royal spouse."

"I accept the reparation, Madame," said Catherine de Médicis, dryly,
casting a disdainful glance at Diane, and one full of gratitude to the
Duc de Guise.

In truth, it was he who presented Anet to her.

"The Château de Chaumont-sur-Loire is at your disposal, Madame," she
added, "and shall be put in condition to receive its new proprietress
worthily."

"And there," resumed the Duc de Guise, meeting the withering
glances with which Diane was favoring him by a little harmless
raillery,--"there, in peace, Madame, you may employ your leisure in
resting from the weariness which has, I am informed, been caused during
the last few days by your frequent correspondence and interviews with
Monsieur de Montmorency."

"I did not think that I was doing a disservice to him who was then
king," Diane retorted, "by conferring with the great statesman and great
warrior of his reign as to whatever concerned the welfare of the
kingdom."

In her eagerness to repay sharp words in kind, Madame de Poitiers did
not reflect that she was thus furnishing arms against herself, and
reminding Catherine de Médicis of her other enemy, the constable.

"It is true," said the relentless queen-mother: "Monsieur de Montmorency
has shed the light of his glory and his good works upon two entire
reigns; and it is full time, my son," she added, addressing the young
king, "that you should consider how you may assure him also the
honorable retirement he has so laboriously earned."

"Monsieur de Montmorency," Diane retorted bitterly, "agreed with me in
anticipating such an acknowledgment and recompense of his long and
arduous services. He was with me when your Majesty commanded my
presence. He is probably still in my apartments, and I will seek him
there, and notify him of the generous consideration that is in store for
him; he should come at once to offer his gratitude to the king with his
leave-taking. And he is a man, remember; he is constable, and one of the
powerful noblemen of the realm! Rest assured that sooner or later he
will find an opportunity to demonstrate more forcibly than by words his
profound gratitude to a king so filled with pious regard for the past,
and to the new advisers who show themselves such valuable assistants in
the work of justice and of public interest which he has at heart."

"A threat!" said Le Balafré to himself. "The viper squirms under the
heel. Oh, well, so much the better! I prefer it so!"

"The king is always ready to receive Monsieur le Connétable," observed
the queen-mother, pale with rage. "And if Monsieur le Connétable has
any demands to present to his Majesty's consideration, or any
observations to address to him, he has but to come forward. He will be
listened to, and, as you say, Madame, justice will be done!"

"I will send him hither at once," was Madame de Poitiers's defiant
reply.

She again bestowed a superb bow upon the king and the two queens, and
left the room, with head still erect, but wounded to her very
soul,--with pride on her features, but death at her heart.

If Gabriel could have seen her, he would have felt sufficiently revenged
upon her.

Even Catherine de Médicis, at the price of that humiliation, consented
to forego any further reprisals against Diane!

But the queen-mother had noticed with some uneasiness that at the name
of the constable the Duc de Guise had remained silent, and had paid no
further attention to Madame de Poitiers's irritating insolence.

Could it be that Le Balafré feared Monsieur de Montmorency, and wished
to spare him? Would he, in case of need, form an alliance with
Catherine's old foe?

It was essential that the Florentine should know what to expect in that
direction before she allowed the power to fall without resistance into
the hands of François de Lorraine.

Therefore, in order to ascertain his views and those of the king as
well, she remarked, after Diane had gone:

"Madame de Poitiers is very impudent, and seems very strong in her
reliance upon her constable. Be sure, my son, that if you allow Monsieur
de Montmorency to retain any authority, be it much or little, he will
share it with Madame Diane."

Still the Duc de Guise said nothing.

"As for me," continued Catherine, "if I were to offer my opinion to your
Majesty, it would be that you should not divide your confidence among
several persons, but that you should select for your sole minister
either Monsieur de Montmorency or your uncle De Guise or your uncle De
Bourbon, as you choose. But let it be one or the other, and not all. Let
there be only one will in the State,--that of the king, advised by the
small number of persons who have no other interest than in its welfare
and glory. Is not that your opinion, Monsieur de Lorraine?"

"Yes, Madame, if it is yours," replied the duke, condescendingly.

"Aha!" said Catherine to herself, "I guessed aright: he was thinking of
allying himself with the constable. But he must decide between him and
me, and I think he cannot hesitate long.

"It seems to me, Monsieur de Guise," she continued aloud, "that you
ought to share my opinion so much the more fully, because it will be to
your advantage; for the king knows my thought, and that it is neither
the Constable de Montmorency nor Antoine de Navarre whom I would like to
have him select for his adviser; and when I thus declare my sentiments
in favor of the exclusion of a multiplicity of advisers, I do not aim my
remarks against you."

"Madame," said the Duc de Guise, "accept with my heartfelt gratitude my
no less entire devotion."

The subtle politician emphasized the last words, as if he had made up
his mind and had definitely sacrificed the constable to Catherine.

"That is very well," said the queen-mother. "When these gentlemen of the
parliament arrive, it is fitting that they should find among us this
rare and affecting unanimity of views and feelings."

"I, above all others, am overjoyed at this cordial agreement," cried the
young king, clapping his hands. "With my mother to advise me and my
uncle for minister, I begin to feel on better terms with this royalty
which terrified me so at first."

"We will reign _en famille_," added Mary Stuart, gayly.

Catherine de Médicis and François de Lorraine smiled pityingly at
these hopes--illusions, rather--of the young king and queen. Each of
them had for the moment what they most desired,--he the certainty that
the queen-mother would not object to allowing the supreme power to be
intrusted to him, and she the belief that the minister would share his
supreme power with her.

Meanwhile Monsieur de Montmorency was announced. The constable, it must
be said, was at first more dignified and calm than Madame de
Valentinois. Doubtless he had been forewarned by her, and had determined
at least to fall with colors flying.

He bowed respectfully before François II., and began at once to speak.

"Sire," said he, "I anticipated that the old servant of your father and
grandfather would meet with little favor from you. I have no complaint
to make of this sudden change of fortune which I foresaw; I will go into
retirement without a murmur. If the king or France ever have need of me,
I shall be found at Chantilly, Sire; and my property, my children, and
my own life,--all that I possess will always be at your Majesty's
service."

This moderation seemed to move the young king, who, more embarrassed
than ever, turned in his distress to his mother.

But the Duc de Guise, feeling that no intervention could so surely turn
the old constable's reserve to anger as his own, interposed with the
most courteous formality of manner,--

"Since Monsieur de Montmorency is about to quit the court, he would do
well, I think, before his departure, to hand to his Majesty the royal
seal, which the late king intrusted to him, and which we need from this
time."

Le Balafré was not mistaken. These apparently simple words excited the
jealous constable's wrath to the highest pitch.

"Here is the seal," he said bitterly, as he produced it from beneath his
doublet. "I intended to hand it to his Majesty without requiring him to
ask it of me; but I see that his Majesty is surrounded by persons
disposed to advise him to heap insults upon those who deserve nothing
but gratitude."

"To whom does Monsieur de Montmorency mean to refer?" asked Catherine,
haughtily.

"What? I spoke of those by whom his Majesty is surrounded, Madame,"
snarled the constable, giving the rein to his natural testiness and
brutality.

But he had chosen his time ill; and Catherine was only awaiting an
opportunity to burst out.

She rose, and casting all decorum to the winds, began to reproach the
constable for the harsh and disdainful manner he had always adopted
toward her, his hostility for everything Florentine, the preference
which he had openly shown to the mistress over the lawful wife. She was
not ignorant of the fact that it was to him that all the humiliation
suffered by her countrymen who had followed her to France was to be
attributed. She knew, too, that during the early years of her married
life Montmorency had had the hardihood to suggest to Henri that he
should cast her off as being barren, and that since then he had basely
slandered her.

To this the constable, who was little accustomed to reproof, replied
with a sneer, which was in itself a fresh affront.

Meanwhile the Duc de Guise had had time to take François II.'s orders,
or rather to dictate those orders to him in a low tone; and now, calmly
raising his voice, he proceeded to crush his rival, to the unbounded
delight of Catherine de Médicis.

"Monsieur le Connétable," said he, with his jeering courtesy, "your
friends and creatures who sit with you at the council-board--Bochetel,
L'Aubespine, and the rest, notably his Eminence the Keeper of the Seals,
Jean Bertrandi--may probably prefer to imitate you in your longing for
retirement. The king desires you to express his gratitude to them.
To-morrow they will be quite at liberty, and their places will have been
filled."

"'T is well," muttered Monsieur de Montmorency between his clinched
teeth.

"As for your nephew, Monsieur de Coligny, who is at once governor of
Picardy and of the Île de France," continued Le Balafré, "the king
considers that the double task is altogether too heavy for one man, and
desires to relieve him of one of his governments at his choice. You will
have the kindness to notify Monsieur l'Amiral to that effect, will you
not?"

"To be sure," rejoined the constable, with a bitter sneer.

"As for yourself, Monsieur le Connétable--" the duke continued quietly.

"Am I to be deprived of my constable's bâton?" interrupted Monsieur de
Montmorency, sharply.

"Oh," replied François de Lorraine, "you know that it is impossible,
and that the office of constable is not like that of lieutenant-general
of the kingdom, but that the former is conferred for life. However, is
it not incompatible with that of grand master, which you also hold? It
seems to be so to his Majesty, who asks for your resignation of the
last-named charge, Monsieur, and deigns to confer it upon me, since I
have no other."

"It is for the best," retorted Montmorency, grinding his teeth. "Is that
all, Monsieur?"

"Why, yes; I think so," said the Duc de Guise, resuming his seat.

The constable felt that it would be difficult for him to restrain his
rage any longer,--that he should perhaps make a scene, and by failing in
respect for the king become a rebellious subject instead of a disgraced
one. He did not wish to afford his triumphant foe that satisfaction; so
he saluted the king abruptly, and made ready to take his leave.

However, before departing, and as if thinking better of his
determination,--

"Sire," said he, "allow me one word more, to fulfil my last duty to the
memory of your glorious father. He who struck the fatal blow, the author
of all our grief, was not perhaps simply careless, Sire,--at least I
have reason to think so. In this melancholy catastrophe there may have
been--in my opinion, there was--an element of criminal intent. The man
whom I accuse did, I know, consider himself wronged by the late king.
Your Majesty will without doubt order a strict inquiry into this
matter."

The Duc de Guise was alarmed at this formal and dangerous charge against
Gabriel; but Catherine de Médicis took it upon herself to reply.

"Be assured, Monsieur," said she to the constable, "that your
intervention was not needed to remind us of such a deed as that; for the
necessity of dealing promptly with the offender is not forgotten by
those to whom the kingly existence so cruelly terminated was quite as
precious as to you. I, the widow of Henri II., cannot yield to any other
person in the world the initiative in such a matter. Therefore be quite
easy, Monsieur; your solicitude is premature. You may withdraw with your
mind at rest on that point."

"I have nothing further to say, then," said the constable.

He was not even to be allowed to gratify in person his implacable
resentment to the Comte de Montgommery, and to pose as the denouncer of
the culprit and the avenger of his master.

Suffocated with shame and anger, he went from the royal presence in
despair.

He departed the same evening for his estate at Chantilly.

That day Madame de Valentinois also quitted the Louvre, where she had
been more of a queen than the queen herself, for her gloomy and distant
exile at Chaumont-sur-Loire, whence she never returned while she lived.

Thus Gabriel's vengeance upon Madame de Poitiers was complete.

It is true that the ex-favorite had in store a terrible vengeance for
him who had thus hurled her from her lofty position.

As for the constable, Gabriel had not done with him, but would be on the
watch for the day when he should regain his influence.

However, we will not anticipate events, but return in haste to the
Louvre, where the deputies of parliament are just being announced to
François II.




CHAPTER XV

CHANGE OF TEMPERATURE


In accordance with Catherine de Médicis's wish, the deputies found the
most perfect unanimity of sentiment prevailing at the Louvre. François
II., his wife at his right hand, and his mother at his left, presented
the Duc de Guise to them as lieutenant-general of the kingdom, the
Cardinal of Lorraine as superintendent of the finances, and François
Olivier as keeper of the seals. Le Balafré was triumphant, the
queen-mother smiled upon his triumph, and everything went off as
smoothly as possible; and no suspicion of a misunderstanding appeared to
cast a shadow upon the fortunate auspices which inaugurated this reign,
which bade fair to be as long as its opening was happy.

One of the councillors of the parliament apparently thought that a
suggestion of clemency would not be ill-timed amid so much happiness,
and as he passed before the king with a group of others he cried,--

"Mercy for Anne Dubourg!"

But the good councillor forgot how zealous a Catholic the new minister
was. Le Balafré, as his habit was, pretended to have misunderstood; and
without going through the formality of consulting the king or the
queen-mother, so sure was he of their approbation, he replied in a loud,
firm voice,--

"Yes, Messieurs, yes; the prosecution of Anne Dubourg and those accused
with him will be at once taken up and carried to its close, never fear!"

With this assurance, the members of parliament left the Louvre, sad or
joyous according to their respective opinions, but all convinced that
never were the governing powers more united in sentiment and better
pleased with one another than those to whom they had just paid their
respects.

After their departure, the Duc de Guise still noticed upon Catherine's
lips the smile which every time that she glanced at him seemed to be
stereotyped there.

François II. rose from his seat, tired out with the formalities he had
gone through.

"At last we are done for to-day, I trust, with business and ceremony,"
said he. "Mother, uncle, may we not one of these days leave Paris for a
while, and pass the balance of our period of mourning at Blois, for
instance, on the banks of the Loire, that Mary loves so dearly? Oh, can
we not, tell me?"

"Oh, do try to make it possible!" said Mary Stuart. "In these lovely
summer days Paris is so wearisome and the country so charming!"

"Monsieur de Guise will attend to that," said Catherine. "But your
labors are not yet quite at an end for to-day, my son; before I leave
you to yourself I must ask for half an hour more of your time, for you
have a sacred duty yet to perform."

"What is it, Mother?" asked François.

"A duty which devolves upon you as the guardian of public justice,
Sire," said Catherine,--"the same one in which Monsieur le Connétable
flattered himself that he would anticipate me; but a wife's justice is
keener than a friend's."

"What does she mean?" the Duc de Guise asked himself, in alarm.

"Sire, your august father died a violent death. The man who dealt the
blow either is simply an unfortunate wretch or a culprit. For my own
part, I incline to the latter supposition; but in any event the question
is worth the trouble of solving. If we treat such an attack with
indifference, without even taking pains to ascertain whether it was
involuntary or not, what risks do not all kings run,--you, above all,
Sire? Therefore an inquiry into what is called the 'accident' of the
30th of June is essential."

"But in that case," said Le Balafré, "it would be necessary to order
Monsieur de Montgommery's arrest at once, Madame, as a regicide."

"Monsieur de Montgommery has been under arrest since morning," said
Catherine.

"Under arrest! And upon whose order, pray!" cried the Duc de Guise.

"Upon mine," replied the queen-mother. "There was no regularly
constituted authority at that time, and I took it upon myself to issue
that order. Monsieur de Montgommery might take flight at any moment, and
it was of the utmost importance to prevent it. He has been brought to
the Louvre without disturbance or excitement. I ask you, my son, to
question him."

Without waiting for permission, she touched a bell, as the Duc de Guise
had done two hours earlier. But this time Le Balafré scowled heavily; a
storm was brewing.

"Order the prisoner to be brought hither," said Catherine to the usher
who appeared.

There was an embarrassing silence when the usher had left the room. The
king seemed undecided, Mary Stuart anxious, and the Duc de Guise very
much displeased. The queen-mother alone affected an air of dignity and
assurance.

The Duc de Guise alone broke the silence with these words,--

"It seems to me that if Monsieur de Montgommery had desired to make his
escape, nothing would have been easier during the last fortnight."

Catherine had no time to reply, for Gabriel was led in at that moment.

He was pale but composed. That morning very early four armed domestics
had come to seek him at his house, to the great dismay of Aloyse. He had
accompanied them without any attempt at resistance, and since then had
awaited events without apparent anxiety.

When Gabriel entered the apartment with a firm step and tranquil
bearing, the young king changed color, whether from emotion at sight of
him who had stricken his father to death, or from alarm at having for
the first time to perform the functions of dispenser of justice of which
his mother had spoken,--in very truth the most awe-inspiring duty which
the Lord has imposed upon the kings of the earth.

Consequently, it was with a scarcely audible voice that he said to
Catherine, turning toward her,--

"Speak, Madame; it is for you to speak."

Catherine de Médicis made haste to avail herself of this permission.
She now believed herself to be certain of her omnipotence with François
and his minister. She addressed Gabriel in a haughty, magisterial tone.

"Monsieur," said she, "we have thought fit, before any other steps were
taken, to cause you to appear before his Majesty in person, and to
question you with our own lips, so that there may be no necessity of
offering you any reparation if we find you innocent, and that justice
may be the more prompt and effective if we find you guilty.
Extraordinary crimes demand extraordinary tribunals. Are you ready to
reply to our questions, Monsieur?"

"I am ready to listen to you, Madame," was Gabriel's reply.

Catherine was rather irritated than convinced by the calm demeanor of
the man whom she had bitterly hated even before he had made her a
widow,--whom she hated the more for all the love which for one moment
she had felt for him. She continued with an offensive bitterness in her
tone,--

"Several curious circumstances conspire to throw suspicion on you,
Monsieur, and to accuse you,--your long absences from Paris, your
voluntary exile from court for nearly two years, your presence and your
mysterious demeanor at the fatal tournament, your very refusal to enter
the lists against the king. How did it happen that you, who are
accustomed to these sports and passages-at-arms, omitted the ordinary
and necessary precaution of throwing away the shaft of your lance as you
were riding back? How do you explain such strange forgetfulness?
Answer! What have you to say to all this?"

"Nothing, Madame," said Gabriel.

"Nothing?" said the queen-mother, completely taken aback.

"Absolutely nothing."

"What!" rejoined Catherine; "you confess, then? You avow that--"

"I neither avow nor confess anything, Madame."

"Oho! then you deny?"

"Nor do I deny anything. I simply say nothing."

Mary Stuart could not restrain a movement of approbation. François II.
listened and looked on with eager curiosity; and the Duc de Guise
remained mute and motionless.

Catherine began again in a tone which became momentarily more and more
biting,--

"Monsieur, be careful! You would do better, perhaps, to try to defend or
justify your action. Understand one thing: Monsieur de Montmorency, who
can, in case of need, be heard as a witness, declares that to his
certain knowledge you might well have certain grievances against the
king, some grounds for personal enmity."

"What were they, Madame? Did Monsieur de Montmorency say what they
were?"

"Not yet, but doubtless he will tell."

"Very well! let him tell them, if he dares!" retorted Gabriel, with a
proud but quiet smile.

"So you refuse altogether to speak, do you?" Catherine persisted.

"I refuse."

"Do you know that the torture may bring your disdainful silence to
terms?"

"I do not think it, Madame."

"By proceeding in this way, you risk your life, I warn you."

"I will not defend it, Madame. It is no longer worth the trouble."

"You are fully determined, then, Monsieur? Not a word?"

"Not one single word, Madame," said Gabriel, shaking his head.

"And quite right, too!" cried Mary Stuart, as if carried away by an
irresistible impulse. "Noble and grand this silence is! It is the course
of a gentleman who does not even choose to repel suspicion for fear that
suspicion may fall upon him. I say, for my part, that this very refusal
to speak is the most eloquent and convincing of justifications!"

During this outburst the old queen was gazing at the younger one with a
stern and angry expression.

"Yes, I may be wrong to speak thus," continued Mary; "but I care not! I
speak as I feel and as I think. My heart will never allow my lips to
remain closed. My impressions and my emotions must find vent. My
instinct is the only policy that I recognize, and it cries out to me now
that Monsieur d'Exmès never conceived and executed such a crime in cold
blood, but that he was only the blind instrument of fate, and believes
himself to be above any other supposition, and therefore scorns to
justify himself. My instinct tells me this, and I give it voice. Why
not?"

The young king gazed joyfully and affectionately at his _mignonne_, as
he called her, while she expressed herself with an eloquence and
animation which made her twenty times more fascinating than usual.

Gabriel cried in a touched and penetrating voice,--

"Oh, thanks, Madame! I thank you! And you have done well; not on my
account, but your own, you have done well to act thus."

"Indeed, I know it," replied Mary, with the most gracious accent that
one could dream of.

"Well, have we reached the end of this sentimental childishness!" cried
Catherine, indignantly.

"No, Madame," said Mary Stuart, wounded in her self-respect as a young
wife and a young queen, "no; if you have made an end of your
childishness, we, who are young, thank God! are only just beginning. Am
I not right, my gentle Sire?" she added, turning prettily toward her
youthful spouse.

The king did not reply in words, but touched with his lips the ends of
the lovely fingers Mary held out to him.

Catherine's wrath, which she had restrained up to that time, now burst
forth; she had not yet succeeded in accustoming to treat as king a son
who was still almost a child; moreover, she believed herself to be
secure in the support of the Duc de Guise, who had not declared himself
thus far, and whom she did not know to be the devoted patron, and, we
might almost say, a tacit accomplice of the Comte de Montgommery. Thus
she dared to give free vent to her ire.

"Ah, this is the way matters stand!" she said in reply to Mary Stuart's
last words, which were slightly contemptuous. "I claim a right, and I am
laughed at. I ask, in all moderation, that the murderer of Henri II. may
at least be interrogated: and when he declines to justify his act, his
silence is approved,--nay, more, it is even applauded. Very well! since
things have come to such a pass, away with cowardly reserve and
half-measures! I proclaim myself aloud as the accuser of the Comte de
Montgommery. Will the king refuse justice to his mother because she is
his mother? We will examine the constable, and Madame de Poitiers, too,
if necessary! The truth shall be brought to light; and if secrets of
State are involved in this affair, we will have the judgment and
sentence kept secret. But the death of a king treacherously murdered
before the eyes of all his subjects shall, at any price, be avenged."

During this harangue of the queen-mother, a sad and resigned smile
played about Gabriel's lips.

He recalled, in his own mind, the last two lines of Nostradamus's
prediction,--


    "Enfin, l'aimera, puis las! le tuera,
             Dame du roy."


And so the prophecy, thus far so faithfully fulfilled, was to be
accomplished to the end! Catherine would cause the condemnation and
death of him whom she had loved! Gabriel expected it, and was ready for
it.

However, the Florentine, thinking perhaps that she might have gone too
far, checked herself a moment; and turning with her most gracious manner
to the Duc de Guise, who was still silent, she said,--

"But you say nothing, Monsieur de Guise. You are of my opinion, are you
not?"

"No, Madame," replied Le Balafré, slowly; "no, I confess that I am not
of your opinion, and that is why I said nothing."

"Ah, you too turn against me!" rejoined Catherine, in a hollow,
threatening voice.

"I am so unfortunate as to disagree with you in this matter, Madame,"
said the duke. "However, you see that until now I have been heartily
with you, and that in everything concerning the constable and Madame de
Valentinois I entirely agreed with your plans."

"Yes, because they served your own," muttered Catherine. "I see it now
when it is too late."

"But as for Monsieur de Montgommery," continued Le Balafré, calmly, "I
cannot conscientiously share in your feeling, Madame. It seems to me
impossible to hold a brave and loyal gentleman answerable for a pure
accident. Prosecution would result in a triumph for him, and his
accusers would be confounded. And concerning the risks to which, in your
opinion, Madame, the lives of our kings would be exposed by an indulgent
mode of dealing which prefers to believe in misfortune rather than in
crime, why, I am convinced, on the other hand, that the real danger
would lie in making the people too familiar with the idea that royal
lives are not held in such sacred reverence as they have supposed."

"Doubtless these are very exalted political maxims," retorted Catherine,
bitterly.

"I consider them true and in good sense, at all events, Madame," added
Le Balafré; "and for all these reasons, and others besides, I am of
opinion that what we ought now to do is to apologize to Monsieur de
Montgommery for this arbitrary arrest, which happily has been kept
secret,--more happily for us than for him; and when our apologies have
been accepted, we have only to restore him to the world, free and
honorable and honored as he was yesterday, and as he will be to-morrow
and forever after. I have spoken."

"Superb!" sneered Catherine.

Turning sharply to the young king, she asked,--

"And does this fine opinion that we have just listened to happen to
coincide with yours, my son?"

The demeanor of Mary Stuart, who was bestowing a grateful glance and
smile upon the Duc de Guise, left François II. no room for hesitation.

"Yes, Mother," he replied, "I confess that my uncle's opinion is mine."

"And so you betray your father's memory, do you?" retorted Catherine, in
a deep voice which she struggled to render unmoved.

"On the other hand, Madame, I respect it," said François. "My father's
first words after his wound were to request that Monsieur de Montgommery
should not be molested, were they not? And did he not, in one of his
rare intervals of consciousness while he lay dying, repeat that request,
or rather command? Allow his son, Madame, to obey him."

"Very well! and you thrust aside at the very beginning your mother's
devout will--"

"Madame," interrupted the Duc de Guise, "allow me to remind you of your
own words, 'only one will in the kingdom.'"

"But I also said, Monsieur, that of the minister should always be
subordinate to that of the king," cried Catherine.

"Yes, Madame," observed Mary Stuart, "but you added, the king's will
should be enlightened by those persons who are interested only in his
glory and his welfare. Now, no one is more interested than I, his wife,
in either of those subjects, I fancy; and I advise him, as my uncle De
Guise does, to believe rather in the loyalty than in the perfidy of a
tried and valiant subject, and not to begin his reign with an iniquitous
act."

"Do you yield to such suggestions as these, my son?" Catherine asked
once more.

"I yield to the voice of my conscience, Mother," replied the young king,
with more firmness than could have been expected of him.

"Is this your last word, François?" continued Catherine. "Be careful!
If you refuse your mother the first request that she makes of you; if
you thus assume the attitude of an independent master toward her, and
act like the docile instrument of others,--you may reign alone, with or
without your faithful ministers. I will have nothing more to do with
anything that concerns king or kingdom, but I will deprive you of the
benefit of my experience and devotion. I will return to my retirement,
and abandon you, my son. Consider, consider well!"

"We should deplore her retirement, but would resign ourselves to bear
it," murmured Mary Stuart, in a low voice which none but François
heard.

But the amorous, imprudent youth, like a faithful echo, repeated
aloud,--

"We should deplore your retirement, but would resign ourselves to bear
it, Madame."

"Ah, very good!" was all Catherine said.

Then she continued in a voice of suppressed rage, pointing at Gabriel,--

"As for that villain, I shall meet with him again, sooner or later."

"I know it, Madame," replied the young man, whose mind was still
dwelling on the horoscope.

But Catherine heard him not.

In a perfect fury of wrath, she included the charming young king and
queen and the Duc de Guise in a baleful glance, viperish and awful,--a
fatal glance, wherein one might have read the promise of all the crimes
dictated by Catherine's ambition and the whole sombre history of the
last kings of the Valois line.

Without another word she left the room.




CHAPTER XVI

GUISE AND COLIGNY


After Catherine de Médicis's departure, there was a moment of silence.
The young king seemed amazed at his own hardihood; while Mary, with the
keen intuition of affection, could not avoid a shudder at the thought of
the queen-mother's last threatening glance. The Duc de Guise was
secretly delighted to find himself thus freed from an ambitious and
dangerous associate before his first hour of authority was at an end.

Gabriel, who was the occasion of all this trouble, was the first to
speak.

"Sire," said he, "and you, Madame, and you also, Monseigneur, I thank
you with all my heart for your kind and generous treatment of a poor
wretch whom Heaven itself has abandoned. But notwithstanding my profound
gratitude, with which my heart is overflowing, I ask you of what use is
it to turn aside danger and death from so mournful and hopeless an
existence as mine? My life is of no value for any purpose, or to any
person, not even myself. For that reason I would not have disputed
Madame Catherine's right to take it, because henceforth it is useless to
me."

He added sorrowfully in his own mind, "And because it may yet become a
nuisance."

"Gabriel," the Duc de Guise rejoined, "your life has been gloriously and
worthily lived in the past, and contains equal possibilities for the
future. You are a man of vigor and energy, such as are in great request
by those who govern empires, and are seldom available."

"Then, too," the sweet and soothing voice of Mary Stuart chimed in,
"yours is a great and noble heart, Monsieur de Montgommery. I have known
you for a long while, and Madame de Castro and myself have very often
talked together about you."

"In short," observed François II., "your past services, Monsieur,
justify me in relying upon you for like services in the future. The
embers of war, which are now smouldering, may burst into a blaze at any
moment, and I do not wish that a momentary despair, whatever be its
cause, should deprive the country forever of a defender who is, I am
sure, as loyal as he is gallant."

Gabriel listened with a grave and wondering sadness to these kind words
of hope and encouragement. He gazed in turn at each of the exalted
personages who had addressed them to him, and appeared to be in very
deep thought.

"Well," he at last replied, "this unexpected good-will which all of you,
who ought perhaps to hate me, thus demonstrate, has changed my heart and
my destiny. At your service, Sire, at yours, Madame and Monseigneur, so
long as you live, I place the existence of which you have made me a
gift, so to speak. I was not born a villain, and your kindness touches
me deeply. I was born to be devoted to somebody, to sacrifice myself,
and to serve as the instrument of noble ideas and great men,--sometimes
a happy, but at others a fatal instrument, alas! as God, in His wrath,
knows only too well! But let us speak no more of the gloomy past, since
you are good enough to believe in the possibility of a future for me.
That future, however, belongs not to me, but to you; and henceforth I
cherish what you admire, and think as you think. I abdicate my will. Let
the beings and the objects in whom I believe, do with me as they please.
My sword, my blood, my life,--all that I am, is theirs. I give my arm
unreservedly and irrevocably to assist your genius, Monseigneur, as I
devote my soul to religion."

He did not say which religion; but those who heard him were such devoted
Catholics that no thought of the Reformed religion entered their minds.

The eloquent abnegation of the young count deeply touched them all. Mary
had tears in her eyes; and the king congratulated himself on having been
firm enough to rescue such a grateful heart. As for the Duc de Guise, he
believed that he knew better than any one how far Gabriel's ardent
self-sacrifice might go.

"Yes, my friend," said he, "I have need of you. I shall call upon you
some day, in the name of France and the king, to draw the sword you
promise us."

"It shall be ready, Monseigneur,--to-morrow, to-day, always!"

"Keep it in its scabbard for the present," said the duke. "As his
Majesty has said, peace prevails at the moment,--there is a truce to war
and faction. So rest on your sword awhile, Gabriel, and give this
unfortunate notoriety which your name has attained of late time to die
away. Surely, not a soul of those who are entitled to the name and
possess the heart of a gentleman will ever dream of accusing you for
your misfortune. But your real glory demands that this undesirable
renown should sink into oblivion. Hereafter, say in a year or two, I
will ask the king to bestow upon you again the office of captain of the
Guards, of which you have never ceased to be worthy."

"Ah," said Gabriel, "it is not honors that I covet, but opportunities to
be useful to my king and country, opportunities to fight. I dare not say
opportunities to die, for fear that I may seem ungrateful."

"Do not talk so, Gabriel," replied Le Balafré. "Just say that when the
king shall call upon you for assistance against his foes, you will
respond to the summons without delay."

"I will, Monseigneur, wherever I am, or may be required to go."

"It is well," said the Duc de Guise; "I ask no more than that of you."

"For my part," said François II., "I thank you for your promise, and
you may rely upon me to see that you do not repent having redeemed it."

"While I," added Mary Stuart, "assure you that your devotion always will
meet with equal confidence on our part, and that you shall be one of
those friends from whom we have no secrets, and to whom we will refuse
nothing."

The young count, more deeply touched than he chose to confess to
himself, bowed, and touched respectfully with his lips the hand which
the queen held out to him.

He then pressed the hand of the Duc de Guise, and receiving his
dismissal by a kindly gesture from the king, withdrew, being thenceforth
bound, by force of a generous action, to the son of the man upon whom he
had sworn to be revenged even in the persons of his children.

Gabriel found Admiral de Coligny awaiting him when he reached home.

Aloyse had informed the admiral, who had come to pay a friendly visit to
his companion-in-arms at St. Quentin, that her master had been summoned
to the Louvre that morning; she had imparted her anxiety to him, and
Coligny had determined to remain until the count's return should
reassure them both.

He received Gabriel with much cordiality, and questioned him as to what
had taken place.

Without going into details, Gabriel merely told him that upon his
offering a simple explanation of his connection with the deplorable
death of Henri II. he had been dismissed unharmed personally and with
his honor unsullied.

"It could not have been otherwise," exclaimed the admiral; "for the
whole nobility of France would have protested as one man against any
suspicion which would have cast a blot upon the fame of one of its
worthiest members."

"Let us drop the subject," said Gabriel, with sorrowful constraint. "I
am very glad to see you, Monsieur l'Amiral. You know that I am already
at heart a member of your sect, for I have told you and written you to
that effect. Since you think that I would not bring discredit upon the
faith in which I believe, I not only wish to, but I do now abjure the
faith in which I was brought up; your discourse and Master Paré's, the
books I have read and my own reflections, have completely convinced me,
and I am with you heart and soul."

"Welcome news! and it comes very opportunely," said the admiral.

"I think, however," said Gabriel, "that even in the interest of the
Religion itself, it might perhaps be better to keep my conversion secret
for a time. As Monsieur de Guise just observed, any sort of notoriety is
best avoided for the present. Besides, this delay will conform better
with the new duties I have to perform."

