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THE POCKET BIBLE


THE FULL SERIES OF

The Mysteries of the People

::OR::

History of a Proletarian Family

Across the Ages

By EUGENE SUE

_Consisting of the Following Works_:

  THE GOLD SICKLE; or, _Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen_.
  THE BRASS BELL; or, _The Chariot of Death_.
  THE IRON COLLAR; or, _Faustina and Syomara_.
  THE SILVER CROSS; or, _The Carpenter of Nazareth_.
  THE CASQUE'S LARK; or, _Victoria, the Mother of the Camps_.
  THE PONIARD'S HILT; or, _Karadeucq and Ronan_.
  THE BRANDING NEEDLE; or, _The Monastery of Charolles_.
  THE ABBATIAL CROSIER; or, _Bonaik and Septimine_.
  THE CARLOVINGIAN COINS; or, _The Daughters of Charlemagne_.
  THE IRON ARROW-HEAD; or, _The Buckler Maiden_.
  THE INFANT'S SKULL; or, _The End of the World_.
  THE PILGRIM'S SHELL; or, _Fergan the Quarryman_.
  THE IRON PINCERS; or, _Mylio and Karvel_.
  THE IRON TREVET; or, _Jocelyn the Champion_.
  THE EXECUTIONER'S KNIFE; or, _Joan of Arc_.
  THE POCKET BIBLE; or, _Christian the Printer_.
  THE BLACKSMITH'S HAMMER; or, _The Peasant Code_.
  THE SWORD OF HONOR; or, _The Foundation of the French Republic_.
  THE GALLEY SLAVE'S RING; or, _The Family Lebrenn_.


Published Uniform With This Volume By

THE NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.

28 CITY HALL PLACE NEW YORK CITY




THE POCKET BIBLE
OR
CHRISTIAN THE PRINTER

A Tale of the Sixteenth Century

By EUGENE SUE

In Two Volumes
Vol. I.

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH
By DANIEL DE LEON
NEW YORK LABOR NEWS COMPANY. 1910

Copyright 1910, by the
NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.




INDEX

Volume 1

PART I. THE SOCIETY OF JESUS.

INTRODUCTION                                1

CHAPTER.

    I. THE THEFT                            7

   II. THE NEOPHYTE                        18

  III. THE SALE OF INDULGENCES             33

   IV. THE "TEST OF THE LUTHERANS"         53

    V. MONSIEUR JOHN                       78

   VI. THE FRANC-TAUPIN                    87

  VII. BROTHER ST. ERNEST-MARTYR          112

 VIII. IN THE GARRET                      128

   IX. THE PENITENT                       133

    X. LOYOLA AND HIS DISCIPLES           138

   XI. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER                166

  XII. HERVE'S DEMENTIA                   176

 XIII. CALVINISTS IN COUNCIL              193

  XIV. HENA'S DIARY                       231

   XV. DIARY OF ST. ERNEST-MARTYR         244

  XVI. THE TAVERN OF THE BLACK GRAPE      252

 XVII. THE COTTAGE OF ROBERT ESTIENNE     266

XVIII. FOR BETTER AND FOR WORSE           286

  XIX. ON THE ROAD TO PARIS               304

   XX. JANUARY 21, 1535                   323


Volume 2

PART II--THE HUGUENOTS.

INTRODUCTION                                1

CHAPTER

    I. THE QUEEN'S "FLYING SQUADRON"        7

   II. ANNA BELL                           32

  III. THE AVENGERS OF ISRAEL              71

   IV. GASPARD OF COLIGNY                  90

    V. FAMILY FLOTSAM                     112

   VI. THE BATTLE OF ROCHE-LA-BELLE       132

  VII. "CONTRE-UN"                        163

 VIII. ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S NIGHT            185

   IX. THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE           215

    X. THE LAMBKINS' DANCE                233

   XI. CAPTURE OF CORNELIA                254

  XII. THE DUKE OF ANJOU                  264

 XIII. THE BILL IS PAID                   273

EPILOGUE                                  288





TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.


The epoch covered by this, the 16th story of Eugene Sue's dramatic
historic series, entitled _The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a
Proletarian Family Across the Ages_, extends over the turbulent yet
formative era known in history as the Religious Reformation.

The social system that had been developing since the epoch initiated by
the 8th story of the series, _The Abbatial Crosier; or, Bonaik and
Septimine_, that is, the feudal system, and which is depicted in full
bloom in the 14th story of the series, _The Iron Trevet; or, Jocelyn the
Champion_, had been since suffering general collapse with the approach
of the bourgeois, or capitalist system, which found its first open, or
political, expression in the Reformation, and which was urged into life
by Luther, Calvin and other leading adversaries of the Roman Catholic
regime.

The history of the Reformation, or rather, of the conflict between the
clerical polity which symbolized the old and the clerical polity which
symbolized the new social order, is compressed within the covers of this
one story with the skill at once of the historian, the scientist, the
philosopher and the novelist. The various springs from which human
action flows, the various types which human crises produce, the virtues
and the vices which great historic conflicts heat into activity--all
these features of social motion, never jointly reproduced in works of
history, are here drawn in vivid colors and present a historic canvas
that is prime in the domain of literature.

In view of the exceptional importance of some of the footnotes in which
Sue refers the reader to the pages of original authorities in French
cited by him, the pages of an accessible American edition are in those
cases either substituted or added in this translation.

DANIEL DE LEON.

New York, February, 1910.




PART I

THE SOCIETY OF JESUS




INTRODUCTION.


What great changes, sons of Joel, have taken place in Paris since the
time when our ancestor Eidiol the Parisian skipper lived in this city,
in the Ninth Century, at the time of the Northman invasion! How many
changes even since 1350, when our ancestor Jocelyn the Champion fell
wounded beside Etienne Marcel, who was assassinated by John Maillart and
the royalists!

The population of this great city now, in the year 1534, runs up to
about four hundred thousand souls; daily new houses rise in the suburbs
and outside the city walls, whose boundaries have become too narrow,
although they enclose from twelve to thirteen thousand houses. But now,
the same as in the past, Paris remains divided into four towns, so to
speak, by two thoroughfares that cross each other at right angles. St.
Martin, prolonged by St. James Street, traverses the city from east to
west; St. Honoré, prolonged by St. Antoine Street, traverses it from
north to south. The Louvre is the quarter of the people of the court;
the quarter of the Bastille, of the Arsenal, filled with arms, and of
the Temple is that of the people whose profession is war; the quarter of
the University is that of the men of letters; finally the quarter of
Notre Dame and St. Germain, where lie the convents of the Cordeliers, of
the Chartreux, of the Jacobins, of the Augustinians, of the Dominicans
and of many other hives of monks and nuns besides the monasteries that
are scattered throughout the city, is that of the men of the Church. The
merchants, as a general thing, occupy the center of Paris towards St.
Denis Street; the manufacturers are found in the eastern, the shabbiest
of all the quarters, where, for one liard, workingmen can find lodging
for the night. The larger number of the bourgeois houses as well as all
the convents are now built of stone, and are no longer frame structures
as they formerly were. These modern buildings, topped with slate or lead
roofs and ornamented with sculptured facades, become every day more
numerous.

Likewise with crimes of all natures; their increase is beyond measure.
With nightfall, murderers and bandits take possession of the streets.
Their numbers rise to twenty-five or thirty thousand, all organized into
bands--the _Guilleris_, the _Plumets_, the _Rougets_, the
_Tire-Laines_,[1] the latter of whom rob bourgeois, who are inhibited
from carrying arms. The _Tire-Soies_,[2] a more daring band, fall upon
the noblemen, who are always armed. The _Barbets_ disguise themselves as
artisans of several trades, or as monks of several Orders and introduce
themselves into the houses for the purpose of stealing. Besides these
there are the bands of _Mattes_ or _Fins-Mattois_, skilled cut-purses
and pick-pockets; and finally the _Mauvais-Garçons_,[3] the most
redoubtable of all, who publicly, for a price chaffered over and
finally agreed upon, offer their daggers to whomsoever wishes to rid
himself of an enemy.

Nor is this the worst aspect presented by the crowded city. Paris runs
over with lost women and courtesans of all degrees. Never yet did
immorality, to which the royal court, the Church and the seigniory set
so shocking a pace, cause such widespread ravages. A repulsive disease
imported from America by the Spaniards since the conquests of
Christopher Columbus poisons life at its very source.

Finally, Paris presents a nameless mixture of fanaticism, debauchery and
ferocity. Above the doors of houses of ill fame, images of male and
female saints are seen in their niches, before which thieves, murderers
and courtesans uncover and bend the knee as they hurry by, bent on their
respective pursuits. The Tire-Laines, the Guilleris and other brigands
burn candles at the altars of the Virgin or pay for masses for the
success of their crimes in contemplation. Superstition spreads in even
step with criminality. Pious physicians are cited who regularly take the
weekly communion, and who, bought by impatient heirs, poison with their
pharmaceutical concoctions the rich patients, whose decease is too slow
in arriving. The most horrid felonies have lost their dreadfulness,
especially since the papal indulgences, sold for cash, insure absolution
and impunity to the criminals. The virtues of the hearth and all good
morals seem to have fled to the bosom of those families only who have
discarded the paganism of Rome and, although styled heretics, practice
the simplicity of evangelical morality. One of these families is that
of Christian the Printer, the great-grandchild of Jocelyn the
Champion's son, who, due to the rapid progress made by the printing
press, which rendered manuscript books useless and unnecessarily
expensive, found it ever more difficult to earn his living at his trade
of copyist and illuminator of manuscripts.

Accordingly, after the death of his father, who was the son of Jocelyn
the Champion and continued to live at Vaucouleurs after witnessing the
martyrdom of Joan of Arc, Allan Lebrenn moved to Paris, induced thereto
by John Saurin, a master-printer of this city who, having during a short
sojourn at Vaucouleurs been struck by the young man's intelligence at
his trade, promised to aid him in finding work in the large city. He
accepted the offer and speedily succeeded in his new field. He married
in 1465, died in 1474, and left a son, Melar Lebrenn, who was born in
1466 and was the father of Christian the Printer.

Melar Lebrenn followed his father's occupation, and worked long after
his father's death in John Saurin's establishment, where his services
were highly appreciated. But after John Saurin's death, Melar Lebrenn,
who had in the meantime married and had three children, Christian and
two daughters, was dismissed by Saurin's successor, a man named Noel
Compaign. Compaign was a religious bigot. He was incensed at what he
termed Melar Lebrenn's unbelief, hounded him with odious calumnies, and
spoke of him to the other members of the guild as dishonest and
otherwise unfit. Melar Lebrenn soon felt the effect of these calumnies;
his trade went down; his savings were consumed; his family was
breadless; he had nothing left to him but the legends and relics of his
family, that were handed down from generation to generation.

Under these circumstances Melar Lebrenn made one more and desperate
effort to rise to his feet. He knew by reputation Henry Estienne, the
most celebrated printer of the last century. Estienne's goodness of
heart as well as his knowledge were matters of common repute. Melar
Lebrenn decided to turn to him, but he found Estienne strongly
prejudiced against him through the calumnies that Compaign had
circulated. But Melar Lebrenn was not yet discouraged. He explained to
Estienne circumstantially the reason of Compaign's hatred, and offered
Estienne to serve him on trial. The offer was accepted, and Melar
Lebrenn soon acquitted himself so well both as a typesetter and a reader
of proof, that Master Henry Estienne, judging from the falseness of the
accusations concerning Melar Lebrenn's skill at his trade, concluded he
was equally wronged in his private character. From that time on,
Estienne took a deep interest in Melar and was soon singularly attached
to him, as much by reason of his skill, as for the probity of his
character and the kindness of his heart.

The two daughters of Melar Lebrenn were carried away by the pest that
swept over Paris in 1512; his wife survived them only a short time; and
Melar himself died in 1519. His only surviving child, Christian, married
Bridget Ardouin, an embroiderer in gold and silver thread. Christian
entered the printing establishment of Henry Estienne as an apprentice at
his twelfth year. After the death of the venerated Henry Estienne,
Christian remained under the employ of Robert Estienne, his father's
heir in virtue and his superior in scientific acquirements. The editions
that Robert Estienne issued of the old Greek, Hebrew or Latin authors
are the admiration of the learned by the correctness of the text, the
beauty of the type, and the perfection of the printing. Among other
things he published a pocket edition of the New Testament, translated
into French, a veritable masterpiece of typography. The bonds that
united Master Robert Estienne and his workman Christian Lebrenn became
of the closest.

Three children were born of the marriage of Christian Lebrenn with
Bridget Ardouin--a boy, born in 1516, and at the commencement of this
history eighteen years of age; a girl in 1518, and a boy in 1520. The
latter is named Odelin; he is an apprentice in the establishment of
Master Raimbaud, one of the most celebrated armorers of Paris. The
eldest son is named Hervé, in memory of his mother's father, and he
follows his father Christian's profession of printer. The girl is named
Hena in remembrance of the Virgin of the Isle of Sen.




CHAPTER I.

THE THEFT.


It was one evening towards the middle of the month of August of 1534.
Christian Lebrenn occupied a modest house situated at about the center
of the Exchange Bridge. Almost all the other bridges thrown over the two
arms of the Seine are, like this one, lined with houses and constitute a
street under which the river flows. The kitchen, where the meals were
taken, was on the first floor, even with the street; behind this room,
the door and window of which opened upon the public thoroughfare, was a
smaller one, used for bed chamber by Hervé, Christian's eldest son, and
the younger brother Odelin, the apprentice at Master Raimbaud's. At the
time, however, when this narrative opens, Odelin was absent from Paris,
traveling in Italy with his master, who had gone to Milan in order to
study the process by which the Milanese armors, as celebrated as those
of Toledo, were manufactured. The upper floor of Christian's house
consisted of two rooms. One of these he occupied himself with his wife
Bridget; his daughter Hena occupied the other. Finally, a garret that
served as storeroom for winter provisions, topped the house and had a
window that opened upon the river.

On this evening Christian was in an animated conversation with his wife.
It was late. The children were both asleep. A lamp lighted the room of
the husband and wife. Near the window, with its small lozenge-shaped
panes fastened between ribs of lead, lay the embroideries at which
Bridget and Hena had been at work. In the rear of this rather spacious
chamber stood the conjugal bed, surmounted with its canopy and enclosed
by its curtains of orange serge. A little further away was a little
book-case containing in neat rows the volumes in the printing of which
Christian and his father contributed at the printing establishment of
Masters Henry and Robert Estienne. In the same case Christian kept under
lock his family legends and relics, together with whatever else that he
attached special value to. Above the case an old cross-bow and battle
axe hung from the wall. It was always well to have some arms in the
house in order to repel the attacks of bandits who had of late grown
increasingly bold. Two flat leather covered coffers for clothes and a
few stools completed the humble furnishings of the room. Christian
seemed greatly troubled in mind. Bridget, looking no less concerned than
her husband, dropped the work that she expected to finish by lamp-light,
and stepped towards her husband. With his eyes fixed upon the ground,
his elbows upon his knees and his head in his hands, the latter
observed:

"There can be no doubt. The person who stole the money, here, in this
room, out of that case, and without breaking the lock, must be familiar
with our house."

"I can assure you, Christian, since yesterday when we discovered the
theft, I have been in a continuous fever."

"None but we and our children enter this room."

"No, excepting our customers or their employees. But as I am well aware
that the Barbets are bold and wily enough to put on the disguise of
honest merchants, whenever occasion demands it, in order to gain access
to a house and steal, and that they might play that trick upon me under
the pretext of bringing an order for some embroidery, neither Hena nor I
ever leave the room when a stranger is with us."

"I am ransacking my mind for the intimate acquaintance who could have
entered the room," the printer proceeded as if communing with himself
with painful anxiety. "Occasionally, Lefevre spends an evening with us;
I have come up into this room with him several times when he requested
me to read some of our family legends to him."

"But, my friend, it is a long time since we have seen Lefevre; you
yourself were wondering the other day what may have become of him;
moreover, it is out of all question to suspect your friend, a man of
austere morals, always wrapt in science."

"God prevent my suspecting him! I was only going over the extremely
small number of persons who visit us familiarly."

"Then there is my brother. The fellow is, true enough, a soldier of
adventure; he has his faults, grave faults, but--"

"Ah, Bridget, Josephin has for you and our children so tender a love, so
touching--I hold him capable of doing almost anything in a hostile
country, as is customary with people of his vocation; but he, who almost
every day sits at our hearth--he, commit a theft in our house? Such a
thought never crossed my mind--and never will!"

"Oh, I thank you for these words! I thank you!"

"And did you suppose that I suspected your brother? No! A thousand
times, no!"