"We shall always be proud to announce your name publicly as one of us,"
said the admiral.

"But my proper course is to decline, or at all events postpone, this
priceless token of your esteem," Gabriel replied. "But I do wish to give
you this pledge of my utter, immovable faith, and to be able to call
myself in my own mind one of your brethren, both in purpose and in
fact."

"This is glorious, indeed!" exclaimed Monsieur de Coligny. "All that I
ask is your permission to inform the leaders of our party of the notable
conquest which our ideas have definitively made."

"Oh, I consent to that with all my heart," said Gabriel. "The Prince de
Condé," continued the admiral, "La Renaudie, and Baron de Castelnau,
already know you, and appreciate your merit fully."

"Alas! I much fear that they overestimate it; for, viewed in the most
favorable light, my merit is very slight."

"No, no!" returned Coligny; "they do well to rely upon it. I know you
well also. Besides," continued he, in a lower tone, "we may perhaps have
an opportunity to put your new zeal to the proof very soon."

"Indeed!" said Gabriel, in surprise. "You know, Monsieur l'Amiral, that
you can rely upon me,--nevertheless, with certain reservations, which I
must make known to you."

"Who has not his reservations to make!" rejoined the admiral. "But
listen, Gabriel: It was not only as a friend, but as a partisan as well,
that I came to visit you to-day. We have spoken of you with the prince
and La Renaudie. Even before your definite adhesion to our principles we
looked upon you as an auxiliary of peculiar merit, and of impregnable
honesty; in fact, we all agreed in regarding you as a man capable of
serving us if you chose, but incapable of betraying us, whatever might
happen."

"Indeed, I do possess that last qualification, in default of the
former," Gabriel replied. "You may always rely upon my word, if not upon
my assistance."

"Then we resolved to have no secrets from you," said the admiral. "You
will be, like one of our leaders, made acquainted with all our plans,
and you will be held to no responsibility except silence. You are not
like other men; and exceptional measures must be taken with exceptional
men. You will remain quite free, and we only shall be bound."

"Such confidence!" exclaimed Gabriel.

"Your engagement is left entirely to your own discretion, I repeat,"
said the admiral. "To begin with, let me tell you one fact: the schemes
which were revealed to you in the Place Maubert, and which were then
postponed, are practicable to-day. The weakness of the young king, the
domineering arrogance of the Guises, the purpose of persecuting us which
is no longer hidden,--all urge us to action; and we are about to act."

"Pardon me," Gabriel interrupted him; "I have already told you, Monsieur
l'Amiral, that I can only give myself to your cause with certain
limitations. Before you go any further with your confidences, I ought to
tell you definitely that I do not mean to concern myself with the
political aspects of the Reformation,--at least during the continuance
of the present reign. I freely offer my fortune, my time, and my life to
assist in the propagation of our principles and in extending our moral
influence; but I have no right to view the movement except in its
religious bearing, and in no sense as a party question. François II.,
Mary Stuart, as well as the Duc de Guise himself, have treated me very
generously,--yes, nobly. I will not betray their confidence any more
than yours. Allow me to refrain from action, and occupy myself only with
the principle for which we strive. Demand my testimony whenever you
please; but I reserve the independence of my sword."

Monsieur de Coligny replied, after a moment's reflection,--

"My words, Gabriel, were not mere empty sounds. You are and shall still
be quite free. Go on alone in your own path if you please; act
independently of us or not at all. We shall never call you to account.
We know," he added, with a significant expression, "that it is sometimes
your way to prefer to dispense with associates or advisers."

"What do you mean?" asked Gabriel, in surprise.

"I know what I mean," replied the admiral. "For the present you ask that
you may take no part in our conspiracies against the royal authority. So
be it! Our duty will be done when we have given you notice of our
movements and purposes. Then you may follow us or stand apart; that is
your affair, and yours only. You will always know, either by letter or
messenger, when and where we have need of you, and then you will act as
seems good to you. If you come to us, you will always be welcome; if you
stay away, no one will have any fault to find. Such is the agreement to
which the leaders of the party have come concerning you, even before you
had told me where you stood. You can accept such conditions, I should
think."

"Indeed, I do accept them; and I thank you heartily," said Gabriel.

During the night which followed that eventful day, Gabriel, kneeling
before his father's tomb in the mortuary vault of the counts of
Montgommery, communed with his dead in these words:--

"Yes, my Father, I did indeed take oath not only to punish your murderer
in his own lifetime, but also to visit his sins upon his children after
him. There is no doubt of it, O my Father, no doubt! But I did not
anticipate what has happened. Are there not obligations even more sacred
than the fulfilment of an oath? What duty can compel one to strike down
an enemy who puts the sword in one's hand, and presents his bare breast
to receive the blow? If you were living, my Father, I am sure you would
advise me to postpone my wrath, and not to meet confidence with
treachery. Forgive me, then, from the grave, for doing what if you were
living you would require me to do. Moreover, something seems to tell me
that my vengeance is merely suspended, and that but for a short time.
You know on high what we can only feel a presentiment of here below. But
the pallor of this sickly king, and the frightful glance with which his
mother threatened him, and the predictions (which have thus far proved
accurate, and which decree that my own life must fall a prey to that
woman's rancorous hatred), and the conspiracies already set on foot
against the reign which began only yesterday,--all combine to lead me to
think it probable that the boy of sixteen will occupy the throne for a
much less time even than the man of forty, and that I shall very soon be
able to resume my task and my oath of expiation, my Father, under the
reign of another of the sons of Henri II."




CHAPTER XVII

REPORTS AND DENUNCIATIONS


Seven or eight months passed by, unmarked by any important occurrences
either for the personages of this story, or for the actors upon the
stage of history.

Nevertheless, during that time events of considerable importance were
preparing.

To understand what they were, and learn all about them, we have only to
pay a visit, on the 25th of February, 1560, to the place of all others
where news is supposed to be most plentiful; that is to say, the cabinet
of Monsieur le Lieutenant de Police, who was at that time one Monsieur
de Braguelonne.

On the evening of the 25th of February, Monsieur de Braguelonne,
lounging carelessly on his Cordova leather couch, was listening to the
report of Master Arpion, one of his secretaries.

Master Arpion was reading aloud as follows,--


"To-day the notorious thief, Gilles Rose, was arrested in the great hall
of the palace, in the act of cutting off the end of a golden girdle, on
the person of a canon of Ste. Chapelle."


"A canon of Ste. Chapelle! Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Monsieur de
Braguelonne.

"It was a very sacrilegious performance," observed Master Arpion.

"And very clever, too," replied the lieutenant of police, "very clever!
for your canon is a suspicious mortal. I will tell you presently, Master
Arpion, what must be done with this cunning thief. Go on."


"The demoiselles of the hovels in the Rue du Grand-Heuleu," continued
Arpion, "are in a state of open revolt."


"For what cause, in God's name?"

"They claim to have addressed a petition directly to our lord the king,
asking to be allowed to retain their establishments, and meanwhile they
have had an encounter with the watch and put them to rout."

"That is very amusing!" laughed Monsieur de Braguelonne. "We can easily
set that to rights. Poor girls! Is there anything else?"

Master Arpion continued,--


"Messieurs les Deputés de la Sorbonne having presented themselves at
Madame la Princesse de Condé's house at Paris, to insist that she
should not eat flesh during Lent, were received with jeers and derision
by Monsieur de Sechelles, who said to them, among other insulting
things, that he liked them less than a boil on his nose, and that such
calves as they made strange ambassadors."


"Ah, that is a serious matter!" said the lieutenant, rising. "Refusing
to abstain from meat, and poking fun at Messieurs de la Sorbonne! This
tends to swell your account, Madame de Condé; and when we present you
with the total--Arpion, is that all?"

"_Mon Dieu_, yes! for to-day. Monseigneur has not told me what to do
with this Gilles Rose."

"In the first place," said Monsieur de Braguelonne, "you will take him,
together with the most adroit pickpockets and burglars you can find in
the prison, and send the whole lot of fine fellows to Blois, where they
can have an opportunity to exhibit their tricks and cleverness for the
king's entertainment during the fêtes which are being arranged for his
Majesty."

"But, Monseigneur, suppose they retain the articles they have stolen in
fun?"

"Then they shall be hung."

At this moment an usher entered and announced,--

"Monsieur le Inquisiteur de la Foi!"

Master Arpion did not need to be told to withdraw, He bowed respectfully
and left the room.

The man who was ushered in was, in fact, a notable and formidable
personage.

To his every-day titles of Doctor of the Sorbonne and Canon of Noyon, he
added the extraordinary and high-sounding appellation of 'Grand
Inquisitor of the Faith in France.' And in order that he might bear a
name as sonorous as his title, he called himself Démocharès, although
he was really plain Antoine de Mouchy. The people had christened his
subordinates _mouchards_,--police spies.

"Good-evening, Monsieur le Lieutenant de Police," said the grand
inquisitor.

"The same to you, Monsieur le Grand Inquisiteur," responded the
lieutenant.

"Any news in Paris?"

"I was just about to ask you that very question."

"That means that there is none," observed Démocharès, with a profound
sigh. "Ah, these are hard times! There is nothing going on,--no
conspiracies, and no crime at all! What cowardly wretches these
Huguenots are! Our profession has a decided grievance against them,
Monsieur de Braguelonne!"

"No, no!" replied Monsieur de Braguelonne, emphatically. "No,
governments change, but the police remains."

"Nevertheless," retorted Monsieur de Mouchy, bitterly, "see what the
result has been of our descent upon the main army of the Reformers in
the Rue des Marais. By surprising them at table in the midst of their
dinner, we hoped to take them in the act of eating pork in the guise of
the paschal lamb, as you had told us; but the only result of that
magnificent expedition was one poor little larded chicken. Can such
exploits as that reflect much credit upon your organization, Monsieur le
Lieutenant de Police?"

"One can't always succeed," said Monsieur de Braguelonne. "Were you any
more fortunate yourself, in the matter of the advocate of Place
Maubert,--Trouillard, was it not? Yet you expected great things of it."

"I admit it," said Démocharès, piteously.

"You expected to prove as clearly as the day," continued Monsieur de
Braguelonne, "that this Trouillard had abandoned his two daughters to
the tender mercies of his fellow-enthusiasts after a frightful orgy;
but, behold! the witnesses whom you had bought at such a high price
suddenly retracted everything and gave you the lie."

"The traitors!" muttered De Mouchy.

"More than that," said the lieutenant, pitilessly pursuing his
advantage, "I received reports from various sources, all of which went
to show that the virtue of the two young girls was without a stain."

"It was infamous," grumbled Démocharès.

"A bad failure, Monsieur le Grand Inquisiteur de la Foi, a bad failure!"
repeated Monsieur de Braguelonne, with much complacency.

"Well," cried Démocharès, impatiently, "if the affair did miscarry, it
was all your fault!"

"What, my fault!" ejaculated the amazed lieutenant.

"To be sure. You content yourself with reports and retractations, and
such nonsense. Of what consequence are these repulses and
contradictions? We must go ahead all the same, and boldly accuse the
villains as if we had met no rebuff at all."

"What! without proofs?"

"Yes, and convict them."

"When they have committed no crime?"

"Yes, and hang them."

"Without judges?"

"Yes, a hundred times yes! Without judge or crime or proof! There's no
great merit in hanging only those who are really guilty."

"But what an outcry of rage there will be against us then!" said
Monsieur de Braguelonne.

"Ah! that is what I expected you would say," rejoined Démocharès,
triumphantly. "That is the very corner-stone of my whole system,
Monsieur. For what does this rage of which you speak lead to?
Conspiracy. What is the outcome of conspiracy? Revolution. And what is
the principal result of revolution? Why, to make your office and mine of
very great importance and utility."

"To be sure, from that point of view!" said Monsieur de Braguelonne,
laughing.

"Ah, Monsieur," observed Démocharès, with the air of a master,
"remember this principle, 'In order to reap crimes we must first sow
them.' Persecution is a very great force."

"Well, I must say," rejoined the lieutenant, "that it seems to me we
have not been behindhand in that direction since the beginning of this
reign. It would be difficult to stir up and provoke the discontented of
all sorts more than we have done."

"Pshaw! what have we done?" asked the grand inquisitor, scornfully.

"Well, in the first place, do you consider the daily domiciliary visits
and despoiling of all the Huguenots, innocent or guilty, of no account?"

"My faith! yes, I consider them of absolutely no account," was
Démocharès's reply; "for you see with what tranquil patience they bear
these annoyances, which are altogether too trifling."

"And the punishment of Anne Dubourg, nephew of a chancellor of France,
who was burned two months since in the Place de Grève,--was that
nothing?"

"It was a very small thing," said the fastidious De Mouchy. "What was
the result of it? The murder of President Minard, one of his judges, and
an apocryphal conspiracy of which we never, succeeded in finding any
traces. So that was nothing to make a very great amount of talk about."

"Well, what do you say to the last edict?" asked Monsieur de
Braguelonne,--"the last edict, which strikes, not at the Huguenots
alone, but at the whole nobility of the kingdom. For my own part, I said
frankly to Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine that I thought it went a
little too far."

"Are you speaking of the ordinance suppressing pensions?" said
Démocharès.

"No, indeed, but of the one which requires all suitors, whether of high
or low birth, to quit the court within twenty-four hours, under pain of
being hanged. You must agree that to decree the halter for gentlemen and
clowns alike is rather severe, and likely to lead to trouble."

"Yes, the order does not lack audacity," said Démocharès, with a smile
of satisfaction. "Fifty years ago such an edict would, I confess, have
excited the whole nobility to revolt. But now you see they only
complain, and do nothing overt. Not one of them has raised a hand."

"That's where you are mistaken, Monsieur le Grand Inquisiteur," said
Braguelonne, lowering his voice; "and though they may not be stirring at
Paris, there is trouble brewing in the Provinces."

"Aha!" cried De Mouchy, eagerly, "you have some intelligence of that
sort?"

"Not yet, but I expect it every moment."

"From what quarter?"

"From the Loire."

"Have you agents there?"

"Only one, but he is a good one."

"Only one? that's very risky," remarked Démocharès, with a very
knowing air.

"I much prefer, myself," replied Monsieur de Braguelonne, "to pay a
single trustworthy man, who is at once intelligent and reliable, the
price of twenty stupid rascals. That is my way; what do you think?"

"Oh, that's all very well; but who is responsible to you for this man?"

"Well, his head in the first place; and then his past services, too, for
he has been put to the proof."

"Never mind; it's very risky," persisted Démocharès. Master Arpion
came softly in while Monsieur de Mouchy was speaking, and whispered in
his master's ear.

"Aha!" cried the lieutenant, triumphantly. "Very well! Arpion, introduce
Lignières at once. Yes, while Monsieur le Grand Inquisiteur is here;
for is he not one of us?"

Arpion saluted and withdrew.

"This Lignières is the very man of whom I was speaking to you,"
continued Monsieur de Braguelonne, rubbing his hands. "You shall hear
what he says. He has just arrived from Nantes. We have no secrets from
each other, have we?--and I am very glad to have an opportunity to prove
to you that my way is as good as another."

At this point Master Arpion opened the door to Lignières.

It was the selfsame little fellow, lean and hungry-looking, whose
acquaintance we have already made at the Protestant meeting in the Place
Maubert,--the same who had so boldly exhibited the republican medal, and
prated about decapitated lilies and crowns trodden under foot.

Thus we may see that even if the name of instigating agent (_agent
provocateur_) had not come into use at that time, the article itself was
in a flourishing condition.




CHAPTER XVIII

A SPY


Lignières, as he entered the room, cast a look of cold distrust upon
Démocharès, and after he had saluted Monsieur de Braguelonne, remained
cautiously silent and motionless, waiting to be questioned.

"I am delighted to see you, Monsieur Lignières," was Monsieur de
Braguelonne's greeting. "You may speak with perfect freedom before
Monsieur le Grand Inquisiteur de la Foi en France."

"Oh, to be sure!" Lignières made haste to exclaim; "and if I had had
any idea that I was in the presence of the illustrious Démocharès,
pray believe, Monseigneur, that I should not have hesitated as I have."

"Very well!" said De Mouchy, nodding his head approvingly, and evidently
much flattered by the spy's respectful deference.

"Come, speak, Monsieur Lignières!--waste no time," said the lieutenant
of police.

"But it may be," suggested Lignières, "that Monsieur is not thoroughly
conversant with what took place at the last meeting but one held by the
Protestants at La Ferté?"

"In fact, I know very little about it," replied Démocharès.

"Then if I may," added Lignières, "I will briefly recount the serious
facts which I have gathered recently; that course will be better, and
make what comes after more readily understood."

Monsieur de Braguelonne gave the signal of assent, for which Lignières
was waiting. This little delay was doubtless annoying to the impatient
lieutenant; but it also flattered his pride by affording an opportunity
of showing off to the grand inquisitor the superior capacity and
extraordinary eloquence of the agent he had chosen.

It is certain that Démocharès was not only surprised, but that he felt
the delight of a skilful connoisseur who recognizes a more
unexceptionable and perfect instrument than he has himself previously
possessed.

Lignières, much excited by this appreciation in such a high quarter,
tried to show himself worthy of it, and his performance was really very
fine.

"That first assemblage at La Ferté was really not of very much
importance," he began. "There was nothing done or said that was not very
insipid; and it was to no purpose that I proposed overthrowing his
Majesty, and establishing in France a constitution like that in vogue
among the Swiss cantons; my suggestions found no echo but insulting
remarks. It was only provisionally determined to present a petition to
the king, praying that there might be an end to the persecutions of the
Reformers, and that the Guises should be dismissed, a ministry formed,
headed by the princes of the blood, and the States-General be convoked
forthwith. Simply a petition!--a very meagre result that. However, they
made an accurate computation of their numbers and effected an
organization; that is something tangible. Then the matter of choosing
leaders came up. So long as it was only a question of the subordinate
leaders in the different districts there was no trouble; but the
commander-in-chief, the head and front of the conspiracy,--that is where
the difficulty began. Monsieur de Coligny and the Prince de Condé
declined through their respective mouthpieces the dangerous honor which
it was proposed to confer upon one or the other of them. It would be
much better, so we were told in their behalf, to select some Huguenot
who occupied a less lofty position, so that the movement might bear a
more unmistakable stamp of its popular character,--a fine excuse for the
simpletons! However, they were content with it; and after much debate
they finally elected Godefroid de Barry, Seigneur de la Renaudie."

"La Renaudie!" Démocharès repeated the name. "Yes, he is in fact one
of the ardent ringleaders of these scoundrels. I know him to be an
energetic and resolute man."

"You will soon know him for a Catiline!" said Lignières.

"Oh, ho!" said the lieutenant of police; "I think that is going a little
too far."

"You will see," returned the spy,--"you will see if I am going too far!
I come now to our second convocation, which met at Nantes the 5th of
this month of February."

"Aha!" cried Démocharès and Braguelonne together.

Both moved closer to Master Lignières, with eager curiosity.

"That was the time," said Lignières, bursting with importance, "when
they no longer confined themselves to mere talk. Listen! Shall I give
your Lordships at length all the details and the proofs, or shall I
hasten at once to the results?" added the villain, as if he wished to
continue to hold their two hearts dependent on his words as long as
possible.

"Give us the facts--the facts!" cried the lieutenant, impatiently.

"Very well, then, and you will shudder when you hear them. After some
unimportant preliminary speechmaking, La Renaudie took the floor; and
this, in substance, is what he said: 'Last year, when the Queen of
Scotland desired to try the ministers at Stirling, all their
parishioners determined to follow them to that place; and although they
were unarmed, this extensive movement was quite sufficient to frighten
the regent and induce her to forego the violent measures she had
meditated. I propose that here in France we begin in like manner,--that
a great multitude of those of our belief should make their way to Blois,
where the king is living for the moment, and should present themselves
without arms before his Majesty, and hand him a petition wherein he will
be implored to recall the edicts of persecution, and allow the Reformers
the free exercise of their religion; and since their secret meetings in
the night-time have been falsely slandered, he will be asked to permit
them to assemble in their places of worship under the eyes of the
constituted authorities.'"

"Well, well, always the same thing!" Démocharès interrupted, in a tone
of disappointment. "Peaceful and respectful demonstrations, which amount
to nothing! Petitions! protests! supplications! Is this the
awe-inspiring news you had to give us, Master Lignières?"

"Oh, wait,--just wait!" replied Lignières. "You can understand that I
cried down this innocent proposition of La Renaudie's just as you
do,--nay, even more than you. To what, I asked, had such purposeless
steps led before, or to what could they be expected to lead? Others of
the Protestants spoke in the same strain. Thereupon La Renaudie, with
much satisfaction, disclosed the true inwardness of his heart, and
betrayed the audacious scheme which lay hidden beneath his innocent
words."

"Let us hear this audacious scheme," said Démocharès, with the air of
a man not easily to be astonished.

"It is well worth the trouble of frustrating, I think," continued
Lignières. "While men's minds are occupied with the mob of timid,
unarmed petitioners, who approach the throne as suppliants, five hundred
horsemen and a thousand foot,--you understand, Messieurs, fifteen
hundred men,--selected from among the noblemen who are most determined
and most devoted to the Reformation and to the princes, are to come
together from the various provinces, under thirty chosen leaders, to
advance quietly upon Blois by different roads, enter the town, with or
without force,--with or without force, I say,--carry off the king, the
queen-mother, and Monsieur de Guise, and bring them to trial, and fill
their places with the princes of the blood, leaving it for the
States-General to decide upon the form of government which shall finally
be adopted. There, Messieurs, is the plot. What do you say to it? Is it
a childish one? Should it be passed by without being noticed? In short,
am I good for nothing, or am I useful to some extent?"

He came to an end with an expression of triumph. The grand inquisitor
and the lieutenant exchanged glances of surprise, not unmixed with
alarm. There was a long pause, during which their minds were busy with
reflections of various descriptions.

"By the Mass, but this is admirable, I declare!" cried Démocharès, at
last.

"Say rather that it is terrible," observed Monsieur de Braguelonne.

"We shall see; we shall see!" continued the grand inquisitor, shaking
his head very knowingly.

"Why," said Monsieur de Braguelonne, "we only know the schemes which
this La Renaudie avows; but it is very easy to guess that nothing will
come of them; that Messieurs de Guise will be on their guard; that they
will all be cut in pieces; and that if his Majesty intrusts the power to
the Prince de Condé, it will only be by force."

"But we are forewarned!" returned Démocharès. "All that these poor
fools mean to do against us will turn against themselves, and they will
fall into their own trap. I promise you that Monsieur le Cardinal will
be delighted, and would have paid a high price for such an opportunity
of making an end of his enemies."

"God grant that he may continue to be delighted to the end!" said
Monsieur de Braguelonne.

Addressing Lignières, who had now become a man to be treated well, an
invaluable ally, and of great consequence, he said,--

"As for you, Monsieur le Marquis," (the rascal was really a marquis)
"you have rendered a most valuable service to his Majesty and to the
State. You shall be worthily rewarded for it, never fear!"

"Yes, my word for it!" added Démocharès; "you deserve a handsome
reward, Monsieur, and you possess all my esteem! To you, also, Monsieur
de Braguelonne, my sincere congratulations upon your choice of agents.
Ah, Monsieur de Lignières has a claim to my highest consideration, in
truth!"

"That is a very generous recompense for what little I have been able to
do," said Lignières, bowing modestly.

"You know that we are not ungrateful, Monsieur de Lignières," continued
the lieutenant. "But come, you have not told us everything, have you?
Did they fix a time, or a place of rendezvous?"

"They are to meet in the neighborhood of Blois on the 15th of March,"
replied Lignières.

"The 15th of March! Well, well!" exclaimed Monsieur de Braguelonne. "We
have only twenty days before us, and Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine is
at Blois! It will take about two days to notify him and receive his
orders. What a responsibility!"

"But what a triumph at the end!" said Démocharès.

"Have you the names of the leaders, dear Monsieur de Lignières?" asked
the lieutenant.

"Yes, I have them written down," was the reply.

"What a jewel of a man!" exclaimed Démocharès, admiringly. "He helps
to reconcile me to human nature."

Lignières unbuttoned an inner pocket in his doublet, and drew from it a
scrap of paper, and having unfolded it, he read aloud as follows:--


"List of the leaders, with the names of the provinces which
they respectively command:--

"Castelnau de Chalosses,--Gascogne.

"Mazères,--Béarn.

"Du Mesnil,--Périgord.

"Maillé de Brézé,--Poitou.

"La Chesnaye,--Maine.

"Sainte-Marie,--Normandie.

"Cocqueville,--Picardie.

"De Ferrières-Maligny,--Île de France and Champagne.

"Châteauvieux,--Provence, etc.


"You can read that list and make your comments upon it at your leisure,
Monsieur," said Lignières, handing the treacherous paper to the
lieutenant.

"This is nought but organized civil war!" exclaimed Monsieur de
Braguelonne.

"Take notice too," added Lignières, "that while these detachments are
making their way toward Blois, other leaders in each province are to
hold themselves in readiness to put down any movement that may be
attempted in behalf of Messieurs de Guise."

"Good! We will have them all as in a great net!" said Démocharès,
rubbing his hands. "Why, you seem overwhelmed, Monsieur de Braguelonne!
After the first feeling of surprise, I declare that, for my own part, I
should be very sorry if all this had not taken place."

"But just see how little time we have left!" observed the lieutenant.
"In truth, my good Lignières, while I would not for the world reproach,
I must say that since the 5th of February you have had time enough to
notify me."

"How could I?" asked Lignières. "I was intrusted by La Renaudie with
more than twenty commissions between Nantes and Paris. And not only have
I succeeded in gleaning some valuable information, but to have neglected
or postponed his commissions would have been to arouse suspicion, while
to write you a letter or send a messenger would have been to compromise
our secrets."

"Very true," said Monsieur de Braguelonne, "you are always right. Let us
say no more about what is done, but consider what there remains to do.
You have told us nothing of the Prince de Condé. Was he not with you at
Nantes?"

"He was there," Lignières replied. "But before taking any decided step
he wished to consult Chaudieu and the English ambassador, and so he said
that he would accompany La Renaudie to Paris for that purpose."

"Is he coming to Paris, then? And is La Renaudie also coming?"

"Better than that; they ought both to be here ere this." said
Lignières.

"And where do they lodge?" asked Monsieur de Braguelonne, eagerly.

"That I can't tell you. I took pains to ask, in a careless way, where I
might find our leader if I had any communication to make; but they only
gave me an indirect channel of correspondence. La Renaudie probably does
not wish to compromise the prince."

"That is a great pity, I must admit," reflected the lieutenant. "We
shall have difficulty in finding traces of them."

At this moment Master Arpion entered once more with his soft and
mysterious tread.

"Well, what is it, Arpion?" asked Monsieur de Braguelonne, sharply. "You
knew very well that we were engaged with important business, and why the
devil do you interrupt us?"

"I should not have ventured to enter unless for something of equal
importance," replied Arpion.

"Well, what is it? Tell me quickly, and aloud; for we are all friends
here."

"A man named Pierre des Avenelles--" began Arpion.

De Braguelonne, Démocharès, and Lignières exclaimed simultaneously,--

"Pierre des Avenelles!"

"That's the advocate of the Rue des Marmousets, who ordinarily
entertains the Protestants at Paris," said Démocharès.

"And upon whose house I have long had my eye," added De Braguelonne.
"But the good man is very sly and careful, and has always eluded my
surveillance. What does he want, Arpion?"

"To speak with Monseigneur at once," replied the secretary. "He seems to
me to be in a state of great alarm."

"He cannot know anything," said Lignières, quickly and jealously.
"Besides," he added, with lofty scorn, "he is an honest man."

"We shall see; we shall see!" observed the grand inquisitor. (That was
his favorite expression.)

"Arpion," Monsieur de Braguelonne said to the secretary, "show this man
in immediately."

"I will, Monseigneur," said Arpion, leaving the room.

"Pardon me, my dear Marquis," continued De Braguelonne, addressing
Lignières, "this Des Avenelles knows you, and the unexpected sight of
you might disturb him. And then, too, neither you nor I would care to
have him know you were one of us. Be good enough to step into Arpion's
closet while this interview is in progress; it is there at the end of
the passage. I will recall you as soon as we have done with him. You
might remain, if you will, Monsieur le Grand Inquisiteur, for your
imposing presence cannot fail to be useful."

"Very well; I will remain to please you," said Démocharès, well
content.

"And I will withdraw," said Lignières; "but remember what I say,
Monsieur le Lieutenant. You will not learn anything of importance from
this fellow Des Avenelles. A poor fool! A timid but upright soul! But of
no particular account,--of no account at all."

"We will do the best we can. But go, go, my dear Lignières! here is our
man."

In fact, Lignières had but just time to make his escape when a man
entered, pale and trembling with nervous excitement, escorted, indeed,
almost carried, by Master Arpion.

It was Pierre des Avenelles, the advocate, whom we first-met with Sieur
Lignières, at the meeting in the Place Maubert, where he made the
success of the evening, if our readers remember, with his courageously
timid speech.




CHAPTER XIX

AN INFORMER


On the occasion of this, our second meeting with Pierre des Avenelles,
he was all timidity, and had lost his courage.

After bowing to the floor before Démocharès and De Braguelonne, he
began in a faltering voice,--

"I am, I presume, in the presence of Monsieur le Lieutenant de Police?"

"And of Monsieur le Grand Inquisiteur de la Foi," added De Braguelonne,
waving his hand toward De Mouchy.

"Oh, Holy Virgin!" cried poor Des Avenelles, turning still paler if that
were possible. "Messeigneurs, you see, being a very great
culprit,--alas! one who has been too guilty,--may I hope for mercy? I
know not. Can my sincere wish to atone for my sins help me to lighten
their punishment? It is for your clemency to reply."

Monsieur de Braguelonne saw at once with what manner of man he had to
do.

"To confess is not sufficient," he said harshly; "there must be
reparation as well."

"Oh, there shall be, Monseigneur, if I can accomplish it!" returned Des
Avenelles.

"Very well; but in order to accomplish it," continued the lieutenant,
"you must have it in your power to be of some service to us, or to give
us some valuable information."

"I will try to do so," said the advocate, almost choked with terror.

"It will be very difficult," retorted De Braguelonne, carelessly, "for
we already know all there is to know."

"What! you know--"

"Everything, I tell you; and in this pass to which you have brought
yourself your tardy repentance will hardly avail to save your head, I
promise you."

"My head! Oh, Heaven! My head in danger? Yet I have come--"

"Too late," said the inflexible De Braguelonne. "You cannot now be of
any use to us, and we know in advance everything that you can tell us."

"Perhaps not," said Des Avenelles. "Excuse my question, but what do you
know?"

"In the first place, that you are one of these damned heretics,"
interposed Démocharès, in a voice of thunder.

"Alas, alas! that is only too true!" replied Des Avenelles. "Yes, I am
of the Religion,--why, I'm sure I have no idea; but I will abjure it,
Monseigneur, if you will only spare my life. The meeting-house is
surrounded by too many perils, and I will go back to Mass."

"That is not all," said Démocharès; "you are in the habit of
entertaining Huguenots at your house."

"No one has ever been able to find one in any of their visitations,"
returned the advocate, eagerly.

"Very true," said Monsieur de Braguelonne; "for you probably have some
secret exit from your house,--some hidden passage, some as yet unknown
means of communication with the outer world. But one of these days we
will not leave one stone of your house standing on another, and it will
be forced to yield us its secret."

"I will give it up to you myself," said the advocate; "for I admit,
Monseigneur, that I have at times furnished board and lodging to those
of the Religion. They pay well; and my profession is so unremunerative!
One must live! But it shall never happen again; and if my abjuration is
accepted, no Huguenot will ever dare to knock at my door again."

"You have also spoken frequently at the Protestant meetings," continued
Démocharès.

"I am an advocate," whined Des Avenelles. "Besides, I have always spoken
in favor of moderate measures. You ought to know that, since you know
everything."

Summoning courage to raise his eyes to these two forbidding personages,
Des Avenelles went on,--

"But, asking your pardon, it seems to me that you do not know
everything; for you speak only about me, and have nothing to say about
the affairs of the party in general, which are in truth of vast moment.
Therefore I am glad to see that there are many things of which you still
know nothing."

"That is just where you are mistaken," retorted the lieutenant; "and we
will prove it to you."

Démocharès motioned him to be careful.

"I understand you, Monsieur le Grand Inquisiteur," said he; "but there
can be no imprudence in showing our hand to Monsieur, for Monsieur will
not leave this place for a long time to come."

"What! not leave here for a long time?" cried Pierre des Avenelles, in
affright.

"No, certainly not," coolly remarked Monsieur de Braguelonne. "Do you
imagine, pray, that under color of coming here to make revelations, you
will be allowed at your ease to observe our position, and assure
yourself as to the extent of our information, and then go and report
everything to your accomplices? That won't do, my dear Monsieur; and you
are our prisoner from this moment."

"Prisoner!" Des Avenelles repeated the word as if overwhelmed at the
thought; but upon reflection he adopted a different tone. Our man, we
remember, had the courage of cowardice in the highest degree.

"Oh, well,--in fact, I much prefer it so!" he cried. "I am much safer
here with you than I should be at home, in the midst of all their
plot-hatching. And since you have determined to keep me here, Monsieur
le Lieutenant, you will have no scruples now about consenting to reply
to some of my respectful questions. In my humble opinion, you are not so
thoroughly well informed as you believe, and I think I may find some way
of proving my good faith and my loyalty by some valuable revelation."