"What shall I say? The vagabond life that he has led since his early
youth--the habits of violence and rapine with which the 'Franc-Taupins,'
the 'Pendards,' and the other soldiers of adventure who are my brother's
habitual companions are so justly reproached, might have caused
suspicion to rise in some prejudiced mind, and--but my
God--Christian--what ails you, tell me what ails you?" cried Bridget,
seeing her husband hide his face between his hands in utter despair, and
then suddenly rise and pace the room, as if pursued by a thought from
which he sought to flee. "My friend," insisted Bridget, "what sudden
thought has struck and afflicts you? There are tears in your eyes. Your
face is strangely distorted. Answer me, I pray you!"

"I take heaven to witness," cried the artisan, raising his hands
heavenward with a face that betrayed the tortures of his heart, "the
loss of the twenty gold crowns, that we gathered so laboriously, is a
serious matter to me; it was our daughter's dower; but that loss is as
nothing beside--"

"Beside what? Let me know!"

"No. Oh, no! It is too horrible!"

"Christian, what have you in mind?"

"Leave me! Leave me!" but immediately regretting the involuntary
rudeness, the artisan took Bridget's hands in his own, and said to her
in a deeply moved voice: "Excuse me, poor, dear wife. You see, when I
think of this affair I lose my head. When, at the printing shop, to-day,
the horrible suspicion flashed through my mind, I feared it would drive
me crazy! I struggled against it all I could--but a minute ago, as I was
running over with you our intimate acquaintances who might be thought
guilty of the theft, the frightful suspicion recurred to me. That is the
reason of my distress."

Christian threw himself down again upon his stool; again a shudder ran
over his frame and he hid his face between his hands.

"Tell me, my friend, what is the suspicion that assails you and that you
so violently resist? Impart it to me, I pray you."

After a painful struggle with himself that lasted several minutes, the
artisan murmured in a faint voice as if every word burnt his lips:

"Like myself, you noticed, recently--since about the time of Odelin's
departure for Milan--you noticed, like myself, that a marked change has
been coming over the nature and the habits of Hervé."

"Our son!" cried Bridget stupefied; and she added: "Mercy! Would you
suspect him of so infamous an act?"

Christian remained steeped in a gloomy silence that Bridget, distracted
with grief as she was, did not at first venture to disturb. Presently
she proceeded:

"Impossible! Hervé, whom we brought up in the same principles as his
brother--Hervé, who never was away from us--"

"Bridget, I told you, the suspicion is horrible; I have struggled
against it with all my might," and the artisan's voice was smothered
with sobs. "And yet, if after all it should be so! If our son is indeed
the guilty one!"

"My friend, your suspicion bereaves me of my senses. You love Hervé so
dearly, and your judgment is always so sound, your mind so penetrating,
that I can not conceive how so unjustifiable a thought could take
possession of you. Our son is continuously at the printing shop, at your
side, as Hena is at mine; better than anyone else should you know your
son's heart." Bridget remained silent for a moment and then proceeded
while scalding tears rolled down her cheeks: "Oh, I feel it, even if
your suspicion is never justified, it will embitter the rest of my life!
Oh, to think our son capable of stealing!"

"And for that very reason there is no one else in the world but you, and
you alone, to whom I confide the horrid suspicion. Oh, Bridget, it is
more than a suspicion. Let us not exaggerate matters; let us not be
unnecessarily cast down; let us calmly look into the affair; let us
carefully refresh our memories; we may arrive--may God hear my words--at
the conclusion that the suspicion is unfounded. As I was just saying, a
great change has lately come over Hervé. You noticed the singular
manifestations as well as I."

"Yes, recently, he, who formerly was so cheerful, so open, so
affectionate, has of late been cold and somber, dreamy and silent. He
has grown pale and thin; he is quickly irritated. Shortly before the
departure of our little Odelin, he often and without cause scolded the
poor boy, for whom he always before had only kind words. And often since
then, have I had occasion to reproach Hervé for his rudeness, I should
almost say harshness towards his sister, whom he dearly loved. He now
seems to avoid her company. At times I simply cannot understand his
conduct towards her. Why, only yesterday, when you and he came home from
the printing shop, after embracing you, as is her custom, Hena offered
her forehead to her brother--but he rudely pushed her aside."

"I did not notice that; but I did notice the growing indifference of
Hervé towards his sister. What mystery can lie below that?"

"And yet, my friend, we love all our children equally. Hervé might feel
hurt if we showed any preference for Hena or Odelin. But we do not. We
are equally kind to all the three."

"Yes, indeed. We shall have to look elsewhere for the cause of the
change that afflicts us. Can it be that, without our knowledge, he keeps
bad company? There is one circumstance in this affair that has struck
me. Paternal love does not blind me. I see great aptitudes in Hervé.
Not to mention the gift of an easy flowing eloquence that is
exceptional at his age, he has become an excellent Latinist. Owing to
his aptitude in that direction he has more than once been chosen to
gather precious manuscripts at the houses of some men of letters, who
are the friends of Master Robert Estienne. Usually our son attended to
such work with accuracy and despatch. Of late, however, his absence from
the shop on such errands is often long, unnecessarily so and also
frequent, and he does not attend properly to his errands, sometimes does
not attend to them at all. Master Robert Estienne has complained to me
in a friendly way, saying that Hervé should be watched, that he was
drawing near his eighteenth year and might contract acquaintances that
would be cause of trouble for us later."

"On that very subject, my friend, only a few days ago I was reproaching
Hervé for his estrangement from the friends of his boyhood, all of whom
are good and honest lads. He flees their company and spurns their
cordial advances. The only person with whom he seems to be intimate is
Fra Girard, the Franciscan friar and son of our neighbor the mercer."

"I would prefer some other company for our son, but not that I accuse
Fra Girard of being, like so many other monks, an improper person to
associate with. He is said to be of austere morals, but being older than
Hervé, he has, I am afraid, gained considerable influence over him, and
rendered him savagely intolerant. Several of the artisans at the shop of
Master Estienne are, like he himself, partisans of the religious
reform; some are openly so, despite the danger that their outspokenness
entails, others more privately. More than once did our son raise his
voice with excessive violence against the new ideas which he calls
heresies. And yet he knows that you and I share them."

"Alas! my friend, what woman, what mother would not share the reform
ideas, seeing that they reject auricular confession? Did we not find
ourselves compelled to stop our daughter from attending the confessional
on account of the shameful questions that a priest dared to put to her
and which, in the candor of her soul, she repeated to us? But to return
to Hervé, even though, in some respects, I dislike his intimacy with Fra
Girard and fear it may tend to render him intolerant, the influence of
the monk, the austerity of whose morals is commented upon, must have had
the effect of keeping far from our son's mind an act so ugly that we can
not mention it without shedding tears of sorrow," added Bridget wiping
her moist eyes; "Hervé's piety, my friend, becomes daily more fervent;
as you know, the unhappy boy imposes upon himself, at the risk of
impairing his health, ever longer fasts. Did I not discover from the
traces of blood upon his shirt that on certain days he carries close to
his skin a belt that is furnished within with sharp iron pricks? That is
not the conduct of a hypocrite! He sought to conceal from all eyes the
secret macerations that he inflicts upon himself in penitence. It was
only accidentally that I discovered the fact. I deplore such fanaticism;
but his fanaticism may also be a safeguard. The very exaggeration to
which Hervé carries his religious principles must strengthen him
against temptation. Heaven be blessed! You were right, Christian; by
closely considering the circumstances, we can come at no other
conclusion than that such suspicions are unfounded. Our son is innocent,
do you not think so, Christian?"

Gloomy and pensive the artisan listened to his wife without interrupting
her. He replied:

"No, dear wife; fanaticism is no safeguard against evil. Alas!
differently from you, the more I consider the facts that you adduce--I
hardly dare say so to you--my suspicions, so far from being removed,
grow in weight. Yes, I believe our son guilty."

"Great God! What a horrible thought!"

"I believe our son is sincere in his devout practices, however
exaggerated these may be. But I also know that one of the most frightful
consequences of fanaticism is that it clouds and perverts the most
elemental principles of right and wrong, of justice and injustice, with
those whom it dominates. Religious faith substitutes morality."

"But theft, seeing that I must mention the word--theft--how can
fanaticism excuse that? You must be mistaken upon that subject!"

"Listen, Bridget. A few days ago--and it was the recollection of the
circumstance that first awoke my suspicions--a few days ago one of our
fellow workmen at the shop expressed himself with indignation at the
traffic of indulgences that has recently been carried on in Paris, and
he said emphatically that besides the immorality of the trade that was
being practiced in the Pope's name, the extortion of money by such means
from ignorance and from popular credulity was nothing short of a fraud
practiced upon the people. And do you know the answer that our son made?
'That is a lie! It is impious! The money that is devoted to a pious
deed, even if it be the fruit of a theft, of a murder, is purified and
sanctified from the moment that it is employed to the greater glory of
the Lord!'"

Bridget grew pale, and murmured in a voice smothered by sobs:

"Oh! now I fear--I also fear! May God have mercy upon us!"

"Do you now understand how, if our son is indeed guilty of the shameful
act which we hesitate to impugn to him, in his blind fanaticism the
unhappy boy will have believed that he was doing a meritorious act if he
employed the money in some such work of devotion as ordering the saying
of masses?"




CHAPTER II.

THE NEOPHYTE.


As Christian was saying these words, he heard, first at a distance and
soon after on the Exchange Bridge itself, the loud clang of several
bells and the sharp twirl of metal rattles, intercepted with a
lugubrious psalmody, at the close of which the noise of bells and
rattles became deafening. No less astonished than his wife, the artisan
rose from his seat, opened the window, and saw a long procession filing
before the house. At its head marched a detachment of archers carrying
their cross-bows on their left shoulders and long thick wax candles in
their right hands; behind them came several Dominican monks in their
white robes and black cowls, ringing the bells and turning the rattles;
after these followed a cart drawn by two horses caparisoned in black and
silver network. The four sides of the cart were of considerable height
and constituted a huge quadrangular transparency, lighted from within,
and representing the figures of men and women of all ages, together with
children, plunged up to the waist in a sea of flames, and, amid
desperate contortions, raising their suppliant arms towards an image of
God seated on a throne. On each of the four sides of the wagon and above
the painting the following inscription was to be seen, printed in thick
black and red letters:

                    PRAY
          FOR THE SOULS IN PURGATORY
                  TO-MORROW
                      AT
    THE CHURCH OF THE CONVENT OF ST. DOMINIC
              THE INDULGENCE
            WILL RAISE ITS THRONE.
                PRAY AND GIVE
    FOR THE POOR SOULS THAT ARE IN PURGATORY.

Four monks equipped with long gilded staves, topped with glass
lanthorns, on which also souls in torture were painted, marched on
either side of the cart. A large number of other Dominican monks
carrying a large silver crucifix at their head, followed the cart. The
monks chanted in a loud voice the following lugubrious psalm of
penitence:

    _"De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine;_
    _Domine, exaudi vocem meam._
    _Fiant aures tuæ intendentes_
    _In vocem deprecationis meæ!"_[4]

Every time, at the close of the funereal chant, the clatter of bells and
rattles was struck up anew as the procession marched along. Finally, a
second detachment of archers brought up the rear. A crowd of ragged men
and women, all with cynic and even ruffianly faces, almost all
night-strollers, if not worse, followed in the wake of the march. They
held one another by the arms, sang, crossed themselves and shouted:

"Glory to the Holy Father!"

"He sends us indulgences!"

"We need them!"

"Blessings upon him!"

Interspersed between these exclamations, coarse and even obscene jokes
were exchanged. The mob nevertheless bore the impress of conviction in
the most deplorable of superstitions. A large number of the inhabitants
of the houses built upon the bridge threw open their windows as the
procession filed by; some of these reverently knelt down at their
windows. After the procession had passed and the noise sounded only from
a distance, Christian re-shut the window of his room, and said to his
wife in voice that was even sadder than before:

"Alas, this procession seems to me to bode us only ill."

"I do not understand you, my friend."

"You saw, Bridget, the picture on the transparency of the cart that
these monks surrounded. It represented the souls in purgatory, writhing
in flames. The Dominican monks, whom the Pope has delegated to sell
plenary indulgences, also sell the ransoming of souls in pain. All those
who share that belief are convinced that, by means of money, they are
able to snatch from the flames of purgatory, not only the near
relatives or friends whom they imagine exposed to such torture, but also
strangers to them. Could not Hervé have thought to himself: 'With the
gold that I purloin from my father I shall be able to ransom twenty
souls--fifty souls from purgatory'?"

"Say no more, Christian, say no more!" cried Bridget with a shudder;
"say no more! My doubts, alas! almost turn into certainty;" but suddenly
interrupting herself and listening in the direction of the door of the
room, she added in a low voice: "Listen--listen."

Husband and wife remained silent. In the midst of the profound silence
of the night they heard a noise that sounded like the intermittent
strapping of a body. A thought flashed through Christian's mind; he
motioned his wife not to stir; took up the lamp, and gently opened the
door leading to the wooden staircase through which the lower floor was
reached. Leaning over the banister with his hand shading the lamp,
Christian saw Hervé, whom, no doubt, the clatter of bells and rattles of
the procession had awakened, kneeling in only his shirt and trousers
upon the floor and inflicting a rude discipline upon his sides and
shoulders by means of a cat-o'-nine-tails, the thongs of which ended in
knots. The lad flagellated himself with such intense exaltation that he
did not notice the proximity of his father on the staircase, although
the light shed by the lamp projected its rays into the lower hall.
Bridget had followed her husband with tears in her eyes, walking on
tip-toe. He felt the trembling hand of his wife upon his shoulder and
in his ear the whispered words of distress that forced themselves
through her sobs:

"Oh, the unhappy boy!"

"Come, my dear wife; the moment is favorable to obtain a confession from
our son."

"And if he confesses, let everything be pardoned," replied the indulgent
mother. "He must have succumbed to an impulse of fanatical charity."

With the lamp in his hand the artisan descended into the kitchen with
his wife without seeking to conceal their approach. The sound of their
steps and the creak of the wooden staircase under their feet finally
attracted Hervé's attention. He suddenly turned his head, and, seeing
his father and mother, rose from the floor with a start as if propelled
by a spring. In his surprise the lad dropped his instrument of torture.

Christian's son was almost eighteen years of age. His once open, happy
and blooming face, that breathed frankness, had become pale and somber;
his unsteady, restless eyes seemed to eschew observation. The unexpected
presence of his parents seemed at first to cause him a painful
impression; he looked embarrassed; but doubtlessly calling himself to
account for the unguarded impulse of false shame, he said resolutely
without raising his eyes:

"I was administering a discipline to myself--I thought I was alone--I
was fulfilling a penance--"

"My son," replied the artisan, "seeing that you are up, sit down upon
that chair--your mother and I have serious matters to speak about with
you; we shall be better here than upstairs, where our voice might wake
up your sister."

Not a little astonished, the lad sat down, on a stool. Christian also
sat down; Bridget remained standing near her husband, leaning upon his
shoulder, with her eyes resting compassionately upon her son.

"My boy," said Christian, "I wish, first of all, to assure you that
neither I nor your mother have ever thought of crossing you in the
religious practices that you have of late been indulging in with all the
impetuous ardor of a neophyte. But seeing that the occasion presents
itself, I wish to make some observations to you upon the subject in all
fatherly love."

"I listen, father; speak."

"You, as well as your sister and brother, have been brought up by us in
the evangelical doctrine--love one another, do not unto others what you
would not like to be done to, pardon those who trespass against you,
pity the sinners, help the sorrowful, honor those who repent, be
industrious and honest. These few words sum up the eternal morality that
your mother and myself have preached and held up to you since your
infancy as the example to be followed. When you reached riper years of
intelligence I sought to inculcate in your mind that belief of our
fathers that we are immortal, body and soul, and that after what is
called death, a moment of transition between the existence that ends and
that which begins, we are born again, or, rather, continue to live,
spirit and matter, in other spheres, thus rising successively, at each
of those stages of our eternal existence, towards infinite perfection
equal to that of the Creator."

"That, father, is heresy, and flies in the face of Catholic dogma."

"Be it so. I do not force the belief upon you. Every man is free to
strive in his religious aspirations after his own ideal of the relations
between the Creator and the creature. The freedom to do so is the most
priceless attribute of the soul, the sublimest right of human
conscience."

"There is no religion in the world beside the Catholic religion, the
revealed religion," put in Hervé in a sharp voice. "All other belief is
false--"

"My friend," said Christian interrupting his son, "I do not wish to
enter into a theological discussion with you. You have of late lost your
former happy disposition, you seem to mistrust us, you grow more and
more reserved and taciturn, your absences from the printing shop are
becoming frequent and are prolonged beyond all measure; your nature,
once so pleasant and buoyant, has become irritable and sour, even to the
point of rudeness towards your brother Odelin before his departure for
Milan. Besides that and since, your asperity towards your sister is ever
more marked--and yet you know that she loves you dearly."