"Hum! I much doubt it," replied Monsieur de Braguelonne.

"In the first place, what do you know about the latest meetings of the
Huguenots, Monseigneur?" asked the advocate.

"Do you mean the one held at Nantes?" said the lieutenant.

"Ah! do you know that? Very well! Yes, the one held at Nantes. What took
place there?"

"Do you refer to the conspiracy that was formed there?" rejoined
Monsieur de Braguelonne, slyly.

"Alas, yes! I see that I can tell you nothing of consequence on that
subject," replied Des Avenelles. "That conspiracy--"

"Has for its object to carry off the king from Blois, substitute the
princes for Messieurs de Guise by force, convoke the States-General,
etc. All this is ancient history, my dear Monsieur des Avenelles, for it
happened way back on the 5th of February."

"And the conspirators who feel so sure of their secret!" exclaimed the
advocate. "They are lost, and myself with them; for doubtless you know
the leaders of the conspiracy?"

"The secret leaders as well as the avowed ones. The former are the
Prince de Condé and the admiral; while the avowed leaders are La
Renaudie, Castelnau, Mazères--But it would take too long to enumerate
them all. See, here is a list of their names, and of the provinces as
well which they are respectively expected to incite to rebellion."

"Great God of mercy! How skilful are the police, and what fools the
conspirators!" cried Des Avenelles. "Is there not, then, the least
little word which I can tell you, which you do not already know? The
Prince de Condé and La Renaudie, for instance,--do you know where they
are?"

"Together in Paris."

"Why, this is frightful! And there is nothing left for me to do but to
commend my soul to God! Yet, stay!--one word more, in pity's name!
Whereabouts in Paris are they?"

Monsieur de Braguelonne did not immediately reply, but with his clear
and piercing glance seemed to be reading Des Avenelles's soul and his
eyes to their lowest depths.

The latter, with labored breath, repeated his question,--"Do you know in
what part of Paris the Prince de Condé and La Renaudie now are,
Monseigneur?"

"We shall have no difficulty in finding them," replied Monsieur de
Braguelonne.

"But you haven't found them yet!" cried Des Avenelles, with delight.
"Ah! God be praised! I may still win my pardon. _I_ know where they are,
Monseigneur."

Démocharès's eye glistened; but the lieutenant of police concealed his
satisfaction.

"Pray, where are they?" he said in the most indifferent tone imaginable.

"At my house, Messieurs, at my house!" said the advocate, proudly.

"I knew it," calmly replied Monsieur de Braguelonne. "What do you
say,--you knew that, too?" ejaculated Des Avenelles, whose cheeks lost
their color again.

"To be sure I did; but I wished to test your good faith. Come, it is all
right, and I am content with you! Your case was a very serious one, to
say the least. To think of having sheltered such great villains!"

"You made yourself quite as guilty as they," said Démocharès,
sententiously.

"Oh, don't say so, Monseigneur!" rejoined Des Avenelles. "I feared I was
incurring great risks, and I have hardly dared to breathe since I have
known the horrible plans of my two guests. But I have known them only
three days,--only three days, I solemnly swear! You should know that I
was not present at the Nantes gathering. When the Prince de Condé and
the Seigneur de la Renaudie arrived at my house in the early part of
this week, I believed myself to be harboring adherents of the Reformed
religion, but not conspirators. I have a holy horror of conspirators and
conspiracies! They said nothing to me on the subject at first; and it is
that for which I am angry with them. Thus to expose to deadly peril,
without his knowledge, a poor fellow who had never done them aught but
good turns,--that was very wrong. But these great personages never do
otherwise."

"What's that?" was Monsieur de Braguelonne's sharp retort,--for he
considered himself a very great man indeed.

"I refer to the great personages of the Reformed religion," the advocate
made haste to explain. "However, they began by keeping everything from
me; but they were whispering together all day long, and writing day and
night; visits they received every minute. I watched and listened; in
short, I guessed at the beginning of the plot, so that they were obliged
to tell me everything,--their meeting at Nantes, their great conspiracy;
in fact, all this that you know, and which they thought so carefully
concealed. But since that revelation I have not been able to sleep or
eat; I have just existed. Every time that anybody came to my house--and
God knows how often people have come there!--I would imagine that they
had come to carry me before the judges. During the night, in my rare
moments of feverish sleep, I dreamed of nothing but courts and scaffolds
and executioners, and I would awake bathed in a cold perspiration, to
begin again my unceasing attempts to foresee and estimate the risk I was
running."

"The risk you were running, did you say?" said Monsieur de Braguelonne.
"Why, prison in the first place--"

"And torture in the second," added Démocharès.

"To be followed probably by hanging," said the lieutenant.

"Or the stake, possibly," continued the grand inquisitor.

"The wheel has been known to be used in such cases," the lieutenant put
in, as a suitably effective end to the list.

"Imprisoned! tortured! hanged! burned alive! broken on the wheel!" Poor
Des Avenelles repeated every word as if he had actually undergone each
of the punishments they enumerated.

"_Dame_! You are an advocate, and should know the law," retorted
Monsieur de Braguelonne.

"Indeed, I know it only too well!" cried Des Avenelles. "Therefore,
after three days of mortal anguish, I could restrain myself no longer: I
felt that such a secret was too heavy a burden for my responsibility,
and I came to deposit it in your hands, Monsieur le Lieutenant de
Police."

"That was the safest course to pursue," replied Monsieur de Braguelonne;
"and although, as you see, your revelation is of no great service to us,
still we will take your good intentions into consideration."

He talked for some moments in a low tone with De Mouchy, who seemed to
be urging him, not without much resistance, to adopt a certain course of
action.

"Before everything, I beg you, for mercy's sake," said Des Avenelles,
imploringly, "not to betray my defection to my former--accomplices; for,
alas! they who murdered President Minard might well do me an ill turn
also."

"We will keep your secret," replied the lieutenant of police.

"But you propose to keep me a prisoner, do you not?" said Des Avenelles,
with a very humbled and frightened air.

"No; you may return freely to your own house at any moment," replied De
Braguelonne.

"Do you mean it?" said the advocate. "Ah! I see you propose to arrest my
guests?"

"Not your guests, either. They will remain as free as yourself."

"How is that?" asked Des Avenelles, in amazement.

"Just listen to me a moment," replied Monsieur de Braguelonne, in an
authoritative tone, "and pay good heed to my words. You will return at
once to your own house, lest a too long absence should arouse suspicion.
You will say not a word more to your guests, either as to your own fears
or their secrets. You will act, and leave them to act, as if you had not
been in this room to-day. Do you understand me? Hinder nothing, and
express surprise at nothing. Let things take their course."

"That is easily done," said Des Avenelles.

"However," added Monsieur de Braguelonne, "if we need any information,
we will either send to you for it or summon you hither, and you will
hold yourself always in readiness to serve us in either way. If a
descent upon your house is judged necessary, you will lend a hand in
making it effective."

"Since I have done so much merely to make a beginning, I will go through
with it," said Des Avenelles, with a sigh.

"Very well. One word in conclusion. If matters progress in a way to
prove that you have obeyed these very simple instructions, you shall
have your pardon; but if we have reason to suspect that you have been in
the least degree indiscreet, you will be the first to be punished, and
will suffer worse than all the others."

"You shall be burned alive, by our Lady!" chimed in Démocharès, in his
deep and gloomy voice.

"However--" began the trembling advocate.

"That is sufficient," said De Braguelonne. "You have heard; see that you
remember. _Au revoir_."

He made an imperious motion with his hand. The too prudent advocate left
the room, relieved and anxious at the same time.

After his departure, for a moment nothing was said by the two others.

"You wished it so, and I yielded," said the lieutenant, finally; "but I
confess that I have serious doubts as to the wisdom of that mode of
procedure."

"No, everything is as well as can be," replied Démocharès. "This
business must be allowed to take its own course, and with that in view,
the important point was not to give the alarm to the conspirators. Let
them think themselves sure of their secret, and go ahead in their false
security. They fancy that they are marching in darkness, while we are
following all their movements in the broad daylight. It is superb! Such
another occasion to strike a deadly blow at the root of the heresy will
not present itself in twenty years. Besides, I know the ideas of his
Eminence the Cardinal de Lorraine upon this matter."

"Better than I do, to be sure," said De Braguelonne. "What are we to do
now?"

"You will remain at Paris," said Démocharès, "and with the assistance
of Lignières and Des Avenelles, keep a strict watch upon the two
leading conspirators. I shall set out in an hour for Blois, to warn
Messieurs de Guise. The cardinal will be somewhat alarmed at first, but
Le Balafré is with him to encourage him; and when he comes to think it
over, he will be in an ecstasy of delight. It is for those two to
assemble in a fortnight around the king, without disturbance, all the
forces they have available. Meanwhile, our Huguenots will have nothing
to startle them; they will fall in a body, or one by one, into the trap
we have laid, the blind fools, and they will be at our mercy. We shall
have them, and then,--'General slaughter!'"

The grand inquisitor stalked up and down the room rubbing his hands for
joy.

"May God grant," said Monsieur de Braguelonne, "that no unforeseen event
shall reduce this splendid scheme to nought!"

"Impossible!" Démocharès made haste to say. "General slaughter! We
have them on the hip! Call Lignières back, if you will, so that he may
finish with the information he has for us, which I am to report to the
Cardinal de Lorraine. But I look upon the heresy as already extinct.
General slaughter!"




CHAPTER XX

A CHILD KING AND QUEEN


If in imagination we go forward two days, and traverse forty leagues of
space, we may fancy ourselves on the 27th of February at the splendid
Château de Blois, where the court was temporarily established.

There had been a great celebration at the château the day before, with
jousting and ballets and allegorical representations, all under the
direction of Monsieur Antoine de Baïf the poet.

So that on the morning in question the young king and his queen, for
whose entertainment the fête had been given, had risen rather later
than usual, and not fully rested from the fatigue of their
holiday-making.

Fortunately no reception was appointed for that day, so that they were
at liberty to amuse themselves by chatting over at their leisure the
things that had pleased their fancy.

"For my own part," said Mary Stuart, "I thought all the entertainments
the finest and rarest things imaginable."

"Yes," replied François, "especially the ballets and the scenes that
were acted. But I must confess that the sonnets and madrigals seemed to
me a trifle tiresome."

"What!" cried Mary; "why, they were very bright and clever, I assure
you."

"But too everlastingly eulogistic, you must agree, _mignonne_. You see,
it's not especially amusing to hear one's self praised thus by the hour;
and I could not help fancying last evening that the good God Himself
must sometimes have His moments of being bored in His Paradise. Then you
must remember, too, that these gentlemen, especially Messieurs de Baïf
and de Maisonfleur, have a way of interlarding their discourse with
numbers of Latin words, which I do not always understand."

"But that has a very learned air," said Mary, "and it is a fashion which
makes me feel very literary and of very correct taste."

"Ah, Mary, you know so much yourself!" replied the young king, smiling.
"You can make verses, and you understand Latin, too, while I have never
succeeded in making any headway in it."

"But study is our lot, and the only amusement we women have, just as you
men and princes are born to action and command."

"Nevertheless," rejoined François, "just for the sake of equalling you
in one thing, I would like to know as much as my brother Charles."

"Apropos of our brother Charles," Mary interrupted, "did you notice him
yesterday in the part he assumed in the allegory of 'Religion defended
by the Three Divine Virtues'?"

"Yes," said the king; "he was one of the horsemen who represented the
virtues,--Charity, I think."

"The very same," replied Mary. "Well, did you see, Sire, with what fury
he belabored the head of poor Heresy?"

"Yes, indeed, when she came forward in the midst of the flames with the
body of a serpent. Charles seemed to be quite beside himself, really."

"And, tell me, gentle Sire," continued the queen, "did not that head of
Heresy seem to you to resemble some one?"

"Why, yes," said François, "I thought I must be mistaken; but it
assuredly wore the expression of Monsieur de Coligny, did it not?"

"Say, rather, that it was Monsieur l'Amiral, feature for feature."

"And all those devils who carried him off!" said the king.

"And the joy of our uncle the cardinal!"

"And my mother's smile."

"It was almost frightful!" said the young queen. "And yet, François,
your mother was very beautiful last evening with her dress of shimmering
gold and her tan-colored veil,--a magnificent costume!"

"Yes, it was," replied the king; "and so, my _mignonne_, I have ordered
a similar dress for you at Constantinople, through Monsieur de
Grandchamp, and you shall also have a veil of Roman gauze like my
mother's."

"Oh, thanks, my gallant spouse! Thanks! I certainly do not envy the fate
of our sister Élisabeth of Spain, who, they say, never wears the same
dress twice. And yet I should not like to have any woman in France, even
your mother, seem to be more finely dressed than I, especially in your
eyes."

"Ah, what difference does it make, after all?" said the king; "for will
you not always be the loveliest of them all?"

"It hardly seemed so yesterday," pouted Mary; "for after the torch-dance
that I danced, you never said a single word to me. I must needs think
that you did not like it."

"Indeed I did!" cried François; "but what could I say, in God's name,
beside all those clever wits of the court who were pouring compliments
upon you in prose and verse? Dubellay claimed that you had no need of a
torch like the other ladies, but that the light that shone from your
eyes was sufficient. Maisonfleur was appalled at the danger from the
vivid sparks from your eyes which were never extinguished and might
destroy the entire hall. Whereupon Ronsard added that the stars which
shone in your head might serve to lighten the darkness of the night, and
to put the sun to shame by day. Was there any need, pray, after all
those poetic flights for me to come and add my poor testimony that I
thought you and your dance fascinating?"

"Why not?" was Mary's playful retort. "That little word from you would
have rejoiced my heart more than all their tasteless flattery."

"Well, then, I say it this morning, _mignonne_, with all my heart; for
the dance was perfect, and almost made me forget the Spanish _pavane_
which I used to like so much, and the Italian _pazzemeni_, which you and
poor Élisabeth danced together so divinely. In fact, dear, whatever you
do is always done better than what others do; for you are the fairest of
the fair, and the prettiest women look like chambermaids beside you!
Yes, in your royal attire or in this simple dishabille, you are always
the same, my queen and my love. I see only you, and I love none but
you!"

"Dear _mignon_!"

"My adored darling!"

"My life!"

"My supreme and only good! See! Though you had but a peasant's hood, I
would love you better than all the queens of the earth!"

"For my own part," replied Mary, "though you were but a simple page, you
and none other would reign in my heart."

"Oh, _mon Dieu_!" added François, "how I love to pass my fingers
through your soft silky, fair hair, and to play with it and tangle it! I
can well imagine that your women might often ask leave to kiss that
round white neck, and those arms, so beautifully turned and so plump.
But don't you let them any more, Mary!"

"Why not, pray?"

"Because I am jealous!" said the king.

"Foolish child!" laughed Mary, with an adorable childish gesture.

"Ah!" cried François, passionately, "if I had to choose between
renouncing my crown and my Mary, the choice would soon be made."

"What madness!" exclaimed Mary. "How could any one give up the crown of
France, which is the fairest of all after the heavenly crown?"

"Because of the mark it makes upon my brow!" said François, with a
smile that was half playful and half sad.

"What!" said Mary. "Oh, but I forgot that we have one matter to
settle--and a matter of the most supreme importance--which my uncle De
Lorraine has thrust upon us."

"Oh, ho!" cried the king; "that does not often happen."

"He leaves it for us," said Mary, very seriously, "to decide upon the
color of the uniform of our Swiss Guards."

"That is a mark of confidence which does us great honor. Let us consult
upon it. What is your Majesty's opinion upon this difficult question,
Madame?"

"Oh, I must only speak after you, Sire."

"Well, then, I think that the style of the coat should remain the
same,--a broad doublet with full sleeves, with slashings in three
colors. Am I not right?"

"Yes, Sire; but what shall the colors be? That is the question?"

"It is not an easy one; but that is because you do not help me, my fair
adviser. The first color?"

"It ought to be white," said Mary,--"the color of France."

"Then the second," declared François, "shall be that of
Scotland,--blue."

"Very well; but the third?"

"How would yellow do?"

"Oh, no; that is the color of Spain. Green would be better."

"That is the color of the Guises," said the king.

"Very well, Monsieur; is that a reason for excluding it?"

"No, indeed; but will these three colors harmonize well?"

"Well thought of!" cried Mary Stuart. "Let us take red, the color of
Switzerland; it will be in a measure a reminder of their country to the
poor fellows."

"An idea as kind as your heart, Mary," the king responded. "There! that
momentous affair has come to a glorious conclusion. Ouf! we have had
enough trouble with it; fortunately, more serious matters do not give us
so much. And your dear uncles, Mary, are so willing to relieve me of all
the burden of government! it is delightful! They do the writing, and I
have only to sign my name, sometimes without even reading; so that my
crown placed upon my royal couch would serve quite as well as I, if the
whim should seize me to take a journey."

"Do you not feel sure, Sire," asked Mary, "that my uncles will never
have aught at heart save your interest and that of France?"

"How can I help knowing it?" was the reply. "They tell me of it too
often to give me any hope of forgetting it. For instance, it is the day
for a meeting of the council to-day: and we shall see Monsieur le
Cardinal de Lorraine come in with his deep humility and his overdone
respect,--which do not always amuse me, I confess,--and shall hear him
say in his soft voice, bowing at every word, 'Sire, the suggestion I
have the honor to make to your Majesty is aimed only at maintaining the
honor of your crown. Your Majesty cannot doubt the zeal for the glory of
your reign and the welfare of your people by which we are animated.
Sire, the splendor of the throne and of the Church is the only end,'
etc."

"How perfectly you imitate him!" cried Mary, laughing and clapping her
hands.

But in a more serious tone she continued,--

"We must be indulgent and generous, François. Pray, do you suppose that
your lady-mother, Catherine de Médicis, gives me much pleasure when,
with her pale face sternly set, she reads me endless sermons upon my
dress and my servants and my establishment? Can you not hear her now
saying to me, with her lips pursed up, 'My daughter, you are the queen.
I am to-day only the second woman in the kingdom; but if I were in your
place, I should require my women to attend Mass no less regularly than
vespers and the sermon; if I were in your place, I would never wear
carnation velvet, because it is too gaudy a color; if I were in your
place, I would have my silver-gray dress made over, because it is too
_décollettée_; if I were in your place, I would never dance myself,
but would be content to watch others; if I were in your place--'"

"Oh, oh!" cried the king, shrieking with laughter; "it is my mother
herself! But then, you see, _mignonne_, she is my mother, after all; and
I have already offended her grievously by leaving no share for her in
the affairs of State, which are entirely administered by your uncles; so
we must put up with some things we don't like, and respectfully bear
with her scolding. I, too, will resign myself to the gentle tutelage of
the Cardinal de Lorraine, just because you are his niece, do you hear?"

"Thanks, dear Sire!--thanks for the sacrifice!" and Mary emphasized her
words with a kiss.

"But, joking apart," continued François, "there are times when I am
tempted to renounce the title of king, as I have already abandoned the
power."

"Oh, why do you say that?" cried Mary.

"Because I feel it, Mary. Ah, if only it were not necessary to be King
of France in order to be your husband! Just consider a moment! I have
nought but the weariness and restraints of royalty. The humblest of our
subjects is freer than I. Why, if I had not been downright angry at the
suggestion, we should have had to occupy separate apartments! Why, do
you suppose? Because they alleged that it was the custom of kings and
queens of France!"

"How ridiculous they are with their customs!" exclaimed Mary. "Oh, well,
we have changed all that, and established a new custom,--which, thank
God, is much better than the other."

"To be sure it is, Mary. But, tell me, do you know the secret desire I
have been cherishing for a long time?"

"No,--indeed I do not."

"Well, it is to break loose for a while,--to fly or steal away, and
leave the throne to take care of itself; to turn our backs upon Paris,
Blois, yes, even upon France itself, and go--where? I don't know nor
care, so long as it is far away from here, where we can breathe at our
ease for a little while like other people. Mary, would not such a
journey, say for six months or a year, please you?"

"Oh, I should be perfectly delighted, my beloved Sire," replied Mary,
"especially for your sake; for I am sometimes unquiet about your health,
and you suffer too frequently with these distressing headaches. The
change of air and of scene would distract your thoughts, and be a most
excellent thing for you. Yes, let us go, let us go! But, oh! the
cardinal and the queen-mother,--will they listen to such a plan?"

"Well, after I am king and I am master," said François. "The kingdom is
quiet and peaceable; and since they get along very well without my will
in the government, they can do quite as well without my presence. We
will take our flight in advance of the winter, Mary, like the swallows.
Let us see. Where would you like to go? Suppose we were to visit your
Scottish States?"

"What! cross the seal," said Mary. "Expose your delicate chest, my
_mignon_, to those dangerous fogs? No! I should prefer our smiling
Touraine and this fair Château de Blois. But why should we not pay a
visit to our sister Élisabeth in Spain?"

"The air of Madrid is not wholesome for kings of France, Mary."

"Oh, well! Italy, then!" suggested Mary. "It is always lovely there, and
always warm,--blue sky and blue water; orange-trees in flower, and
music, and continual holiday-making!"

"Italy accepted!" cried the king, joyously. "We will see the Holy
Catholic Religion in all its glory,--the magnificent churches and the
relics of the saints."

"And Raphael's paintings," added Mary, "and St. Peter's, and the
Vatican."

"We will ask the Holy Father for his blessing, and will bring back our
hands full of indulgences."

"Oh, it will be delightful," said the queen, "to realize this lovely
dream together, side by side, beloved and loving, with heaven in our
hearts, and on our heads--"

"Paradise!" cried François, enthusiastically.

But even as he spoke, carried away by the fascinating thought, the door
opened suddenly, and the Cardinal de Lorraine, pushing aside the usher
in attendance, who had no time to announce him, burst into the royal
apartment, pale and breathless.

The Duc de Guise, less excited but quite as serious, followed his
brother at a short distance, and his measured step could be heard in the
antechamber through the door, which remained open.




CHAPTER XXI

END OF THE ITALIAN JOURNEY


"Well, Monsieur le Cardinal," said the young king, warmly, "am I not to
be allowed a moment of leisure and freedom even in this place?"

"Sire," replied Charles de Lorraine, "I am very sorry to disobey your
Majesty's orders; but the affair which has led my brother and myself
hither is of too great moment to admit of delay."

As he spoke, the Duc de Guise came gravely in, saluted the king and
queen silently, and remained standing behind his brother, mute,
immovable, and very serious.

"Very well! I am listening, Monsieur; therefore speak," said François
to the cardinal.

"Sire," continued the latter, "a conspiracy against your Majesty has
been discovered, and your life is no longer safe in this Château de
Blois; you should depart hence immediately."

"A conspiracy! Depart from Blois!" exclaimed the king. "Pray, what does
all this mean?"

"It means, Sire, that evil-minded men are conspiring against the life
and the crown of your Majesty."

"What!" said François, "can they have any ill-will against me, so young
as I am, and only seated on the throne yesterday! against me, who have
never injured a single soul,--that is to say, knowingly or wilfully! Who
are these evil-minded men, Monsieur le Cardinal?"

"Why, who should they be," rejoined Charles de Lorraine, "if not these
cursed Huguenot heretics?"

"Heretics again!" cried the king. "Are you sure, Monsieur, that you are
not allowing yourself to be led astray by suspicions which have no
foundation in fact?"

"Alas!" said the cardinal, "there is, unhappily, no room for doubt now."

The young king, whose delightful dreams were thus interrupted by this
unpleasant reality, seemed greatly annoyed; Mary was much disturbed by
his ill-humor, and the cardinal very anxious over the news he had
brought. Le Balafré, alone calm and self-controlled, awaited the result
of all this talk in an attitude of utter impassibility.

"In God's name, what have I done to my people that they love me no
longer!" continued François, bitterly.

"I think I told your Majesty that it is only the Huguenots who are
rebellious," said the Cardinal de Lorraine.

"Well, they are Frenchmen!" rejoined the king. "In fact, Monsieur le
Cardinal, I have intrusted all my power to your hands in the hope that
you would cause it to be blessed, and yet I am continually encompassed
by anxiety and complaints and discontent."

"Oh, Sire, Sire!" exclaimed Mary Stuart, reproachfully.

The Cardinal de Lorraine retorted dryly,--

"It would be hardly fair, Sire, to hold us responsible for ills which
are due entirely to the troublous condition of the time."

"Nevertheless, Monsieur," continued the youthful king, "I should like
for once to know the real condition of affairs, and to be without you at
my side for a while, so that I might ascertain whether the disaffection
is directed against myself or you."

"Oh, your Majesty!" cried Mary Stuart, in great alarm.

François said no more, for he already reproached himself for having
gone too far. The Duc de Guise did not manifest the least disturbance.
Charles de Lorraine, after an embarrassing silence, replied, with the
dignified and constrained air of a man unjustly offended,--

"Sire, since we are unfortunate enough to see that our efforts are
misunderstood or not appreciated, and are therefore useless, it only
remains for us, as your loyal subjects and devoted kinsmen, to give
place to others more worthy or more fortunate--"

The king, in his confusion, said nothing; and the cardinal continued,
after a pause,--

"Your Majesty has only to tell us in whose hands to place our seals of
office. So far as I am concerned, nothing will be easier than to fill my
place. Your Majesty will simply have to choose between Monsieur le
Chancelier Olivier, Monsieur le Cardinal de Tournon, and Monsieur de
l'Hôpital."

Mary Stuart hid her face in her hands in despair; while poor repentant
François would have asked for nothing better than to recall his
childish indignation, but the haughty silence of Le Balafré frightened
him.

Charles de Lorraine continued: "The office of grand master, however, and
the management of affairs in case of war, demand such extraordinary
talents and such lofty renown that, after my brother, I can think of
only two men who could venture to pretend to fill his place,--Monsieur
de Brissac, perhaps--"

"Oh, Brissac is always scolding, and always in a passion!" exclaimed the
king; "he is not to be thought of!"

"Well, the other one," continued the cardinal, "is Monsieur de
Montmorency, who surely has the renown even though he lacks the
necessary talents."

"Oh, no!" François objected again; "Monsieur le Connétable is too old
for me, and he formerly treated the dauphin too slightingly to make it
probable that he would serve the king with due respect to-day. But,
Monsieur le Cardinal, why do you omit to mention my other kinsmen, the
princes of the blood,--the Prince de Condé, for example?"

"Sire," said the cardinal, "it is with deep regret that I inform your
Majesty of the fact, but among the names of the secret leaders of the
conspiracy that has been unearthed, that of the Prince de Condé stands
first."

"Is it possible?" asked the young king, almost stupefied.

"Sire, there is no doubt about it."

"Then this must be really a serious conspiracy against the State?" said
François.

"It is almost a rebellion, Sire," replied the cardinal; "and since your
Majesty relieves my brother and myself from the most awful
responsibility that has ever been laid upon us, my duty compels me to
implore you to name our successors as soon as possible,--for the
Huguenots will be under the walls of Blois in a few days."

"What do you say, my uncle?" cried Mary, in dismay.

"The truth, Madame."

"Are the rebels numerous?" asked the king.

"Sire, they are said to be two thousand strong," replied the cardinal.
"There were rumors that their advance-guard was already near La
Carrelière, but I could hardly believe them until Monsieur de Mouchy
brought me intelligence of the conspiracy from Paris. We will withdraw
now, Sire, Monsieur de Guise and myself--"

"What's that?" exclaimed François. "Do you both select such a time of
danger as this to desert me?"

"But I thought I understood, Sire," returned Charles de Lorraine, "that
such was your Majesty's intention."

"What do you wish?" said the king. "I cannot help being sad when I see
how many enemies you have made--I mean how many enemies I have! But
come, let us say no more about it, good uncle; give me more details as
to the insolent attempt of these rebels."

"Pardon, Sire!" retorted the cardinal, still standing on his dignity;
"after what your Majesty has said, it seems to me that others than
ourselves--"

"Oh, dear uncle, I implore you to say no more about my hasty words,
which I am sorry for," said François II. "What more can I say? Must I
apologize, pray, and ask your pardon?"

"Oh, Sire!" said Charles de Lorraine, "at the moment that your Majesty
restores his precious confidence to us--"

"Entirely, and with all my heart," added the king, offering his hand to
the cardinal.

"Just so much valuable time lost!" said the Duc de Guise, gravely.

It was the first word he had uttered since the beginning of the
interview.

He came forward now, as if all that had gone before had been simply
unimportant preliminaries a wearisome prologue, in which he had allowed
the Cardinal de Lorraine to sustain the principal part; but these
puerile discussions being at an end, he haughtily took the floor and
assumed the initiative.

"Sire," said he to the king, "this, in brief, is the condition of
affairs: two thousand rebels, commanded by Baron de la Renaudie, and
encouraged underhand by the Prince de Condé, are preparing a descent at
this time from Poitou, Béarn, and other provinces, with the view of
surprising Blois and carrying off your Majesty."

François made a gesture of indignation and surprise.

"Carry off the king!" cried Mary Stuart.

"And you with him, Madame," continued Le Balafré. "But never fear; we
will take good care of your Majesties."

"What measures do you propose to take?" asked the king.

"We received warning of this only an hour since," said the Duc de Guise.
"But the first thing to do, Sire, is to assure the safety of your sacred
person. For that purpose, it is necessary that you should leave this
unfortified town of Blois and its unprotected château this very day, to
withdraw to Amboise, where there is a fortified château which will
protect you against a sudden blow."

"What!" said the queen; "imprison ourselves in that vile Château
d'Amboise, perched up on top of a rock, and so gloomy and sad!"

"Child!" was what Le Balafré's harsh look said to his niece, though he
did not put it in words.

He said simply,--

"Madame, it must be done!"

"But that will be flying from these rebels!" said the young king,
trembling with rage.

"Sire," rejoined the duke, "you cannot fly from an enemy who has not yet
attacked you, nor even declared war against you. We are supposed to be
in ignorance of the guilty designs of these factionists."

"However, we do know them," said François.

"I beg your Majesty to rely upon me as regards these questions of
honor," replied François de Lorraine. "We do not shun the combat simply
by changing the field of battle; and I sincerely hope that the rebels
will take the trouble of following us to Amboise."

"Why do you say that you hope so, Monsieur?" asked the king.

"Why?" said Le Balafré, with his superb smile. "Because it will be a
good opportunity to put an end once for all to heretics and heresy;
because it is high time to strike at them in some other way than in
fiction and allegory; because I would have given two fingers of my
hand--my left hand--to bring about without difficulty the decisive
struggle which these reckless fools are inviting, for our triumph."

"Alas!" sighed the king, "is this struggle anything less than civil
war?"

"Let us accept it for the sake of having done with it," replied the Duc
de Guise. "This, in a word, is my plan,--your Majesty must remember that
we have only these rebels to deal with: Saving this retreat from Blois,
which will not arouse their suspicions, I hope, we will affect the most
complete security and most utter ignorance in regard to their plans. And
when they advance upon us, like the traitors that they are, to surprise
us, we shall be the ones to surprise them, and catch them in their own
trap. Therefore let no sign of alarm escape you, or any appearance of
flight; this advice is meant especially for you, Madame," he said,
turning to Mary. "My orders will be given, and your people notified to
be ready, but it will be done secretly. Let there be no suspicion
outside of our preparations or our apprehensions, and I will answer for
everything."

"What hour is fixed for our departure?" asked François, with a dejected
air of resignation.

"Sire, three in the afternoon," said the duke; "I have taken all needful
steps."

"What! before coming to me?"

"Even so, Sire," replied Le Balafré, firmly; "for before I came to you,
I was perfectly sure that your Majesty would listen to the voice of
reason and honor."

"Very well!" said the young king, with a feeble smile, completely
conquered, "we will be ready at three o'clock, Monsieur; we have every
confidence in you."

"Sire," said the duke, "I thank you for your confidence, and will strive
to merit it. But I beg your Majesty to excuse me, for at such times
minutes are precious, and I have twenty letters to write, and a hundred
commissions to give out. Therefore my brother and myself will humbly
take leave of your Majesty."

He saluted the king and queen quite abruptly, and went out with the
cardinal.

François and Mary gazed at each other ruefully for a moment without
speaking.

"Well, my darling," said the king at last, "how about our fair vision of
a journey to Rome?"

"It seems to have resolved itself into a flight to Amboise," sighed
Mary.

At this moment Madame Dayelle, the queen's first lady-in-waiting,
appeared.

"Pray, Madame, is this true that I have heard?" said she, after the
ordinary salutation. "Must we break up our establishment here at once,
and quit Bloise for Amboise?"

"It is only too true, my poor Dayelle," replied Mary.

"Do you know, Madame, that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, in that
château?--not even a decent mirror!"

"Then we must carry everything from here, Dayelle," said the queen.
"Write out at once a list of the things we must have; I will dictate to
you. In the first place, my new dress of crimson damask with gold lace
trimming--"

Turning to the king, who was still standing in the window recess,
thoughtful and sad,--

"Just fancy, Sire," said she, "the audacity of these Reformers! But,
pardon me, you ought also to be thinking about what things you will need
at Amboise, so that you will not be unprovided."

"No," said François; "I will leave all that to Aubert, my _valet de
chambre_. I myself can think of nothing but my disappointment."