At these last words a thrill ran over Hervé's frame. At the mention of
his sister, his physiognomy grew more intensely somber and assumed an
undefinable expression. For a moment he remained silent, whereupon his
voice, that sounded sharp and positive shortly before in his answers
regarding religious matters, became unsteady as he stammered:

"At times I am subject to fits of bad humor that I pray God to free me
of. If--I have been--rude--to my sister--it is without meaning to. I
entertain a strong affection for her."

"We are certain of that, my child," Bridget replied; "your father only
mentions the circumstance as one of the symptoms of the change that we
notice in you, and that so much alarms us."

"In short," Christian proceeded, "we regret to see you give up the
company of the friends of your childhood, and no longer share the
innocent pleasures that become your age."

Hervé's voice, that seemed so much out of his control when his sister
Hena was the topic, became again harsh and firm:

"The friends whom I formerly visited are worldly, they are running to
perdition; the thoughts that to-day engage me are not theirs."

"You are free to choose your connections, my friend, provided they be
honorable. I see you have become an intimate friend of Fra Girard, the
Franciscan monk--"

"God sent him across my path--he is a saint! His place is marked in
paradise."

"I shall not dispute the sanctity of Fra Girard; he is said to be a man
of probity, and I believe it. I must admit, however, that I would have
preferred to see you form some other friendship; the monk is several
years your senior; you seem to have a blind faith in him; I fear lest
the fervor of his zeal may render you intolerant, and lead you to share
his own excessive religious exaltation. For all that, I never reproached
you for your intimacy with Fra Girard--"

"Despite anything that you could have done or said, father, I would have
seen to my own salvation. God before the family."

"And do you imagine, my son, that we could be opposed to your welfare?"
asked Bridget in an accent of affectionate reproach. "Do you not know
how much we love you? Are not all our thoughts dictated by our
attachment to you? Can you doubt our affection?"

"Happiness lies in the faith, and the faith comes to us from heaven.
There is no welfare outside of the bosom of the Church."

"It would have become you better to answer your mother's kind words with
other terms," observed Christian, as he saw his wife hurt and saddened
by the harshness of Hervé's words. "If your faith comes from heaven,
filial love also is a celestial sentiment; may God forfend that it be
weakened in your heart--in fine, may God forfend that Fra Girard's
influence over you should tend to pervert, despite himself and despite
yourself, your sense of right and wrong."

"I do not understand you, father."

The artisan cast a significant look at Bridget, who, guessing her
husband's secret thoughts, felt assailed by mortal anguish.

"I shall explain myself more clearly," Christian continued. "Do you
remember a few days ago at the shop when some of our fellow workmen
expressed indignation at the traffic in indulgences?"

"Yes, father; and I withered the blasphemous utterances with the
contempt that they deserved. Indulgences open the gates of heaven."

"One of our fellow workingmen loudly likened the commerce in indulgences
to a theft," Christian proceeded, unable completely to overcome his
emotion, while Bridget in vain sought to catch the eyes of her son, who,
from the start of this conversation held his eyes nailed to the floor.
"Upon hearing so severe an opinion expressed upon the indulgences,"
Christian added, "you, my son, shouted that all money, even if it
proceeded from theft, became holy if devoted to pious works; you said
so, did you not? You thereby justified a reprehensible action."

"It is my conviction."

After a momentary silence the artisan again resumed:

"My boy, you were surely awakened to-night, as we ourselves were, by the
noise of the procession. It was the procession of indulgences."

"Yes, father--and in order to render my prayers for the deliverance of
the souls in purgatory more efficacious, I macerated myself."

"The monks claim that the souls in purgatory can be ransomed by money;
do they not make the claim?"

"It is the doctrine of the Catholic Church, father. The Church can not
err."

"Hervé, let me suppose that you find on the street a purse full of gold;
would you believe yourself justified to dispose of it in behalf of the
souls in purgatory, without first inquiring after the rightful owner of
the purse?"

"I would not hesitate a minute to do what you said. I would take it to
the Church."

Christian and Bridget exchanged looks of distress at this answer. Their
suspicions were almost confirmed. They now counted at least with Hervé's
frankness. Convinced that all means were legitimate in order to compass
the salvation of souls in pain, he would assuredly admit the theft. The
artisan proceeded:

"My son, we never set you the example of duplicity. Particularly at this
moment when we must appeal to your frankness, we shall speak without
circumlocution. I have this to say to you: The fruits of your mother's
laborious savings and my own have been recently purloined; the sum
amounted to twenty gold crowns."

Hervé remained impassable and silent.

"The theft was committed yesterday or the day before," pursued
Christian, painfully affected by his son's impassiveness. "The money was
deposited in the case in our bedroom, and could have been taken away by
none except a person familiar in our house."

With his hands crossed over his knees and his eyes on the floor, Hervé
remained silent, impenetrable.

"Your mother and I first cudgeled our brains to ascertain who could have
committed the guilty act," Christian proceeded, driving the point nearer
and nearer home, and he added slowly, accentuating these last words:
"It then occurred to us that, seeing the theft was justifiable by your
convictions--that is to say, that it was legitimate if committed for the
sake of some pious work--you might--in a moment of mental
aberration--have appropriated the sum for the purpose of consecrating it
to the ransoming of souls in purgatory."

The husband and wife awaited their son's answer with mortal anxiety.
Christian watched him closely and observed that, despite Hervé's
apparent impassiveness, a slight flush suffused his face; although the
lad did not raise his eyes, he cast furtive glances at his parents. The
somber and guilty glances, caught by Christian, surprised and distressed
him. He no longer doubted his son's guilt, he even despaired of drawing
from the lad a frank admission that might somewhat have extenuated the
ugly action. Christian continued with a penetrating voice:

"My son, I have acquainted you with the painful suspicions that weigh
upon our hearts--have you no answer to make?"

"Father," said Hervé firmly and tersely, "I have not touched your
money."

"He lies," thought the desolate artisan to himself; "it is our own son
who committed the theft."

"Hervé," cried Bridget with her face bathed in tears and throwing
herself at the feet of her son, around whom she threw her arms, "my son,
be frank--we shall not scold you! Good God, we believe in the sincerity
of your new convictions--they are your only excuse! You certainly must
have believed that with the aid of that money, which lay idle on the
shelf of the book-case, you might redeem poor souls from the tortures of
purgatory. The charitable purpose of such a superstition might, aye, it
is bound to, carry away a young head like yours. I repeat to you; we
shall look upon that as your excuse; we shall accept the excuse, in the
hope of leading you back again to more wholesome ideas of good and evil.
From your point of view, so far from your action being wrongful, it must
have seemed meritorious to you. Why not admit it? Is it shame that
restrains you, my poor boy? Fear not. The secret will remain with your
father and me." And embracing the lad with maternal warmth, Bridget
added: "Do not the principles in which we brought you up make us feel
sure that, despite your temporary blindness, you will know better in the
future? Could you possibly become confirmed in dishonesty, you, my son?
You who until now gave us so much cause for happiness? Come, Hervé, make
a manly effort--tell us the truth--you will thereby change our sorrow
into joy; your confession will prove your frankness and your confidence
in our indulgence and tenderness. You still are silent?--not a word--you
have not a word for me?" cried the wretched woman, seeing her son
remaining imperturbable. "What! we who should complain, are imploring
you! You should be in tears, and yet it is I alone who weep! You should
be at our feet, and I am at yours! And yet you remain like a piece of
icy marble! Oh, unhappy child!"

"Mother," repeated Hervé with inflexible voice without raising his eyes,
"I have not touched your money."

In despair at such insensibility, Bridget rose and threw herself
convulsively sobbing into the arms of her husband: "I am a mother to be
pitied."

"My son," now said Christian in a severe tone, "if you are guilty--and I
regret but too deeply that I fear you are--learn this: Even if you
should have employed the money that has been purloined from my room in
what you term 'pious works,' you would not therefore be less guilty of a
theft, do you understand?--a theft in all the disgraceful sense of the
word! I was not mistaken! It has turned out so! By means of unworthy
sophisms, your friend Fra Girard has perverted your one-time sense of
right and wrong! Oh, whatever insane or impostor monks may say to the
contrary, human and divine morality will always condemn theft, whatever
the disguises or hypocritical pretexts may be under which it is
committed. To believe that such a disgraceful action deserves no
punishment--worse yet, that it is meritorious--by reason of the fruits
thereof being consecrated to charitable works, is about the most
monstrous mental aberration that can ever insult the conscience of an
honest man!" Christian thereupon supported and led Bridget in tears back
towards the staircase, took up the lamp, and walked upstairs with these
parting words to his son: "May heaven open your eyes, my son and inspire
you with repentance!"

Imperturbable as ever, Hervé did not seem to hear his father's last
words. When the latter re-entered his own room with his wife and closed
the door, the young man, who had remained in the dark, threw himself
down upon his knees, picked up his instrument of discipline and began
flagellating himself with savage fury. The lad smothered the cries that
the pain involuntarily forced from him, and, a prey to delirious
paroxysms, only murmured from time to time, with bated breath, the name
of his sister Hena.




CHAPTER III.

THE SALE OF INDULGENCES.


The morning after the trying night experienced by Christian and his
wife, a large crowd filled the church of the Dominican Convent. It was a
bizarre crowd. It consisted of people of all conditions. Thieves and
mendicants, artisans, bourgeois and seigneurs, lost women and devout old
dames, ladies of distinction and plebeian women and children of all
ages, elbowed one another. They were all attracted by that day's
religious celebration; they crowded especially near the choir. This
space was shut off by an iron railing four feet in height; it was to be
the theater of the most important incidents in the ceremony. Among the
spectators nearest to the choir stood Hervé Lebrenn together with his
friend Fra Girard. The Franciscan monk was about twenty-five years of
age, and of a cadaverous, austere countenance. The mask of asceticism
concealed an infernal knave gifted with superior intelligence. The monk
enveloped his young companion, so to speak, with a fascinating gaze; the
latter, apparently a prey to profound preoccupation, bent his head and
crossed his arms over his breast.

"Hervé," said Fra Girard in a low voice, "do you remember the day when
in a fit of despair and terror you came to me to confession--and
confessed a thing that you hardly dared admit to yourself?"

"Yes," answered Hervé with a shudder and dropping his eyes still lower;
"yes, I remember the day."

"I then told you," the Franciscan proceeded to say, "that the Catholic
Church, from which you were separated from childhood by an impious
education, afforded consolation to troubled hearts--even better, held
out hope--still better than that, gave positive assurance even to the
worst of sinners, provided they had faith. By little and little our long
and frequent conversations succeeded in causing the divine light to
penetrate your mind, and the scales dropped from your eyes. The faith
that I then preached to you, has since filled and now overflows your
soul. Fasting, maceration and ardent prayer have smoothed the way for
your salvation. The hour of your reward has arrived. Blessed be the
Lord!"

Fra Girard had hardly uttered these words when the deep notes of the
organ filled with a melancholic harmony the lugubrious church into which
the light of day broke only through narrow windows of colored glass. A
procession that issued from the interior of the Dominican cloister
entered the church and marched around the aisles. The cortege was headed
by four footmen clad in red, the papal livery, who held aloft four
standards upon which the pontifical coat-of-arms was emblazoned; they
were followed by priests in surplices surrounding a cross and chanting
psalms of penitence; behind these came another platoon of papal
footmen, bearing a stretcher covered with gold cloth, and in the center
of which, on a cushion of crimson velvet, lay a red box containing the
bull of Leo X empowering the Order of St. Dominic to dispense
indulgences. Several censer-bearers walked backward before the
stretcher, and stopped from time to time in order to swing their copper
and silver censers from which clouds of perfumed vapor issued and
circled upward. A Dominican prior walked behind the stretcher clasping a
large cross of red wood in his arms; this dignitary--a man in the full
vigor of age, tall of stature and so corpulent that his paunch
threatened to burst his frock--was the Apostolic Commissioner entrusted
with the sale of indulgences; a heavy black beard framed in his
high-colored face; the monk's triumphant gait and the haughty looks that
he cast around him pointed him out as the hero of the approaching
ceremony. He was followed by a long line of penitentiaries and
sub-Apostolic Commissioners with white wands in their hands. A last
squad of papal footmen, holding by leather straps a huge coffer also
covered with crimson velvet and locked with three gilded clasps, closed
the procession. A slit, similar to that of the poor-boxes in churches,
was cut into the lid of the coffer. Through it the moneys were to be
dropped by the purchasers of indulgences, or by the faithful, anxious to
redeem the souls in purgatory.

When the procession, at the passage of which the crowd prostrated itself
religiously, completed the circuit of the church, the papal footmen who
bore the banners grouped them as trophies upon the main altar, before
which the stretcher, covered with gold cloth, the bull, and the big
coffer were processionally borne. The Apostolic Commissioner with the
cross of red wood in his hand placed himself near the coffer; the
penitentiaries ranked themselves in front of several confessionals that
were set up for the occasion near the choir, and all of which bore the
pontifical arms.

The excitement and curiosity awakened by the procession together with
the peals of the organ and the chant of the priests excited a
considerable agitation in the church. By degrees quiet was restored, the
kneeling faithful rose again to their feet, and all eyes turned
impatiently towards the choir. Hervé, who had been one of the first to
prostrate himself, was among the last to rise; the lad was a prey to
profound agony; perspiration bathed his now livid face; he was hardly
able to breathe. Turning his wandering eyes towards Fra Girard, he said
to the monk in broken accents:

"Oh, if I only can rely upon your promises! The moment has arrived when
I must believe. I tremble!"

"Oh, man of little faith!" answered the Franciscan with severity and
pointing to the papal commissioner, who was preparing to speak;
"listen--and repent that you doubted. Ask God to pardon you."

The silence became profound; the dealer in indulgences deftly rolled up
the sleeves of his robe, just as a juggler in the market would have done
in order not to be hindered in the tumultuous motions of his
performance, and pointing to the red cross which he placed beside him,
he cried in a stentorian voice fit to make the glass windows of the
building rattle:

"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen![5] You see
this cross, my beloved brothers? Well, this cross is as efficacious as
the cross of Jesus Christ! You will ask me, How so? My answer is that
this is, so to speak, the symbol of the indulgences that our Holy Father
has commissioned me to dispense. But what are these indulgences? you
will then ask? What they are, my brothers? They are the most precious
gift, the most miraculous, the most wonderful that the Lord has ever
bestowed upon His faithful! Therefore, I say unto you--Come, come to me;
I shall give you letters furnished with the seal of our Holy Father, and
thanks to these letters, my brothers--would you believe it?--not only
will the sins that you have committed be pardoned, but they will give
you absolution for the sins that you desire to commit!"

"Did you hear that?" Fra Girard whispered to Hervé. "One can obtain
absolution both for the sins that he has committed, and for the sins
that he intends to commit!"

"But--there--are--things--crimes and outrages," stammered Hervé with
secret horror, "that, may be, one can not obtain absolution for! Oh, woe
is me! I feel myself sliding down a fatal slope!

"Listen," replied the Franciscan, "listen to the end; you will then
understand."

The mass of people that were crowded in the church received with
indescribable signs of satisfaction the words uttered by the Dominican
seller of indulgences; especially did those whose purses were well lined
hail with delight the prospect of their salvation if they but took the
precaution of equipping themselves in advance with an absolution that
embraced the past, the present and the future. The Apostolic
Commissioner observed the magic effect that his words produced; in a
jovial and familiar tone he proceeded to harangue the audience amidst
violent contortions of both face and limbs:

"Now, let us have a heart-to-heart talk, my brothers; let us reason
together. Let us suppose that you wish to undertake a voyage into some
strange country that is infested with thieves; fearing that you will be
rifled of all that you carry about you before you attain the end of your
journey, you do not wish to take your money with you. What do you do?
You take your money to a banker, do you not? You allow him a slight
profit, and he furnishes you with a draft, by means of which the money
that you deposited with him is paid over to you in the strange country,
upon your arrival there. Do you understand me well, my beloved
brothers?"

"Yes," answered several of the faithful; "we understand--proceed with
your discourse."