"Do you think mine is any less bitter?" said Mary. "Madame Dayelle, put
down my violet farthingale covered with gold camblet, and my white
damask dress with silver trimming. But we must make the best of it," she
continued, addressing the king, "and not run the risk of being without
articles of the first importance. Madame Dayelle, don't forget my
bedgown of plain cloth-of-gold trimmed with lynx. Not for ages, Sire,
has the old Château d'Amboise been inhabited by the court, has it?"

"Since the days of Charles VIII.," said François, "I do not think that
a king of France has ever lived there for more than two or three days."

"And we may have to stay there a whole month!" exclaimed Mary. "Oh,
those wretched Huguenots! Don't you think, Madame Dayelle, that the
bedchamber at all events will be partly furnished?"

"The surest way, Madame," said the lady-in-waiting, shaking her head,
"will be to go prepared to find nothing at all there."

"Then put down the gold-framed mirror," said the queen, "the violet
velvet jewel-case, and the shaggy carpet to put around the bed. But have
subjects ever before been known, Sire," she continued in a low tone,
returning to the king's side, "to march against their master thus, and
drive him from his own house, so to speak?"

"Never, I think, Mary," was François's melancholy reply. "Sometimes
scoundrels have been known to resist the execution of the king's
commands, as was the case fifteen years since at Mérindol and La
Cabrière; but to attack the king in the first place,--I could never
have imagined such a thing, I declare!"

"Oh, my uncle Guise is right, then! We cannot take too many precautions
against these hot-headed rebels. Madame Dayelle, add a dozen or so pairs
of shoes, and twelve pillows and sheets. Is that all? Really, I believe
I am losing my mind! Wait a moment, my dear! Here, put in this velvet
pincushion and this gold candlestick and bodkin and gilt needle-case.
There, I see nothing else."

"Will not Madame carry her two jewel-cases?"

"Yes, indeed, I will carry them!" cried Mary, eagerly. "Leave them here!
Why, they might fall into the hands of these miscreants, might they not,
Sire? I am quite sure I will carry them."

"It will be a wise precaution," said François, with a slight smile.

"I think I have omitted nothing else of consequence, my dear Dayelle?"
continued Mary, looking around the room.

"Madame will remember her 'Book of Hours,' I trust," said the
maid-of-honor, rather affectedly.

"Ah, I should have forgotten them," said Mary, ingenuously. "Let me have
the finest ones,--the one which my uncle the cardinal gave me and the
scarlet velvet one with the gold ornaments. Madame Dayelle, I leave you
to look after all this. You see how preoccupied the king and myself are
by the disagreeable necessity for this sudden departure."

"Madame has no need to quicken my zeal," said the duenna. "How many
chests and trunks must I order to carry everything! Five will suffice, I
should think."

"Order six, and go now!" replied the queen. "We must not fall short in
this deplorable extremity,--six, without counting those of my women,
remember! But let them make their own arrangements, for I haven't the
heart to attend to all these details. Yes, François, I am like you; I
can think of nothing but these Huguenots, alas! You may go now,
Dayelle."

"Any orders for the footmen and coachmen, Madame?"

"Let them wear simply their cloth coats," said the queen. "Go, dear
Dayelle, without further loss of time."

Dayelle bowed and had taken three or four steps toward the door, when
Mary called her back.

"Dayelle," said she, "when I said that our people should wear only their
cloth coats, you understand that I meant for the journey. Let them not
fail to take with them their capes of violet velvet and their violet
cloaks lined with yellow velvet. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Madame. Has Madame any other orders to give?"

"No, nothing more," said Mary. "But see that everything is done
promptly; we have only about three hours. Don't forget the footmen's
cloaks."

Dayelle left the room without further hindrance.

Mary then turned to the king.

"You approve of these cloaks for our people, Sire, do you not?" she
asked. "The Reformers will surely allow us to dress our household as we
think fitting. We must not humiliate royalty too much before the rebels.
I even venture to hope, Sire, that we may find it possible to give a
little fête in their faces at Amboise, though it be such a detestable
place."

François shook his head rather gloomily.

"Oh, don't you sneer at the idea!" said Mary. "That would intimidate
them more than you think, by letting them see that, after all, we are
not much afraid of them. A ball under such circumstances would be most
excellent politics, I am not afraid to say; and even your mother,
capable woman that she is, could suggest nothing better. But no matter!
For all that I say, my heart is none the less torn, my poor, dear Sire.
Ah, the villanous Huguenots!"




CHAPTER XXII

TWO APPEALS


Since the fatal tournament Gabriel had led a calm and retired but gloomy
life. This man of energetic movement and action, whose days had formerly
been so filled with life and excitement, now seemed to take delight only
in solitude and forgetfulness.

He never appeared at court, never saw a friend, and scarcely ever left
his house, where he passed the long, sad, and dreamy hours with his
faithful old nurse Aloyse and the page André, who had come back to him
when Diane de Castro had taken her sudden flight to the Benedictine
convent at St. Quentin.

Gabriel, still a young man in years, had grown old from grief. He
brooded over the past, and had no longer any hope.

How many times during those months, each of which was years long, had he
regretted that he was still alive! How many times did he wonder why the
Duc de Guise and Mary Stuart had placed themselves between him and the
anger of Catherine de Médicis, and had laid upon him the bitter burden
of life! What had he to do on earth? What was he good for? Could the
tomb be any more barren of result than this existence in which he was
languishing,--if, indeed, it could be called an existence!

There were moments, however, when his youthful vigor rose in protest in
spite of himself.

Then he would stretch his arms and raise his head and gaze at his sword.
At such times he would have a vague feeling that his life was not ended,
but that there was still a future for him, and that hours of hot
fighting, and perhaps of victory, might sooner or later enter again into
his destiny.

In view of everything, however, he could see only two chances of
returning to the life of action for which he was best fitted,--a foreign
war or religious persecution.

If France, if the king, should find themselves involved in some new war,
undertaken for conquest, or to repel invasion, the Comte de Montgommery
told himself that his youthful ardor would at once return, and that it
would be pleasant for him to die as he had lived,--fighting.

And then how glad he would be to pay the involuntary debt he owed the
Duc de Guise and young King François!

Again Gabriel would reflect that it would be a glorious thing to die in
defence of the new truths which had shed their light upon his soul
during the later days. The cause of the Reformation--in his eyes the
cause of justice and liberty--was also a noble and saintly cause to
serve.

The young count read assiduously the controversial books and sermons
which then abounded. He burned with excitement over the great principles
revealed in lofty and soul-stirring words by Luther, Melanchton, Calvin,
Theodore de Bèze, and so many others. The books of all these
untrammelled thinkers had fascinated and convinced him, and drawn him on
to adopt their principles. He would have been proud and happy to sign
the attestation of his faith with his blood.

It was always the noble instinct of this noble heart to devote his life
to some person or some cause.

Not long since he had risked his life a hundred times to save or to
avenge, it might be his father or his beloved Diane,--oh, memories
forever bleeding in that wounded heart!--and now, in default of those
cherished beings, he would have been glad to struggle in defence of
sacred ideas,--

His country in his father's place; his religion in place of his love.

Alas, alas! it is in vain to talk, for it is not the same thing; and
enthusiasm for abstract principles can never equal, either in its
suffering or its delight, the enthusiasm of fondness for our
fellow-creatures.

But yet for one or the other of these two causes, the Reformation or
France, Gabriel would have been content to sacrifice his life; and he
relied upon one of them to bring about the desired termination of his
career.

On the morning of the 6th of March Gabriel was leaning back in his chair
in the corner of his fireplace, brooding over the thoughts which had
become his very life, when Aloyse brought in to him a messenger, booted
and spurred and covered with mud, as if he had just travelled a long
way.

It was a rainy morning.

The courier had just arrived from Amboise, under a strong escort, the
bearer of several letters from Monsieur le Duc de Guise,
lieutenant-general of the kingdom.

One of the letters was addressed to Gabriel, and its contents were as
follows:--


MY DEAR COMPANION,--I am writing this to you in great haste, with
neither leisure nor possibility of explaining myself. You told the king
and myself that you were devoted to us, and that if ever we were in need
of your devoted service, we had only to call upon you.

We do call upon you to-day.

Set out at once for Amboise, where the king and queen are now installed
for some weeks. I will tell you on your arrival in what way you can be
of use.

It is always understood that you are quite at liberty to act or to hold
aloof. Your zeal is too valuable for me to wish to make a bad use of it,
or compromise you. But whether you are with us or prefer to remain
neutral, I should think I was neglecting a duty if I failed to have
confidence in you.

Come, therefore, in all haste, and you will be, as always, most welcome.


              Your affectionate friend,

                             FRANÇOIS DE LORRAINE.

Amboise, the 4th March, 1560.

P.S. Herewith is a safe-conduct, for use in case you should be
questioned _en route_ by some royal troop.


The messenger from the Duc de Guise had already departed to execute his
other commissions when Gabriel finished the letter.

The eager youth rose at once, and said without hesitation to the
nurse,--

"Good Aloyse, call André, please, and tell him to have the dapple-gray
saddled and to prepare my travelling wallet."

"Are you going away, Monseigneur?" the good woman asked.

"Yes, nurse, to Amboise, within two hours."

There was nothing more to be said; and Aloyse, without a word, went
sadly from the room to see that her young master's orders were carried
out.

But while his preparations were being made, behold, another messenger
appeared, and demanded to speak with the Comte de Montgommery alone.

He made no commotion, and, unlike his predecessor, had no escort. He
came in silently and very modestly, and without uttering a sound, handed
Gabriel a letter which he had in charge.

Gabriel started as he thought that he recognized him as the same who had
formerly brought him La Renaudie's invitation to attend the Protestant
meeting in the Place Maubert.

It was in fact the same man; and the letter bore the same signature. It
said:--


FRIEND AND BROTHER,--I did not wish to leave Paris without having seen
you; but I had no time, for events came thick and fast, and hurried me
on. I must go now, and have not even pressed your hand, nor have I told
you our plans and our hopes.

But we know that you are with us, and I know what manner of man you are.

With such as you there is no need of preparation, of meetings, and
speech-making,--a word is sufficient.

This is the word: We need you. Come.

Be at Noizai near Amboise by the 10th or 12th of this month of March.
You will find there your brave and noble friend De Castelnau. He will
tell you what is going on, for I dare not trust it to paper.

It is agreed that you are in no wise bound; that you have a perfect
right to stand apart; and that you may always abstain from acting with
us without incurring the least suspicion or receiving the slightest
reproach.

But in any event come to Noizai, I will meet you there, and we will seek
your advice, if we cannot have your assistance.

Then, too, can anything be accomplished by our party unless you are
informed with regard to it?

So adieu till we meet at Noizai. We rely upon your presence, at all
events.

                             L. R.

P.S. If any troop of our friends should fall in with you _en route_, our
password is, once more, _Genève_, and our countersign, _Gloire de
Dieu_!


"In an hour I set out," said Gabriel to the silent messenger, who bowed
and took his leave.

"What does all this signify?" Gabriel asked himself when he was alone;
"and what is the meaning of these two appeals coming from parties so
hostile, and appointing a rendezvous at almost the same place? But it
makes no difference at all! My obligations toward the omnipotent duke
and toward the oppressed Reformers are equally certain. My duty is to
set out at once. Then come what come may! However difficult my position
may become, my conscience knows well that I shall never turn traitor."

An hour later Gabriel began his journey, accompanied only by André.

But he hardly foresaw the extraordinary and terrible alternative by
which his loyal soul was to be confronted.




CHAPTER XXIII

A PERILOUS CONFIDENCE


In the Duc de Guise's apartments at the Château d'Amboise, Le Balafré
himself was interrogating a tall, vigorous, nervous individual, with
strongly marked features and proud and fearless bearing, who wore the
uniform of a captain of arquebusiers.

"Maréchal de Brissac," said the duke, "has assured me, Captain
Richelieu, that I may have the fullest confidence in you."

"Monsieur le Maréchal is very kind," said Richelieu.

"It seems that you are ambitious, Monsieur," continued Le Balafré.

"Monseigneur, I am at least ambitious not to remain captain of
arquebusiers all my life. Although I come of very good stock (for there
were lords of Plessis on the field at Bovines), I am the fifth of six
brothers, and consequently I have to do my best to eke out my little
fortune, and not depend too much upon my patrimony."

"Good!" said the Duc de Guise, with an air of satisfaction. "You have
the opportunity now, Monsieur, to do us good service, and you shall not
repent it."

"Behold me, Monseigneur, ready to undertake whatever you please to
intrust to me."

"To begin with," said Le Balafré, "I have ordered that you command the
guard at the principal entrance of the château."

"Where I promise to give a good account of myself, Monseigneur."

"In my opinion," continued the duke, "it is not likely that the
Protestants will be sufficiently ill-advised to make their assault on a
side where they will be obliged to carry seven doors one after the
other; but as nobody is to be allowed to enter or leave the place by any
other entrance, the post will be of the greatest importance. Therefore
let nobody pass, either from within or without, without a special order
signed by me."

"It shall be done, Monseigneur. By the way, a young gentleman, called
the Comte de Montgommery, has just arrived, with no special order, but
with a safe-conduct bearing your signature. He comes from Paris, he
says. Shall I allow him to come in, as he asks, Monseigneur?"

"Yes, yes, at once!" said the Duc de Guise, eagerly. "But wait a moment;
I have not completed my instructions to you. To-day, about noon, the
Prince de Condé will present himself at the gate where you are to be on
guard: we have sent for him that we might have at our hand the reputed
chief of the rebels, who, I'll wager, will not dare to furnish food for
our suspicions by failing to neglect our summons. You will open to him,
Captain Richelieu, but to no other--not even to such as come with him.
You will be careful to have all the recesses and casemates which there
are in the arch well filled with men; and as soon as he arrives, you
will parade them all, arquebuse in hand, and matches lighted, under
pretence of receiving him with the proper honors."

"It shall be done as you say, Monseigneur," said Richelieu.

"When the Huguenots attack," continued the duke, "and the action begins,
you must personally keep your eye upon our man, Captain; and, mark my
words well, if he stirs one step, or gives the least sign of an
inclination to join the assailants, or if he even hesitates to draw his
sword against them, as his duty calls upon him to do, do not hesitate
with your own hands to strike him down."

"I can see no difficulty about this, Monseigneur," said Captain
Richelieu, simply, "except that my rank as a simple captain of
arquebusiers will make it rather hard, perhaps, for me to be always as
near him as I ought to be."

Le Balafré reflected a minute, and said,--

"Monsieur le Grand Prieur and the Duc d'Aumale, who will never quit the
supposed traitor's side for a moment, will give you the signal, and you
will obey them."

"I will obey them, Monseigneur," replied Richelieu.

"Good!" said the Duc de Guise; "I have no other orders to give you,
Captain. You may go. If the glory of your house began with Philippe
Auguste, you may well begin it anew with the Duc de Guise. I rely upon
you, and you may rely upon me. Go. Introduce Monsieur de Montgommery at
once, if you please."

Captain Richelieu bowed deeply and withdrew.

A few minutes later Gabriel was announced. He was sad and pale; and the
cordial welcome which the Duc de Guise extended to him did not smooth
the trouble from his brow.

In fact, after putting together his own conjectures and a few words
which the guards had not scrupled to let fall in the presence of a
gentleman bearing the duke's safe-conduct, the young enthusiast had
almost arrived at the truth.

The king who had pardoned him and the party to which he was devoted,
body and soul, were openly at war, and his loyalty was likely to be
compromised in the struggle.

"Well, Gabriel," began the duke, "you ought to know by this time why I
have sent for you."

"I suspect the reason, but am not altogether sure of it, Monseigneur,"
Gabriel replied.

"The Protestants are in open rebellion," said Le Balafré, "and are in
arms, and on their way to attack the Château d'Amboise,--that is our
latest intelligence."

"It is a grievous and appalling state of things," observed Gabriel,
reflecting on his own situation.

"Why, my friend, it is a magnificent opportunity," retorted the duke.

"What do you mean, Monseigneur?" said Gabriel, in amazement.

"I mean that the Huguenots expect to surprise us, whereas we are all
ready for them. I mean that their plans are discovered and betrayed. It
is fair warfare, since they have been the first to draw the sword; but
our enemies are about to deliver themselves into our hands. They are
lost, I tell you."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the Comte de Montgommery, completely
crushed.

"Judge for yourself," continued Le Balafré, "to what extent all the
details of their insane enterprise are known to us. On the 16th of
March, at noon, they are to assemble before the town and attack us. They
have friends in the king's guard; therefore the guard was changed. Their
friends were to open the western gate to them; but that gate is walled
up. Lastly, their different bands were to proceed secretly hither
through certain paths in the forest of Château-Begnault. The royal
troops will fall upon these detached parties unexpectedly as fast as
they appear, and will not allow half of their forces to reach Amboise.
We are accurately informed, and thoroughly upon our guard, I should
say!"

"Thoroughly!" replied Gabriel, in great alarm. "But who has been able to
furnish you with such complete information?" he added in his perplexity,
and without realizing what he said.

"Ah," rejoined Le Balafré, "there are two who have betrayed all their
plans,--one for money, the other from fear. Two traitors they are, I
admit,--one a paid spy, the other a faint-hearted alarmist. The
spy--whom you know perhaps, as many of our friends do, and whom you
should distrust--is the Marquis de ----."

"No, do not tell me!" cried Gabriel, quickly; "do not give me their
names! I asked you for them thoughtlessly. You have already told me
quite enough; but there is nothing more difficult for a man of honor
than not to betray traitors."

"Oh," said the Duc de Guise, with some surprise, "we all have perfect
confidence in you, Gabriel. We were speaking of you only yesterday with
the queen; I told her that I had written you, and she was very much
pleased."

"Why did you write to me, Monseigneur? You have not yet informed me."

"Why?" rejoined Le Balafré. "Because the king has but a few devoted and
reliable servants. You are among them, and you are to command a party
against the rebels."

"Against the rebels? Impossible!" said Gabriel.

"Impossible! And why impossible, pray?" returned Le Balafré. "I am not
in the habit of hearing that word from your lips, Gabriel."

"Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "I also am of the Religion."

The Duc de Guise leaped to his feet, and gazed at the count with an
expression of wonder which amounted almost to terror.

"Matters are in this condition," Gabriel continued, smiling sadly: "if
it be your pleasure, Monseigneur, to put me face to face with the
English or Spaniards, you know that I will not draw back, but that I
will offer my life for my country with joy, as well as with devotion;
but in a civil, a religious, war against my fellow-countrymen, my
brothers, I am compelled, Monseigneur, to reserve the freedom of action
which you were good enough to insure me."

"You a Huguenot!" the duke finally succeeded in ejaculating.

"And a most devoted one, Monseigneur," said Gabriel; "it is my crime,
and my excuse therefor as well. I believe utterly in the new ideas, and
have given my heart to them."

"And your sword too, without doubt?" was the duke's biting rejoinder.

"No, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, gravely.

"Come, come!" retorted Le Balafré; "do you expect to make me believe
that you know nothing of this plot which has been concocted against the
king by your brothers, as you call them, and that these same brothers
cheerfully renounce so gallant an ally as you?"

"You must believe just that," said the young count, more seriously than
ever.

"Then you must be the one to desert them," rejoined the duke; "for your
new faith compels you to choose between two breaches of faith,--that's
all."

"Oh, Monsieur!" cried Gabriel, reproachfully,

"Well, how can you arrange matters otherwise?" asked Le Balafré,
throwing his cap with an angry movement upon the chair he had just
quitted.

"How can I arrange matters otherwise?" repeated Gabriel, with a cold and
almost stern demeanor. "Why, it's very simple. In my opinion, the falser
the position in which a man is placed the more sincere and outspoken he
should be. When I became a Protestant I steadfastly and loyally declared
to the leaders of the sect that my sacred obligations to the king and
queen and the Duc de Guise would absolutely prevent me from bearing arms
in their ranks during this reign, if indeed the occasion should arise.
They know that in my eyes the Reformation is a matter of religious
belief, and not of party feeling. With them as with you, Monseigneur, I
stipulated for absolute freedom of action; and I have the right to
refuse my aid to them, as I refuse it to you. In this desperate conflict
between my gratitude and my faith my heart will bleed with every blow
that is struck; but my arm will not strike one. That, Monseigneur, is
wherein you have failed to understand me; and in this way, I trust, by
remaining neutral, to continue to be honorable and honored."

Gabriel spoke proudly and with much animation. Le Balafré, gradually
regaining his tranquillity, could but admire the frankness and the
nobleness of heart of his former comrade-in-arms.

"You are a strange man, Gabriel," he pensively remarked.

"Why strange, Monseigneur? Is it because I speak as I act and act as I
speak? I knew nothing of this conspiracy of the Protestants, I swear.
However, I admit that when I was at Paris I received, on the same day
that your letter arrived, a letter from one of them; but this letter was
as barren of explanation as yours, and said simply, 'Come.' I had a
foreboding of the dread dilemma in which I should be involved; but I
have, nevertheless, responded to this twofold appeal. Monseigneur, I
have come so that I might prove recreant to neither of my duties; I have
come to say to you, 'I cannot fight against those whose faith I share,'
and to say to them, 'I cannot fight against those who have spared my
life.'"

The Duc de Guise held out his hand to the count.

"I was wrong," said he, cordially. "Pray, attribute my angry impulse to
my chagrin at finding you, upon whom I have relied so confidently, among
my enemies."

"Your enemy!" exclaimed Gabriel. "Ah, no!--I am not and never can be
that, Monseigneur. Because I have declared myself more openly than they,
am I any more your enemy than the Prince de Condé and Monsieur de
Coligny, who are, as I am, Protestants, and not under arms?"

"Under arms! I beg your pardon, but they are," returned Le Balafré. "I
know it,--I know all! But their arms are hidden. Nevertheless, if we
should meet, it is certain that I should dissimulate even as they do,
should call them my friends, and in case of need officially bear witness
to their entire innocence,--a comedy, it is true, but a necessary one."

"Well, then, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "since you are so kind as
sometimes to lay aside conventionalities in dealing with me, tell me, I
beg you, that when politics are not in question, you can still believe
in my devotion to you, and my honor, Huguenot though I be; above all
things, assure me that if a foreign war should break out some day, you
would do me the favor to remind me of my word, and give me an
opportunity to die for my king and country."

"Yes, Gabriel," said the duke, "while I deplore the difference in faith
which now separates us, I trust you and shall always trust you the same;
and in order to prove it to you and to redeem the momentary suspicion
which I so deeply regret, take this and make such use of it as you
please."

He sat down at a table and wrote a line which he signed and handed to
the young count.

"It is an order allowing you to leave Amboise, wherever you may wish to
go," said he. "With this paper you are entirely at liberty. And you may
be sure that I would not give any such mark of esteem and confidence to
the Prince de Condé, whom you just mentioned, and that the moment he
sets foot in this château he will be watched from a distance like an
enemy, and guarded unknowingly as closely as a prisoner."

"In that case, I refuse this mark of your confidence and esteem,
Monseigneur," said Gabriel.

"What! Why so?" asked the amazed duke.

"Monseigneur, do you know whither I shall go at once, if you allow me to
leave Amboise?"

"That is your affair, and I do not even ask to know," rejoined Le
Balafré.

"But I propose to tell you," said Gabriel. "When I leave you,
Monseigneur, I shall go to fulfil my other duty: I shall go at once
among the rebels, and shall seek for one of them at Noizai."

"At Noizai? Castelnau is in command there," remarked the duke.

"Yes, he is; you are indeed well informed in every detail, Monseigneur."

"What do you propose to do at Noizai, my unfortunate friend?" Le
Balafré asked him.

"Ah, what shall I do indeed? Say to them, 'You summoned me, and I am
here; but I can do nothing for you;' and if they question me as to what
I have heard and noticed on the road, I must keep silent and not warn
them of the trap that you have laid for them, for your confidence in me
takes away my right to do that. Therefore, Monseigneur, I ask a favor at
your hands--"

"What is it?"

"Retain me in custody here, and thus save me from cruel perplexity,--for
if you allow me to go, I must make my appearance among those who are
bent on their own destruction; and if I do go to them, I shall not be at
liberty to save them."

"Gabriel," returned the Duc de Guise, "upon due reflection I neither can
nor will exhibit such suspicion. I have unfolded to you my whole plan of
campaign, and you are going among your friends, who are vitally
interested in knowing that plan,--yet here is your passport."

"Then, Monseigneur," replied Gabriel, overwhelmed, "at least grant me
this last favor in the name of what little I was able to do to enhance
your renown at Metz and in Italy and at Calais, and in the name of what
I have suffered since,--and indeed, I have suffered bitterly."

"To what do you refer?" said the duke. "If I can, I will grant it, my
friend."

"You can, Monseigneur, and I think that you ought, because those who are
in arms against you are Frenchmen. I ask you, then, to allow me to
divert them from their fatal project, not by revealing to them its
inevitable issue, but by advising them, and beseeching and imploring
them."

"Gabriel, be careful!" said the duke, solemnly; "if one word as to our
preparations falls from your lips, the rebels will persist in their
design, simply modifying their mode of execution; and in that event the
king and Mary Stuart and myself will be the ones to be destroyed. Weigh
this well. Will you bind yourself upon your honor as a gentleman that
you will not let them divine or even suspect, by a word or an allusion
or a gesture, anything of what is going on here?"

"Upon my honor as a gentleman, I swear it!"

"Go, then," said the Duc de Guise, "and do your best to induce them to
abandon their criminal purpose, and I will gladly renounce my easy
victory, thinking how much French blood is spared. But if, as I believe,
our last reports are well-founded, they have such blind and obstinate
confidence in the success of their enterprise that you will fail,
Gabriel. But no matter! go and make a last effort. For their sakes, and
still more for yours, I have no disposition to refuse."

"In their names and my own I thank you, Monseigneur."

A quarter of an hour later he was on his way to Noizai.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE DISLOYALTY OF LOYALTY


Baron Castelnau de Chalosses was a gallant, noble-minded youth to whom
the Protestants had assigned by no means the least difficult task when
they sent him to forestall the royal troops at the Château de Noizai,
which was the place appointed for the general rendezvous of the
different sections of the disaffected on the 16th of March. It was
essential that he should be visible to the Huguenots, but should conceal
himself from the Catholics; and his delicate position called for the
display of as much caution and presence of mind as courage.

Thanks to the password contained in La Renaudie's letter, Gabriel met
with no hindrance in making his way to Baron de Castelnau's quarters.

It was already afternoon of the 15th.

Within eighteen hours the Protestants were to assemble at Noizai, and to
attack Amboise before twenty-four hours had elapsed; so that it is clear
there was no time to lose if they were to be dissuaded from their
design.

Baron de Castelnau knew Comte de Montgommery well, for he had often met
him at the Louvre, and besides, the chief men of the party had often
spoken of him in his presence.

He came forward to meet him, and received him as a friend and an ally.

"So you have come, Monsieur de Montgommery," he remarked when they were
alone. "To tell the truth, I hoped that you would be here, but hardly
dared to expect you. La Renaudie was much blamed by the admiral for
writing you as he did. 'It was essential,' he said, 'to advise the Comte
de Montgommery of our plans, but not to summon him to join us. He might
have been left to do as he chose. Has the count not given us fair
warning that so long as François II. reigned, his sword did not belong
to us; in fact, that it did not even belong to himself?' La Renaudie's
reply to all this was that his letter bound you to nothing, but left you
in possession of absolute independence of action."

"That is quite true," replied Gabriel.

"Nevertheless, we thought that you would come," continued Castelnau,
"for the letter of that hot-headed baron gave you no information as to
what was going on, and I am intrusted with the duty of informing you of
our plan and our hopes."

"I am listening," said the Comte de Montgommery.

Castelnau then repeated to Gabriel everything that the Duc de Guise had
previously told him in detail.

Gabriel saw with horror how exact Le Balafré's information was. Not one
single point in the report of his spies and informers was inaccurate,
nor had they omitted to apprise him of one single detail of the plot.

The conspirators were really lost beyond recall.

"Now you know everything," said Castelnau, as he brought his narration
to a close, leaving his listener a prey to most cruel perplexity. "I
have now only to put to you a question to which I can easily forecast
your reply. I am right, am I not, in thinking that you cannot join us?"

"I cannot," replied Gabriel, sadly shaking his head.

"Very good!" added Castelnau; "we shall be none the less good friends
for that. I know that you stipulated in advance for the privilege of
holding aloof from the combat; and you are doubly entitled to exercise
it, since we are sure of victory."

"Are you then indeed so sure?" asked Gabriel, significantly.

"Perfectly so," rejoined the baron; "for the enemy have no suspicion of
our movements, and will be taken unawares. We were afraid for a moment,
when the king and court transferred their quarters from the unfortified
town of Blois to the strong Château d'Amboise, for they clearly had a
suspicion that something was wrong."

"That embarrassed you, no doubt," observed Gabriel.

"Yes, but our hesitation soon came to an end," continued Castelnau; "for
we found that this unexpected change of residence, far from injuring our
prospects, on the contrary, served marvellously well to make them
brighter. The Duc de Guise is now sleeping in false security; and you
must know, dear Count, that we are in correspondence with some who are
within the town, and the western gate will be put into our hands as soon
as we present ourselves before it. Oh, success is beyond doubt, I assure
you; and you may, without scruple, hold aloof from the battle."

"The most magnificent expectations are sometimes deceived by the event,"
was Gabriel's grave comment.

"But in this instance we have not a single chance against us,--not one!"
Castelnau repeated, rubbing his hands with delight. "To-morrow will
behold the triumph of our party and the fall of the Guises."

"And--how about treachery?" said Gabriel, struggling with his emotion,
and with his heart torn to see such youthful gallantry rushing headlong
into the abyss with eyes closed.

"Treachery is impossible," was Castelnau's imperturbable response to
that suggestion. "Only the leaders are in the secret, and not one of
them is capable of it. Upon my word, Monsieur de Montgommery," he
exclaimed, interrupting himself, "I believe that you are jealous of us;
and it seems to me as if you were trying with all your might to throw
cold water on our undertaking, because of your chagrin at having no
share in it. Fie, my envious friend!"

"Yes, indeed, I do envy you!" returned Gabriel, gloomily.

"There! I was sure of it," laughingly exclaimed the young baron.

"But stay a moment; you have some confidence in me, have you not?"

"Blind confidence, if we are to speak soberly."

"Very well; are you willing to listen to good advice, coming from a true
friend?"

"To what purpose?"

"Abandon your design of taking Amboise to-morrow. Send trusty messengers
at once to all of our brethren who are to join you here to-night or in
the morning, to let them know that the plan has miscarried, or has at
least been postponed."

"Why so, pray? Why?" demanded Castelnau, beginning to take alarm. "You
must surely have some weighty reason for speaking thus to me."

"_Mon Dieu_, no!" replied Gabriel, with a constraint that cost him dear.

"It cannot be," said Castelnau, "that you advise me for no reason
whatever to abandon, and cause my brethren to abandon likewise, a
project which seems to progress so favorably?"

"No, there is a reason; you are quite right, but I cannot explain to
you. Can you not, will you not, believe my word? I have already gone
further in this matter than I should have done. Do me the honor to trust
my word, dear friend."

"Consider," rejoined Castelnau, very seriously, "that if I take upon
myself this extraordinary course of turning back at the last moment, I
shall have to answer for it to La Renaudie and the other leaders. May I
refer them to you?"

"Yes," replied Gabriel.

"Will you tell them," continued Castelnau, "the motives which dictate
your advice?"

"Alas! I have not the right to do it."

"How can you expect me to yield to your representations, then? Should I
not be bitterly reproached for having thus, for a single word, destroyed
our hopes, which were almost certainty? Howsoever vast and well-deserved
is the confidence we all have in you, Monsieur de Montgommery, still a
man is but a man, and may be deceived, no matter how good his
intentions. If no one is allowed to consider and pass judgment upon your
reasons, we shall certainly be obliged to neglect your counsel."

"Then beware!" rejoined Gabriel, harshly; "on your head alone be the
responsibility for all the calamities that may ensue!"

Castelnau was struck with the accent with which the count uttered these
words.

"Monsieur de Montgommery," said he, "light has suddenly come to me, and
I think I can descry the true state of affairs. You have either been
intrusted with or have surmised some secret which you are not permitted
to disclose. You have some important information as to the probable
result of our enterprise,--that we have been betrayed, for instance. Am
I not right?"

"I did not say that!" cried Gabriel, eagerly.

"Or else," continued Castelnau, "you saw your friend, the Duc de Guise,
on your way here, and he, in ignorance of your fellowship with us, has
given you an insight into the real state of things."

"Nothing I have said can have given rise to any such supposition!" cried
Gabriel.

"Or again," Castelnau went on, "you have, as you passed through Amboise,
noticed preparations being made, overheard conversations, or induced
confidences,--in short, our plot is discovered!"

"Do you mean to say," said Gabriel, horror-stricken, "that I have given
you any reason to believe anything of the sort?"

"No, Monsieur le Comte; no, indeed, for you were bound to secrecy, I can
see. Therefore I do not even ask you for a positive assurance that I am
right, not even a word, if you prefer not. But if I am mistaken, a
gesture, a glance of the eye, or your silence, even, will be sufficient
to enlighten me."

Gabriel, meanwhile, sorely perplexed, was recalling the last part of the
obligation he had given the Duc de Guise.

Upon his honor as a gentleman he had bound himself not to allow any
person to divine or even to suspect, from any word or allusion or
gesture on his part, what was taking place at Amboise.

As he kept silence for a long while, the Baron de Castelnau, whose eyes
were riveted upon Gabriel's face, spoke again.

"Do you mean to say nothing more?" said he. "You are silent; I
understand you, and shall act accordingly."

"What do you propose to do?" asked Gabriel, hastily.

"To warn La Renaudie and the other leaders, as you advised me to do in
the first place, that they must cease their preparations, and to
announce to our friends when they reach here that some one in whom we
have perfect confidence has made known to me--has made known to me
probable treachery--"

"But there is nothing of the sort!" Gabriel hurriedly interrupted. "I
have given you no information at all, Monsieur de Castelnau!"

"Count," rejoined Castelnau, seizing Gabriel's hand in a grasp that
spoke louder than his words, "may not your reticence itself be a
warning, and our salvation? And once put on our guard, then--"

"Well, what then?" echoed Gabriel.

"Everything will go well for us, and ill for them," said Castelnau. "We
will postpone our enterprise to a more propitious time; discover at any
cost the informers, if there be any among us; redouble our precautions
and our mystery; and one fine day, when everything is thoroughly
prepared, certain then of our aim, we will renew our attempt, and,
thanks to you, will not fail, but achieve a triumphant success."

"That is precisely what I wish to avoid!" cried Gabriel, who was
horrified to find himself upon the verge of involuntary betrayal of
confidence. "There, Monsieur de Castelnau, is the real reason of my
warning and my advice. In my mind, your enterprise is absolutely a
culpable one, to say nothing of its danger. By attacking the Catholics
you put yourselves entirely in the wrong, and justify any reprisals they
may resort to. From being unjustly oppressed subjects, you become
rebels. If you have complaints to make of the ministers, must you avenge
yourselves upon our young king? Ah, I feel sad even unto death as I
reflect upon all this misery! For the good of the cause you ought
forever to renounce this unholy strife. Rather let your principles do
battle for you! No bloodshed for the truth! That is all that I wished to
say to you; that is why I conjure you and all our brethren to hold your
hand from these grievous civil wars, which can only retard the spread of
our principles."

"Is that really the only motive of all your talk?" asked Castelnau.

"The only one," Gabriel replied in a hollow voice.

"Then I must thank you for your good intentions, Monsieur le Comte,"
retorted Castelnau, coldly; "but I must no less continue to act on the
lines laid down for me by the leaders of the Reformed party. I can
readily conceive that it must be very painful for a gentleman like
yourself, being debarred from the combat, to see others fighting without
you; but you alone cannot be allowed to fetter and paralyze a whole
army."

"You propose, then," said Gabriel, pale and dejected, "to allow the
others to go on with this fatal design, and to go on with it yourself?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Comte," responded Castelnau, whose words had a
firmness in them that admitted no argument; "and with your permission, I
will now go to issue the necessary orders for to-morrow's assault."

He saluted Gabriel, and left the room without awaiting his reply.




CHAPTER XXV

THE BEGINNING OF THE END


Gabriel did not leave the Château de Noizai, however, but determined to
pass the night there. His presence would afford the Reformers a pledge
of his good faith, in case they were attacked; and beyond that, he still
retained some slight hope that in the morning he might prevail, if not
upon Castelnau, upon some other leader who was less blindly obstinate.
If La Renaudie would only come!

Castelnau left him entirely free, and seemed inclined to be rather
disdainful in his avoidance of him.

Gabriel encountered him several times during the evening in the halls
and corridors of the château, going hither and thither, giving orders
for reconnoitring parties and the forwarding of supplies.

But not a single word was exchanged between the two youths, each as
proud and as noble as the other.

During the long hours of that night of anguish the Comte de Montgommery,
too restless and anxious to sleep, remained upon the ramparts,
listening, meditating, and praying.

With the first glimmer of dawn, the Protestant troops began to arrive in
small detached parties.

At eight o'clock they had already assembled in large numbers; and at
eleven Castelnau could count all whom he expected.

But not one of the leaders was known to Gabriel. La Renaudie had sent
word that he and his forces would make their way to Amboise by way of
the forest of Château-Regnault.

Everything was ready for departure. Captains Mazères and Raunay, who
were to lead the advance-guard, had already gone down to the terrace in
front of the château to form their detachments in marching order.
Castelnau was triumphant.

"Well," he remarked to Gabriel as he encountered him,--he had, in his
satisfaction, forgiven the conversation of the night before,--"well, you
see, Monsieur le Comte, that you were wrong; and everything is going on
as well as possible!"

"Wait!" said Gabriel, shaking his head.

"Indeed, we must wait, if we are to believe you, doubter!" said
Castelnau, smiling. "Not one of our people has failed to keep his
engagement; they have all arrived at the time appointed, with more men
than they had promised. They have all marched through their respective
provinces without being disturbed, and--what is perhaps even
better--without having created any disturbance. Is it not, in truth,
almost too good fortune?"

The baron was interrupted by the sound of trumpets and the clangor of
arms and a great noise outside; but in the intoxication of his
confidence he was in no degree alarmed, and thought of nothing but some
fortunate event.

"See!" said he to Gabriel; "I will engage that those are more unexpected
reinforcements,--Lamothe, doubtless, and Deschamps, with the
conspirators of Picardy. They were not due to arrive until to-morrow;
but they must have made forced marches, the brave fellows, in order to
bear their part of the conflict and share in the victory. Those are
friends."

"Ah, but are they?" asked Gabriel, whose face changed color when he
heard the trumpets.

"Who else can they be?" rejoined Castelnau. "Come into this gallery,
Monsieur le Comte; through the embrasures we can look down upon the
terrace whence the noise comes."

He drew Gabriel after him; but when they had reached the edge of the
wall he uttered a loud cry, raised his arms, and stood as if turned to
stone.

The confusion had been occasioned not by Protestant troops, but by a
body of Royalists. The new-comers were not commanded by Lamothe, but by
Jacques de Savoie, Duc de Nemours.

Under cover of the woods which surrounded the Château de Noizai, the
royal troops had succeeded before they were discovered in getting within
close range of the open terrace, where the advance-guard of the rebels
was being drawn up in order of battle.

There was no show of resistance whatever, for the Duc de Nemours had
made it his first care to seize the stacks of arms.

Mazères and Raunay had been obliged to surrender without striking a
blow; and just at the moment when Castelnau looked down from the
battlements, his troops, conquered without a struggle, were handing
their swords to the enemy. On the spot where he had thought he should
see his soldiers, he saw nought but a band of prisoners.

He could scarcely believe his eyes. For a moment he stood motionless,
stupefied, bewildered, and speechless. Such an event was so entirely at
variance with his thoughts that at first he found it difficult to
understand it.

Gabriel, who was less surprised at this sudden blew, was no less
overwhelmed.

As they stood gazing at each other, equally pale and dejected, an ensign
entered hastily in search of Castelnau.

"What is the condition of affairs?" the latter asked him, recovering his
voice, by force of his anxiety.

"Monsieur le Baron," the ensign replied, "they have gained possession of
the drawbridge and the first gate. We only had time to close the second
one; but we shall not be able to hold it, and in less than a quarter of
an hour they will be in the courtyard. Shall we, nevertheless, try to
resist, or send them a flag of truce? We await your orders."

"Give me but time to put on my armor, and I will come down," said
Castelnau.

He hastened into one of the apartments of the château to buckle on his
sword and cuirass, and Gabriel followed him.

"What do you propose to do?" he asked him, sadly.

"I know not; I know not!" replied Castelnau, excitedly; "but I can at
least die."

"Alas!" sighed Gabriel; "why did you not hearken to me yesterday?"

"Yes, you were right, I can see now," returned the baron. "You
anticipated what has happened; perhaps you knew of it beforehand."

"Perhaps," observed Gabriel; "and therein lies my greatest suffering.
But remember, Castelnau, that life is full of strange and awful caprices
of fate! Suppose that I was not at liberty to dissuade you by divulging
the real reasons, which were struggling for utterance? Suppose that I
had given my word of honor as a gentleman not to give you any occasion,
directly or indirectly, to suspect the truth?"

"In such case you would have done quite right to say nothing," said
Castelnau; "and in your place I should have done just as you did. It was
I, madman, who should have understood you; I who should have known that
a valiant heart like yours would not try to dissuade me from battle
except for most potent reasons. But I will expiate my mistake by death."

"Then I will die with you," said Gabriel, calmly.

"You! and why?" cried Castelnau. "The one thing that you say you are
absolutely compelled to do is to refrain from fighting."

"True, I shall not fight," said Gabriel; "I cannot. But life has become
a grievous burden to me; the apparently two-faced part I am playing is
intolerable. I shall go into the fray unarmed. I will slay no one, but
will allow myself to be slain. I may be able to intercept the blow aimed
at you. If I cannot wear a sword, I may still be a buckler."

"No," rejoined Castelnau, "remain here. I ought not to involve you in my
destruction, nor will I do it."

"Ah, but think!" exclaimed Gabriel, earnestly; "you are about to involve
in it, uselessly and hopelessly, all of our brethren who are confined in
this château with you. My life is much less useful than theirs."

"Can I do otherwise for the glory of our faith than ask them to make
this sacrifice?" said Castelnau. "Martyrs often bring more renown to
their cause, and are more useful to it, than victors."

"Very true," replied Gabriel; "but is it not your first duty as leader
to do your utmost to save the forces which have been intrusted to you;
to die finally at their head, if their salvation is not to be reconciled
with honor?"

"So you advise me--" said Castelnau.

"To try every peaceable means of accommodation. If you resist, you have
no possible chance of escaping defeat and massacre. If you yield to
necessity, they will not have the right, in my opinion, to punish the
instigators of a plan that has been left unexecuted. Mere projects
cannot be punished, since they can only be conjectured. By laying down
your arms, you will disarm your enemies."

"I so bitterly repent not having followed your previous advice," said
Castelnau, "that I prefer to follow it now; and yet I confess that I
hesitate, for it is very distasteful to me to draw back."

"In order to draw back, you must first have taken a step forward," said
Gabriel. "Now what is there up to this point to prove your rebellion?
You do not declare yourself culpable until you actually draw your sword.
Hold! My presence may even yet, thank God! be of some advantage to you.
I was unable to save you yesterday, but do you wish that I should try to
save you to-day?"

"What will you do?" asked Castelnau, completely unmanned.

"Nothing unworthy of you, be assured! I will go to the Duc de Nemours,
who commands the royal soldiery. I will inform him that no resistance
will be offered, that the gates will be opened, and you will surrender,
but upon certain conditions: he must engage his ducal word that no harm
shall befall you or your comrades, and that after he has escorted you to
the king, in order to submit to him your grievances and requests, he
will cause you to be set at liberty."

"And if he refuses?" asked Castelnau.

"If he refuses, the fault will be on his side; he will have declined a
perfectly frank and honorable adjustment of the affair, and all the
responsibility for the bloodshed will fall upon his head. If he refuses,
Castelnau, I will return to you, to die at your side."

"Do you believe," said Castelnau, "that La Renaudie, were he placed as I
am, would agree to what you propose?"

"Upon my soul! I believe that any reasonable man would agree to it."

"Go on, then!" exclaimed Castelnau; "our despair will be so much the
more to be dreaded if your mission to the duke fails, as I fear it
will."

"Thanks!" said Gabriel. "I have strong hopes myself that I shall
succeed, and thus, with God's help, preserve all these gallant and noble
lives."

He went quickly down, and caused the door leading to the courtyard to be
opened; and with a flag of truce in his hand, he walked toward the Duc
de Nemours, who, sitting on his horse in the midst of his troops, was
awaiting the issue.

"I do not know whether Monseigneur recognizes me," said Gabriel to the
duke; "but I am the Comte de Montgommery."

"Yes, Monsieur de Montgommery, I do recognize you," replied Jacques de
Savoie. "Monsieur de Guise advised me that I should find you here, but
said that you had his permission, and charged me to treat you as a
friend."

"A precaution which may be of ill service to me with other less
fortunate friends," observed Gabriel, with a sorrowful shake of the
head. "However, Monseigneur, may I venture to beg a moment's
conversation with you?"

"I am at your service," said Monsieur de Nemours. Castelnau, who was
following distractedly all the movements of the duke and Gabriel from a
grated window of the château, saw them draw aside from the rest, and
converse for some moments with much animation. Then Jacques de Savoie
called for writing materials, and using a drumhead for a table, wrote a
few rapid lines, which he handed to Gabriel, who seemed to be profuse in
his thanks.

"There must be some hope for us," thought Castelnau. Gabriel rushed
headlong back into the château, and a moment later, breathless and
without a word, placed the following document in Castelnau's hands:--


Monsieur de Castelnau and his companions now within the Château de
Noizai having agreed upon my arrival to lay down their arms and
surrender to me, I, the undersigned, Jacques de Savoie, have sworn upon
my princely faith, upon my honor, and as I hope for the salvation of my
soul, that they shall not be molested, but shall be set at liberty
entirely unharmed, fifteen of them only, including Monsieur de
Castelnau, to go with me to Amboise, to present their grievances to the
king in a peaceable manner.

Given at the Château de Noizai this 16th of March, 1560.

                             JACQUES DE SAVOIE.


"Thanks, my friend," Castelnau said to Gabriel, after he had read the
foregoing; "you have saved our lives, and our honor, which is dearer
than life. On these conditions I am ready to follow Monsieur de Nemours
to Amboise; for we shall not appear there as prisoners before their
conqueror, but as oppressed subjects before their king. Once more I
thank you."

But as he warmly clasped the hand of his preserver, Castelnau remarked
that Gabriel had relapsed into his former state of melancholy.

"What troubles you now, pray?" he asked.

"I am thinking now about La Renaudie and the other Protestants who were
to attack Amboise to-night," replied Gabriel. "Alas! I fear it is too
late to save them; but I will at least make the attempt. La Renaudie was
to advance by the forest of Château-Regnault, was he not?"

"Yes," said Castelnau, earnestly; "and there is yet time for you to find
him there, and save him as you have saved us."

"At all events, I will do my best," said Gabriel. "The Duc de Nemours
will leave me at liberty, I think. Adieu, then, dear friend; I go to
continue, if possible, my work of conciliation. _Au revoir_!--at
Amboise."

"_Au revoir_!" Castelnau replied.

As Gabriel had anticipated, the Duc de Nemours made no opposition to his
leaving Noizai and its detachment of royal troops.

The zealous, devoted youth was free to urge his horse in the direction
of the forest of Château-Regnault.

Castelnau and those who remained with him followed Jacques de Savoie to
Amboise, trusting and tranquil.

But upon their arrival they were at once lodged in prison. There they
were to remain, so they were informed, until the affray was at an end,
and there was no longer any danger to be apprehended in allowing them
access to the king.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE FOREST OF CHÂTEAU-REGNAULT


The forest of Château-Régnault was fortunately only about a league and
a half distant from Noizai. Gabriel urged his horse thither at a gallop;
but after he had reached the spot, he rode about in every direction for
more than an hour without falling in with any party, either of friends
or foes.

At last he thought he distinguished the regular gallop of cavalry beyond
a bend in the path he was pursuing; but they could not be Huguenots, for
they were laughing and talking, while the Huguenots were too vitally
concerned to conceal their movements not to preserve most complete
silence.

"No matter!" thought Gabriel; and he hurried on, and soon came upon the
red scarfs of the king's troops.

As he made his way toward their leader he recognized him, and was
recognized by him.

It was Baron de Pardaillan,--a gallant young officer who had made the
Italian campaign with him under Monsieur de Guise.

"Ah, it is the Comte de Montgommery!" cried Pardaillan. "I thought you
were at Noizai, Count."

"I have just come from there," said Gabriel.

"Well, what has occurred there?--ride by my side awhile and tell me."

Gabriel told the story of the sudden arrival of the Duc de Nemours, of
his carrying the terrace and the drawbridge, of his own mediation
between the parties, and the peaceful submission which had been its
happy result.

"_Pardieu_!" exclaimed Pardaillan; "Monsieur de Nemours was in luck, and
I should be glad to be equally fortunate myself. Do you know, Monsieur
de Montgommery, against whom my own movements are directed at this
moment?"

"La Renaudie, doubtless."

"Precisely. And do you know what La Renaudie is to me?"

"Why, your cousin, I believe,--yes, I remember."

"Yes, he is my cousin," Pardaillan said; "and more than that, he is my
friend and my comrade-in-arms. Ah, do you know how bitter a thing it is
to fight against one who has so often fought at one's side?"

"Yes, indeed," replied Gabriel; "but you are not sure of meeting him,
are you?"

"Alas! I am only too sure!" returned Pardaillan. "My instructions are
exact; and the reports of those who have betrayed him are only too
accurate. See! after marching another fifteen minutes I shall find
myself face to face with La Renaudie in the second path to the left."

"But suppose you were to avoid that path?" whispered Gabriel.

"I should be false to my honor and to my duty as a soldier," was
Pardaillan's reply. "Besides, it is better that I should not be able to
do it. My two lieutenants received Monsieur de Guise's orders as well as
myself, and they would interfere to prevent my running counter to them.
No; my only hope is that La Renaudie will consent to surrender, and a
faint hope it is; for he is as proud as Lucifer, and as brave as a lion.
Moreover, he has an opportunity to fight, and will not be taken by
surprise, as Castelnau was; and again, we are not very superior to him
in point of numbers. However, you will assist me, will you not, Monsieur
de Montgommery, in urging him to yield?"

"Alas!" said Gabriel, with a sigh, "I will do my best."

"The Devil take these civil wars!" cried Pardaillan, in conclusion.

They rode along in silence for almost ten minutes.

When they had taken the second path to the left, Pardaillan said,--

"Now we should be approaching them. How my heart beats! For the first
time in my life, I believe, as God hears me, that I am afraid."

The royal troops were no longer laughing and talking, but advanced
slowly and cautiously.

They had not gone two hundred paces, when they thought they could see
through a thicket of trees the glistening of weapons upon a path, which
ran parallel with the main road.

Their uncertainty was not of long duration, for almost immediately a
firm voice cried out,--

"Halt! Who goes there?"

"It is La Renaudie's voice," Pardaillan said to Gabriel.

Then he replied to the challenge,--

"Valois and Lorraine!"

Instantly, La Renaudie on horseback, followed by his little band,
debouched from the bypath.

However, he ordered his troops to halt, and rode forward a few steps
alone.

Pardaillan imitated him by crying to his people, "Halt!" and riding
toward him accompanied only by Gabriel.

One would have said they were two friends in haste to meet after a long
separation, rather than two foes ready to meet in deadly conflict.

"I should have already replied to you as I ought," said La Renaudie, as
he approached, "if I had not thought that I recognized the voice of a
friend. Unless I am greatly mistaken, that visor conceals the features
of my dear Pardaillan."

"Yes, it is I, my poor La Renaudie," replied Pardaillan; "and if I may
give you a brother's advice, it is to abandon your enterprise, dear
friend, and lay down your arms at once."

"Oh, yes! that is indeed brotherly advice!" retorted La Renaudie,
ironically.

"Yes, Monsieur de la Renaudie," interposed Gabriel, coming forward, "it
is the advice of a loyal friend, I bear you witness. Castelnau
surrendered to the Duc de Nemours this morning; and if you do not follow
his example, you are lost."

"Aha, Monsieur de Montgommery!" exclaimed La Renaudie, "are you with
these fellows?"

"I am neither with them nor with yourself," said Gabriel, in a grave and
melancholy tone. "I stand between you."

"Oh, forgive me, Monsieur le Comte," added La Renaudie, deeply moved by
the noble and dignified bearing of Gabriel. "I had no wish to wound you,
and I think I would doubt my own loyalty rather than yours." "Pray
believe me, then," said Gabriel, "and do not hazard a useless and
disastrous conflict. Surrender."

"Impossible!" replied La Renaudie.

"But reflect, I beg you," said Pardaillan, "that we are no more than a
feeble advance-guard."

"For Heaven's sake," retorted the Protestant leader, "do you suppose
that my whole force consists of this handful of gallant fellows whom you
see?"

"I warn you," said Pardaillan, "that you have traitors in your ranks."

"Well, they are in yours now," returned La Renaudie. "I will undertake
to obtain your pardon from Monsieur de Guise," cried Pardaillan, who
knew not which way to turn.

"My pardon!" exclaimed La Renaudie; "I hope to be more concerned with
granting than receiving pardons!"

"Oh, La Renaudie! La Renaudie! Surely you do not wish to compel me to
draw my sword against you,--Godefroy, my old comrade, my play-fellow?"

"We must be prepared even for that, Pardaillan; for you know me too well
to believe that I am inclined to yield the field to you."

"Monsieur de la Renaudie," cried Gabriel, "once more I tell you that you
are wrong."

But he was rudely interrupted.

The horsemen on both sides, Remaining apart, but in full view of one
another, could not understand the meaning of all this parleying between
their chiefs, and were burning with eagerness to come to closer
quarters.

"In God's name, what do they find to talk about at such length?"
muttered the troopers of Pardaillan.

"Ah!" said the Huguenots, "do they think that we came here to watch them
while they talk over their private business?"

"Wait a moment! wait!" said one of La Renaudie's band, in which every
soldier was a leader, "I know a way to cut short their conversation;"
and just as Gabriel began to speak, he fired a pistol-shot at the king's
troops.

"You see," cried Pardaillan, sorrowfully, "your people have struck the
first blow!"

"But without any order from me!" retorted La Renaudie, warmly. "However,
the die is cast, and it makes no difference now. Forward, my friends,
forward!"

He turned toward his men as he spoke, and Pardaillan, not to be taken by
surprise, did the same, and also shouted, "Forward!"

The firing began.

Gabriel, however, remained motionless between the red and the white, the
Royalists and the rebels. He scarcely even drew his horse aside, but
sustained the fire of both parties.

At the first volley the plume of his helmet was cut through by a ball,
and his horse killed under him.

He extricated his feet from the stirrups and stood in the same spot
without a tremor, and like one dreaming in the midst of that terrible
affray.

The supply of powder was soon exhausted; and the two little bands rushed
forward, and continued the combat with their swords.

Gabriel, amid all the clashing and clanging, never stirred from his
place, nor did he once lay his hand upon his sword; he simply stood
gazing at the mad blows which were raining about him, as if he had been
the image of France among her foes.

The Protestants, inferior in numbers and in discipline, began to falter.

La Renaudie in the tumult found himself face to face with Pardaillan
once more.

"Engage with me!" he cried; "let me at least die by your hand."

"Ah!" said Pardaillan, "the one of us two who slays the other will be
the more generous."

They crossed swords with much vigor. The blows they dealt resounded upon
their coats-of-mail like hammer-strokes upon the anvil. La Renaudie
circled about Pardaillan, who, sitting firmly on his saddle, parried and
thrust without token of weariness. Two rivals thirsting for vengeance
could not have seemed more implacable.

At last La Renaudie buried his sword in the breast of Pardaillan, who
fell headlong from his horse.

But the cry which followed the fatal blow came from the lips of La
Renaudie.

Happily for the victor, he had not even the time to look upon his
disastrous victory, for Montigny, Pardaillan's page, levelled his
arquebuse at him and fired, and he fell from his horse mortally wounded.

Nevertheless, before he expired La Renaudie yet retained strength
sufficient to strike dead upon the spot, with a backward stroke of his
sword, the page who had shot him.

Around these three bodies the battle waged more furiously than ever.

But the Huguenots were clearly worsted; and in a short time, being
deprived of their leader, they were utterly routed.

The greater number of them were killed; but a few were taken prisoners,
and some escaped.

This horrible bloody affray lasted less than ten minutes.

The royal troopers prepared to return to Amboise, and the bodies of La
Renaudie and Pardaillan were placed upon the same horse.


[Illustration: The Forest of Château-Regnault.]


Gabriel, who, despite his eager longing, and spared without doubt by
both sides, had not received a scratch, gazed mournfully at the two
lifeless bodies in which, but a few moments before, had beat the two
noblest hearts he had ever known.

"Which of the two was the braver?" he asked himself. "Which better loved
the other? Which is the greater loss to his unhappy country?"




CHAPTER XXVII

A GLIMPSE AT THE POLITICS OF THE SIXTEENTH
CENTURY


Even after the surrender of the Château de Noizai, and the skirmish in
the forest of Château-Regnault, the whole affair was not at an end.

The majority of the conspirators of Nantes had not been notified of
these two repulses which their party had met with, and were still on
their way to Amboise, prepared to assault the place that night.

But we know that thanks to the precise information furnished by
Lignières, they were expected.

The youthful king had no inclination to retire, but walked anxiously,
with feverish tread, up and down the vast unfurnished hall which had
been set apart for his accommodation.

Mary Stuart, the Duc de Guise, and the Cardinal de Lorraine were also
watching and waiting with him.

"What an everlasting night!" ejaculated François. "I am in agony; my
head is on fire; and those intolerable pains in my ear are beginning to
torment me again. What a night! Oh, what a night!"

"Poor dear Sire!" said Mary, soothingly, "do not excite yourself so, I
pray; you only increase your bodily and mental anguish as well. Take a
few moments' rest, in pity's name!"

"What! how can I rest, Mary?" said the king,--"how can I keep calm when
my people are rebelling, and are in arms against me? Ah, all this
trouble will surely shorten the small portion of life God has granted
me!"

Mary replied only by the tears which streamed down her lovely face.

"Your Majesty ought not to be so deeply affected," said Le Balafré. "I
have already had the honor to assure you that our measures were taken,
and that victory is beyond peradventure. I give you my personal guaranty
of it, Sire."

"Have we not begun well, Sire?" added the Cardinal de Lorraine.
"Castelnau a prisoner, and La Renaudie slain,--are these not happy omens
for the issue of this affair?"

"Happy omens indeed!" said François, bitterly.

"To-morrow everything will be at an end," continued the cardinal; "the
other leaders of the rebels will be in our power, and we can terrify, by
force of a frightful example, those who might venture to try to emulate
them. It must be done, Sire," said he, replying to the king's
involuntary movement of horror. "A solemn 'Act of Faith,' as they say in
Spain, is essential for the outraged glory of the Catholic religion, and
the threatened security of the throne. To begin with, Castelnau must
die. Monsieur de Nemours took it upon himself to swear that he should be
spared; but that is not our affair, and we have promised nothing
ourselves. La Renaudie has escaped punishment by death; but I have
already given orders that at daybreak to-morrow his head be exposed upon
the bridge of Amboise with this inscription: 'Leader of the rebels.'"

"Leader of the rebels!" echoed the king; "why, you yourself say that he
was not the leader, and that the confessions and the correspondence of
the conspirators point to the Prince de Condé alone as the real prime
mover of the undertaking."

"In Heaven's name, speak not so loud, Sire, I implore you!" the
cardinal exclaimed. "Yes, it is true, the prince has led and directed
the whole affair, but from afar. These rascals call him the 'Silent
Captain;' and he was to unmask himself after their first success. But
failing that first success, he has not unmasked himself, nor will he do
so. Therefore let us not drive him to that perilous extremity. Let us
not seem to recognize in him the mighty head and front of the rebellion.
Let us pretend not to see it, so that we may incur no risk of showing
our feeling."

"Nevertheless, Monsieur de Condé is the real arch-rebel!" said
François, whose youthful impatience was little in sympathy with all
these "governmental fictions," as they came to be called at a later day.

"Very true, Sire," said Le Balafré; "but the prince, far from avowing
his schemes, denies them. Let us pretend to believe his word. He came
to-day to shut himself up here in Amboise, where he has been kept in
sight, just as he has conspired, from a safe distance. Let us feign to
accept him as an ally, which will be less hazardous than to have him for
an avowed enemy. The prince, in fact, will assist us, if need be, to
repel his own accomplices to-night, and be present at their execution
to-morrow. Does he not thereby undergo a penalty a thousand times more
grievous than any which is imposed upon us?"

"Yes, indeed he does," replied the king; "but will he do that; and if he
does, can it be possible that he is guilty?"

"Sire," said the cardinal, "we have in our hands, and will deliver to
your Majesty, if you desire, irrefragable proof of Monsieur de Condé's
secret complicity. But the more flagrant and undeniable these proofs
are, the more necessary is it for us to dissimulate; and, for my part, I
deeply regret certain words which I have let fall, and which, if
reported to the prince, might offend him."

"What, you fear to _offend_ a culprit such as you say he is!" cried
François. "But what is all this uproar without, in God's name? Can it
be the rebels already?"

"I will go and see," said the Duc de Guise.

But before he had crossed the threshold, Richelieu, the captain of
arquebusiers, entered, and said hastily to the king,--

"Pardon, Sire, but Monsieur de Condé thinks he overheard certain words
reflecting upon his honor, and he urgently demands the privilege of
clearing himself from these insulting suspicions in your Majesty's
presence, once for all."

The king might have refused to see the prince; but the Duc de Guise had
already made a sign. Captain Richelieu's arquebusiers stepped aside, and
Monsieur de Condé entered, with head erect and cheeks flushed.

He was followed by a few nobles, and a number of canons of St.
Florentin, regular attaches of the Château d'Amboise, whom the cardinal
had transformed into soldiers that night to assist in the defence, and
who, as was frequently the case in those days, carried the arquebuse
with the rosary, and wore the helmet under their cowl.

"Sire, I trust you will pardon my boldness," said the prince, after
saluting the king; "but it is perhaps justified in advance by the
insolence of certain charges, which are made, it seems, in the dark by
my foes against my loyalty, and which I feel called upon to bring forth
into the light that I may confound and chastise them."

"To what do you refer, my cousin?" asked the king, gravely.

"Sire," replied Condé, "they dare to say that I am the real leader of
the rebels, whose foolhardy and impious undertaking is at this moment
throwing the realm into confusion, and filling your Majesty's heart with
dismay."

"Ah, they say that, do they?" returned François. "Who says it, pray?"

"I succeeded just now in surprising these hateful slanders, Sire, upon
the lips of these reverend brothers of St. Florentin, who, believing
doubtless that they were among friends, did not scruple to repeat aloud
what had been whispered in their ears."

"Do you mean to accuse those who repeated the offensive words, or those
who whispered them in the first place?" asked François.

"Both, Sire," replied Condé, "but especially the instigators of these
foul and cowardly calumnies."

As he said these words, he turned his gaze full upon the face of the
Cardinal de Lorraine, who did his best to hide his embarrassed
countenance behind his brother.

"Very well, my good cousin," replied the king, "you have our permission
to disprove the slander, and to accuse the slanderers. Proceed."

"To disprove the slander, Sire?" repeated the prince. "Ah, will not my
actions do that better than any words of mine! Did I not come at the
first summons to this château, to take my place among your Majesty's
defenders? Is that the act of a guilty man, Sire?--I put the question to
yourself, Sire?"

"Then proceed to accuse the slanderers," said François, who chose to
make no more direct reply.

"I will do so, not in words, but by deeds, Sire," said Monsieur de
Condé. "They must, if they have the courage, themselves accuse me in
the light of day. I here cast down my glove to them before God and the
king. Let the man, of whatever rank or quality he may be, who dares to
affirm that I am the author of this conspiracy come forward! I offer to
do battle with him when and where he chooses; and if in any point he be
not upon a level with me, I agree to make myself his equal in every way
for this combat."

The Prince de Condé, as he ceased to speak, threw his glove at his
feet. His glance had not ceased to form an eloquent commentary upon his
challenge, and had fixed itself proudly upon the Duc de Guise, who did
not move a muscle.

There was a moment of silence,--every one reflecting, no doubt, upon
this extraordinary spectacle of the lie given by a prince of the blood
to the whole court, where there was not a page who did not know him to
be guilty twenty times over of that offence from which he defended
himself with such well-simulated indignation.

And, in truth, the youthful king was probably the only one who was
innocent enough to be astonished; and no one thought any the worse of
the prince's valor or virtue.

The political theories of the Italian courts, brought into France by
Catherine de Médicis and her Florentines, were then fashionable in
France. He who was most skilful in deceit was considered the most
clever; and to conceal one's thoughts and disguise one's purpose was the
acme of political skill. Frankness would have been looked upon as folly.

The noblest and purest characters of the time--Coligny, Condé, the
Chancellor Olivier--had not succeeded in keeping clear of the contagion.

Therefore the Duc de Guise did not despise the Prince de Condé; he
rather admired him. But he said to himself, smiling, that he was at
least as good an actor as the other. Taking a step forward, he slowly
removed his glove, and cast it beside that of the prince.

There was a murmur of surprise; and the first impression was that he
proposed to answer Monsieur de Condé's defiant challenge.

But in that case he would not have been the subtle politician he prided
himself on being.

In a loud, firm voice, and as if really convinced by the prince's
demeanor, he said,--

"I approve Monsieur le Prince de Condé's words, and support him in
them; and I am so devotedly his humble servant, having the honor to be
his kinsman, that I here offer myself as his second, and will assist him
in his just defence against all comers."

Le Balafré, with these words, let his inquiring glance rove boldly upon
all those who stood around.

The Prince de Condé could only lower his own. He felt himself more
thoroughly worsted than if he had been overthrown in the lists.

"Will no one," continued the Duc de Guise, "take up either the Prince de
Condé's glove or mine?"

No one stirred, of course.

"My cousin," observed François II., with a melancholy smile, "you are,
as you desired, thoroughly cleared of all suspicion of felony, in my
opinion."

"Yes, Sire," said the "Silent Captain," with ingenuous impudence; "and I
thank your Majesty for having assisted me."

He turned with an effort to Le Balafré, and added,--

"I also am grateful to my good ally and kinsman, Monsieur de Guise. I
hope to prove afresh to him, and to all others, by my behavior to-night
against the rebels, if there be an attack, that he was not wrong in
taking my part."