"Miserable sinners!" replied the Dominican suddenly changing his jovial
tone into a thundering voice. "Miserable sinners! You understand me, say
you? and yet you hesitate to buy from me for the small price of a few
crowns a draft of salvation! What! Despite all the sins that you may
render yourselves guilty of during the voyage of life, infested as that
road is with diabolical temptations that are infinitely more dangerous
than thieves, this draft will be paid to you in paradise in the divine
money of eternal salvation by the Almighty, upon whom we, the bankers of
souls, have drawn in your name--and yet you hesitate to insure to
yourselves at so small a cost your share of the celestial enjoyments
reserved for the blissful! No! No! You will not hesitate, my brothers!
You will buy my indulgences!" the Dominican now proceeded to say with a
resumption of familiar and even paternal solicitude. "Nor is this all,
my brothers; my indulgences do not save the living only, they redeem the
dead! Aye, the dead, be they even as hardened as Lucifer himself! But,
you may ask, how can your indulgences deliver the dead?" cried the
merchant of salvation again shouting at the top of his voice, "How will
my indulgences save the dead? Can it be that you do not hear the voices
of your parents, your friends, even of strangers to you--but what does
that matter, seeing that you are Christians?--can it be that you do not
hear their frightful concert of maledictions, of groans, of gnashing of
teeth which rises from the bottom of the abyss of fire, where those poor
souls are writhing in the furnace of purgatory--where they writhe,
waiting for the mercy of God or the pious works of man to deliver them
from their dreadful tortures? Can it be that you do not hear those
miserable sinners, the piteous meanings of those unhappy people, who
from the bottom of the yawning gulf where the flames are devouring them
cry out to you: 'Oh, ye stony hearts! we are enduring frightful torture!
An alms would deliver us! You can give it! Will you refuse to give it?'
Will you refuse, my brothers? No! I know you will give the alms. I know
you will give it when you consider that the very instant your gold
crowns drop into this trunk," (pointing to it) "crack--psitt--the soul
pops out of purgatory and flies into heaven like a dove liberated from
its cage! Amen! Empty your purses, empty your purses, my friends!"

The majority of the audience before the Dominican seemed little
concerned about the deliverance of souls in pain. However blind their
superstitious belief, it had a certain charitable side, but that side
had no attraction whatever for the faithful ones who were attracted only
by the expectation of being able, by means of indulgences, to give a
loose, in perfect security of conscience, to whatever excesses or crimes
they had in mind.

A man with a gallows-bird face named Pichrocholle, one of the
Mauvais-Garçons who hired out their homicidal daggers to the highest
bidder, said in a low voice to a Tire-Laine, another bandit, and one of
the worst of his kind:

"As truly as the Franc-Taupin whom I was speaking about to you a short
time ago saved my life at the battle of Marignan, I would not give six
silver sous for the redemption of the souls in purgatory! Oh, if I only
were rich enough to purchase a good letter of absolution--'sdeath!--I
would pay for it gladly and spot-cash, too! Once the papal absolution
is in your pocket, your hand is firmer at its work; it does not tremble
when dispatching your man! With an absolution duly executed, you can
defy the fork of Satan on the Judgment Day. But by St. Cadouin, what do
I care for the souls in purgatory! I laugh at their deliverance! And
you, Grippe-Minaud?"

"I confess," answered the Tire-Laine, "I bother as little about the
souls in purgatory as about an empty purse. But tell me, Pichrocholle,"
added Grippe-Minaud with a pensive air, "letters of absolution are too
dear for poor devils like ourselves--suppose we stole one of those
blessed letters from the commissioner, would the theft be a sin?"

"'Sdeath! How could it be? Does it not give absolution in advance? But
those jewels are kept too safely to be pilfered."

While the Mauvais-Garçon and the Tire-Laine were exchanging these
observations, the Apostolic Commissioner rolled his sleeves still
higher, and continued his sermon, interspersing his words with smiles or
violent gestures according as the occasion demanded:

"But, my brothers, you will say to me: You puff your indulgences a good
deal; nevertheless there are such frightful crimes, crimes that are so
abominable, so monstrous that your indulgences could never reach them!
You are mistaken, my brothers. No! A thousand times no! My indulgences
are so good, they are so sure, they are so efficacious, so powerful that
they absolve everything--yes, everything! Do you want an example? Let us
suppose an impossible thing--let us suppose that someone were to rape
the holy Mother of God--an abominable act of sacrilege!"[6]

A long murmur expressive of dreadful suspense and hope received these
last words of the trafficker in indulgences; a boundless horizon was
opened for all manner of the blackest and most unheard-of felonies.
Among others in the crowd, Hervé remained hanging upon the lips of the
Dominican; the lad was seized with dizziness; he imagined himself
oppressed by a nightmare. The hollow-sounding voice of Fra Girard awoke
him to reality. With a triumphant accent the Franciscan whispered to his
disciple:

"An insult to the Mother of God herself would be pardoned! Even such a
crime would be reached by an indulgence! Did you hear him? Did you? An
indulgence would cover even that!"

A tremor ran through Hervé from head to foot; he made no answer, hid his
face in his hands, and feeling himself reel like an intoxicated man and
even his knees to yield under him, the lad found himself obliged to lean
upon the arms of the Franciscan, who contemplated him with an expression
of infernal joy.

The merchant of indulgences had paused for a moment upon uttering his
abominable supposition in order the better to assure himself of its
effect; he then proceeded in a stentorian voice:

"You tremble, my brothers! So much the better! That proves that you
appreciate in the fulness of its horror the sacrilege which I cited as
an example! Now, then, the more horrible the sacrilege, all the more
sovereign is the virtue of my indulgences, seeing that they give
absolution therefor! Yes, my brothers, whatever the sacrilege that you
may commit, you will be pardoned--provided you pay for it--provided you
pay bountifully for it! That is clearer than day! Our Lord God will have
no power over you, he ceases to be God, having assigned His pardoning
power to the Pope. But, you may still ask, why does our Holy Father so
bountifully distribute the boon of his indulgences? Why?" repeated the
Dominican in a voice of deep lament; "why? Alas! alas! alas! my
brothers, it is in order to be enabled, thanks to the returns from the
sales of these indulgences, to rebuild the Basilica of St. Peter and St.
Paul in Rome with such splendor that there is none to match it in the
world. Indeed, none other must be like that basilica, which contains the
sacred bodies of the two apostles! And this notwithstanding--would you
believe it, my brothers?--the Cathedral of Rome is in such a state of
dilapidation that the holy bones, the sacrosanct bones of St. Peter and
St. Paul are so constantly exposed to the peltings of rain and hail,
they are so soiled and dishonored by dust and vermin that they are
falling to pieces!"

A shudder of painful indignation ran over the faithful crowd assembled
before the Dominican when thus informed that the relics of the apostles
were exposed to the inclemencies of the weather and the soilure of
vermin as a result of the dilapidated state of the Basilica of Rome,
while, since then, the most marvelous monument of architecture that
immortalizes the genius of Michael Angelo, was reared to the admiration
of the world. Perceiving the effect made by his peroration, the
Dominican proceeded in a thundering voice:

"No, my brothers! No! The sacred ashes of the apostles shall no longer
remain in dirt and disgrace! No! Indulgence has set up its throne in the
Church of St. Dominic!" and pointing to the large coffer and beating
with his fists a tattoo upon the lid, the Apostolic Commissioner added
with the roar of a bull: "Now, bring your money! Bring it, good people!
Bring plenty! I shall put you the example of charity. I consecrate this
gold piece to the redemption of souls in purgatory!"

And pulling out of his pocket a half ducat which he held up glistening
to the eyes of the crowd, he dropped it into the coffer through the slit
in the lid, upon which he continued to strike with his fists, keeping
time to his words as he cried:

"Fetch your money! Fetch it, good people! Fetch your ducats!"

The front ranks of the crowd broke in response to the summons of the
trafficker in indulgences and hastened to empty their purses. But the
Dominican held back the surging crowd with a gesture of his hand and
said:

"One more word, my dear brothers! Do you see these confessionals
decorated with the armorial bearings of the Holy Father? The priests who
will take your confessions represent the apostolic penitentiaries of
Rome on the occasions of grand jubilees. All those who wish to
participate in the three principal indulgences will proceed to these
confessionals and will conscientiously notify the confessor of the
amount of money that they are disposed to deprive themselves of in order
to obtain the following favors:

"The first is the absolute remission of all sins--past, present and
future.

"The second is freedom from participation in the works of the Holy
Church, such as fasts, prayers, pilgrimages and macerations of all
nature.

"The third--listen carefully, my brothers, pay particular attention to
the last words, as the saying is--this indulgence exceeds all that the
most faithful believers can wish for!"

"Listen," whispered Fra Girard to Hervé; "listen, and repent your having
doubted the resources of the faith."

"Oh, I doubt no longer, and yet I hardly dare to hope," murmured the son
of Christian with bated breath, while the Dominican proceeded to
announce aloud:

"The third favor, my brothers, gives you the right to choose a
confessor, who, every time that you fear you are about to die, will be
bound--by virtue of the letter of absolution that you will have
purchased and which you will display before him--to give you absolution
not only for your ordinary sins, but also for those greater crimes the
remission of which is reserved to the apostolic See, to wit, bestiality,
the crime against nature, parricide and incest."

The Dominican had hardly pronounced these words when Hervé's features
became frightful to behold. The lad's eyes shot fire, and a smile of the
damned curled his lips as Fra Girard stooped down to him and whispered
in his ear:

"Did I deceive you? The indulgence is absolute, even for incest."

"Finally, my brothers," the Apostolic Commissioner proceeded to say,
"the fourth favor consists in redeeming souls from purgatory. For this
favor, my brothers, it is not necessary, as for the three first ones, to
be contrite of heart and to confess. No, no! It is enough if you drop
your offerings in this coffer. You will thereby snatch the souls of the
dead from the tortures that they are undergoing; and you will be
moreover contributing towards the holy work of restoring the Basilica of
St. Peter and St. Paul at Rome. Now, then, my brothers," he added,
thumping anew upon the coffer, "come forward with your money! Come
forward with your ducats! Come!"

Upon this last exhortation the railing of the choir was thrown open. The
small number of the charitably disposed who wished to deliver the souls
in pain began filing before the coffer into which they dropped their
offerings after making the sign of the cross; the confessionals,
however, in which the pontifical penitentiaries took their seats, ready
to issue letters of absolution, were immediately besieged by a mob of
men and women, anxious to obtain impunity in the eyes of heaven and of
their own conscience for sins ranging from the most venial up to
monstrous deeds that cause nature to shudder. It was a frightful sight,
the spectacle presented by the mob around these confessionals crowding
to the quarry of impunity for crime.

Good God! Your vicars order and exploit the traffic! Behold human
conscience upturned, shaken at its very foundation, losing even the
sense of discrimination between vice and virtue! The moral sense is
perverted, it is smothered by sacrilegious superstition! Mankind is
lashed to a vertigo of folly and evil by the assurance of impunity,
feeling certain, Oh, God of justice! of having You for an accomplice!
Souls, until then innocent, no longer recoil before any passion however
execrable, the bare thought of which is a crime! Does not the Pope of
Rome absolve for all eternity, in exchange for a few gold crowns, even
parricide and incest? If only its faith is strong enough the incestuous
or parricidal heart knows, feels itself absolved! Oh, in honor at least
to the religious sentiment--the divine gift implanted in man's heart,
whatever the dogma may be in which it is wrapped--there are Catholic
priests of austere morals who, despite their intolerance, have, in these
accursed times, indignantly repudiated the monstrous idolatries and
savage fetichism that even ancient paganism knew nothing of! No! No!
Christ, your celestial gospel is and will remain the most scathing
condemnation of the horrors that are committed in your venerated name.
Those papal penitentiaries in the confessionals emblazoned with the
pontifical arms, those new dealers in merchandise in the Temple dare to
sell for cash patents of salvation! Alas! After a few hurried words
exchanged with Fra Girard, Hervé was one of the first to hurry to the
confessionals and kneel down; he did not long remain there; those near
him heard the papal penitentiary first utter a cry of surprise; silence
ensued, broken by the intermittent sobs of the lad; the chinking of the
money that was being counted out to the priest in the confessional
announced the close of the absolutional conversation. Hervé issued out
of the tribunal of penitence holding a parchment with a convulsive
clutch, closely followed by Fra Girard; he cleaved the compact mass of
people, and withdrew to one of the lateral chapels; there he knelt down
before a sanctuary of the Virgin that a lamp illumined, and by its light
read the letter of absolution that he had just bought with his father's
money. The pontifical letter was couched in the following terms:

     May our Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon you [here followed a
     blank space into which the name of the owner of the letter was to
     be inserted]; may He absolve you by the virtue of the Holy Passion.
     And I, in virtue of the apostolical power in me vested, do hereby
     absolve you from all ecclesiastical censures, judgments and
     punishments that you may have deserved; furthermore _of all
     excesses, sins and crimes that you may have committed, however
     grave and enormous these may be, and whatever the cause thereof_,
     even if such sins and crimes be those reserved to our Holy Father
     the Pope and to the apostolic See--_such as bestiality, the sin
     against nature, parricide and incest_. I hereby efface from you all
     traces of inability, all the marks of infamy that you may have
     drawn upon yourself on such occasions; I induct you anew as a
     participant of the sacraments of the Church; I re-incorporate you
     in the community of saints; I restore you to the innocence and
     purity that you were in at the hour of your baptism, so that, at
     the hour of your death, the door through which one passes to the
     place of torments and pain shall be closed to you, while on the
     contrary, the gate that leads to the Paradise of joy shall be wide
     open to you, _and should you not die speedily, Oh, my son! this
     token of mercy shall remain unalterable until your ultimate end_.

     In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen!

     BROTHER JOHN TEZEL,

     Apostolic Commissioner, signed by his own hand.[7]

Without rising from his knees Hervé frequently interrupted the reading
of the document with suppressed signs of pleased and blissful
astonishment. The absolution that he was now the owner of extended to
the past, it covered the present, it reached the future. As Fra Girard
called the purchaser's attention to the fact, the document bore no date
and thereby extended the apostolic efficacy over all the sins, all the
crimes that the holder of the indulgence might commit to the end of his
days. Hervé folded the parchment and inserted it into the scapulary that
hung from his neck under his shirt, bowed down till his forehead touched
the slab of the floor at the foot of the sanctuary and kissed it
devoutly. Alas! The unfortunate lad was sincere in his frightful
thankfulness towards the divine power that granted him the remission.
His mind being led astray by a detestable influence, he felt himself,
he believed himself, absolved of all the wrongs that his delirious
imagination raved over. Fra Girard contemplated the prostrate lad with
an expression of sinister triumph. The latter suddenly rose and, as if
seized with a vertigo, staggered towards the railing of the chapel. The
Franciscan held him back by the arm, and pointing at the image of the
Virgin, arrayed in a flowing robe of silver cloth studded with pearls,
and her head crowned with a golden crown that glistened in the
semi-darkness of the dimly-lighted sanctuary, said in a solemn voice:

"Behold the image of the mother of our Savior, and remember the words of
the Apostolic Commissioner. Even if the horrible sacrilege that he
mentioned were a feasible thing, it could be absolved by the letter that
you now own. If that is so, and it may not be doubted, what then becomes
of the remorse and the terrors that have assailed you during the last
three months? Since the day when, distracted with despair by the
discovery of the frightful secret that had lain concealed in the bottom
of your heart, you came to me, and yielding, despite yourself, to the
irresistible instinct that whispered to you: 'Only in faith will you be
healed,' you confessed your trials to me--since that day you have hourly
realized that your instinct guided you rightly and that my words were
true. To-day you are assured of a place in paradise. Hervé--do you hear
me?"

"I hear," and after a moment of pensiveness: "Oh, celestial miracle for
which, with my forehead in the dust, I rendered thanks to the mother of
our Savior. Yes, since a minute ago, from the moment that I became the
owner of this sacred schedule, my conscience has regained its former
serenity, my mind is in peace, my heart is full of hope. I now only need
to will and to dare--I shall will, I shall dare! Mine is the bliss of
paradise!"

Hervé uttered these words with calm conviction. He did not lie. No, his
conscience was serene, his mind at peace, his heart full of hope, even
the lines on his face seemed suddenly transfigured; their savage and
tormented expression made room for a sort of blissful ecstasy, a slight
flush again enlivened the cheeks that frequent fasts, macerations and
mental conflicts had paled. The monk smiled silently at the
metamorphosis; he took Hervé by the arm, walked with him out of the
church, and as the two stepped out upon the street said to him:

"You have now entered upon the path of salvation; your faith has been
tried--will you still hesitate to join the ranks of the militants, who
openly preach and cause this faith to triumph, the miraculous efficacy
of which you have yourself experienced this day? Think of the glory of
our holy mother the Church."

"Speak not now to me of such things. My thoughts are elsewhere--they are
near my sister Hena."