Thereupon the Prince de Condé and the Duc de Guise exchanged most
profoundly courteous salutations.

Then the prince, being well and duly justified, and having no further
business there, bowed to the king, and left the room, followed by those
who had come in with him.

None were left in the royal apartment but the four personages whose
dreary waiting had been enlivened and their apprehension distracted for
a moment by this singular comedy.

It was a chivalrous scene, peculiar to the politics of the sixteenth
century.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE TUMULT OF AMBOISE


After the departure of the Prince de Condé, neither the king nor Mary
Stuart nor the brothers De Lorraine referred to what had just taken
place. They seemed to avoid the dangerous subject by tacit
understanding.

Minutes and hours passed away in the gloomy and restless silence of
expectation.

François II. often passed his hand across his burning brow; while Mary,
seated apart, gazed sorrowfully at the pale, thin face of her young
spouse, and furtively brushed away a tear from time to time. The
Cardinal de Lorraine was wholly intent upon the sounds to be heard
without; while Le Balafré, whose dispositions were all made, and whose
rank, as well as his office, obliged him to stay by the king's side,
seemed to chafe bitterly at his forced inaction, and every now and then
quivered with impatience and stamped upon the floor, as a fiery
war-horse chafes at the rein which restrains him.

However, the night drew to a close; the bell of the château, followed
by that on St. Florentin, struck six, then half after six. The day began
to break; and there had been no sign of an assault, no alarm given by
the sentinels.

"Well," said the king, with a sigh of relief, "I begin to believe,
Monsieur le Cardinal, that Lignières has misled your Eminence, or else
that the Huguenots have changed their minds."

"So much the worse if they have," replied Charles de Lorraine, "for we
are sure to put down the rebellion."

"Oh, no! so much the better!" exclaimed François; "for the contest of
itself would be a humiliation for royalty--"

But his sentence was yet unfinished when two shots of an arquebuse, the
signal which had been agreed upon as an alarm, were fired, and the shout
was heard, repeated from post to post along the ramparts,--

"To arms! to arms! to arms!"

"There can be no doubt that the enemy are upon us!" cried the cardinal,
turning pale in spite of himself.

The Duc de Guise rose, apparently well content, and said simply as he
saluted the king, "Sire, I shall soon be with you again," and went
hurriedly from the room.

His powerful voice could be plainly heard, giving orders in the
antechamber, when there was a second volley of arquebuses.

"You see, Sire," said the cardinal, perhaps to put his fear to shame
with the sound of his voice,--"you see that Lignières was well
informed, and only made an error of a few hours."

But the king heard him not; angrily biting his colorless lips, he had
ears only for the ever-growing noise of artillery and arquebuses.

"Even yet I can hardly believe in the possibility of such audacity!" he
muttered. "Such an outrage upon the crown--"

"Can only result in shame and abasement for the wretches, Sire,"
rejoined the cardinal.

"Alas!" returned the king, "if we may judge by the noise they make, the
Protestants are present in large force, and are scarcely afraid."

"This disturbance will be quenched at once like a fire of straw," said
Charles de Lorraine.

"It doesn't seem so, for the noise is coming nearer," replied François;
"and the fire instead of being quenched is blazing brighter, I think."

"Holy Virgin!" cried Mary Stuart, in terror; "do you hear the bullets
ringing against the walls?"

"Yet it seems to me, Madame--" stammered the cardinal. "I think, your
Majesty--As for me, I cannot see that the uproar increases any."

But his words were drowned by a fearful explosion.

"There is your answer," retorted the king, smiling bitterly, "even if
your pale and terrified face were not enough to contradict you."

"I can detect the odor of powder," cried Mary. "And oh, just hear those
piercing shrieks!"

"Better and better!" exclaimed François. "Come, come! The Reformers
have carried the walls of the town by this time, doubtless, and propose
to besiege us in the château in regular form."

"But, Sire," the cardinal stammered, shaking like a leaf, "in this
conjuncture would it not be better for your Majesty to withdraw to the
donjon? We may be sure that they will not carry that at all events."

"Who,--I?" cried the king; "hide myself from my own subjects! from
heretics! Let them come even as far as this, my good uncle,--I shall be
very glad to know to what point they will carry their insolence. You
will hear them beg us to sing a psalm or two with them in French, and to
turn our chapel of St. Florentin into a meeting-house."

"Sire, for Heaven's sake, think a little of what is prudent," said Mary.

"No," replied the king, "I propose to see this matter through to the
bitter end. I will await these faithful subjects on this spot; and by my
royal name! let one of them but fail to show me the respect that is my
due, and he shall learn whether this dagger hangs at my side for show
only!"

The minutes rolled on, and the arquebuse-firing grew more and more
brisk. The poor cardinal could no longer utter a word, and the king was
wringing his hands in helpless wrath.

"In God's name," exclaimed Mary, "will no one come to give us news? Is
the danger so pressing that no one can leave his place for an instant?"

"Ah!" said the king, quite beside himself with excitement, "this waiting
is intolerable, and anything else would be preferable to it, I think! I
know one way of ascertaining what is going on, and that is to go to the
scene of the affray myself. Monsieur le Lieutenant-General cannot refuse
to receive me as a volunteer."

François took two or three, steps toward the door, but Mary threw
herself in front of him.

"Sire," she cried, "consider! Ill as you are!"

"I no longer feel my pain," said the king. "Indignation has taken the
place of suffering."

"Wait yet a moment, Sire!" urged the cardinal. "I am sure that the
uproar is really growing fainter now. Yes, the reports are much less
frequent. Ah! here is a page, with news, no doubt."

"Sire," said the page, "I am instructed by Monsieur le Duc de Guise to
say to your Majesty that the Protestants have given way and are in full
retreat."

"At last! That is happy news!" cried the king.

"As soon as Monsieur le Lieutenant-General thinks that he can safely
leave the walls," continued the page, "he will hasten to make his report
to the king."

The page thereupon left the room.

"Well, Sire," observed the Cardinal de Lorraine, triumphantly, "was I
not right in predicting that it would be mere child's play, and that
Monsieur my illustrious and gallant brother would soon give a good
account of these singers of hymns?"

"Oh, my dear uncle," François retorted ironically, "how suddenly your
courage has returned!"

As he spoke, a second explosion was heard, much louder and more awful
than the first.

"What can that noise mean?" said the king.

"In truth, it is strange," the cardinal replied, beginning to tremble
afresh.

Fortunately his alarm did not last long. Richelieu, the captain of
arquebusiers, came in almost immediately with his face begrimed with
powder, and a bloody sword in his hand.

"Sire," Richelieu thus addressed the king, "the rebels are utterly
routed. They scarcely had time to explode a quantity of powder which
they had deposited near one of the gates, and which inflicted no damage
on us. Those who were not taken or slain recrossed the bridge and have
barricaded themselves in one of the houses in the Faubourg du
Vendômois, where we shall have an easy prey. Your Majesty may see from
this window how we will treat them."

The king ran quickly to the window, followed by the cardinal, and more
slowly by the queen.

"Yes, indeed," said he, "there they are, having their turn at being
besieged. But what is this I see? What is all the smoke pouring from the
house?"

"Sire, it has been set on fire," said the captain.

"Very good! marvellously well done!" ejaculated the cardinal. "Look,
Sire, see them leaping from the window! Two, three, four,--more, more!
Do you hear their shrieks?"

"Oh, God! the poor wretches!" cried Mary Stuart, clasping her hands.

"It seems to me," observed the king, "that I can distinguish at the head
of our troops the plume and scarf of our cousin De Condé. Is it really
he, Captain?"

"Yes, your Majesty," replied Richelieu. "He has been among us all the
time, sword in hand, fighting beside Monsieur de Guise."

"Well, Monsieur le Cardinal," said François, "you see that he did not
wait to be asked."

"He could not have afforded to, Sire!" replied Charles de Lorraine.
"Monsieur le Prince would have risked too much if he had acted otherwise
than he has."

"Oh, see!" cried Mary, repelled and fascinated at once by the horrible
spectacle without; "the flames are much more intense! the house will
fall in upon the poor wretches!"

"It has fallen!" said the king.

"Thank God, it is all over!" cried the cardinal.

"Ah, let us leave the place, Sire; it makes me ill," said Mary, drawing
the king away from the window.

"Yes," said François, "I can feel nought but pity now."

He left the cardinal standing alone at the window in great exultation;
but he soon turned away too, as he heard the voice of the Duc de Guise.

Le Balafré entered, proud and unmoved, accompanied by the Prince de
Condé, who, for his part, had much ado to hide his grief and shame.

"Sire, it is all over," said the Duc de Guise to the king; "and the
rebels have paid the penalty of their crime. I render thanks to God, who
has delivered your Majesty from this peril; for from what I have seen, I
conclude it was greater than I supposed. We have traitors among us."

"Can it be?" cried the cardinal.

"Yes," replied Le Balafré; "when they made their first assault, they
were seconded by the men-at-arms who came hither with Lamothe. They
attacked us in flank, and for a moment were masters of the town."

"That is terrible!" said Mary, pressing close to the king.

"It would have been much more so, Madame," continued the duke, "if the
rebels had also been seconded, as they hoped to be, by an attack which
Chaudieu, brother of the minister, was to make upon the Porte des Bons
Hommes."

"Did the attack fail?" asked the king.

"It did not take place, Sire. Captain Chaudieu, thank Heaven! was
delayed, and will arrive only to find his friends annihilated. Now let
him come at his leisure! he will find everything ready for him both
within and without the walls. And, to give him food for reflection, I
have ordered that twenty or thirty of his accomplices should be hanged
on top of the battlements of Amboise. The spectacle will prove a
sufficient warning to him, I fancy."

"That was well thought of!" said the cardinal.

"I thank you, my cousin," said the king to Le Balafré; "but I see that
God's merciful protection has been most bountifully shown in this
affair, since to Him alone we must attribute the confusion that
prevailed in the counsels of our enemies. Let us in the first place,
then, repair to the chapel to return thanks to Him."

"After that," said the cardinal, "we will issue orders for the
punishment of the surviving culprits. Sire, you will be present at their
execution with the queen and queen-mother, will you not?"

"Why, will that be necessary, pray?" asked the youthful king, walking
toward the door, much annoyed.

"Sire, it is indispensable," urged the cardinal, following him. "The
glorious King François I. and your father, of illustrious memory, Sire,
never failed to be present at the burning of heretics. As for the King
of Spain, Sire--"

"Other kings may do as they please," said François, still going toward
the door, "and I, too, propose to have my own way."

"I ought to inform your Majesty that the nuncio from his Holiness
absolutely relies upon your presence at the first 'Act of Faith' of your
reign," added the pitiless cardinal. "When everybody else is
present,--even the Prince de Condé, I venture to say,--is it fitting
that your Majesty should be absent?"

"Alas, _mon Dieu_! we will talk of this matter again presently,"
rejoined François. "The guilty men are not yet condemned."

"Oh, I beg your Majesty's pardon, but they are!" said the cardinal,
earnestly.

"So be it! Thus you impose this terrible necessity upon me in my
feebleness," replied the king. "But now, Monsieur le Cardinal, let us
go, as I said, to kneel before the altar and thank God, who has deigned
to turn aside from us the peril of this conspiracy."

"Sire," said the Duc de Guise, "we must not exaggerate these things, and
give them more importance than they deserve, therefore I trust that your
Majesty will not speak of this movement as a conspiracy; it was, in
truth, nought but a _tumult_."




CHAPTER XXIX

AN ACT OF FAITH


Although the conspirators had inserted in a manifesto, seized among La
Renaudie's papers, a declaration that they would "attempt nothing
against the king's majesty, nor the princes of the blood, nor the good
of the kingdom," they had, nevertheless, been taken in open rebellion,
and might well expect to meet the fate of those who are vanquished in
civil wars.

The mode of treatment that had been adopted with regard to those who
professed the principles of the Reformation, while they were conducting
themselves as peaceful and submissive subjects, left little room for
hope of pardon now.

In fact, the Cardinal de Lorraine hurried on their condemnation with a
passionate zeal that was quite characteristic of the ecclesiastic of
those days, though it was hardly Christlike.

He intrusted the proceedings against the nobles who were implicated in
the deplorable affair to the parliament of Paris and the Chancellor
Olivier. Thus matters progressed finely. The interrogations were quickly
gone through, and the sentences pronounced still more quickly.

They dispensed with even these empty formalities in the cases of the
less highly placed abettors of the rebellion, people of small
importance, who were being broken on the wheel or hanged every day at
Amboise without wearying parliament with their cases. The honor and
expense of a trial were only accorded to persons of some quality or
note.

At last, thanks to the pious ardor of Charles de Lorraine, everything
was concluded in their cases as well in less than three weeks.

The 15th of April was fixed for the public execution at Amboise of
twenty-seven barons, eleven counts, and seven marquises; in all, fifty
gentlemen, leaders of the Protestants, were to meet their death that
day.

Nothing was neglected which could assist in imparting to that
extraordinary religious function all desirable pomp and splendor.
Extensive preparations were made. From Paris to Nantes public curiosity
was inflamed by all the expedients in vogue at that time; that is to
say, the execution was announced by all preachers and curés from their
pulpits.

On the appointed day, three superb galleries, the central and most
sumptuous of which was reserved for the royal family, were erected on
the platform of the château at the foot of which the bloody drama was
to be enacted.

Around the square were wooden benches filled with all the faithful from
the neighborhood who could be got together, willingly or on compulsion.
The bourgeoisie and peasants, who might have had some distaste for such
a grewsome spectacle, were induced to go either by threats or bribes;
some had their taxes remitted; others were threatened with the loss of
their offices or their privileges as freemen. All these divers motives,
added to the morbid curiosity of some and the fanaticism of others,
caused such a concourse of people at Amboise that more than ten thousand
were encamped in the fields the night before the fatal day.

Early in the morning of the 15th the roofs of all the houses in the town
were covered with a moving mass; and windows looking upon the square
were let for ten crowns,--which was an enormous price for the time.

A vast scaffold, draped in black cloth, was erected in the middle of the
enclosure. On it was to be seen the _chouquet_,--a block upon which each
of the condemned had to rest his head while he knelt to receive the
blow. Near by a chair draped in black was reserved for the clerk, whose
duty it was to call the names of the gentlemen one by one, and read
aloud the sentence of each in succession.

The square was guarded by the Scotch company and the gendarmes of the
royal household.

After solemn Mass in the chapel of St. Florentin, the condemned men were
led to the foot of the scaffold. Several of them had already been
subjected to the torture. They were surrounded by monks, who tried to
make them renounce their heretical principles; but not one of the
Huguenots consented thus to apostatize before death, and they
steadfastly refused to reply to the monks, whom they suspected of being
spies of the Cardinal de Lorraine.

Meanwhile the galleries reserved for the court were filled, except the
one in the centre. The king and queen, whose consent to be present at
the execution had almost to be torn from them by force, had at last
succeeded in obtaining leave to postpone their attendance till toward
the end, when only the principal chiefs remained to be punished. If they
would but come at some time, that was all the cardinal asked. Poor royal
children! Poor crowned slaves! They, as well as the peasants, had been
prevailed upon by arousing their fear for their offices and privileges.

At noon the execution began.

When the first of the condemned men mounted the steps of the scaffold,
his companions thundered out a French psalm, translated by Clément
Marot, as much to afford him on whom the punishment was about to fall
some last consolation as to mark their own constancy in the face of
their enemies and their doom.

Therefore they sang at the foot of the scaffold,--


    "Dieu nous soit doux et favorable,
        Nous bénissant par sa bonté,
     Et de son visage adorable
        Nous fasse luire sa clarté."[5]


A verse was sung for every head as it fell; but every head that fell
made one voice less in the chorus.

In an hour but twelve gentlemen remained, and they the most prominent
leaders of the conspiracy.

Then there was a pause. The two executioners were weary, and the king
was arriving.

François II. was more than pale; he was absolutely livid. Mary Stuart
took her place at his right, and Catherine de Médicis at his left.

The Cardinal de Lorraine took his place beside the queen-mother; and the
Prince de Condé was shown to a seat beside the young queen.

When the prince appeared upon the platform, almost as pale as the young
king himself, the twelve condemned men saluted him.

He gravely responded to their salutation.

"I always bow in the presence of death," he remarked aloud.

The king was received, however, with less respect than the Prince de
Condé. No acclamation welcomed him upon his arrival. He noticed the
omission, and turning to the cardinal, he said, with an angry frown,--

"Ah, Monsieur le Cardinal, I will never forgive you for forcing us to
come hither!"

Charles de Lorraine, however, had raised his hand as a signal for the
marks of devotion to be manifested, and a few voices scattered through
the crowd cried,--

"_Vive le roi_!"

"You hear, Sire?" rejoined the cardinal.

"Yes," said the king, sadly; "I hear a few awkward fellows, who but
serve to make the general silence more noticeable."

Meanwhile the remainder of the royal gallery had been occupied. The
king's brothers, the papal nuncio, the Duchesse de Guise, had taken
their places there one after another.

Then came the Duc de Nemours, also very pale, and looking as if he were
the prey of bitter remorse.

Last of all two men took their stations there, behind the others, whose
presence in that place and at that time was perhaps not less remarkable
than that of the Prince de Condé.

They were Ambroise Paré and Gabriel de Montgommery.

They had been led thither by very different motives.

Ambroise Paré had been summoned to Amboise some days before by the Duc
de Guise, who was decidedly alarmed concerning the health of his royal
nephew; and Mary Stuart, no less alarmed than her uncle, and seeing how
dejected François was at the mere thought of the _auto-da-fè_ implored
the surgeon to be at hand to assist the king in case he should faint.

Gabriel, however, had come to make one last supreme effort to save at
least one of the condemned,--the one who was to suffer last, and whom he
reproached himself for having involuntarily, by his well-meant advice,
led into this fatal extremity,--the young and gallant Castelnau de
Chalosses.

Castelnau, we must remember, had surrendered only upon the written and
subscribed assurance of the Duc de Nemours, who had guaranteed his life
and liberty; whereas, immediately upon reaching Amboise he had been
cast into prison, and to-day was to be beheaded,--last of all, as being
the most guilty of all.

We must, however, be just to the Duc de Nemours. When he saw his word
and honor as a gentleman thus compromised, he was in despair, and
indignant to the highest degree; and for three weeks he went ceaselessly
from the Cardinal de Lorraine to the Duc de Guise, and from Mary Stuart
to, the king, begging and demanding and imploring the release of him to
whom he owed this debt of honor. But the Chancellor Olivier, to whom
they referred the question, declared, according to Monsieur de
Vieilleville, that "a king is in nowise bound by his word to a
rebellious subject, nor by any promise whatsoever made to him on his
[the king's] behalf." This almost broke the heart of the Duc de Nemours,
"who," the chronicler naïvely adds, "was worried only about his
signature; for as to his word, he would always have given the lie to any
one without exception who dared to upbraid him for it, save his Majesty
alone, so valiant and noble-hearted a prince was he!"

Like Gabriel, the Duc de Nemours had been drawn to the place of
execution--which was more terrible to him than to any other--by a secret
hope of still saving Castelnau at the last moment.

Meanwhile the Duc de Guise, on horseback, with his captains beneath the
gallery, had given a signal to the executioners; and the punishments and
singing of psalms began again after the brief interruption.

In less than a quarter of an hour eight heads fell. The fair young queen
was almost fainting.

Only four conspirators remained at the foot of the scaffold.

The clerk read in a loud voice,--

"Albert Edmond Roger, Comte de Mazères, guilty of heresy, of the crime
of _lèse-majesté_, and of attacking with arms in his hand the person
of the king."

"'T is false!" cried the Comte de Mazères from the scaffold.

Then, showing to the people his blackened arms and his breast all
bruised by the torture, he continued: "See the condition to which I have
been reduced in the king's name! But I know that he knows nothing of it;
and so I still cry, _Vive le roi_!"

His head fell. The last three Protestants who were awaiting their turns
at the foot of the scaffold sang again the first verse of the psalm,--


    "Dieu nous soit doux et favorable,
     Nous bénissant par sa bonté,
     Et de son visage adorable
     Nous fasse luire sa clarté."[6]


The clerk's voice was heard once more,--

"Jean Louis Alberic, Baron de Raunay, guilty of heresy, of the crime of
_lèse-majesté_, and of attacking with arms in his hand the person of
the king."

"You lie like two clowns, you and your cardinal," said De Raunay; "it is
only against him and his brother that we took up arms. I hope they may
both meet death as peacefully and as pure in heart as I."

Thereupon he laid his head upon the block.

The last two condemned men sang on,--



    "Dieu tu nous as mis à l'épreuve,
     Et tu nous as examinés;
     Comme l'argent que l'on épreuve,
     Par feu tu nous as affinés."[7]


Again the clerk resumed his deadly summons,--

"Robert Jean René Briquemaut, Comte de Villemongis, guilty of heresy,
of the crime of _lèse-majesté_, and of a criminal attempt against the
king's person."

Villemongis bathed his hands in De Raunay's blood; and raising them
toward heaven, he cried,--

"Heavenly Father, Thou seest the blood of Thy children! Thou wilt avenge
them!"

He fell lifeless as he spoke.

Castelnau, left quite alone, still sang,--


    "Tu nous as fait entrer et joindre
     Aux pièges de nos ennemis;
     Tu nous as fait les reins astreindre
     Des filets où tu nous as mis."[8]


The Duc de Nemours had been lavish with his gold in furtherance of his
hope of saving Castelnau. The clerk and even the executioners were
interested in his salvation. The first executioner said that he was
exhausted; and there was a necessary interruption while the other was
preparing to relieve him.

Gabriel took advantage of it to urge the duke to renewed efforts.

Jacques de Savoie thereupon leaned toward the Duchesse de Guise, with
whom he was said to be on the very best terms, and whispered in her ear.
The duchess had much influence over the mind of the queen.

She at once rose, as if she could not bear any more of the sad
spectacle, and said loud enough for Mary to hear: "Ah, this is too
horrible for ladies! Do you see how ill the queen is? Let us go."

But the Cardinal de Lorraine gazed sternly at his sister-in-law.

"A little more firmness, Madame," said he, harshly. "Remember that you
are of the blood of D'Este and the wife of the Duc de Guise."

"Ah, and that is just why I am so troubled!" retorted the duchess. "No
mother ever had better cause for suffering; for all this bloodshed and
all the hatred aroused by this day's work will fall upon our innocent
children."

"How weak women are!" muttered the cardinal, who was an arrant coward.

"However," said the Duc de Nemours, "one does not need to be a woman to
be touched by this mournful picture. Tell me, Prince," said he to
Monsieur de Condé, "are not you moved by it?"

"Oh, ho!" sneered the cardinal; "the prince is a soldier, accustomed to
see death in all forms."

"Yes, on the battle-field," replied the prince, courageously; "but upon
the scaffold, and in cold blood,--that's quite another matter!"

"Has a prince of the blood so much pity for rebels, pray?" It was again
the sneering voice of Charles de Lorraine which asked the question.

"I have unlimited pity and sympathy," retorted the prince, "for gallant
officers who have always worthily served their king and country."

What more could the prince do or say in his position, himself the object
of suspicion? The Duc de Nemours understood, and addressed himself next
to the queen-mother.

"See, Madame, but one remains," said he, without calling Castelnau's
name. "Can we not at least save him?"

"I can do nothing," replied Catherine, turning her head away.

Meanwhile the unfortunate Castelnau was ascending the steps to the
scaffold, singing as he went,--


    "Dieu _me_ soit doux et favorable,
        _Me_ bénissant par sa bonté,
     Et de son visage adorable
        _Me_ fasse luire sa clarté."[9]

The people, deeply affected, forgot the fear inspired by spies and
_mouchards_, and cried as with one voice,--

"Mercy, mercy!"

The Duc de Nemours was struggling at that moment to soften the heart of
the young Duc d'Orléans.

"Monseigneur," said he, "have you forgotten that it was Castelnau who,
in this same town of Amboise, saved the life of the late Duc d'Orléans,
when it was in great danger during an _émeute_?"

"I will do whatever my mother decides," replied the Duc d'Orléans.

"But," said the Duc de Nemours, imploringly, "if you would but address
the king; a single word from you--"

"I tell you again," rejoined the young prince, dryly, "that I await my
mother's commands."

"Ah, Prince!" said the Duc de Nemours, reproachfully.

He made a motion to Gabriel expressive of discouragement and despair.

Thereupon the clerk read slowly,--

"Michel Jean Louis, Baron de Castelnau-Chalosses, accused and convicted
of the crime of _lèse-majesté_, of heresy, and an attack upon the
king's person."

"I call my judges themselves to witness," cried Castelnau, "that the
declaration is false,--unless, indeed, it be _lèse-majesté_ to oppose
with all my strength the tyranny of the Guises. If it is to be
understood in that way, they should have begun by declaring them kings.
Perhaps it will yet come to that; but it will be for those who survive
me to deal with that matter."

Addressing the executioner, he said in a firm voice,--

"Now do your office."

But the headsman, who noticed some commotion in the galleries, pretended
to be arranging his axe so as to gain time.

"The axe is dull, Monsieur le Baron," he said in a low voice; "and you
are surely worthy to die at a single blow. And who knows but that a
moment more--It seems to me that something of good omen for you is going
on down below there."

Again the people cried,--

"Mercy! mercy!"

Gabriel, losing all self-control at that supreme moment, ventured to cry
aloud to Mary Stuart,--

"Mercy, Madame the Queen!"

Mary turned, met Gabriel's heart-rending glance, and understood his
despairing cry.

Bending her knee before the king, she said,--

"Sire, this mercy at least; I ask it of you on my knees!"

"Sire," cried the Duc de Nemours, "has not enough blood been shed? And
yet, you know, there should be mercy in the king's countenance."

François, trembling in every limb, seemed struck by these words. He
seized the queen's hand.

"Remember, Sire," said the stern voice of the nuncio, who wished to
recall the king to a more severe view of his duty,--"remember that you
are the very Christian king."

"Yes, I do remember it," replied François II., firmly. "Let mercy be
shown to the Baron de Castelnau!"

But the Cardinal de Lorraine, feigning to misinterpret the meaning of
the king's first phrase, had made an imperative sign to the executioner.

As François pronounced the word "mercy," Castelnau's head rolled upon
the planks of the scaffold.

The next day the Prince de Condé set out for Navarre.


[Footnote 5: "O Lord, to us be merciful,
                And bless us with Thy grace,
              And show unto our humble hearts
                The brightness of Thy face."]

[Footnote 6: "O Lord, to us be merciful,
                And bless us with Thy grace,
              And show unto our humble hearts
                The brightness of Thy face."]

[Footnote 7: "Thou hast put us to the proof when we
                To Thy guidance did aspire;
              Like gold, Thou hast refined us
                By the ordeal of fire."]

[Footnote 8: "Into the snare our foes have laid
                Thou, Lord, hast made us fall;
              And there, fast hound, we lie, and wait
                Thy word, O Lord of all!"]

[Footnote 9: "O Lord, to _me_ be merciful,
                And bless _me_ with Thy grace,
              And show unto _my_ humble heart
                The brightness of Thy face."]




CHAPTER XXX

ANOTHER SPECIMEN OF POLITICS


From the day of that fatal execution, the feeble health of François II.
grew steadily worse.

Seven months later (at the end of November, 1560), the court being then
at Orléans, where the States-General had been convoked by the Duc de
Guise, the poor boy-king of seventeen was obliged to take to his bed.

Beside that bed of sorrow where Mary Stuart prayed and watched and wept,
a most interesting drama depended for its conclusion upon the life or
death of the son of Henri II.

The real question, although others were interested in its solution, lay
between a pale woman and a sinister-looking man, who were seated side by
side in the evening of December 4 a few steps from the sleeping invalid,
and from Mary, who was weeping silently at his pillow.

The man was Charles de Lorraine, the woman Catherine de Médicis.

The revengeful queen-mother, who had at first been as one dead after the
struggle which we have related at the accession of her son, had awakened
during the last eight months, since the "Tumult of Amboise."

This, in brief, is what she had done in the bitterness of her hatred
against the Guises: she had entered into a secret alliance with the
Prince de Condé and Antoine de Bourbon; she had effected a
reconciliation secretly with the old Constable de Montmorency. Nought
but hatred can cause hatred to be forgotten.

Her new and ill-assorted friends, urged on by her, had fomented
rebellion in various provinces, had aroused Dauphiné under Montbrun,
and Provence under the brothers Mouvans, and had caused an attempt to be
made upon Lyons by Maligny.

The Guises, on their side, were by no means asleep. They had assembled
the States-General at Orléans, and had taken care to have a majority
devoted to them.

Then, too, they had summoned the King of Navarre and the Prince de
Condé to attend the States-General, as was their right.

Catherine de Médicis sent warning after warning to the princes to
dissuade them from putting themselves in their enemy's power; but their
duty called them, and the Cardinal de Lorraine gave them the king's word
as a pledge of their security.

Therefore they came to Orléans.

The very day of their arrival Antoine de Navarre was consigned to a
certain house in the city where he was kept continually in sight, and
the Prince de Condé was cast into prison.

Then an extraordinary commission issued to try the prince; and he was
condemned to death at Orléans by the procurement of the Guises,--the
very man whose innocence the Duc de Guise himself at Amboise had
announced his willingness to answer for with his sword.

Only one or two signatures were still to be procured, which the
Chancellor l'Hôpital was delaying, before the sentence would be
executed.

The foregoing statement will serve to show how matters stood on the
evening of the 4th of December, as regards the party of the Guises, of
which Le Balafré was the arm and the cardinal the head, and the Bourbon
faction, of which Catherine de Médicis was the secret soul.

Everything depended, for both sides, upon the expiring breath of the
anointed youth.

If François II. could only live a few days longer, the Prince de Condé
would be executed, the King of Navarre might be accidentally slain in
some altercation, and Catherine de Médicis banished to Florence. So far
as the States-General were concerned, the Guises were masters, and if
necessary, kings.

If, on the other hand, the young king should die before his uncles were
relieved of their enemies, the struggle would begin again, with the
chances against them rather than in their favor.

Therefore what Catherine de Médicis and Charles de Lorraine were
waiting and watching for with such an anguish of interest on that cold
night of the 4th of December, in that apartment in the city of Orléans,
was not so much the life or death of their royal son and nephew as the
triumph or defeat of their cause.

Mary Stuart alone watched over her young, dearly loved husband without
thinking what loss his death might entail upon her.

However, we must not think that the bitter antagonism of the
queen-mother and the cardinal betrayed itself to outside observers in
their manners or their conversation. On the contrary, they had never
seemed to be more confiding or more affectionate to each other.

At the moment at which we look in upon them, taking advantage of
François's slumber, they were talking in a low voice and in the most
friendly way imaginable about their most secret interests and their
inmost thoughts.

For the better to conform to that Italian policy of which we have
already given specimens, Catherine had sedulously dissembled her
underhand proceedings, and Charles de Lorraine had always pretended to
know nothing of them.

Thus they had not ceased to converse as allies and as friends. They were
like two gamblers, each of whom cheats loyally for his own side, and who
openly use cogged dice against each other.

"Yes, Madame," the cardinal was saying,--"yes, that stubborn Chancellor
de l'Hôpital obstinately refuses to sign the decree for the prince's
death. Ah! you were indeed in the right, Madame, six months ago, to
oppose his succession to Olivier so vigorously! If I had only understood
you then!"

"What? is it absolutely impossible to overcome his resistance?" asked
Catherine, who had in reality instructed the chancellor to resist.

"I have tried flattery and threats," Charles de Lorraine replied, "and
have found him inflexible."

"Suppose Monsieur le Duc should try his hand?"

"Nothing will move that Auvergne mule," said the cardinal. "Besides, my
brother has declared that he does not propose to meddle in the affair at
all."

"It becomes embarrassing," remarked Catherine, secretly delighted beyond
expression.

"There is one way, however," said the cardinal, "by resorting to which
we can get along without all the chancellors in the world."

"Is there, indeed? What way is that?" cried the queen-mother, uneasily.

"To have the decree signed by the king."

"By the king!" echoed Catherine. "But can he do it? Has he the right?"

"Yes," replied the cardinal, "we have proceeded thus far in this very
matter by the advice of the best jurists, who have declared that the
matter may be pushed forward to judgment in spite of the prince's
refusal to reply."

"But what will the chancellor say?" cried Catherine, really alarmed.

"He will grumble, as he always does," replied the cardinal, calmly; "he
will threaten to resign the seals."

"And if he does really carry out his threat?"

"It will be doubly advantageous, for we shall be well rid of a most
inconvenient critic."

"When do you propose that this decree should be signed?" asked
Catherine, after a pause.

"To-night, Madame."

"And you will cause it to be executed--?"

"To-morrow."

The queen-mother absolutely shuddered, for the blow was sudden.

"To-night! to-morrow! you do not reflect," she replied. "The king is too
ill and weak, and his intellect is not clear enough to understand what
you mean to ask of him."

"There is no necessity that he should understand, provided that he
signs," retorted the cardinal.

"But his hand is not strong enough to hold a pen."

"It can be guided for him," taking keen delight in the alarm which he
saw depicted in the expression of his dear foe.

"Listen," said Catherine, very gravely. "I must give you a warning and
some good advice. My poor son's end is nearer than you think. Do you
know what Chapelain, the first physician, told me?--that he did not
think the king would be alive to-morrow evening, unless by a miracle."