"Very well; but, Hervé, never forget what I have often told you, and
that your modesty makes you disregard. Your intelligence is exceptional;
your erudition extensive; heaven has endowed you with the precious gift
of a persuasive eloquence; the monastic Orders, especially the one to
which I belong, I say so in all humility, recruit themselves carefully
with young men whose gifts give promise of a brilliant future; this is
enough to tell you of what priceless value you would be to our Order;
you could make with us a rapid and brilliant career; you might even
become the prior of our monastery. But I shall not pursue this subject;
you are not listening to me; we shall take up the matter later. Where
are you going so fast?"

"I am going back to my father, to the printing shop of Master Robert
Estienne."

"Be prudent--above all, no indiscretion!"

"Girard," answered Hervé with a slightly moved voice and after a
second's reflection, "I know not what may happen during the next few
days; I will, and I shall dare; can I at all events count upon obtaining
asylum in your cell?"

"Whatever the hour of the day or night may be, you may ring at the
little gate of the convent, where the faithful repair who come to ask
our assistance for the dying; ask the brother gateman for me; that will
let you in and you will find an inviolable asylum within our walls; you
will there be sheltered from all pursuit."

"I thank you for the promise, and I rely upon it. Adieu. Think of me in
your prayers."

"Adieu, and let me see you soon again," answered the Franciscan as he
followed with his eyes the rapidly retreating figure of Hervé. "Whatever
may happen," added Fra Girard to himself, "he now belongs to us, body
and soul. Such acquisitions are precious in these days of implacable
struggle against heresy. God be praised!"




CHAPTER IV.

THE "TEST OF THE LUTHERANS."


At the time of this narrative there rose at about the middle of St. John
of Beauvais Street a large, new house built in the simple and graceful
style recently imported from Italy. Upon a gilt sign, ornamented with
the symbolical arms of the University of Paris, and placed immediately
over the door, the inscription: ROBERT ESTIENNE, PRINTER was painted in
bold letters. Heavy iron bars protected the windows of the ground floor
against any bold attempts that might be contemplated by the bandits that
the city was infested with, and the defensive precaution was completed
by a heavy sheet of iron fastened with heavy nails to an already solid
and massive door that was surmounted by a sculptured allegory of the
Arts and Sciences, an elegant piece of work from the chisel of one of
the best pupils of Primaticio, a celebrated Italian artist whom Francis
I called to France. The house belonged to Master Robert Estienne, the
celebrated printer, the worthy successor of his father in that learned
industry, and one of the most erudite men of the century. Profoundly
versed in the Latin, Greek and Hebrew languages, Master Robert Estienne
raised the art of printing to a high degree of perfection. Passionately
devoted to his art, he lavished so much care upon the publications that
issued from his establishment, that not only did he himself correct the
proofs of the Latin, Greek and Hebrew works which he printed, but he
furthermore stuck the revised proofs to his office door and kept them
there for a certain time with the offer of a reward to whomsoever should
point out an error or blemish. Among the handsomest works published by
Master Robert Estienne were a Bible and a New Testament, both translated
into French. These two productions were the admiration of the learned
and the source of profound uneasiness to the Sorbonne[8] and the clergy,
who felt as alarmed as irritated to see the press popularize the textual
knowledge of the holy books that condemned a mass of abuses, idolatrous
practices and exactions which the Church of Rome had for centuries been
introducing into the Catholic cult.

Robert Estienne was recently wedded to Perrine Bade, a young and
handsome woman, the daughter of another learned printer, and herself
well versed in the Latin. The home of Robert Estienne presented the
noble example of those bourgeois families whose pure morals and virile
domestic virtues so strongly contrasted with the prevalent corruption of
those days. Accused of being a partisan of the religious Reformation,
and both the Sorbonne and parliament, both of which were bound by
personal and material interests to the Catholic cause, having expressed
their anger at him, Robert Estienne would long before have been dragged
to the pyre as a heretic, but for the powerful protection of Princess
Marguerite of Valois, the sister of Francis I, a woman of letters, of
daring spirit, a generous nature, and withal secretly inclined to the
reform. The King himself, who loved the arts and letters more out of
vanity and the desire to imitate the princes of Italy than out of true
intellectual loftiness, extended his protection to Robert Estienne, whom
he considered an illustrious man whose glory would reflect upon his
prince as a Maecenas. His rare mental equipment, his talent, and, last
not least, the considerable wealth that he had inherited from his father
and increased by his own labor, had won for the celebrated printer
numerous and bitter enemies: his fellow tradesmen were jealous of the
inimitable perfection of his works: the members of the Sorbonne, of the
parliament and of the court, among all of whom the King and his evil
genius, the Cardinal and Chancellor Duprat, distributed the goods
confiscated from the heretics, had many times and oft expected to be
about to enrich themselves with the plunder of Robert Estienne's
establishment. But ever, thanks to the potent influence of Princess
Marguerite, the printer's adversaries had remained impotent in their
machinations against him. Nevertheless, knowing but too well how
capricious and precarious royal favor is, Robert Estienne was ever ready
for the worst with the serenity of the wise man and the clear conscience
of a man of honor, while the affection of his young wife was a source of
inexhaustible support in his struggle with the evil-minded.

The workshop of Master Robert Estienne occupied the ground floor of the
house. His artisans, all carefully selected by himself, and almost all
of whom were the sons of workmen whom his father had employed before
him, were worthy of the confidence that he reposed in them. More than
once did they have to repel with arms the assaults of fanatical bandits,
egged on by the monks, who pointed at the printing shop as a hot-bed of
diabolical inventions that should be demolished and burned down. The
populace, ignorant and credulous, rushed upon the house of Robert
Estienne, and but for the courage displayed by the defenders of the
establishment, the place would have been looted. Due to such
possibilities many employers felt under the necessity of building around
themselves a sort of bodyguard composed of their own workmen. The famous
goldsmith Benvenuto Cellini, whom Francis I invited from Florence to
settle in Paris, was in such constant dread of the jealousy of the
French and Italian artists, that he never went out upon the street
without being accompanied by several of his pupils, all armed to the
teeth. And not long ago he had sustained a regular siege in the little
Castle of Neste of which the King had made him a present. The fray
lasted two full days; victory remained with Benvenuto and his private
garrison; and Francis I was highly amused at the occurrence. Such is the
order that reigns in the city, such the security enjoyed by the citizens
in these sad days.

Robert Estienne's establishment resembled an arsenal as much as it did a
printing shop. Pikes, arquebuses and swords hung near the presses, the
composers' cases or the stone tables. Although it was night, Christian
remained on this evening at the shop; he remained behind upon his
master's request, and was waiting for him. The artisan's face, which had
borne the marks of worry since the conversation that he had with his son
Hervé on the preceding night, now looked cheerful. When Hervé returned
from the Church of St. Dominic, long after the customary hour for work
to be begun at Master Estienne's shop, and saw his father surprised and
displeased at the renewed absence from work, he said hypocritically:

"Please do not judge me by appearances; be sure, father, that I shall
again be worthy of you--you will pardon me a fatal slip. I begin to
realize the danger of the influence that I was blindly yielding to."

Saying this, the lad had hastened to make good the lost time, and
diligently set to work. Shortly after, the conversation among the
workingmen turned accidentally upon the sale of indulgences, which they
condemned with renewed energy. So far from violently taking up the
cudgels for the nefarious traffic, as he had done on previous occasions,
Hervé remained silent and even looked confused. Christian drew favorable
conclusions from his son's embarrassment.

"Our last night's conversation must have borne good fruit," thought the
artisan to himself; "the poor boy's eyes must have been opened; he must
have realized that fanaticism was driving him down into an abyss.
Patience! The principles in which I brought him up will win the upper
hand. I may now hope for the better."

When towards the close of the day's work he was notified by Master
Estienne that he wished to speak with him, and was asked to remain
behind, Christian told his son to inform Bridget of the reason of his
anticipated delay, in order that she be not alarmed at not seeing him
home at the usual hour. When he was finally left alone at the shop, he
continued the paging of a Latin book by the light of a lamp. In the
midst of this work he was interrupted by one of his friends named
Justin, a pressman in the shop. Some urgent presswork had kept him in a
contiguous room. Surprised at finding Christian still at work, Justin
said:

"I did not expect to find you here so late, dear comrade. The hour for
rest has sounded."

"Master Estienne sent me word asking that I wait for him after the shop
closed. He wishes to speak with me."

"That fits in with my plans. I had meant to call at your house this
evening and propose a trip for to-morrow to Montmartre, in order to
visit the place that you know of--the more I think of the matter, the
more convinced am I that we could select no better place for our
purpose."

"I am inclined to believe you after all the details that you have given
me upon the matter. But are you quite certain that the place offers us
all the requisite guarantees of secrecy and safety?"

"In order to convince ourselves fully upon the matter, I wished to
examine the place once more with you. It is a long time since I was
there. Maybe the place is no longer what it was. Well, shall we make the
investigation to-morrow evening?"

"Yes; I think it is high time for us to set to work, and organize our
army, Justin! I can see no other means to combat our powerful enemies;
they seem almost all-powerful. From day to day they become more
threatening. On their side they have force, numbers, power, audacity,
the judges, the trained soldiers, the priests, the jailers and
executioners, moss-grown tradition, the ferocious fanaticism of a
populace whose mind is poisoned and who are misled by the monks. And we,
what have we? This," added Christian pointing to a printing press that
stood in the center of the shop, "that instrument, that lever of
irresistible force--thought--the mind! Courage, my friend! Let us,
humble soldiers of reason, know how to wait. The printing press will
change the face of the earth--and all our casqued, mitred and crowned
tyrants will have seen their day! The printing press will be the weapon
of emancipation!"

"As well as you, Christian, I have faith in that future, whether it be
near or far away. Thought, subtle as light itself, will penetrate
everywhere. The midnight darkness of ignorance will be dispelled, and
freedom will dart its rays upon all. Let us to work, Christian. The
moment we shall have chosen our place, we will put our projects into
execution. I shall be at your house to-morrow evening. The moon will be
up late; her light will guide us; and--" here Justin interrupted himself
saying: "Here is our master; I shall leave you. Until to-morrow! I
shall be promptly on time."

"Till to-morrow," answered Christian as his friend left by a door of the
shop that opened upon a deserted side street.

Master Robert Estienne, a man of about thirty years of age, was of
middle size, and of a firm, kind and at once serious physiognomy. His
eyes sparkled with intelligence; a few premature lines furrowed his wide
forehead; study and concentration of mind had begun to thin out his
hair. He wore a coat and puffed-out hose of black taffeta; a white
crumpled cap sat upon his head, and seemed fastened under his chin by a
light and closely cropped beard that ended in a point.

"Christian," said Robert Estienne, "I have a service to ask of you, a
great service."

"Speak, Master Estienne; you know the feelings that I entertain for your
house and all that concerns you; I am as devoted to you as my father was
to yours. If it pleases God," added the artisan smothering a sigh, "it
will be so with my son towards yours."

"These long-continued relations between our two families honor them
both, Christian. It is for that reason that I do not hesitate to ask a
great service from you. This is the matter: As you know, my house is a
thorn in the side of my enemies; without mentioning the assault that it
had to sustain against the wretched fanatics whom the monks aroused
against it, the place is constantly spied upon. The persecutions
redouble in number and vehemence against all those who are suspected of
favoring the religious Reformation, especially since printed placards
violently hostile to the Church of Rome were posted over night in the
streets of Paris. John Morin, the Criminal Lieutenant and worthy
instrument of Cardinal-Chancellor Duprat, who keeps himself informed by
the miserable spy who goes under the name of Gainier, keeps Paris in a
state of terror through his police searches. Only the other day he
issued an order by which the sergeants of the gendarmes are empowered at
all hours of the day or night to search from cellar to garret the
residence of whomsoever is accused of heresy. I am among these. Despite
the protection of Princess Marguerite, it may happen that, at any
moment, my domicile is invaded by the lackeys of Duprat's lieutenant."

"That is unfortunately true; your enemies are powerful and numerous."

"Well, now, Christian, a man whom I love like my own brother, an
honorable man, foe to the priests, and proscribed by them, has asked me
for asylum. He is here since last evening, in hiding. I am in constant
apprehension of having my house searched, and my friend's place of
refuge discovered. His life is at stake."

"Great God! I can understand your uneasiness. Your friend is, indeed, in
great peril."

"Driven to this extremity, I determined to turn to you. It occurred to
me that your happy obscurity saves you from the espionage that pursues
me. Could you extend hospitality to my friend for two or three days, and
take him this very evening to your house? You would be running no
risk."

"With all my heart!"

"I shall never forget this service," said Master Robert Estienne, warmly
pressing the artisan's hand; "I knew I could count upon your
generosity."

"All I wish to remind you of, sir, is that the asylum is as humble as it
is safe."

"The proscribed man has for several months been accustomed to travel
from city to city; more than once, the generous apostle has spent the
night in the woods and the day in some dark cavern. Any place of refuge
is good to him."

"That being so, I have this proposition to make to you. I live, as you
know, on the Exchange Bridge; there is a garret under the roof of the
house; it is so very low one can hardly stand in it; but it is
sufficiently ventilated by a little window that opens upon the river.
To-morrow morning, after my son and I shall have left the house to come
to the shop, my wife--I shall have to take her into the secret, but I
answer for her as for myself--"

"I know it, Bridget deserves your full confidence; you may tell her
everything."

"Well, then, to-morrow morning, after we shall have left the house, my
wife will send my daughter on some errand or other, and will, during her
absence, transport to the garret a mattress, some bed linen and whatever
else may be necessary in order to render the refuge bearable. To-night,
however, our guest will have to resign himself to a simple quilt for
bedding; but a night is soon over--"

"That matters little. But how is he to be taken to your house to-night
without the knowledge of your family? I know your domestic habits. Your
wife and children are now waiting for you to take supper in the ground
floor room, the door of which opens on the bridge. They will all see you
come in with the stranger. Then also, it occurs to me, does not your
wife's brother, the old Franc-Taupin, join you almost every evening at
meals? That is an additional difficulty to be overcome."

"That is true; and I do not intend to take him into the secret, although
his faults--and these are numerous with the poor soldier of
adventure--are wholly counterbalanced in my eyes by his devotion to my
family; he fairly worships his sister and her children."

"How, then, shall we manage this evening?"

"I shall take the proscribed man to my house as an old friend whom I met
and invited to supper. As customary, my son and daughter will withdraw
to their rooms after the meal, and my wife, her brother the
Franc-Taupin, if he calls this evening, and I will remain alone with my
guest. I shall then request my wife's brother to go out for a pot of
wine in order that we close the day pleasantly. The wine is sold at a
tavern near the wharf and at some little distance from my house. I shall
profit by the Franc-Taupin's absence in order to apprize my wife in a
few words of the secret; my guest will go up into the garret: and when
my brother-in-law returns I shall tell him that our guest feared it
would grow too late, and left, requesting me to present his regards to
the Franc-Taupin and bid him adieu. As you see, the matter can be safely
and secretly arranged."

"Yes, very well. But, Christian, there is a matter that I must seriously
call your attention to. It is not an impossible thing that, despite all
your precautions, the proscribed man may be discovered in your house by
the police of Duprat's lieutenant; it is my duty to remind you that, in
such an event, you run the risk of imprisonment, perhaps even of a
severer, more terrible punishment; remember that justice can not be
relied upon in these days. The ecclesiastical tribunals are implacable;
it is with them--torture or death."

"Master Estienne, do you think me accessible to fear?"

"No, I know your devotion to me. But I wish you to feel sure that were
it not for the strictness of the surveillance that is kept over my
house, and that renders it impossible for me to offer asylum to the
friend whom I entrust to you, I would not then expose you to dangers
that I would otherwise be anxious myself to brave. I first thought of
hiding him in my cottage at St. Ouen; that country-seat is secluded and
far enough from the village. But for several reasons that I am not yet
free to communicate to you, my friend should remain hidden in the very
heart of Paris. I repeat it, Christian: if, however improbable, it
should betide that you are put to trouble, if harm should come to you by
reason of the service that you will have rendered me, your wife and your
children will find protection and support in my family."

"Master Estienne, I shall never forget that my father, laboring under
the shameless calumnies of the successor of the printer John Saurin,
would have himself and his family died of hunger and despair but for the
generous assistance of your father. Whatever I may do, never could I pay
that debt of gratitude to you and yours. My modest havings and myself
are at your disposal."

"My father acted like an upright man, that was all; but if you
absolutely insist upon considering yourself in our debt, your noble
assistance in this instance will be to us one more proof of your
gratitude. But I have not yet told you all, worthy Christian. Yielding
no doubt to a feeling of delicacy, you have not asked me in behalf of
whom I solicited asylum with you."

"The proscribed man is worthy of your friendship; he is an apostle,
Master Estienne; need I know more?"

"Without imparting to you a secret that is not mine, I feel free to
inform you that this proscribed man is the bravest of the apostles of
the Reformation. I owe only to your personal attachment the service that
you render to me, seeing that, in granting asylum to my friend, you are
not yet aware whether you are in accord with his ideas. Your generous
action is dictated by your affection towards me and mine; in my turn, I
now contract a debt of gratitude towards you and yours. And once upon
this subject, Christian," added Master Estienne in penetrating accents,
"allow me frankly to state my thoughts to you with respect to your son.
We have recently talked more than once upon the worry that he caused
you; I regret the circumstance doubly; I expected great things from
Hervé. He has developed a variety of aptitudes in other directions
besides the mechanical part of our art in which he begins to excel. The
lad's precocious knowledge, his exceptional eloquence--all these
qualities ranked him in my eye among that small number of men who are
destined to shine in whatever career they embrace. Finally, that which
enhanced with me Hervé's intellectual powers was the goodness of his
heart and the straightforwardness of his character. But his habits have
latterly become irregular; his one-time affectionate, open and
communicative nature has undergone a change. I have hitherto refrained
from letting him perceive the grief that his conduct caused me. In the
midst of all this I imagine he has preserved some love and respect for
me. Would you authorize me to have a serious and paternal conversation
with him? It may have a salutary effect."

"I thank you, Master Estienne, for your kind offer. I am glad to be able
to say that I have reasons to think that since to-day my son has turned
to better thoughts; that a sudden and happy change has come over him,
because--" Christian could not finish his sentence. Madam Estienne, a
handsome young woman of a sweet and grave countenance, precipitately
entered the shop and handing to her husband an open letter said to him
in a moved voice:

"Read, my friend; as you will see, there is not a minute to lose;" and
turning aside to Christian: "Can we count with you?"

"Absolutely and in all things, madam."

"There is no longer any doubt!" cried Master Estienne after he read the
letter. "Our house will be searched, this very night perhaps; they are
on my friend's tracks."

"I shall run for him," said Madam Estienne; "Christian and he will go
out by the side street. I think the house is watched on the St. John of
Beauvais Street side."

"Master Estienne," said the artisan to his employer, "in order to make
assurance doubly sure I shall go down to the end of the side alley and
reconnoiter whether the passage is clear; I shall explore it
thoroughly."

"Go, my friend, you will find us in the small yard with the proscribed
man."

Christian left the shop, crossed the small yard, drew the bolt of a door
that opened into the side alley and stepped out. He found the lane
completely deserted, from end to end not a soul was in sight. Although
it was night there was light enough to see a long distance ahead. Having
convinced himself that the issue was safe, Christian returned to the
door of the yard where he found Master Estienne pressing in his own the
hand of a man of middle size and clad in plain black.

"Master Estienne," said Christian to his employer, "the alley is
deserted; we can go out without being seen by anyone."

"Adieu, my friend," said Master Estienne in a trembling voice to the
proscribed man. "You may rely upon your guide as upon me. Follow him
and observe all that he may recommend to you for your safety. May heaven
protect your precious life!"

"Adieu! Adieu!" answered the unknown who seemed to be no less moved than
the printer; saying which he followed Christian. After issuing from the
alley and walking for a while in the direction of the Exchange Bridge,
the two men arrived at a gate which they had to pass in order to cross
the Cour-Dieu. At that place their progress was delayed by a compact
mass of people who were gathered near the gate, in the center of which
was a turnstile intended to keep horses and wagons from entering the
square. Many patrolmen were seen among the crowd.

"What is the meaning of this gathering?" inquired Christian from a man
of athletic carriage, with the sleeves of his shirt turned up, a
blood-bespattered apron and a long knife by his side.

"St. James!" exclaimed the butcher in a tone of pious satisfaction; "the
reverend Franciscan fathers of the Cour-Dieu have been struck by a good
idea."

"In what way?" again Christian asked. "What is their idea? Inform us of
what is going on."

"The good monks have placed upon the square in front of the door of
their convent a lighted chapel at the foot of a beautiful station of the
Holy Virgin, and a mendicant monk stands on either side of the statue,
with a club in one hand and a purse in the other--"

"And what is the purpose of the chapel and the mendicant monks and their
clubs?"

"St. James!" and the butcher crossed himself; "thanks to that chapel the
Lutheran dogs can be discovered as they pass by."

"How can they be recognized?"

"If they pass before the chapel without kneeling down at the feet of the
Holy Virgin, and without dropping a piece of money into the purse of the
mendicant monks, it is a proof that the painim are heretics--they are
immediately set upon, they are slain, they are torn to shreds. Listen!
Do you hear that?"

Indeed, at that moment, piercing shrieks half drowned by an angry roar
of many voices went up from the interior of the Cour-Dieu. As the
turnstile allowed a passage to only one person at a time, the approaches
of the square were blocked by a crowd that swelled from moment to moment
and that was swayed with the ardent desire to witness the _Test of the
Lutherans_, as the process was called. Every time that the cries of a
victim ceased, the clamor subsided, and the mob awaited the next
execution. The butcher resumed:

"That painim has ceased to scream--his account is settled. May the fire
of St. Anthony consume those laggards who are getting so slowly through
the gate! I shall not be able to witness the killing of a single one of
those accursed fellows!"

"My friend," said the mysterious companion of Christian to the butcher,
"those Lutherans must be very great criminals, are they not? I ask you
because I am a stranger here--"

A score of voices charitably hastened to answer the unknown man, who,
together with Christian was so completely hemmed in by the crowd that
they had no choice but patiently to wait for their turn at the
turnstile.

"Poor man, where do you come from?" said some, addressing the unknown.
"What! You ask whether the Lutherans are criminals? Why, they are
infamous brigands!"

And thereupon they vied with one another in citing the felonies that the
reformers were guilty of:

"They read the Bible in French!"

"They do not confess!"

"They do not sing mass!"

"They believe neither in the Pope, nor the saints, nor in the virginity
of Mary, nor in holy relics!"

"Nor in the blood of our Savior!--nor in the drop of milk of his holy
mother!--nor in the miraculous tooth of St. Loup!"

"And what do those demons substitute for the holy mass? Abominable
incantations and orgies!"

"Yes, yes--it is so!"

"I, who now speak to you, knew the son of a tailor who was once caught
in the net of those ministers of the devil. I'll tell you what he
saw--he told me all about it the next day. The Lutherans assembled at
night--at midnight--in a large cave, men, young girls and women to
celebrate their _Luthery_. A rich bourgeois woman, who lived on the same
street with the tailor attended the incantation with her two daughters.
When all the canting hypocrites were assembled, their priest donned a
robe of goatskin with a headgear of spreading oxhorns; he then took a
little child, spread the poor little fellow upon a table lighted by two
tall wax candles, and, while the other heretics sang their psalms in
French, interspersed with magical invocations, their priest cut the
child's throat!"

"The assassins! The monsters! The demons!"

"The priest of Lucifer thereupon gathered the child's blood in a vase
and sprinkled the assembly with the warm gore! He then tore out the
child's heart and ate it up! That closed the celebration of the
Luthery."

"Holy St. James, and shall we not bleed these sons of Satan to the last
man?" cried the butcher, carrying his hand to his knife, while the
proscribed man exchanged significant glances with Christian and remarked
to those standing near him:

"Can such monstrosities be possible? Could such things have happened?"

"Whether they are possible! Why, Brother St. Lawrence-on-the-gridiron, a
reverend Carmelite who is my confessor, told me, Marotte, there never
was an assembly of those heretics held without at least one or two
little children being sacrificed."

"Jesus, God! Everybody knows that," pursued the first narrator; "the
tailor's son that I am talking about witnessed the heretical orgy; he
saw everything with his own eyes; then, after the Lutherans had been
sprinkled with the child's blood as a sort of baptism, their priest
spoke up and said: 'Now, take off your clothes, and pray to God in our
fashion. Long live hell and the Luthery!' As soon as he said this, he
put out the two wax candles, whereupon all the he and she canting
hypocrites, with as much clothing on as Adam and Eve, men, women and
young girls, all thrown helter-skelter in the dark--well, you
understand--it is an abomination!"[9]

"What a horror! Malediction upon them!"

"Mercy! May God protect us from such heretics!"

"Confession! Such infamies portend the end of the world!"

"Brother St. Lawrence-on-the-gridiron, the reverend Carmelite friar, my
confessor, told me, Marotte, that all the Lutheries closed in the same
fashion. The good father felt so indignant that he gave me accurate
details upon the devilish heretics; they were details that made my
cheeks burn red and hot like a piece of coal."

These snatches of reports, that summed up the stupid and atrocious
calumnies spread about by the monks against the reformers, were
interrupted by new shrieks and vociferations that went up from the
Cour-Dieu. Listening with secret disgust and silent indignation to the
calumnious indignities that were huckstered about by an ignorant and
credulous populace, Christian and the unknown man in his charge had
followed the stream of the crowd, and presently found themselves under
the vault of the gate that led to the square, whence they could take in
at a glance what was happening there. A sort of altar lighted with wax
candles rose in front of the main entrance to the Franciscan Convent; a
life-sized statue of the Virgin wrought in wood and gorgeously attired
in a robe of gold brocade and with her face painted like a picture,
surmounted the altar. Several Franciscan monks, among whom Christian
recognized Fra Girard were stationed near the lighted chapel. Two of
them, holding large velvet purses in their hands, were posted one on
either side of the statue. A large crowd of tattered men and women, of
cynical, repulsive or brutal countenances, all armed with clubs and
grouped near the door of the convent, stood waiting for the moment when,
at a signal from the monks, they were to rush upon the ill-starred
passer-by who was designated as suspected of heresy. Each passer-by had
inevitably to cross the square at only a slight distance from the statue
of the Virgin. If they knelt down before it and dropped their alms into
the purse of the mendicant friars, no danger threatened them. But if
they failed to fulfil this act of devotion, the ferocious band that
stood in waiting would be let loose at the signal from the monks, and
would rush upon the Lutheran, beat him with their sticks, and not
infrequently leave him lying dead upon the square. All the persons who
were just ahead of Christian and the unknown man proceeded straight to
the altar, and either out of fear or out of piety knelt down before the
image of the Virgin and then rose and deposited their offerings in the
purse held out by the Franciscans. A man, still young but frail and
short of stature, behind whom Christian stood, said to himself in an
undertone just as he was about to thread the turnstile and emerge into
the square:

"I am a Catholic, but by the blood of God! I prefer to be cut to pieces
rather than submit to such extortion. May the devil take the monks!"

"You will be wrong," said Christian to him in a low voice. "I revolt as
much as you at the indignity. But what is to be done against force?
Submit to the ignominy."

"I shall protest at the peril of my life! Such excesses dishonor
religion," the man answered Christian, and stepping out of the gate into
the square with a firm step, he crossed the place without turning his
head in the direction of the altar. Hardly, however, had he passed by
when the tattered mob who stood near the monks, ready at the latters'
beck, rushed forward in pursuit of the unhappy fellow; they overtook
him, surrounded, and bawled at him: "Heretic!" "Lutheran!" "He insults
the image of the mother of the Savior!" "Down on your knees!" "The
canting hypocrite!" "Down on your knees!" "Death to the heretic!"

While these fanatics surrounded their victim, Christian said to his
companion:

"Let us profit by the tumult to escape from these ferocious beasts;
unfortunately it were idle to seek to snatch that senseless but
stout-hearted man from the clutches of his assailants."

Christian and the unknown man in turn stepped out of the gate into the
square and were hurriedly walking towards the opposite issue without
stopping at the altar when, being caught sight of by the monks, the
latter cried out:

"There go two other heretics! They are trying to escape without kneeling
before the holy Virgin! Stop them! Bring them back and make them empty
their purses!"

The voices of the Franciscans did not reach the ears of the demoniac
pack, greedy as it was for its prey; they emitted savage yells as they
beat to death, not a heretic, but a Catholic, whose sin consisted in
refusing to submit to an adoration imposed upon him in a brutal manner,
and which he otherwise would cheerfully have complied with. After the
unhappy fellow had bravely defended himself with his cane, the only
weapon that he carried, he was finally overwhelmed by numbers and fell
livid, bleeding, and almost unconscious upon the pavement. A
horrid-looking shrew seized him by the hair and while she dragged the
almost lifeless body towards the altar other dastards from the dregs of
the mob struck him in the face with their feet.

"Mercy!" cried the unhappy fellow in a faint voice. "Jesus!--My
God!--Have pity upon me!--They are murdering a good Catholic!"

These were the brave fellow's last words. His voice was soon heard no
more. The butcher with whom Christian had exchanged a few words ran
towards and joined the assassin mob. He piously knelt down before the
statue of the Virgin, then rose, drew his knife, and brandishing it in
the air cried:

"St. James! Let me bleed the damned Lutheran! It will be worth an
indulgence to me! You know, bleeding is my profession!"

The sanguinary sally was received with loud outbursts of laughter; room
was made for the butcher near the bleeding body; he squatted upon its
still palpitating chest, slashed his knife through the prostrate man's
throat, cut the head from the trunk, seized it by the hair, and, holding
up the shocking trophy to the gaze of the mob, he cried with wild
ecstasy:

"The heretic dog would not bow down before the mother of the Savior--he
shall now plant his forehead on the pavement at her feet!"

So said, so done. Followed by the demented band at his heels, the
butcher ran back to the altar, holding the livid head in his hands, red
and streaming with the warm blood of the victim; he knelt down himself,
and slammed the head face down upon the ground at the feet of Mary,
amidst the savage acclaim of his fellow assassins, all of whom piously
threw themselves down upon their knees like himself.

"Oh, monsieur, this is frightful!" murmured Christian suffocating for
breath as his companion and he stepped out of the square. "To think that
such horrors are perpetrated in the name of the benign mother of Christ!
Oh, the wretches, as stupid as they are bloodthirsty!"

"Ignorance, misery and fanaticism!--that is their excuse. Let us not
blame these unhappy people; they are what the monks have made them,"
answered the unknown with a bitter and desolate smile. "Oh, these monks,
these monks! When will society be finally purged of the infernal breed!"

Christian and his companion hastened their steps towards the artisan's
house, nor dared they to turn and look behind.




CHAPTER V.

MONSIEUR JOHN.


"Fear not; I have a certain means of regaining the good graces of my
family"--such were among the last words said by Hervé to Fra Girard as
they stepped out of the Church of St. Dominic, where he purchased the
letter of indulgence that absolved him in advance from all his future
misdeeds. Hervé was, alas! true to his promise. Back long in advance of
his father that evening under the paternal roof, he pursued his plan of
infernal hypocrisy, and succeeded in awaking in his mother's breast the
same hopes for the better that he awoke in the breast of Christian.
Seeing Hervé pray her feelingly to suspend her judgment with regard to
himself on the theft that he was suspected of; seeing him admit that,
however late, he now realized the fatal effect of a dangerous influence
over himself; finally, seeing her son respond with unexpected
effusiveness to the affectionate greeting of his sister, Bridget said to
herself, as Christian had done: "Let us hope; Hervé is returning to
better sentiments; the painful conversation of last night has borne its
fruit; our remonstrances have had a salutary effect upon him; the
principles that we have inculcated in him, will regain their sway. Let
us hope!"

With a heart, now as brimful of joy as it was of distress on the
previous evening, the happy mother busied herself with preparing the
evening meal. No less joyful than Bridget at the return of Hervé's
tenderness, Hena was radiant with happiness, and the sentiment enhanced
her beauty. Barely in her seventeenth year, lithesome and generously
built, the young girl wore her golden-blonde hair braided in two strands
coiled over her head and crowning her blooming cheeks. The gentleness of
her features, that were of angelic beauty, would have inspired the
divine Raphael Sanzio. White as a lily, she had a lily's chaste
splendor; candor and kindness stood out clear in the azure of her eyes.
Often did those eyes rest upon that naughty yet so dearly beloved
brother, of whom the poor child had feared she was disliked. Seated
beside him, and engaged at some needle-work, she now felt herself, as in
former days, filled with sweet confidence in Hervé, while the latter,
once more affectionate and jovial as ever before, entertained himself
pleasantly with his sister. By a tacit accord, neither made any allusion
to the recent and painful past, and chatted as familiarly as if their
fraternal intimacy had never suffered the slightest jar. Despite his
self-control and profound powers of dissimulation, Hervé was ill at
ease; he felt the necessity of speaking, and sought distraction in the
sound of words in order to escape the obsession of his secret thoughts.
He rambled at haphazard from one subject to the other. Brother and
sister were thus engaged as Bridget absented herself for a moment on
the floor above in pursuit of some household duty.