"So much the more reason for us to hasten," said the cardinal, coldly.

"Yes," rejoined Catherine, "but if François II. is not alive to-morrow,
Charles IX. reigns; and the King of Navarre will perhaps be regent. What
a terrible reckoning would he demand for the infamous punishment of his
brother? Would you not be in your turn tried and condemned?"

"Oh, well, Madame, he who risks nothing has nothing!" cried the
cardinal, with angry warmth. "Besides, who says that Antoine de Navarre
will be appointed regent? Who says that this Chapelain is not mistaken?
Bah! the king is alive now!"

"Not so loud! not so loud, uncle!" said Mary Stuart, rising in fright.
"You will wake the king! See! you have waked him."

"Mary, where are you?" said the feeble voice of François.

"Here, always by your side, dear Sire," replied Mary.

"Oh, how I suffer!" groaned the poor youth. "My head is as if it were on
fire; and this pain in my ear is like a continual sword-thrust. Even in
my sleep I have continued to suffer. Ah! all is at an end with me; all
is at an end!"

"Don't say so! oh, don't say so!" replied Mary, struggling to restrain
her tears.

"My memory is failing," said François. "Have I received the Holy
Sacrament? I wish to do so as soon as possible."

"All your duties shall be fulfilled, dear Sire; do not be anxious about
them."

"I want to see my confessor, Monsieur de Brichanteau."

"He will be with you immediately," said Mary.

"Are prayers being said for me?" asked the king.

"I have hardly ceased since the morning."

"Poor dear Mary! Where is Chapelain?"

"In the next room, ready to answer your call. Your mother and my uncle
the cardinal are there also. Do you wish to see them, Sire?"

"No, no; none but you, Mary!" said the dying man. "Turn a little this
way--there--so that I may at least see you once more."

"Courage!" replied Mary. "God is so kind! and I pray to Him with such a
full heart."

"Oh, the pain!" moaned François. "I cannot see, and can scarcely hear.
Give me your hand, Mary."

"There! rest upon me," said Mary, soothingly, supporting the small pale
face of her husband upon her shoulder.

"My soul to God! my heart to thee, Mary! Forever! Alas! to die at
seventeen!"

"No, no! you shall not die!" cried Mary. "What ill have we done to God
on high that He should thus afflict us?"

"Do not weep, Mary," said the king. "We shall meet again above. I regret
nothing in this world but you. If I could carry you with me, I should be
glad to die. The journey to heaven is even more beautiful than that to
Italy; and then, too, I fear that without me you will never know any
joy. They will make you suffer,--you will be cold and lonely; they will
kill you, my poor dear heart! It is that which afflicts me much more
than death."

The king sank back upon his pillow exhausted, and maintained a dejected
silence.

"But you shall not die; you shall not die, Sire!" cried Mary. "Listen, I
have a great hope. One chance in which I have faith is left us."

"What do you mean?" Catherine de Médicis, drawing near in her amazement,
interrupted her.

"Yes," continued Mary Stuart, "the king may yet he and shall be saved.
Something within me tells me that all these physicians by whom he is
surrounded and wearied to death are ignorant and blind. But there is a
skilful man, learned and famous,--a man who preserved my uncle's life at
Calais--"

"Master Ambroise Paré?" suggested the cardinal.

"Master Ambroise Paré!" Mary repeated. "They say that this man ought
not to have the king's life in his hands, and would himself prefer not
to; that he is a heretic and accursed; and that even if he would accept
the responsibility of such a case, it ought not to be intrusted to him."

"That is very certain," said the queen-mother, scornfully.

"What! if I intrust it to him myself?" cried Mary. "Can a man of genius
be a traitor! A great man, Madame, is always a good man."

"But," said the cardinal, "my brother has not delayed thinking of
Ambroise Paré until to-day. He has already been approached."

"Yes, but who have been sent to him?" retorted Mary,--"those who took no
interest in the matter, or even his enemies, perhaps. But I sent a
trusted friend to him, and he will come."

"It will take some time for him to come from Paris," observed Catherine.

"He is on the way; in fact, he ought to have arrived," rejoined the
young queen. "The friend of whom I spoke promised to bring him here
to-day."

"Who is this mysterious friend, pray?" asked the queen-mother.

"Comte Gabriel de Montgommery, Madame."

Before Catherine had time to utter a word, Dayelle, Mary's first
lady-in-waiting, came in and said to her mistress,--

"Comte Gabriel de Montgommery is below, and awaits Madame's commands."

"Oh, let him come in! let him come in!" cried Mary, eagerly.




CHAPTER XXXI

A RAY OF HOPE


"One moment!" interposed Catherine de Médicis, in a cold, hard voice.
"Before allowing that man to enter, pray wait at least until I can take
my leave. If it pleases you to intrust the life of the son to him who
cut short the life of the father, I, at all events, do not propose to
meet the murderer of my husband again, or hear his voice. Therefore I
enter my protest against his presence in this place, and withdraw at his
approach."

She did, in fact, leave the room without bestowing a glance upon her
dying son or giving him a mother's farewell blessing.

Was it because the detested name of Gabriel de Montgommery recalled to
her mind the first outrage the late king had put upon her? It may be so;
nevertheless, it is certain that she had no such horror as she pretended
of the sight of Gabriel and the sound of his voice; for when she
withdrew to her own apartment, which adjoined that of the king, she was
careful to leave the door half open, and had no sooner closed another
door which opened upon a corridor quite deserted at that late hour than
she applied both eye and ear to the aperture, in order to see and hear
what took place after her abrupt departure.

Gabriel appeared, ushered in by Dayelle, and knelt to kiss the hand the
queen held out to him, before making a profound salutation to the
cardinal.

"Well?" asked Mary Stuart, anxiously.

"Madame, I have prevailed upon Master Paré," said Gabriel. "He is
below."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, my faithful friend!" cried Mary.

"Pray, Madame, is the king failing?" said Gabriel, in a low voice,
casting an uneasy glance at the bed, where François II. lay without
color or motion.

"Alas! he never seems to gain," replied the queen; "and I was very
impatient to see you. Did Master Ambroise object seriously to coming?"

"No, Madame," replied Gabriel. "He had already been sent for, but in
such a way, he told me, as to invite a refusal. He was expected to bind
himself in advance, upon his life and his honor, to save the king, when
he had not even seen him. He was given to understand that, being himself
a Protestant, he was open to the suspicion of desiring the death of a
persecutor of Protestants. In short, he was treated with such insulting
distrust, and such severe conditions were imposed upon him, that unless
he had been utterly devoid of self-respect, to say nothing of caution,
he must unavoidably have been led to hold himself aloof. He did so, to
his great regret, and was not urged any further by those who had been
sent to him."

"Can it be that our intentions were thus misrepresented to Master
Paré?" the Cardinal de Lorraine hastily interposed. "Yet my brother and
myself have sent to him two or three times, and have been always told of
his obstinate refusal to come, and his extraordinary suspicions. We
believed those whom we sent to seek him to be most trustworthy!"

"But were they really so, Monseigneur?" asked Gabriel. "Master Paré
thinks otherwise, now that I have told him your real sentiments toward
him, and the queen's kind words. He is convinced that, unknown to you,
persistent efforts have been made for some guilty purpose to keep him
from the king's bedside."

"It must be so," returned Charles de Lorraine; "I recognize the
queen-mother's hand in this," he muttered, "for she is deeply interested
that her son should not be saved. But will she thus corrupt all those
upon whose devotion we rely? This is a counterpart of the appointment of
her friend L'Hôpital! How she does make sport of us!"

Mary Stuart, meanwhile, leaving the cardinal to his reflections upon
what had taken place, and his anxiety as to what was to come, was saying
to Gabriel,--

"Monsieur Paré did finally come with you, did he not?"

"At my first request," replied the young count.

"And he is here?"

"Awaiting only your gracious permission to enter, Madame."

"Pray let him come in at once!" cried Mary Stuart.

Gabriel de Montgommery went for a moment to the door at which he had
entered, and returned with the surgeon.

Sheltered behind her door, Catherine de Médicis was still watching,
more engrossed than ever.

Mary Stuart ran forward to meet Ambroise, took his hand, led him herself
to the cherished patient's bedside, and said on the way, as if to cut
short all complimentary salutations,--

"Thanks to you for coming, Master Paré. I relied upon your zeal to do
good, even as I now rely upon your skill. Come quickly; come to the
king!"

Ambroise Paré, yielding to the queen's restless impatience, without
having time to utter a word, was soon standing by the bed where
François II., vanquished by suffering, so to speak, had only sufficient
strength to breathe, almost imperceptibly and with a feeble, moaning
sound.

The great physician stood a moment gazing at the young face, drawn and
emaciated by suffering.

Then he stooped over the king, who was to him only a patient, and felt
and probed the terrible swelling of the right ear with a touch as light
and gentle as Mary's own.

The king instinctively recognized the touch of a physician, and yielded
to it without opening his heavy eyes.

"Oh, such agony!" he moaned piteously; "such agony! Can you do nothing
to relieve me?"

The light was too far away for Ambroise's purpose, and he made a sign to
Gabriel to bring it nearer; but Mary seized it first, and herself held
it for the surgeon while he made a long and careful examination of the
seat of pain.

This silent, minute study lasted perhaps ten minutes; at the end of
which Ambroise Paré rose to an erect posture again, and let the
bed-curtain fall, apparently deeply absorbed in meditating upon his
diagnosis.

Mary Stuart, waiting breathlessly, did not dare to ask him a question,
lest she might disturb the current of his thoughts; but she scanned his
features in an anguish of suspense. What would be his decision?

The famous physician sadly shook his head; and the movement seemed to
the distracted queen like a sentence of death.

"Oh!" she exclaimed at last, unable to control her anxiety any longer;
"pray tell me, is there no chance of saving him?"

"There is but one, Madame," replied Ambroise Paré.

"Is there even one?" cried the queen.

"Yes, Madame; and although, alas! it is not an absolutely certain one,
still it exists, and I should be very hopeful if--"

"If?" asked Mary.

"If the man to be saved were not the king, Madame."

"Oh, that indeed!" cried Mary; "treat him, and save him as if he were
the meanest of his subjects!"

"But suppose I fail?" demanded Ambroise; "for God alone is master. Shall
I not be accused of having caused his death, being, as I am, a Huguenot?
Might not such an awfully heavy responsibility unnerve me and make my
hand tremble, when I should be in need of such absolute calmness and
self-confidence?"

"Listen," was Mary's reply: "if he lives, I will bless you all my life,
and if--if he dies, I will defend you to the death. Therefore make the
effort! make the effort, I beg, I implore you! Since you say it is the
last and only chance, for the love of God, do not let it pass, for it
would be a crime!"

"You are right, Madame," said Ambroise, "and I will try,--that is, if I
am allowed; if you yourself will allow me, for I cannot conceal from you
that the remedy to which I must resort is an extreme and unusual one,
and, so far as appearances go, violent and dangerous."

"Really?" said Mary, trembling like a leaf; "and is there no other?"

"No other, Madame! There is still time to employ it; in twenty-four
hours at the utmost, and perhaps in twelve, it will be too late. An
abscess has formed in the king's head; and unless it is relieved and
discharged by a speedy operation, it will burst upon the brain and cause
death."

"Must you therefore operate upon the king immediately?" said the
cardinal. "I will not take the responsibility upon myself."

"Ah, you see that you already begin to doubt me!" said Ambroise. "No, I
must have the daylight; and besides, I need the rest of the night to
think it over, to get my hand in practice, and make one or two
experiments. But to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock, I will be here.
Please be here then, Madame, and you, Monseigneur; I should be glad if
Monsieur le Lieutenant-General would also attend, in order that those
whose devotion to the king is well tried may be present; but no
others,--as few physicians as possible. I will then explain what I
propose to do, and if you authorize me to proceed, with God's grace, I
will try the last chance He has left us."

"And is there no danger before to-morrow?" the queen asked.

"No, Madame," said Master Paré. "But it is most essential that the king
should rest quietly, and gather strength for the operation he is to
undergo. I will mix with the harmless beverage I see on the table two
drops of this elixir," he added, suiting the action to the word. "Let
the king take this immediately, Madame, and he will at once fall into a
deep, untroubled sleep. Watch him carefully, watch him yourself, if
possible, to see that his sleep be not disturbed."

"Never fear! I will answer for that," replied Mary. "I will not leave
his side to-night."

"That is of the utmost importance," said Ambroise. "Now I can do nothing
more here, and I ask your permission to retire, Madame,--still to devote
myself to the king, however, and to prepare for my great task."

"Go, good Master, go!" said Mary; "and accept in advance my thanks and
blessing. Until to-morrow!"

"Until to-morrow, Madame," replied Ambrose Paré. "Be of good cheer!"

"I shall not cease to pray," said Mary. "And you also, Monsieur le
Comte, once more I thank you," she continued, addressing Gabriel. "You
are of those of whom Master Paré has spoken, whose devotion to the king
has been put to the proof; therefore come to-morrow, I beg you, to give
your illustrious friend the moral support of your presence."

"I will be here, Madame," said Gabriel, as he withdrew with the surgeon
after respectfully saluting the queen and the cardinal.

"Yes, and I will be here too," said Catherine de Médicis to herself
from her post of observation,--"yes, I will be here; for this Paré is
quite capable of saving the king's life with his great skill, and of
thus destroying his own party, as well as the prince and myself. The
imbecile! But I will be here!"




CHAPTER XXXII

WELL-GUARDED SLUMBER


Catherine de Médicis remained at her post for some time, although none
but Mary Stuart and the cardinal were left in the king's chamber; but
she neither saw nor heard anything of interest. The queen administered
the sleeping-draught to François, who seemed, as Ambroise Paré had
promised, to fall at once into a more peaceful slumber. Then everything
was still. The cardinal, seated in his chair, was deep in thought; while
Mary, on her knees, was pouring out her very soul in prayer.

The queen-mother softly withdrew to her own room to imitate the
cardinal's reflective mood.

If she had remained a few moments longer, however, she would have
witnessed a scene quite worthy of herself.

Mary Stuart, rising from her knees, said to the cardinal,--

"There is no reason why you should stay to watch with me, dear uncle;
for I intend to remain here till the king awakes. Dayelle, the
physicians, and the servants in attendance will be quite sufficient for
any emergency that can arise; so that you may go and take a little rest.
I will send to you if it is necessary."

"No," said the cardinal; "the Duc de Guise, who has been delayed by a
number of pressing matters, told me that before he retired he would come
to learn the latest news of the king, and I promised to await him here.
Hark! do I not hear his step now?"

"Oh, don't let him make any noise!" cried Mary, rushing to the door to
warn Le Balafré.

The Duc de Guise entered, pale and excited. He saluted the queen, but in
his preoccupation did not think to ask for the king's welfare; he went
straight to his brother, and led him aside to a window-recess.

"Terrible news!" he began,--"a veritable thunder-stroke!"

"In Heaven's name, what is it?" asked the cardinal.

"The Constable de Montmorency has left Chantilly with fifteen hundred
gentlemen," said the Duc de Guise. "The better to conceal his movements,
he made a detour around Paris, and came from Ecouen and Corbeil to
Pithiviers by the valley of Essonne. He will be at the gates of Orléans
with his troop to-morrow; and I have just received warning of his
coming."

"That is indeed terrible!" said the cardinal. "The old villain wishes to
save his nephew's head. I will warrant that it was the queen-mother who
notified him. Oh, this feeling of utter helplessness against that
woman!"

"This is no time to proceed against her, but to bestir ourselves in our
own interests," said Le Balafré. "What shall we do?"

"Go at once with our forces to meet the constable," replied Charles de
Lorraine.

"Will you guarantee to hold Orléans when I am no longer here with my
troops?"

"Alas! no,--indeed, I cannot," replied the cardinal. "All the Orléans
people are disaffected,--Huguenots and Bourbons at heart. But in any
event the States-General are on our side."

"And L'Hôpital against us, remember, my brother. Ah, it is a hard
position? How does the king?" the duke asked finally, danger reminding
him of his last resource.

"The king is in bad condition," was the cardinal's reply; "but Ambroise
Paré, who has come to Orléans at the queen's request (I will explain
this to you later), still hopes to save the king by a hazardous but
necessary operation to-morrow morning, which may have happy results. Do
not fail to be here at nine o'clock, brother, to sustain Ambroise, if
need be."

"Surely I will be here," rejoined Le Balafré, "for that is our only
hope. Our authority would die with François's last breath; but on the
other hand, it would be a fine thing to frighten the constable, and
perhaps make him retrace his steps, by sending him, by way of a welcome,
the head of his handsome nephew, De Condé."

"Yes, that would be a very eloquent greeting, in my opinion," said the
cardinal, reflectively.

"But this infernal L'Hôpital impedes everything!" exclaimed Le
Balafré.

"If we had the king's signature upon the decree for the prince's death,
instead of L'Hôpital's," suggested Charles de Lorraine, "there would be
no further difficulty, brother,--am I not right?--about this execution
taking place to-morrow morning before Montmorency's arrival, and before
Master Paré's operation."

"That would not be strictly legal; but it would be possible," replied Le
Balafré.

"Very well, then!" cried Charles de Lorraine, eagerly. "Leave me here,
my brother; there is nothing more for you to do to-night, and you must
need rest, for two o'clock will soon strike. You must husband your
strength for to-morrow. Retire, and leave me here. I mean to make a
desperate effort myself to retrieve our fortunes."

"What is it to be?" the duke asked. "Pray, take no definite step without
first consulting me, brother."

"Never fear! If I have what I want, I will wake you before daybreak to
perfect our plans."

"Very well," said Le Balafré; "with this assurance I will retire, for
it is true that I am exhausted. But be cautious!"

He said a few consoling words to Mary Stuart, and left the room with as
little noise as possible.

Meanwhile the cardinal had seated himself at a table, and was making a
copy of the decree of the commission, of which he had the original
before him.

That done, he rose and walked toward the king's bed. But Mary Stuart
stood erect in front of him, and stopped him with a gesture.

"Where are you going?" said she, in a low tone, but firmly, and with
signs of growing anger.

"Madame," replied the cardinal, "it is important, indispensable, that
the king should sign this paper."

"What is most important, and most indispensable, is that the king should
rest quietly," said Mary.

"Let me have his name at the bottom of this writing, Madame, and I will
importune you no more."

"But you will awake him," retorted the queen; "and I do not choose that
you shall. Besides, he is not capable of holding a pen at this moment."

"I will hold it for him," said the cardinal.

"I have told you that I will not have it!" replied Mary Stuart,
authoritatively.

The cardinal stopped a moment, amazed at this obstacle, which he had
never dreamed of.

Then he continued in his most insinuating tones,--

"Listen to me, Madame,--my dear niece, listen to me; I will tell you
what is at stake. You understand very well that I would respect the
king's repose if I were not constrained by the most urgent necessity. It
is our fortune and yours, our welfare and yours, which are at stake.
Understand me. This paper must be signed before daybreak, or we are
lost!--lost, I tell you."

"That does not concern me," said Mary, calmly.

"Indeed it does! Once more I tell you, our ruin is your ruin, child that
you are!"

"Even so, what does it matter to me?" the queen replied. "Do you suppose
I concern myself with your ambition? My ambition is to save my beloved,
to preserve his life if I can, and meanwhile to guard his priceless
repose. Master Paré constituted me the guardian of the king's slumber.
I forbid you to disturb it, Monsieur! Understand me! I forbid you! If
the king dies, my royalty dies too!--it is all one to me! But as long as
one breath remains in his body, I will defend it against the hateful
demands of your intrigues. I have contributed more than I ought, my
uncle, to the strengthening of your power and influence when my
François was still well and strong; but I take your power from your
hands again as soon as I have to concern myself with forcing respect to
be shown to what may be the last hours of peace on earth that God will
vouchsafe this poor life. The king, Master Paré said, would need
to-morrow all of the little strength he has left. No one on earth, on
any pretext whatsoever, shall deprive him of one moment of this
refreshing slumber."

"But when the motive is such an important and urgent one?" said the
cardinal.

"Upon no pretext whatever shall any one on earth awaken the king,"
repeated Mary, firmly.

"Ah, but it must be done!" retorted the cardinal, ashamed at last of
having been so long delayed by the unaided resistance of a mere child,
and she his niece. "The interests of State, Madame, are not consistent
with these sentimental considerations. The king's signature is essential
to me at once; and I will have it."

"You shall not have it, Monsieur le Cardinal," replied Mary.

The cardinal took a step toward the king's bedside, but again Mary
Stuart faced him and barred his passage.

The queen and the minister looked in each other's eyes for an instant,
each as excited and angry as the other.

"I will pass," said Charles de Lorraine, in a quick, short voice.

"Do you dare to lay your hand upon me, Monsieur?"

"My niece!"

"Your niece no longer, but your queen!"

These words were uttered in so firm, and withal dignified and queenly a
tone, that the astonished cardinal recoiled.

"Yes, your queen," Mary continued; "and if you approach one step nearer,
or make another motion, as if to make your way to the king, I will go to
that door; I will call those who are on guard there; and though you be
my uncle, though you be minister and cardinal, I, your queen, will order
your arrest upon the spot, as guilty of _lèse-majesté_."

"Such a scandal!" muttered the cardinal, in affright.

"Which of us is responsible for it, Monsieur?"

The sparkling eye, the inflated nostrils, the heaving bosom of the young
queen, and her whole determined bearing were a sufficient guarantee that
she would carry out her threat.

And then, too, she was so lovely and so haughty, and withal so touching,
that even the priest, with his heart of bronze, felt moved and beaten.

The man yielded to the child; and the affairs of State obeyed the cry of
natural affection.

"Well!" said the cardinal, drawing a long breath, "I will wait, then,
until the king awakes."

"Thanks!" said Mary, resuming the gentle and melancholy demeanor which
had become customary to her since the king's illness.

"But as soon as he awakes--" continued Charles.

"If he is then in condition to hear what you have to say, and do what
you wish, I will interpose no further obstacle."

The cardinal was perforce contented with this promise. He returned to
his seat at the table, and Mary to her _prie-Dieu_,--he waiting, and she
hoping.

The slow hours of that night of watching dragged themselves along, and
François II. did not awake. The promise of Ambroise Paré was not a
vain one: not for many nights had the king known such long and peaceful
slumber.

From time to time he made a slight movement or uttered a feeble moan;
sometimes he pronounced a word or a name, generally Mary's. But he would
relapse at once into his deep sleep; and the cardinal, who did not once
fail to rise in haste at the least sound, would return dejectedly to his
seat.

He crumpled in his hand uneasily the useless, fatal decree, which
without the king's signature might well serve for his own death-warrant.

He watched the torches gradually burn out or grow pale, as the cold
December dawn whitened the windows.

At last, as eight o'clock struck, the king moved, then opened his eyes,
and called, "Mary! are you there, Mary?"

"Always at your side," replied the queen.

Charles de Lorraine rushed forward with the paper in his hand. Perhaps
there was time even yet; a scaffold is soon erected.

But at that instant Catherine de Médicis re-entered the royal
apartments by the door leading to her own.

"Too late!" muttered the cardinal. "Ah, fortune turns her back upon us!
Now, if Ambroise does not save the king's life, we are lost indeed!"




CHAPTER XXXIII

A KING'S DEATH-BED


The queen-mother during that night had not thrown away her time. In the
first place, she had sent her creature, Cardinal de Tournon, to the King
of Navarre, and had settled terms with the Bourbons in writing. Then
before daybreak she had received the Chancellor l'Hôpital, and had
learned from him of the expected arrival at Orléans of her ally, the
constable; L'Hôpital, by her instructions, promised to be in the great
hall, which was next to the king's apartments, at nine o'clock, and to
have with him as many of her partisans as he could find. Last of all,
she had made an appointment for half after eight with Chapelain and two
or three others of the royal physicians, whose mediocre talent was the
natural-born enemy of the genius of Ambroise Paré.

Having thus taken her precautions, she was the first, as we have seen,
to enter the king's chamber just as he awoke. She went at once to her
son's bedside, gazed at him for a few moments with bent head, like a
grief-stricken mother, pressed a kiss upon his hand, which was hanging
listlessly down, and wiping away a tear or two, took her seat in such a
position as to have him always in sight.

She, as well as Mary Stuart, was determined from that time on to watch
over that bed of suffering, for her own purposes.

The Duc de Guise entered almost immediately. After exchanging a few
words with Mary, he walked toward his brother.

"Have you done nothing?" he asked.

"Alas! I have not been able to do anything," was the reply.

"Fortune is turning against us, then," said the duke. "There is a great
crowd in Antoine de Navarre's antechamber this morning."

"Have you any news of De Montmorency?"

"None at all. I have tried in vain to learn something thus far. He could
not have taken the most direct road, and he may be even now at the gates
of the city. If Ambroise Paré is not successful in his operation,
farewell to our fortune."

At this moment the physicians who had been summoned by Catherine de
Médicis entered.

The queen-mother herself led them to the bedside of the king, whose
suffering and groaning had begun again.

The physicians examined the royal patient, each in turn, and then
retired to a corner to consult. Chapelain proposed a poultice to draw
out the foreign matter; but the others declared in favor of injecting a
certain medicated water into the ear.

They were just agreeing on the last-named method when Ambroise Paré
entered, accompanied by Gabriel. After having examined into the king's
condition, he joined his professional brethren.

Ambroise Paré, surgeon to the Duc de Guise, whose professional renown
was already established, was now an authority to be reckoned with. The
physicians told him what they had resolved to do.

"The remedy proposed is inadequate, I am sure," said Ambroise Paré,
aloud; "but we must make haste, for the brain will be filled sooner than
I thought."

"Oh, hasten, then, in Heaven's name!" cried Mary Stuart, who had
overheard.

The queen-mother and the two Guises thereupon drew near the physicians,
and joined their group.

"Have you any better and more speedy means than ours to suggest, Master
Paré?" asked Chapelain.

"Yes," said Paré.

"What is it?"

"We must trepan the king," said Paré.

"Trepan the king!" cried the three physicians, in tones expressive of
the utmost horror.

"In what does this operation consist?" asked the Duc de Guise.

"It is little known as yet, Monseigneur," replied the surgeon. "It
consists in making upon the top of the head, or rather upon the lateral
part of the brain, with an instrument I have invented, called the
'trepan,' an opening about the size of an angelot."

"God of mercy!" cried Catherine de Médicis, indignantly. "Put the knife
to the king's head! And you would dare to do it?"

"Yes, Madame," replied Ambroise, simply.

"But it would be murder!" exclaimed Catherine.

"Why, Madame," added Ambroise, "I propose scientifically and carefully
to bore a hole in the head, which is only what the blind and heedless do
every day upon the battle-field. Yet see how many such wounds are
cured!"

"Will you be answerable for the king's life, Master Ambroise?" asked the
cardinal; "that is the question."

"God alone has the life and death of mortals in His hand, as you should
know better than I, Monsieur le Cardinal. All that I can promise is that
this is the last and only chance of saving the king. Yes, it is the only
chance; but it is only a chance."

"But you say that your operation may be successful, do you not,
Ambroise?" said Le Balafré. "Tell me, have you ever performed it
successfully?"

"Yes, Monseigneur," replied Paré,--"only a short time since upon
Monsieur de la Bretesche, at the sign of the Red Rose, in Rue de la
Harpe; and to mention a case of which Monseigneur may perhaps have some
knowledge, I performed it at the siege of Calais upon Monsieur de
Pienne, who was wounded while fighting at the breach."

It may have been with intention that Ambroise Paré recalled the memory
of Calais. It is certain that he succeeded, and that the Duc de Guise
seemed moved.

"Yes, I remember," said he, "I have no longer any hesitation; I consent
to the operation."

"And so do I," said Mary Stuart, enlightened, no doubt, by her love.

"But not I!" cried Catherine.

"What, Madame! not when you have been told that it is our only chance?"
said Mary.

"Who says so?" demanded the queen-mother. "Master Ambroise Paré, a
heretic, forsooth! Besides, it is not the opinion of the physicians."

"No, Madame," said Chapelain; "and these gentlemen and myself protest
against the remedy that Master Paré proposes."

"Ah, do you hear?" cried Catherine, in triumph.

Le Balafré, in great agitation, led the queen-mother into the embrasure
of a window, and said in an undertone, with clinched teeth,--

"Madame, hearken to me! You wish that your son should die, and the
Prince de Condé should live! You are in accord with the Bourbons and
the Montmorencys! The bargain is made, and the spoils divided in
advance! I know everything! Take care! I know everything, I tell you!"

But Catherine de Médicis was not one of those who are easily
intimidated; and the Duc de Guise made a serious mistake. She only
understood the better how essential it was for her to adopt a bold
course, since her enemy thus removed his mask. She cast a withering
glance upon him, and breaking away from his grasp with a sudden
movement, ran to the folding-doors, and herself threw them open to their
fullest extent.

"Monsieur le Chancelier!" she cried.

L'Hôpital, according to the orders he had received, was waiting in the
large hall. He had collected there all of the partisans of the
queen-mother and the princes whom he had been able to find.

At Catherine's call he came quickly forward, and the group of nobles
pressed inquisitively toward the open door.

"Monsieur le Chancelier," continued Catherine, raising her voice that
she might be heard by all, "it is proposed to authorize a violent and
desperate operation upon the person of the king. Master Paré proposes
to pierce his head with an instrument of his own devising. I, his
mother, with these three physicians, protest against this crime.
Monsieur le Chancelier, record my protest."

"Close that door!" cried the Duc de Guise.

Despite the remonstrances of the gentlemen collected in the great hall,
Gabriel did as the duke ordered.

The chancellor alone remained in the king's chamber.

"Now, Monsieur le Chancelier," said Le Balafré, "be pleased to
understand that the operation which has been mentioned is absolutely
necessary; and that the queen and myself, lieutenant-general of the
kingdom, will be answerable, if not for the operation, at all events for
the surgeon."

"And I," cried Ambroise Paré, "at this supreme moment, assume all the
responsibility that you choose to impose upon me; yes, I consent that my
own life may pay the forfeit if I do not succeed in saving the king's.
But, alas! it is full time. Look at the king! look!"

François lay there, livid, without motion, and with dull, lifeless
eyes, and seemed to see and hear nothing,--scarcely to exist, in fact.
He no more responded to Mary's caresses or her beloved voice.

"Oh, hasten, hasten, in the name of God!" she said appealingly to
Ambroise. "Oh, try to save the life of the king, and I will protect
yours!"

"I have no right to forbid these proceedings," said the impassive
chancellor; "but it is my duty to state the protest of Madame the
Queen-mother."

"Monsieur de l'Hôpital, you are no longer chancellor," rejoined the Duc
de Guise, coldly. "Go on, Ambroise," he said to the surgeon.

"We will withdraw," said Chapelain, speaking for the physicians.

"So be it," replied Ambroise. "I must have most perfect quiet around me;
so leave me, if you please, gentlemen. For the sake of being sole master
for the moment, I assume the sole responsibility."

For some moments Catherine neither spoke nor moved. She had withdrawn to
a window, and was looking out into the courtyard, where there was a
great commotion; but in the crisis that was approaching, no one beside
herself paid any heed to the tumult without.

All others, even the chancellor himself, had their eyes riveted upon
Ambroise Paré, who had resumed the cool demeanor of a great surgeon,
and was making ready his instruments.

But just as he was leaning toward François, the uproar came nearer, and
seemed to be in the adjoining hall. A bitter and joyous smile played
about the bloodless lips of Catherine. The door was violently thrown
open; and the Constable de Montmorency, in full armor, appeared
threateningly upon the threshold.

"I arrive most opportunely," cried the constable.

"What means this intrusion?" demanded the Duc de Guise, laying his hand
upon his sword.

Ambroise Paré had no choice but to stay his hand. Twenty gentlemen
accompanied Montmorency, and poured into the chamber after him. At his
side were Antoine de Navarre and the Prince de Condé. Moreover, the
queen-mother and L'Hôpital joined them. There was no longer any hope of
maintaining the mastery even by force.

"In my turn," said Ambroise Paré, hopelessly, "I withdraw."

"Master Paré," cried Mary Stuart, "I, the queen, command you to proceed
with your operation!"

"But, Madame," replied the surgeon, "I told you that most perfect quiet
was necessary! and you see!" he added expressively, pointing to the
constable and his train.

"Monsieur Chapelain," said he to the first physician, "try your
injection."

"That will take but an instant," said Chapelain, quickly. "Everything is
prepared."

With the assistance of his _confrères_, he injected his preparation
into the king's ear.

Mary Stuart, the Guises, Gabriel, and Ambroise allowed them to do as
they chose, and said nothing; they were completely crushed, and as if
turned to stone.

The constable chattered away like a madman.

"This is very well!" said he, well pleased with the forced docility of
Master Paré. "When I think that if it had not been for me you would
have opened the king's head in such fashion! Kings of France are only
wounded so upon the battle-field, do you see? The steel of an enemy may
touch them, but a surgeon's knife never!"

And then, exulting over the dejected attitude of the Duc de Guise, he
continued,--

"It was quite time that I should arrive, thank God! Ah, Messieurs, they
tell me that you proposed to cut off the head of my dear brave nephew,
the Prince de Condé! But you aroused the old lion in his lair, and
behold him! I have delivered the prince; I have addressed the
States-General, who are restive under your oppression. I have, as
constable, dismissed the guards you stationed at the gates of Orléans.
Since when has it been customary thus to furnish guards to the king, as
if he were not safe in the midst of his loyal subjects?"