"Hervé," the young girl was saying to her brother, thoughtfully, "your
account interests me greatly. How old would you take that monk to be?"

"I could not tell; perhaps twenty-five."

"He had a face that was at once handsome, sad and benign, did he not?
His beard is of a somewhat lighter hue than his auburn hair; his eyes
are black, and he is very pale; he has a sympathetic countenance."

While thus chatting with her brother, Hena proceeded to sew and could
not notice the expression of surprise that Hervé's face betrayed. His
feelings notwithstanding, he answered:

"That is a very accurate description. One must have observed a person
very attentively in order to preserve so life-like a picture of him. But
what induces you to believe that the monk in question is the handsome
auburn-haired monk, whose picture you have just sketched?"

"Why, did you not just tell me, dear brother, that you recently
witnessed a touching action of which a monk was the author? Well, it
struck me that probably he was the friar that I described. But proceed
with the story."

"But who is that monk? Where did you see him? How did you happen to know
him?" Hervé interrogated his sister in short, set words, inspired by an
ill-suppressed agonizing feeling of jealousy. The naïve girl, however,
mistaking the sentiment that prompted her brother's question, answered
him merrily:

"Oh! Oh! Seigneur Hervé, you are very inquisitive. First finish your
story; I shall tell you afterwards."

Affecting a pleasant tone, Hervé replied as he cast upon his sister a
sharp and penetrating look: "Oh! Oh! Mademoiselle Hena, you twit me with
being inquisitive, but, it seems to me, that you are no less so. Never
mind, I shall accommodate you. Well, as I was saying, when passing this
morning by the porch of St. Merry's Church, I saw a crowd gathered, and
I inquired the reason. I was answered that a babe, six months old at the
most, had been left over night at the portal of the church."

"Poor little creature!"

"At that moment a young monk parted the crowd, took up the child in his
arms, and with tears in his eyes and his face marked with touching
compassion, he warmed with his breath the numb hands of the poor little
waif, wrapped the baby carefully in one of the long sleeves of his robe,
and disappeared as happy as if he carried away a treasure. The crowd
applauded, and I heard some people around me say that the monk belonged
to the Order of the Augustinians and was called Brother St.
Ernest-Martyr."

"Why 'Martyr'--and he so charitable?"

"You do not seem to know, sister, that when taking orders a monk
renounces his family names and assumes the name of some saint--such as
St. Peter-in-bonds, or St. Sebastian-pierced-with-arrows, or St.
Lawrence-on-the-gridiron, or St. Anthony-with-the-pig--"

"Oh, what mournful names! They make one shudder. But the last one is
really grotesque."

"Well," proceeded Hervé, without detaching his prying eyes from Hena,
"Brother St. Ernest-Martyr was hastily walking away with his precious
burden when I heard someone remark:

"'I am quite sure the good monk will take the poor little one to Mary La
Catelle'--"

"I thought so!" exclaimed Hena ingenuously; "I knew it was he; it is my
monk!"

"How, your monk?" asked Bridget smiling, her heart dilating with joy as
she descended the stairs and saw her son and daughter engaged in cordial
conversation as was their former wont. "Of what monk are you talking,
Hena, with so much unction?"

"Do you not know, mother, La Catelle and her school? Do you remember
that charming woman?"

"Certainly, I do. I remember the young widow Mary La Catelle. The school
that she founded for poor children is a work of touching charity, which,
however, also owes a good deal to John Dubourg, the linen draper of St.
Denis Street, and to another rich bourgeois, Monsieur Laforge. They both
generously sustain La Catelle and her sister Martha, the wife of Poille,
the architect, who shares with her the maternal cares that she bestows
upon poor orphans whom she takes up in her house--a place which has
justly earned the name of 'the house of God'."

"Do you remember, mother," Hena proceeded with her reminiscences, "that
when we went to the house of La Catelle, it happened to be school hour?"

"Yes, an Augustinian monk was instructing a group of children who stood
around him or sat at his feet, and some were seated on his knees."

"Well mother, I listened to the monk as he was explaining to the
children the parable of: 'Wicked are they who live on the milk of a
sheep, who clothe themselves in her fleece, and yet leave the poor beast
without pasture.' He uttered upon that subject words imprinted with such
sweet and tender charity, and yet so easy for the intelligence of
children to grasp, that tears came to my eyes."

"And I shared your sister's emotion, Hervé," replied Bridget, addressing
her son, who, silent and absorbed in his own thoughts, had dropped out
of the conversation. "You can not imagine with what charming benignity
the young monk instructed those little ones; he measured his words to
their intelligence, in order to indoctrinate them with the simple and
pure evangelical morality. Mary La Catelle assured us that his knowledge
was no less than his virtue."

Two raps at the street door from without interrupted the conversation.

"At last!" said Bridget to Hervé. "This is surely your father. The
streets are not quite safe at night. I prefer to see him indoors. I
hardly think we shall see my brother this evening. The hour for supper
is long gone by," observed Bridget, stepping towards her husband, to
whom Hervé had opened the house door.

Christian came in accompanied with the unknown personage, a young man
of, however, a striking countenance by reason of its expression of
deliberate firmness. His black eyes, instinct with intelligence and
fire, were set so close that they imparted a singular character to his
pale and austere visage. At the sight of the unexpected visitor Bridget
made a gesture of surprise.

"Dear wife," said Christian, "I have brought Monsieur John along for
supper. He is an old friend whom I accidentally met to-day."

"He is welcome to our house," answered Bridget, while the two children
looked at the stranger with curiosity. As was her custom, Hena embraced
her father affectionately; but Hervé, looking at him with a timid and
repentant eye, seemed doubtful whether to follow his sister's example.
The artisan opened his arms to his son and whispered in his ear as he
pressed him to his heart:

"I have not forgotten your fair promises of this morning," and turning
to his guest: "This is my family--my daughter is an embroiderer, like
her mother; my eldest son is, like myself, a printer in Monsieur Robert
Estienne's workshop; my second son, who is apprenticed to an armorer, is
now traveling in Italy. Thanks to God our children are wise and
industrious, and deserve to be loved as my worthy wife and I love them."

"May the blessing of God continue upon your family," answered Monsieur
John in an affectionate voice, while Hena and her brother arranged the
covers and set upon the table the dishes that had been prepared for the
family meal.

"Bridget," said Christian, "where is your brother?"

"I had just been wondering at his absence, my friend; I would feel
uneasy, if it were not that I rely upon his bravery, his long sword--in
short, upon his general appearance, which is not exactly attractive to
sneaking night thieves," added Bridget with a smile. "Neither
Tire-Laines nor Guilleris will be very anxious to attack a Franc-Taupin.
We need not wait for him; if he comes he will know how to make up for
lost time at table, and will take double mouthfuls."

The family and their guest sat down to table, with Monsieur John placed
between Christian and Bridget. Addressing her, he said:

"Such order and exquisite propriety reigns in this house, madam, that
the housekeeper deserves to be complimented."

"Household duties are a pleasure to me and to my daughter, monsieur;
order and cleanliness are the only luxuries that we, poor people, can
indulge in."

"_Sancta simplicitas!_" said the stranger, and he proceeded with a
smile: "It is a good and old motto--Holy simplicity. You will pardon me,
madam, for having spoken in Latin. It was an oversight on my part."

"By the way of Latin," put in the artisan, addressing his wife, "did
Lefevre drop in during the day?"

"No, my friend; I am as much surprised as yourself at the increasing
rareness of his calls; formerly few were the days that he did not visit
us; perhaps he is sick, or absent from Paris. I shall inquire after him
to-morrow."

"Lefevre is a learned Latinist," said Christian, addressing Monsieur
John; "he is one of my oldest friends; he teaches at the University. He
is a rough and tough mountaineer from Savoy. But under his rude external
appearance beats an excellent heart. We think very highly of him."

Christian was about to proceed when he was interrupted by the following
ditty that came from the street, and was sung by a sonorous voice:

    "A Franc-Taupin had an ash-tree bow,
    All eaten with worms, and all knotted its cord;
    His arrow was made out of paper, and plumed,
    And tipped at the end with a capon's spur.
    _Derideron, vignette on vignon! Derideron!_"

"It is uncle! His favorite song announces him!" said Hena joyfully, as
she rose to open the house-door.




CHAPTER VI.

THE FRANC-TAUPIN.


Josephin, Bridget's brother, surnamed Tocquedillon the Franc-Taupin,
stepped into the room. A soldier of adventure since his fifteenth year,
he had run away from the paternal home, and soon thereafter enrolled
with the Franc-Taupins, a sort of irregular militia, whose duty it was
to dig the trenches intended to cover the approaches of the assailants
at the siege of a city. These mercenary soldiers were named
"Franc-Taupins" because, like the franc archers, they were "frank" or
free from taxation, and because their underground work bore great
resemblance to that of the _taupe_--mole. Once out of their trenches,
the saying was, the Franc-Taupins displayed but little courage. Whether
justly or unjustly, the poltroonery of the Franc-Taupin became
proverbial, as evidenced by the favorite song of Bridget's brother. This
personage, however, was anything but a poltroon. Just the reverse. After
he had twice or three times turned up the earth at as many sieges, he
disdained to belong to a corps of such cowardly renown, and enrolled in
another irregular militia, one that stood in general dread--the
Adventurers or Pendards, of whom a contemporaneous writer drew the
following and, unfortunately, but too truthful picture:

"What a vagabond, flagitious, murderous set are these Pendards! They are
deniers of God, ravishing wolves, violators of women, devourers of the
people! They drive the good man out of his house, empty his pot of wine
and sleep in his bed. Their garb matches their disorderly habits. They
wear shirts with long sleeves, open in front and exposing their hirsute
chests; their streaked hose do not cover their flesh; their calves are
left bare and they carry their socks in their belts for fear of wearing
them out. Poultry trembles in the hen-coops at their approach, and so
does bacon in the pantry. Brawling, roistering, audacious, ever with
their mouths wide open, they love nothing better than to guzzle in
company the wine that they have jointly stolen."

Despite his intrepidity in war, and without resembling at all points
this picture of the Pendards, Tocquedillon the Franc-Taupin, preserved
strong features of the same. For all that, however, he adored, venerated
his sister, and from the moment that he sat down at her hearth he would
seem metamorphosed. Nothing in either his words or his conduct would
then recall the audacious adventurer. Timid, affectionate, realizing how
unbecoming the slang of the tavern or of even worse places would be in
the presence of Bridget's children, of whom he was as fond as of her
herself, he always controlled himself and never uttered in their
presence any but decorous language. For Christian he had as much love as
respect. As the saying goes, he would have gone through fire for the
family. The Franc-Taupin was at this time about thirty years of age; he
was lean, bony and about six feet high. Scarred with innumerable wounds,
and partly blinded in battle, he wore a large black patch over his left
eye. He kept his hair close cropped, his beard cut into a point under
his chin, and his moustache twisted upward. His nose was pimply through
excessive indulgence in wine, and his thick-lipped mouth, slit from ear
to ear, exposed two rows of desultory shark's teeth every time that, as
a true roisterer, he gave a loose to his imperturbable mirthfulness.

The moment he stepped into the room, the Franc-Taupin deposited his old
and weather-beaten sword in a corner, embraced his sister and her two
children, shook hands cordially with Christian, bowed respectfully to
the unknown man, and timidly took his usual place at the family table.

Christian came to the relief of his brother-in-law's embarrassment and
said to him jovially:

"We would have felt uneasy at your absence, Josephin, if we did not know
that you are of those who, with their swords at their side, defy the
world and are able to defend themselves against all assailants."

"Oh, brother, the best sword in the world will not protect one against a
surprise; the surprise that I have just experienced has knocked me down.
As my surprise tastes strongly of salt, I am dying with thirst--allow me
to empty a cup." After his cup was emptied the Franc-Taupin proceeded
with a scared look: "By the bowels of St. Quenet, what did I see! I'm
quite certain that I am not deceived; I have only one eye left, but it
is good for two. By all the devils, I saw him! I saw him distinctly! A
singular encounter!"

"Whom did you see, Josephin?"

"I saw, just now, just before nightfall, here, in Paris, Captain Don
Ignatius Loyola, a Spanish nobleman--a devil of a fighter and an
inveterate lover of amorous adventures--a terrible man."

At the mentioning of Ignatius Loyola's name the guest at Christian's
table shuddered, while Christian himself asked the Franc-Taupin:

"But who is that Spanish captain the sight of whom in Paris affects you
so greatly?"

"Did you really know the man?" inquired Monsieur John in an accent of
deep interest. "Did you know Ignatius Loyola personally?"

"I should think I did! I was his page."

"And so, Loyola was a captain?" again inquired Monsieur John, more and
more interested in what the Franc-Taupin said. "You must, then, have
some information on the man's life, his character, his habits. Please
tell us something about him."

"By the bowels of St. Quenet! I was continuously with him for three
whole months! By all the devils, I never left his side, either day or
night!"

"What were his morals?"

"Oh! Oh! friend guest, I would not like to answer that question in my
sister's presence--it is too racy a story."

"Friend Christian," said Monsieur John, "I notice that you are
surprised at my curiosity concerning the Spanish captain. You will some
day understand that the information in question interests you as well.
It will be an interesting history for you to know."

"Hena, Hervé," said the artisan, "supper is nearly ended, my children;
it is growing late; you may retire."

"And I," put in Bridget, "have some embroidery to finish; I shall go
upstairs and work at it with Hena; I shall come down later and put away
the dishes. You can call for me, Christian, if you need anything. You
and Josephin can entertain our guest."

Hervé embraced his father with an affectation of increased tenderness,
and withdrew to his bedroom; Bridget and her daughter went upstairs. The
unknown man and Christian remained alone with the Franc-Taupin, and the
latter proceeded, laughing:

"My sister and her children being out of the way, my tongue is at
freedom. Tell me, brother, did you ever hear the story of the greyhound?
The handsomest bitches sighed after him; he remained insensible to all
their tender growls; one day a monk's frock was thrown upon him, and he
immediately became as amorous as one possessed. Well, Captain Loyola was
as possessed for love adventures as the greyhound in the story, without,
however, having need of a monk's frock to give him the start; and--but I
was almost forgetting. Do you know, brother, in whose company I saw the
fire-eater and hell-rake this evening? With your friend Lefevre."

Christian remained for an instant speechless with astonishment; and
turning to Monsieur John, he said:

"I must admit that great is my astonishment. Lefevre, whose name I
mentioned to you before, is an austere man, wholly absorbed in
scientific pursuits and in study. What can he have in common with the
Spanish libertine? I am unable to explain the mystery."

"If you are surprised, brother, no less so am I," replied the
Franc-Taupin. "Captain Loyola, whom fourteen or fifteen years ago I knew
as the handsomest, gayest and most dissolute of cavaliers, dressed in
velvets, silks and lace, looks to-day as tattered as any tramp or
starving beggar. The transformation is so radical, that I never would
have thought of looking for my frisky Spanish captain under the black
smock-frock of a halepopin, had it not been for Lefevre, who, stopping
me near the booths of the market place, which I was then crossing,
inquired after you. It was then that I looked more attentively at his
seedy companion and recognized--Don Ignatius!"

"The man's relations astonish me so much, Josephin, that I am no less
impatient than our guest to hear you."

"Well, it was in the year 1521, during the siege of Pampeluna," the
adventurer began, "and shortly after my enrollment with the
Franc-Taupins. I was digging a trench with them before the place; we
were throwing up the earth like veritable moles. The Spaniards made a
sortie in order to destroy our works. At the first shot of the Spanish
arquebuses, all my companions threw themselves flat down, with their
noses in the hole. Their cowardice angered me. I took up my pick and
rushed into the melee, plying my improvised weapon upon the Spaniards. A
blow with a mace over my head knocked me down half dead. When I
recovered consciousness I found myself lying upon the battle field among
several of our men, all prisoners like myself. A company of Spanish
arquebusiers surrounded us. Their captain, with the visor of his casque
raised and mounted upon a Moorish horse as black as ebony, the housings
of which were of red velvet embroidered with silver, was wiping his
long, blood-stained sword upon the animal's mane. The captain was Don
Ignatius Loyola. Moustache turned up in Castilian style, goatee, an
olive complexion, intrepid mien, haughty and martial bearing--such was
his portrait. He had noticed me pounding his soldiers with my pick, and
took a fancy both to my pick and my youth. When he saw that I had
regained consciousness, he started to laugh and addressed me in French:
'Will you be my page? Your wideawake face denotes an intelligent
scapegrace; I shall furnish you a silver-embroidered red livery and a
ducat a month, and you can eat your fill at my residence.' Oh, brother,
an offer to eat my fill, to me whose stomach had long been as hollow as
the barrel of St. Benoit and as open as an advocate's purse! The
prospect of putting on a beautiful silver-embroidered livery, when my
hose had for some time been reporting to me from which corner the wind
blew! The thought of pocketing every month a ducat, when all my earnings
during the whole campaign had so far been a wooden bowl that I plundered
somewhere, and that I used for a hat! In token of glad acceptance I
seized my pick that lay near me, threw it as far away as I could, and I
told Don Ignatius that I accepted, and would follow him to the very
devil's residence. The long and short of the affair was that I entered
Pampeluna with my new master."