"Of what king are you speaking?" demanded Ambroise Paré; "for soon
there will be no king save Charles IX.,--for you see, Messieurs," said
he to the physicians, "that despite your injection, the brain is already
affected, and is beginning to be filled."

Catherine de Médicis clearly read in the hopeless air of Ambroise that
all hope was at an end.

"Your reign is over, then, Monsieur," she could not forbear remarking to
Le Balafré.

François II. at that moment suddenly raised himself in bed, opened his
great staring eyes, moved his lips as if struggling to pronounce a name,
then fell heavily back upon his pillow.

He was dead.

Ambroise Paré, with a sorrowful gesture, made the fact known to those
present.

"Ah, Madame, Madame! you have killed your son!" cried Mary Stuart to
Catherine, leaping toward her in a frenzy of despair.

The queen-mother bestowed upon her daughter-in-law a venomous, icy
glance, in which shone all the hatred she had concealed for eighteen
months.

"You, my dear," she sneered, "have no longer the right to speak thus,
remember; for you are no longer queen. Ah, I beg your pardon!--queen of
Scotland. And we will send you over as soon as possible to reign in your
land of fogs."

Mary, with the reaction inevitable after her first burst of grief, fell
on her knees, exhausted and sobbing bitterly, at the foot of the bed
where the king was lying.

"Madame de Fiesque," continued Catherine, calmly, "go at once and bring
the Duc d'Orléans."

"Messieurs," she resumed, glancing at the Duc de Guise and the cardinal,
"the States-General, which were devoted to you, it may be, an hour
since, are now at our service, be assured. It is understood between
Monsieur de Bourbon and myself that I shall be queen-regent, and he
lieutenant-general of the kingdom; but you are still grand master,
Monsieur de Guise. Therefore perform the functions of your office, and
announce the demise of King François II."

"The king is dead!" said Le Balafré, in a deep, hollow voice.

The king-at-arms cried aloud on the threshold of the apartment,
according to ancient ceremonial,--

"The king is dead! The king is dead! The king is dead! Pray God for the
salvation of his soul!"

"Long live the king!" replied the first gentleman of the chamber.

At the same moment Madame de Fiesque brought the Duc d'Orléans to the
queen-mother's side, who took him by the hand, and led him out to show
to the courtiers, who were lustily shouting,--

"Long live our good king, Charles IX.!"

"Our fortunes are at an end now!" said the cardinal, gloomily, to his
brother, as they were left standing almost alone.

"Ours, perhaps, but not that of our family," replied the ambitious Duc
de Guise. "We must think now about preparing the way for my son."

"How can we renew our alliance with the queen-mother?"

"Oh, let us leave her to quarrel with her Bourbons and her Huguenots,"
said Le Balafré.

They left the room by a secret door, still busily conversing.

"Alas! alas!" murmured Mary Stuart, kissing the cold hand of poor
François; "there is no one but me to weep for him, my poor darling, who
loved me so dearly."

"And me, Madame," said Gabriel de Montgommery, who had thus far kept in
the background, but now came forward with tears in his eyes.

"Oh, thanks, my friend!" said Mary, with a grateful look in which her
whole soul shone out.

"And I will do more than weep," said Gabriel, beneath his breath,
following from afar, with an angry eye, the Constable de Montmorency,
who was strutting about beside Catherine de Médicis. "Yes, perhaps I
may avenge him, when I begin anew the unfinished work of my own
vengeance. Now that this constable has returned to power, the contest
between us is not at an end!"

Thus, even in the presence of death Gabriel, alas! kept in view his
personal affairs.

Surely Regnier la Planche was right in saying "that it is a bad thing to
be king simply to die."

And he was equally right when he added, "During the reign of François
II. France was the theatre whereon were enacted many horrible tragedies
which posterity will contemplate with wonder and abhorrence."




CHAPTER XXXIV

ADIEU, FRANCE!


On the 15th of August, 1561, eight months after the demise of François
II., Mary Stuart was at Calais, on the point of taking her departure for
her Scottish kingdom.

During these eight months she had been engaged in an unceasing struggle,
day by day and hour by hour, with Catherine de Médicis and with her
uncles as well, who were as impatient as the regent, though for
different reasons, to have her well away from France; but Mary found it
hard to make up her mind to leave behind her that fair land where she
had been a queen, so happy and so well beloved. Even in the sorrowful
memories which recalled her premature widowhood, these loved spots held
for her a poetic charm which made it difficult for her to tear herself
away.

Mary Stuart not only felt that poetic charm, but she herself gave
expression to it. She not only wept for the demise of François as a
loving wife, but she sang of it like one of the Muses. Brantôme, in his
admiration for her, has preserved for us the sweet, plaintive verses
which she composed in her tribulation, and which bear comparison with
the most notable poetry of that age:


    "En mon triste et doux chant,
       D'un ton fort lamentable,
     Je jette un deuil tranchant
       De perte incomparable,
     Et en soupirs croissans
     Passent mes meilleurs ans.

    "Fut-il un tel malheur
       De dure destinée,
     Ni si triste douleur
       De dame fortunée,
     Que mon cœur et mon œil
     Voient en bière et cercueil!

    "Que dans mon doux printemps,
       À fleur de ma jeunesse,
     Toutes les peines sens
       D'une extrême tristesse
     Et en rien n'ai plaisir
     Qu'en regret et désir.

    "Ce qui m'était plaisant
       Me devient peine dure!
     Le jour le plus luisant
       Est pour moi nuit obscure,
     Et n'est rien si exquis
     Qui de moi soit requis!

    "Si en quelque séjour,
       Soit en bois, soit en prée,
     Soit à l'aube du jour
       Ou soit sur la vesprée,
     Sans cesse mon cœur sent
     Le regret d'un absent.

    "Si parfois vers les cieux
       Viens à dresser ma vue,
     Le doux trait de ses yeux
       Je vois en une nue.
     Si les baisse vers l'eau,
     Vois comme en un tombeau.

    "Si je suis en repos
       Sommeillant sur ma couche,
     J'oy qu'il me tient propos,
       Je le sens qui me touche!
     En labeur, en recoy,
     Toujours est près de moi.

    "Mets, chanson, ici fin
       À ta triste complainte
     Dont sera le refrain:
       Amour vraie et sans feinte
     Qui pour séparation
     N'aura diminution."[10]


It was while at Reims, to which city she at first withdrew with her
uncle De Lorraine, that Mary Stuart produced these melodious and
touching strains. She remained in Champagne until the end of the spring.
Then the religious troubles which had broken out in Scotland urgently
demanded her presence in that country. On the other side, the almost
passionate admiration which the boy Charles IX. expressed whenever he
mentioned his sister-in law disturbed the suspicious regent, Catherine.
Therefore it was necessary that Mary Stuart should resign herself to
depart.

She came to pay her parting respects to the court at St. Germain in
July; and the marks of devotion, of adoration almost, which were
showered upon her there, served only to augment, if that were possible,
her bitter regret.

Her dowry, charged upon Touraine and Poitou, had been fixed at twenty
thousand livres annually; she also carried many superb jewels with her
to Scotland, and it was thought that the hope of obtaining such rich
treasure might tempt some freebooter. Still more fear was entertained
that her safety might be endangered by some act of violence on the part
of Élisabeth of England, who already saw in the young Queen of Scots a
dangerous rival. Consequently a number of gentlemen proposed to escort
Mary to her own dominions; and when she reached Calais, she found
herself attended not only by her uncles, but by Messieurs de Damville
and de Brantôme,--in fact, by the better part of that splendid,
chivalrous court.

She found two galleys awaiting her in the harbor of Calais, ready to set
sail as soon as she should give the word; but she remained at Calais six
days, so painful was the final parting from those who had accompanied
her thus far on her way.

At last the 15th of August, as we have said, was definitely fixed upon
for her departure. It was a gloomy, threatening day, but without wind or
rain.

Upon the shore, and before setting foot upon the deck of the vessel
which was to bear her away, Mary, as a mark of her gratitude to all who
had thus escorted her to the utmost verge of their country, gave each of
them her hand to kiss as a last farewell.

They all came forward, and kneeling before her one after another pressed
their lips upon her beloved hand.

Last of all was a gentleman who had never ceased to follow in Mary's
train since she left St. Germain, but had always kept in the background
on the road, hidden by his broad hat and the ample folds of his cloak,
and had neither made himself known nor spoken to a soul.

But when he came in turn to kneel before the queen, hat in hand, Mary
recognized Gabriel de Montgommery.

"Ah, is it you, Count?" said she. "I am indeed happy to see you once
more, my faithful friend, who wept with me for my poor dead king. But
why have you never spoken to me, if you were with these other
gentlemen?"

"I felt that I must see you without being seen, Madame," replied
Gabriel. "In my loneliness I could better collect my remembrances, and
enjoy more fully the pleasure that it gave me to perform so grateful a
duty."

"Thanks once more for this final proof of your attachment, Monsieur le
Comte," said Mary. "I should be glad if I might show my gratitude
otherwise than by mere words. I can do nothing more, unless it please
you to accompany me to my poor Scotland with Messieurs Damville and
Brantôme--"

"Ah, that would be my most devout wish, Madame!" cried Gabriel; "but
another duty binds me to France. One who is dearer to me than life, and
consecrated in my eyes, and whom I have not seen for more than two
years, is expecting me at this moment."

"Do you mean Diane de Castro?" asked Mary, eagerly.

"Yes, Madame," said Gabriel. "By a letter I received last month she
requested me to be at St. Quentin to-day, August 15. I shall not be with
her until to-morrow; but whatever may have been her motive in summoning
me, she will forgive me, I am sure, when she learns that I did not
desire to leave you until you were actually leaving France."

"Dear Diane!" remarked Mary, pensively; "yes, she also loved me well,
was like a sister to me. Hold, Monsieur de Montgommery; take this ring
to her as a remembrance from me, and go to her as quickly as you can.
She may need your help; and when her welfare is concerned, I do not wish
to detain you. Adieu! adieu, all my dear friends! They wait for me, and
I must go,--alas! I must."

She tore herself away from the arms of those who would still have held
her, stepped aboard the small boat, and was at once transferred to
Monsieur de Mévillon's galley, followed by the envied gentlemen who
were to go with her to Scotland.

But even as Scotland could not supply the void left by France in Mary's
heart, so those who accompanied her could not make her forget those she
had left behind; indeed, she seemed to love the latter the more dearly.
Standing at the stern of the galley, she never ceased to wave her
handkerchief, wet with tears, to the kinsfolk and friends whom she left
upon the shore.

At last they were in the open sea: and Mary's eyes were drawn in spite
of herself toward a vessel which was just entering the harbor she had
quitted, and which her gaze followed longingly in envy of its
destination. Suddenly the vessel pitched forward, as if she had struck
beneath the water-line; and trembling from stem to stern, she began to
sink, amid the piercing shrieks of her crew. It was all done so rapidly
that she was out of sight before Monsieur de Mévillon had time to send
a skiff to her assistance. For an instant a few heads could be seen
struggling in the water near the spot where the vessel had gone down,
but they disappeared one by one before they could be reached, although
the men pulled lustily; and the skiff returned without having saved a
single one of the poor wretches.

"Oh, Lord! oh, my God! what a fearful omen for my voyage is this!" cried
Mary Stuart.

Meanwhile the wind had freshened; and the galley began to attain some
speed, so that the crew had an opportunity to rest. Mary, seeing that
she was rapidly leaving the shore behind her, leaned against the
bulwarks with her eyes fixed upon the harbor, her sight dimmed by great
tears, and repeated again and again,--

"Adieu, France! adieu, France!"

She remained in that position nearly five hours,--that is to say, until
night fell; indeed, she would probably not have thought of leaving the
deck even then, had not Brantôme come to inform her that her presence
was awaited at supper.

Thereupon, weeping and sobbing more bitterly than before,--

"Now, dear France," she cried, "I lose thee indeed; since Night, jealous
of my last happiness, pulls her dark veil before my eyes to deprive me
of my pleasure in gazing at thee. So adieu, dear France! I shall never
see thee more!"

Then with a sign to Brantôme that she would follow him at once, she
drew forth her tablets, seated herself upon a bench, and wrote these
familiar lines by the last rays of daylight,--


    "Adieu, plaisant pays de France!
          O ma patrie
          La plus chérie,
    Qui a nourri ma jeune enfance!
    Adieu, France! adieu, mes beaux jours!
    La nef qui disjoint nos amours
    N'a eu de moi que la moitié:
    Une part te reste, elle est tienne.
    Je la fie à ton amitié,
    Pour que de l'autre il te souvienne."[11]


At last she went below, and said as she joined her shipmates who were
awaiting her,--

"I have done just the opposite of what the Queen of Carthage did; for
Dido, when Æneas left her, gazed ceaselessly at the waves, while I find
it hard to take my eyes from the land."

They urged her to be seated, and to sup with them; but she could eat
nothing, and withdrew at once to her cabin, charging the helmsman to
arouse her at break of day if the land were still in sight.

On this point at least fortune smiled upon poor Mary; for the wind died
away, and the galley scarcely moved during the night, except with the
aid of oars; so that when day broke they were still within sight of
France.

The helmsman entered the queen's cabin, as she had ordered him to do;
but he found her already awake and seated upon her berth, gazing out
through an open porthole at the beloved shore.

However, this pleasure was of short duration; for the wind freshened
again, and France was soon lost to sight. Mary had only one hope left:
that was that an English fleet would appear in the offing, and they
would be obliged to turn back. But that last hope proved futile, like
the others; a fog, so dense that they could not see from one end of the
vessel to the other, came down upon the ocean,--almost miraculously, as
it seemed, being midsummer. They sailed on at hazard, incurring the risk
of going astray, but avoiding all danger of being seen by the enemy.

At last, on the third day, the fog lifted; and they found themselves
close upon a rocky shore, where the galley would doubtless have gone to
pieces if they had sailed two cables' lengths farther. The pilot took an
observation, and found that he was off the coast of Scotland, and having
skilfully extricated the vessel from the breakers which surrounded her,
made the port of Leith, near Edinburgh.

The wits who accompanied Mary said that they had landed in a fog in a
mischief-making country of marplots.[12] Mary's coming was entirely
unexpected; so that she and her suite were, perforce, content to make
their way to Edinburgh upon donkeys, wretchedly equipped, many of which
were without saddles, and had nought but cords for reins and stirrups.
Mary could not refrain from contrasting these sorry nags with the superb
French palfreys which she was accustomed to see caracoling about in the
hunting-field, or the lists. She shed a few tears of regret as she
compared the fair land she had left with that upon which she now stood.
But soon, with her fascinating grace, and struggling to smile through
her tears, she said,--

"I must bear my ills in patience, since I have exchanged my paradise for
a hell."

In such manner did Mary Stuart arrive on British soil. We have narrated
elsewhere ("Les Stuarts") the story of the rest of her life and her
demise; and how impious England, the arch-enemy of all that France holds
sacred, slew grace in her person, as it had already slain inspiration in
that of Jeanne d'Arc, and was subsequently to make an end of genius in
the person of Napoleon.


[Footnote 10: "Sad and plaintive is my song
                 Of the days now gone forever;
               And I mourn the whole day long
                 The loss of him whom I shall never
               More behold. In grief and pain, alas!
               The fairest years of my life must pass.

               "How pitiless and stern is fate!
                 That I, to fortune born and pleasure,
               Must bend beneath the cruel weight
                 Of pain and sorrow without measure;
               While Destiny thus bounds my whole career
               By the dark shadow of the funeral bier.

               "In the bright springtime of my life,
                 Of my youth the very flower,
               A melancholy, widowed wife,
                 I sit and sob the weary hour;
               Nor can my heart a taste of joy acquire
               In aught save vain regret or vain desire.

               "That to me now is bitter pain
                 Whereat my face was wont to lighten;
               And God's bright sunshine seeks in vain
                 The darkness of my night to brighten:
               Nor in my sight is aught so fair or fine
               As to arouse a wish that it were mine.

               "Wheresoe'er my steps may lead,--
                 Whether through the forest roaming.
               Or perchance by flowery mead,
                 Or at dawn or in the gloaming,--
               Still my fond heart doth ceaselessly deplore,
               And mourn the loss of him who is no more.

               "If to heaven my eyes I raise,
                 In some cloud-shape, outlined faintly,
               I behold my dear one's face
                 Smiling with his smile so saintly;
               If my glance wanders o'er the ocean's wave,
               I seem to see him beckoning from the grave.

               "If my eyes in slumber close,
                 I can hear his dear voice calling;
               And my soul with rapture glows
                 At his soft touch so lightly falling
               Upon my cheek. Thus is he near me ever,
               Whether I toil or rest; nor can grim Death us sever.

               "Have done, O Muse, with thy sad strain!
                 What boots it to be ever singing?
               Yet of my song, this sweet refrain
                 Is ever in my ears ringing:
               The love that's true, with adoration blending,
               In absence loseth nought; its growth is never ending."]

[Footnote 11: "Farewell to thee, thou pleasant shore,
                 The loved, the cherished home to me,
               Of infant joy a dream that's o'er!
                 Farewell, dear France! farewell to thee!

               "The sail that wafts me bears away
                 From thee but half my soul alone:
               Its fellow-half will fondly stay,
                 And back to thee has faithful flown.

               "I trust it to thy gentle care;
                 For all that here remains with me
               Lives but to think of all that's there,
                 To love and to remember thee."]

[Footnote 12: It is impossible to translate this passage so as
adequately to convey the meaning of the text, "on avait pris terre par
un _brouillard_ dans un pays _brouillé_ et _brouillon_."--TRANSLATOR.]




CONCLUSION


Gabriel did not reach St. Quentin until August 16. At the entrance to
the town he found Jean Peuquoy awaiting him.

"Ah, here you are at last, Monsieur le Comte!" cried the honest weaver.
"I was sure that you would come! But you are too late, alas! too late!"

"What! too late?" asked Gabriel, in alarm.

"Alas! yes. Did not Madame Diane de Castro in her letter ask you to be
here yesterday, the 15th?"

"To be sure," said Gabriel; "but no particular stress was laid upon the
date, nor did Madame de Castro say why she desired my presence."

"Well, Monsieur le Comte," rejoined Jean, "yesterday was the day on
which Madame de Castro--I should say, Sister Bénie--pronounced the
words which make her a nun forever, with no possibility of returning to
the world."

"Ah!" said Gabriel, turning pale.

"Whereas, if you had been at hand," continued Jean, "you might perhaps
have been able to prevent what is now an accomplished fact."

"No," said Gabriel, gloomily, "no, I could not, I ought not, nor would I
have attempted even to oppose that step. Providence doubtless kept me at
Calais, for my heart would have broken by its helplessness in the face
of her sacrificial act; and the poor, dear, afflicted soul which thus
gave itself to God's service might have had to suffer more from my
presence than she did when left alone at that solemn moment."

"Oh, but she was not alone," said Jean.

"Of course you were there, Jean, and Babette, and the poor and
unfortunate, her devoted friends."

"We were not the only ones, Monsieur le Comte," said Jean. "Sister
Bénie's mother was also with her."

"Who,--Madame de Poitiers?" exclaimed Gabriel.

"Yes, Monsieur le Comte, Madame de Poitiers herself, who, on receipt of
a letter from her daughter, hastened hither from her retirement at
Chaumont-sur-Loire, was present at the ceremonial yesterday, and should
be with the new nun at this moment."

"Oh!" said Gabriel, in terror, "why did Madame de Castro send for that
woman?"

"Why, Monseigneur, as she said to Babette, that woman is, after all, her
mother."

"Alas! I begin to think I ought to have been here yesterday," said
Gabriel. "If Madame de Poitiers is here, it can be with no good purpose,
nor to fulfil any pious maternal duty. Let us go to the Benedictine
convent, if you please, Master Jean. I am in greater haste than ever now
to see Madame de Castro, for I fear that she needs me. Come, let us
hurry!"

Gabriel was shown without objection into the parlor of the convent,
where he had been expected since the preceding day.

Diane was waiting in the parlor with her mother. Gabriel, upon seeing
her once more after so long a separation, was carried away by an
irresistible impulse, and fell on his knees, pale and dejected, before
the grating which separated them forever from each other.

"My sister! my sister!" was all he could say.

"My brother!" replied Sister Bénie, softly.

A tear rolled slowly down her cheek; but at the same time she smiled as
the angels should smile.

Gabriel, turning his head slightly, met the gaze of the other Diane,
Madame de Poitiers. She was laughing, as demons should laugh.

But Gabriel, with careless contempt for her exasperating demeanor,
concentrated his regard and his thought entirely upon Sister Bénie.

"My sister!" he repeated eagerly, and with bitter anguish.

Diane de Poitiers at this point coldly remarked,--

"It is as your sister in Jesus Christ, doubtless, Monsieur, that you
call by that title her who yesterday was still Madame de Castro?"

"What do you mean, Madame? Great God! what do mean?" asked Gabriel, with
a shudder, as he rose to his feet.

Diane de Poitiers, without replying directly to his question, addressed
her daughter:--

"The time has arrived, my child, I think, to reveal to you the secret of
which I spoke yesterday, and which, in my opinion, my bounden duty
forbids me to conceal from you any longer."

"Oh, what can it be?" cried Gabriel, distractedly.

"My child," continued Madame de Poitiers, calmly, "as I have told you,
it was not simply to give you my blessing that I have emerged from the
retirement in which I have been living for nearly two years, thanks to
Monsieur de Montgommery. Pray do not consider my words ironical,
Monsieur," she added in a tone of bitter irony in reply to a gesture of
Gabriel's. "In truth, I am extremely obliged to you for having torn me
away, with or without violence, from an impious and corrupt world. I am
happy now! The divine grace has touched me, and my whole heart is filled
with the love of God. To show my gratitude to you, I wish to save you
from the commission of a sin,--a crime, it may be."

"Oh, what can it be?" It was Sister Bénie who asked the question now
with fast-beating heart.

"My child," continued Diane de Poitiers, in her infernal, cool tones, "I
imagine that I might yesterday, with a single word, have arrested upon
your lips the sacred vows you were about to utter. But was it for me,
miserable sinner that I am, and so happy to be free from earthly
bonds,--was it for me to steal from God a soul which was about to
confide itself to Him, free and pure? No! and I held my peace."

"I dare not guess! I dare not!" muttered Gabriel.

"To-day, my child," the ex-favorite resumed, "I break my silence,
because I see from Monsieur de Montgommery's grief and earnestness that
you still possess his entire soul. Now he must make up his mind to
forget you; he must do it. But if he continues to soothe himself with
the fancy that you may be his sister, the daughter of the Comte de
Montgommery, he can allow his memory to return to you now and then
without remorse. That would be a crime! —a crime to which I, having
been converted since yesterday, do not propose to be accessory. You are
not the sister of Monsieur le Comte, but are really the daughter of King
Henri II., whom Monsieur le Comte so unfortunately slew in that fatal
tournament."

"Oh, horror!" cried Sister Bénie, hiding her face in her hands.

"You lie, Madame!" said Gabriel, vehemently. "It must be that you lie!
Where is your proof that you speak the truth?"

"Here," replied Diane de Poitiers, in a most peaceful tone, handing him
a paper which she took from her bosom.

Gabriel seized the paper with trembling hand, and read it eagerly.

"It is a letter from your father," continued Madame de Poitiers,
"written a few days before his death, as you see. He complains of my
cruelty, as you will see again; but he submits, as you may also see,
reflecting that in any event I shall soon be his wife, and that the
lover will have suffered disappointment only to make the husband's
happiness more pure and perfect. Oh, the words of that letter, which is
signed and dated, are in no wise equivocal! Am I not right? So you see,
Monsieur de Montgommery, that it would have been criminal for you to
think of Sister Bénie; for you are bound by no tie of blood to her who
is now the spouse of Jesus Christ. And in saving you from such impiety,
I hope that I have acquitted my debt to you, and have more than repaid
you for the bliss I enjoy in my solitude. We are quits now, Monsieur de
Montgommery, and I have no more to say to you."

Gabriel, while this bitter, mocking speech was being delivered, had
finished reading the baleful but sacred letter. It left no room whatever
for doubt. It was to Gabriel like the voice of his father rising from
the tomb to make known the truth.

When the wretched young man raised his wild, haggard eyes, he saw Diane
de Castro lying unconscious before a _prie-Dieu_.

He rushed instinctively toward her; but the heavy iron bars arrested his
steps.

As he turned back he saw Diane de Poitiers, and upon her lips was
playing a smile of placid contentment.

Mad with grief, he took two steps toward her with uplifted hand.

But he stopped in terror at his own act; and beating his brow like an
insane man, he cried simply,--

"Adieu, Diane! adieu!" and fled.

If he had remained a second more, he could not have forborne to
annihilate that blaspheming mother like the viper that she was!

Outside the convent Jean Peuquoy was anxiously awaiting him.

"Do not question me! Ask me nothing!" exclaimed Gabriel at once, in a
frenzy of despair.

And as honest Peuquoy gazed at him in sorrowful astonishment, he said
more gently,--

"Forgive me! I fear I am almost mad. I cannot collect my thoughts, you
see. It is to avoid the necessity of thinking that I propose to go, to
fly, to Paris. Go with me, if you will, my friend, as far as the gate
where I left my horse. But, in God's name, talk about yourself; say
nothing of me or my affairs!"

The worthy weaver, as much to comply with Gabriel's wish as to try to
distract his thoughts, went on to tell how Babette was marvellously
well, and had recently presented him with a young Peuquoy,--a splendid
fellow; how their brother Pierre had established himself in business as
an armorer at St. Quentin; and how, only the month before, they had had
news from Martin-Guerre, by a Picardy trooper returning home, and had
learned that he was still happy with his reformed Bertrande.

But it must be confessed that Gabriel, who was, as it were, made blind
and deaf by his grief, did not understand and only partly heard this
joyous narration.

However, when he and Jean Peuquoy arrived at the Paris gate, he warmly
pressed the honest burgher's hand.

"Adieu, my friend," said he. "Thanks for your affectionate kindness.
Remember me most kindly to all your loving circle. I am glad to know
that you are happy; think sometimes in your prosperity of me in my
wretchedness."

And without waiting for any other response than the tears which shone in
Jean's eyes, Gabriel mounted his horse, and set off at a gallop.

When he reached Paris (as if fate had determined to overwhelm him with
affliction of every sort at once), he found that Aloyse, his dear nurse,
had died, after a short illness, without having seen him again.

The next day he called upon Admiral de Coligny.

"Monsieur l'Amiral," said he, "I know that the persecutions and
religious wars will soon begin anew, despite all the efforts to prevent
them. Understand that henceforth I can offer to the Reformed cause not
only my heart, but my sword as well. My life is good for nothing except
to serve you; so take it, and spare it not. Moreover, in your ranks I
can best defend myself against one of my enemies, and finish the
punishment of the other."

Gabriel had in his mind the queen-regent and the constable.

It is needless to say that Coligny enthusiastically welcomed the
invaluable auxiliary whose courage and vigor had been put to the proof
so many times.

The count's history from that moment is identical with that of the
religious wars which drenched the reign of Charles IX. with blood.

Gabriel de Montgommery played a terrible part in those wars; and at
every momentous crisis the mere mention of his name drove the color from
the cheeks of Catherine de Médicis.

When, after the massacre at Vassy in 1562, Rouen and the whole of
Normandy openly declared themselves for the Huguenots, the Comte de
Montgommery was named as the principal author of this uprising of an
entire province.

The same year the Comte de Montgommery was at the battle of Dreux, where
he performed prodigies of valor.

It was he, they said, who wounded with a pistol-ball the Constable de
Montmorency, who commanded in chief, and would have made an end of him
if the Prince de Porcien had not sheltered the constable and received
him as a prisoner.

Every one knows that a month after this battle, where Le Balafré had
wrested victory from the constable's unskilful hands, the noble Duc de
Guise was treacherously murdered before Orléans by the fanatic Poltrot.

Montmorency, relieved of a rival, but also deprived of his ally, was
less fortunate at the battle of St. Denis in 1567 than at that of Dreux.

The Scotchman Robert Stuart called upon him to surrender. He replied by
striking him across the face with the flat of his sword, whereupon some
one fired a pistol at him (the constable); the ball pierced his side,
and he fell, mortally wounded.

Through the stream of blood which obscured his sight he thought that he
recognized the features of Gabriel.

The constable breathed his last the following day.

Although he had now no direct personal foes, the Comte de Montgommery
did not lessen the force of his blows. He seemed invincible and
immortal.

When Catherine de Médicis asked who had compelled Béarn to submit to
the King of Navarre, and had caused the Prince of Béarn to be
recognized as general-in-chief of the Huguenots, the answer
was--Montgommery.

When, on the day following the massacre of St. Bartholomew (1572), the
queen-mother, in her thirst for vengeance, inquired, not as to those who
had perished, but as to those who had escaped, the first name mentioned
was--Montgommery.

Montgommery threw himself into Rochelle with Lanoue. The town sustained
nine fierce assaults, and cost the royal army forty thousand men. In the
capitulation which ensued, it retained its freedom; and Gabriel was
allowed to depart, safe and sound.

He then made his way into Sancerre, which was besieged by the governor
of Berri. He was well skilled, our readers will remember, in the defence
of beleaguered towns. A handful of Sancerrois, with no other arms than
iron-shod clubs, held out for four months against a body of six thousand
soldiers. When at last they capitulated, they obtained the same terms
granted at Rochelle,--liberty of conscience and immunity of person.

Catherine de Médicis viewed with ever-growing fury the continual
escapes of her old unconquerable foe.

Montgommery left Poitou, which was in a blaze, and returned to Normandy
to rekindle the flames which were subsiding there.

Setting out from St. Lo, within three days he had taken Carentan and
despoiled Valognes of all her supplies. All the Norman nobility ranged
themselves under his standard.

Catherine de Médicis and the king at once put three armies in the
field, and proclaimed the ban and the _arrière-ban_ in Mans and in
Perche. The royal forces were led by the Duc de Matignon.

This time Montgommery no longer fought individually. Lost in the ranks
of the Reformers, he devoted himself to thwarting Charles IX., and had
his army, as the king had his.

He formed an admirable plan, which bade fair to assure him a brilliant
victory.

He left Matignon besieging St. Lô with his whole force, secretly
quitted the town, and made his way to Domfront. There François du
Hallot was to join him with all the cavalry of Bretagne, Anjou, and the
Caux country. With these forces he proposed to fall unexpectedly upon
the royal army before St. Lô, which, being thus caught between two
fires, would be annihilated.

But treachery conquered the unconquerable. An ensign warned Matignon of
Montgommery's secret departure for Domfront, whither he was accompanied
by only forty horsemen.

Matignon cared much less about reducing St. Lô than about capturing
Montgommery; so he left the siege in charge of one of his inferior
officers, and hastened to Domfront with two regiments of foot, six
hundred horse, and a strong artillery force.

Any other than Gabriel de Montgommery would have surrendered without
entering upon a resistance sure to be of no effect; but he, with his
forty men, determined to show a bold front to that army.

In De Thou's history the incredible narrative of that siege may be read.

Domfront held out for twelve days, during which time the Comte de
Montgommery made seven furious sallies; at last, when the walls of the
town, riddled and tottering, were practically in the enemies' hands,
Gabriel abandoned them, but only to ensconce himself in what was called
the Tower of Guillaume de Bellême, and fight on.

He had only thirty men with him.

Matignon ordered to the assault a battery of five pieces of heavy
artillery, a hundred cuirassiers, seven hundred musketeers, and a
hundred pikemen.

The attack lasted five hours; and six hundred cannon-shot were fired
into the old donjon.

In the evening Montgommery had but sixteen men left; but he still held
out. He passed the night working at the breach like a common laborer.

The assault began again with daybreak. Matignon had received
reinforcements during the night, and had under his command around the
tower of the Bellême donjon and its seventeen defenders fifteen
thousand soldiers and eighteen pieces of artillery!

The courage of the besieged did not fail; but their powder was
exhausted.

Montgommery, rather than fall into the hands of his enemies alive,
determined to fall upon his own sword; but Matignon sent him a flag of
truce, the bearer of which swore in the name of his chief "that his life
should be spared, and he should be allowed to depart."

Montgommery thereupon gave himself up, trusting to the oath. He should
have remembered the fate of Castelnau.

On the same day he was sent to Paris in fetters. Catherine de Médicis
at last had him in her power. It was by treachery, to be sure; but what
mattered that? Charles IX. was dead; and pending the return of Henri
III. from Poland she was queen-regent and omnipotent.

Montgommery was dragged before parliament, and condemned to death June
26, 1574.

For fourteen years he had been fighting against the wife and children of
Henri II.

On the 27th of June, the Comte de Montgommery--to whom, in mere
refinement of cruelty, the extraordinary torture had been applied--was
carried to the scaffold and beheaded. His body was subsequently drawn
and quartered.

Catherine de Médicis was present at the execution.

Thus closed the career of that extraordinary man,--one of the noblest
and bravest souls that the sixteenth century had seen. He had never
risen above the second rank, but had always shown himself worthy of a
place in the first. His death fulfilled to the letter the predictions of
Nostradamus,--


    "Enfin, l'aimera, puis las! le tuera
               Dame du roy."


Diane de Castro did not survive him. She had died
the year before, abbess of the Benedictines of St.
Quentin.




THE END.



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