"I feel more and more mystified," interjected Christian; "what service
could a page, ignorant of the country's language, render to Don
Ignatius?"

"The devil take it! That was the very reason why I was employed by the
cunning slyboots of a Don Ignatius. No sooner did I arrive at his
residence, than an old majordomo, the only one of his men who spoke
French, rigged me up in new clothes, from my feet to my head,--puffed
hose of red velvet, white satin jacket, short cloak with silver
trimmings, ruffs and bonnet after the Spanish style. Thus behold me,
brother, attired as a genuine court page. In those days I had both my
eyes--two luminaries of deviltry, besides the cunning nose of a fox cub.
Thus dressed up in spick and span dashing new clothes, the majordomo led
me to Captain Loyola, 'Do you know,' he asked me, 'why I take you, a
Frenchman, for my page? It is because, as you do not know Spanish, you
can not choose but be discreet towards the people in my house and those
outside.'"

"That is not badly planned," remarked Christian; "Don Ignatius had, I
suppose, many amorous secrets to conceal?"

"By the bowels of St. Quenet! I knew him to have as many as three
sweethearts at a time: a charming merchant's wife, a haughty
marchioness, and a bedeviled gipsy girl, the most beautiful daughter of
Bohemia that ever trilled a tambourine. But Captain Loyola, a veritable
Franc-Taupin in matters of love, courted behind concealed trenches. He
reveled in mystery. 'What is not known does not exist' was, with him, a
favorite maxim that the old majordomo, his master's echo, often repeated
to me."

"'What is not known does not exist,'" repeated Monsieur John pensively.
"Yes, judging by the motto, the man must be just what he has been
described to me to be."

"Just listen," Josephin proceeded; "I shall describe to you the
experiences that I made the first evening that I served Don Ignatius as
page. You will then be able to judge of the scamp's calibre. A
fifteen-days' truce was agreed upon between the French and the
Spaniards, as a result of the sortie at which I was taken prisoner. As a
longheaded man, Captain Loyola proposed to profit by the truce in his
amorous intrigues. Towards midnight he summoned me to his side. The
devil! If the fellow looked martial in battle outfit, he looked frisky
in his court costume! A jacket slashed with gold-embroidered velvet,
puffed hose of white satin, shoes turned like a crawfish, plumed bonnet,
a gold bejeweled chain on his neck! What shall I say? He shone and
glittered, and besides, smelled of balsam! A veritable muskrat! He hands
for me to carry a silken ladder and a guitar; takes his dagger and
sword; and wraps himself up to the eyes in a taffeta mantle of light
yellow. The old majordomo opens a secret door to us; we issue out of the
house; after crossing a few narrow streets, we arrive at a deserted
little square. My master glides under a balcony that is shut with
lattices, takes the guitar from my hands, and there you have him
warbling his roundelay. In response to the carol of the moustachioed
nightingale, one of the shutters of the balcony opens slightly, and a
bouquet of pomegranate blossoms drops at our feet. Don Ignatius picks it
up, extracts from amidst the flowers a little note concealed among them,
and gives me the guitar together with the bouquet to hold for him. I
imagined our evening performance concluded. By the bowels of St. Quenet,
it had only commenced! Don Ignatius fanned the sparks of his
libidinousness with his guitarade, on the same principle that one fans
the sparks of his thirst by chewing on a pork-rind dipped in mustard.
But by the way of thirst, brother, let us imbibe that pot; appetite
comes with eating, but thirst goes with drinking. He who drinks without
being thirsty drinks for the thirst that is to come. Thirst is an
animal's quality, but to crave for drink is a quality of man. By St
Pansard and St. Goguelu, let's moisten, let's moisten our whistles! Our
tongues will dry up soon enough! Unhappy Shrove-Tuesday, the patron of
pots and sausages--and the devil take the Pope and all his friarhood!"

"Josephin," said Christian, smiling and filling the Franc-Taupin's cup,
as he broke into the midst of the latter's flow of bacchic invocations,
"I know you to be an expert in the matter of quaffing, but our guest and
myself are more curious about the end of your story."

"God's head! As truly as the mere shadow of a Carmelite convent is
enough to cure any woman of sterility, I shall not allow the end of the
adventure of Don Ignatius to drown at the bottom of this cup! There, it
is now empty!"

Saying this, the Franc-Taupin passed the back of his hand over his
moustache, moist with wine, wiped it dry, and proceeded:

"Well, as I was saying, after his guitarade, Don Ignatius proceeded with
his nocturnal adventure on the streets of Pampeluna. We moved away, and
pulled up next before a pretentious dwelling. My master plants himself
under a balcony at some distance from the main entrance; passes his long
sword over to me to keep with the guitar, and retains no weapon other
than his dagger; he then disengages himself of his mantle also, which he
throws over my arm and says to me: 'You will hold the lower end of the
ladder while I climb up to the balcony; you will then keep a sharp
lookout near the door of this house; if you see anyone go in, you will
run quickly under this window and clap your hands twice; I shall hear
your signal.' This being agreed upon, Don Ignatius himself claps his
hands three times. Immediately thereupon I see through the darkness of
the night, a white form lean over the balustrade and drop us a cord. My
master ties his ladder to it; the white form draws it up; the upper end
of the ladder is fastened to the balcony; I steady it by holding the
lower rung in my hands; and there you have Captain Loyola clambering up
nimbly and light of heel, like a tom-cat running over a roof-pipe. As to
myself, no less distressed than the dog of the cook who is turning the
roast on the spit over a fire, and looks at the savory meat out of the
corner of his eyes without partaking of it, I run and place myself in
ambush near the door. The devil! A few minutes later, what is that I
see? Several seigneurs, lighted by lackeys with torches in their hands
turn into the street. One of them walks straight to the door near which
I stand on the watch, and enters the house where my master is regaling
himself. Obedient to the watchword, but forgetting that the flames of
the torches are lighting me, I run to the balcony and clap my hands
twice. By the bowels of St. Quenet, I am perceived! Two lackeys seize me
at the moment when, notified by my signal, Captain Loyola is straddling
the balustrade in order to descend into the street. He is recognized by
the light of the torches. 'It is he!' 'There he is!' cry the seigneurs
who stand in a bunch in the street. Although discovered, Don Ignatius
glides bravely down the ladder, touches ground and calls: 'Halloa,
there, page, my sword!' 'Don Ignatius of Loyola, I am Don Alonzo, the
brother of Donna Carmen,' says one of the cavaliers. 'I am ready to give
you satisfaction,' answers the captain proudly. But by the bowels of St.
Quenet, it was with Don Ignatius's duels as with his amorous
appointments: before the one was well finished the next commenced.
Suddenly, the man whom I had seen enter the house, in short, the
husband, Don Hercules Luga, appeared at the balcony; he held a bleeding
sword in his hand. He leans forward into the street and cries: 'Friends,
justice is done to the woman! There now remains justice to be done to
her accomplice. Hold him. I am coming down!'"

"Poor woman!" said Christian. "The death that he was the cause of must
have horrified the libertine."

"Him? The devil! Horrified at so little? Judge for yourself. At the
moment he learned of the death of his inamorata he receives his sword
from the hands of Don Alonzo, who had taken it away from me. Don
Ignatius pricks its point into the tip of his shoe, and without winking
bends the blade in order to satisfy himself on its temper. That shows
how frightened he was at the death of his lady-love. The husband, Don
Hercules, comes out of the house, steps up to my master and says to him:
'Don Ignatius of Loyola, I received you as a friend at my hearth; you
have led my wife astray; you are a felon, unworthy of knighthood!' And
what do you imagine, brother, is the answer that Captain Loyola made to
that? If you can guess, I shall be willing to die of thirst. But no; a
pox on these funereal prognostics! I prefer to drink, to drink until my
soles sweat wine!"

"Proceed, Josephin; proceed with your story."

"'Don Hercules,' answers Captain Loyola loftily, 'in leading Carmen
astray, it was not _your_ woman[10] that I led astray, but _a_ woman, as
any other! You insult me by accusing me of a felony. You shall pay
dearly, and on the spot, for such an insult. I shall kill you like a
dog.'"

"Did you grasp that? Can you imagine a more odious subtlety?" asked
Christian of Monsieur John. "What a hypocritical distinction! The
libertine seduced the unfortunate woman, but not his friend's wife--only
the _woman_, as a _woman_! Just God, such subtle quibbling! and that
while his victim's corpse is still warm!"

"That is, indeed, the man as he has been described to me," repeated the
guest, with a pensive air. "What I am learning is a revelation to me."

"The issue of the duel could not be doubtful," proceeded the
Franc-Taupin. "Captain Loyola enjoyed the reputation of being the most
skilful swordsman in Spain. He fully deserved his reputation. Don
Hercules drops dead upon the ground. Don Alonzo endeavors to avenge his
sister and brother-in-law, but the young man is readily disarmed by Don
Ignatius, who, raising his sword, says: 'Your life belongs to me; you
have insulted me by sharing the unworthy suspicions of Don Hercules, who
accused me of having betrayed his friendship. But go in peace, young
man, repent your evil thoughts--I pardon you!' After which Captain
Loyola repaired to the gypsy girl and spent with her the rest of the
night. I heard the two (always like the cook's dog) laugh, sing and
carouse, clinking their glasses filled with Spanish wine. We returned
home at dawn. Now tell me, brother Christian, what do you think of the
gallant? You may judge by the experience of that night the number of
pretty women whom the captain Loyolized!"

"Oh, the man's infernal hypocrisy only deepens the blackness of his
debaucheries and swordsman's prowess!"

Absorbed in his private thoughts, Monsieur John remained in a brown
study. Presently he said to the Franc-Taupin:

"You followed Loyola to war. Was the captain's regiment well
disciplined? How did he treat his soldiers?"

"His soldiers? By the bowels of St. Quenet! Imagine, not men, but iron
statues, that, with but a gesture, a wink of his eye, Don Ignatius
either moved or petrified, as he chose. Broken in and harnessed to his
command like so many machines, he said: 'Go!'--and they went, not only
into battle but whithersoever he ordered. They were no longer
themselves, but he. What the devil, Captain Loyola controlled men and
women like horses--by the identical methods."

"What methods, let us hear them, Josephin."

"Well, one day a wild stallion of Cordova was brought to him; the animal
was savage, a veritable demon; two strong stablemen were hardly able to
hold him by the halter. Don Ignatius ordered the wild beast to be taken
to a small enclosed yard, and remained there alone with him. I was
outside, behind the gate. First I heard the stallion neigh with fury,
then with pain, and then there was silence. Two hours later Captain
Loyola issued from the yard mounted on the animal which steamed with
foam and still trembled with fear, but as docile as a curate's mule."

"That is wonderful!" cried Christian. "Was the man possessed of a magic
charm with which to curb wild beasts?"

"Exactly so, brother, and his talisman consisted in a set of reins so
fearfully and skilfully contrived that, if the horse yielded passive
obedience to the hand that guided him, he felt no pain whatever; but at
the slightest show of resistance, Captain Loyola set in motion a certain
steel saw contrivance supplied with sharp points and fastened in the
bit. Immediately the animal would neigh with pain, remain motionless and
sink down upon his haunches, whereupon Don Ignatius would pat it with
his hand and give it some cream cakes. By the bowels of St. Quenet! Iron
reins and cream cakes--this was the trick wherewith the captain
Loyolized men, women and horses!"

"And did his soldiers love him, despite his inflexible yoke?" asked
Monsieur John.

"Did they love him? The devil! Do you forget the cream cakes? Puddings,
sausages, capons, fatted geese, pouches filled with Val-de-Peñas wine,
gay wenches, high jinks in the barracks; in the enemy's country, free
pillage, free rape, fire, blood and sack, and long live the saturnalia!
These were the cream cakes of Captain Loyola. Whenever occasion
required, he would treat his soldiers to these dainties out of his own
pocket like a magnificent seigneur; but to allow his soldiers to
reflect, to think, to reason, to will?--Never! To ask why this and why
that? Never! 'Kill,' the captain would say, and the response was:
'Listen, he says kill--we kill!' But it is your friend, your brother,
your father, your sister, your mother that he orders you to kill. 'Makes
no difference, he said kill--we kill, and we kill;' and then come the
cream cakes and more cream cakes, otherwise the reins begin to play, and
they play so severely--clubbings, strappings, croppings of ears,
hanging by the limbs and other devices of the devil. 'Our dear master,'
often did the old majordomo say to me, 'our dear master is everything to
all of us, provided all of us let him have his own will untrammeled;
omnipotence is the secret joy of the dear Don Ignatius; to possess a
woman, curb a mettlesome horse, manoeuvre his men of iron as one bends a
reed--that is his enjoyment! He delights in absorbing souls. As to
bodies, he fondles, caresses, indulges, dandles, fattens and greases
them--provided they move at his will.' It is ever so, he who holds the
soul holds the body."

Christian hesitated to believe the account of the Franc-Taupin; he could
hardly give credence to the monstrous description. Monsieur John looked
less surprised, but more alarmed. He said to Josephin, who, having
wished to help himself to some more wine, sighed at finding the pot
empty:

"But by what combination of circumstances could Ignatius Loyola, such as
you described him to us and such as, I do believe, he was, metamorphose
himself to the extent of coming here, to Paris, and seat himself on the
benches of the Montaigu College among the youngest of the students?"

"What!" cried Christian, stupefied. "Is Ignatius Loyola to-day a simple
student?"

"He attended the College," replied Monsieur John; "and one day he
submitted to be publicly whipped in punishment for a slip of memory.
There is something unexplainable, or frightful, in such humility on the
part of such a man."

"Ignatius Loyola! the debauchee, the skilful swordsman! The haughty
nobleman, did he do that?" cried Christian. "Can it be possible?"

"By the bowels of St. Quenet, brother," put in the Franc-Taupin in his
turn, "as well tell me that the monks of Citeaux left their kegs empty
after vintage! Even such a thing would sound less enormous than that
Captain Loyola slipped down his hose to receive a flogging! The devil
take me!" cried the Franc-Taupin vainly trying to extract a few more
drops from the pot. "I am choked with surprise!"

"But you must not be allowed to choke with thirst, good Josephin," put
in Christian, smiling and exchanging a look of intelligence with
Monsieur John. "The pot is empty. As soon as your story is ended, and in
order to feast our guest, I shall have to ask you to go to the tavern
that you know of and fetch us a pot of Argenteuil wine. That is agreed,
brother."

"St. Pansard, have pity upon my paunch! By my faith, brother, the pots
are empty. I guess the reason why. One time I used to drink it all--now
I leave nothing. Did you say a pot of wine? Amen!" said the Franc-Taupin
rising from his seat. "We shall furnish our guest with a red border,
like a cardinal! Yes, brother, it is agreed. And so I shall go for the
pot, but not for one only--for two, or three."

"Not so fast, first finish your story; I am interested in it more than
you can imagine," said Monsieur John with great earnestness. "I must
again ask you: To what do you, who knew Loyola so well, attribute this
incredible change?"

"May my own blood smother me; may the quartain fever settle my hash, if
I understand it! A few hours ago I strained my remaining eye fit to give
it a squint, in contemplating Don Ignatius. Seeing him so threadbare, so
wan, so seedy and leaning upon his staff, I had not the courage to
remind him of me. By the bowels of St. Quenet, I felt ashamed of having
been page to the worn-out old crippled hunch-back."

"How is that! You described him as having been such a fine-looking
cavalier and such a skilful swordsman--and yet he was hunch-backed?"

"He was crippled through two wounds that he received at the siege of
Pampeluna. The devil! All the fathers, all the brothers, all the
husbands whose daughters, sisters and wives the captain Loyolized, would
have felt themselves thoroughly revenged if, like myself, they had seen
him writhe like one possessed and howling like a hundred wolves from the
pain of his wounds. By the bowels of the Pope, what horrible grimaces
the man made!"

"But how could so intrepid a man display such weakness at pain?"

"Not at the pain itself; not that. On the contrary. As a result of his
wounds he voluntarily endured positive torture, beside which his first
agonies were gentle caresses."

"And why did he submit to such tortures? Can you explain that?"

"Yes. The truce between the Spaniards and the French lasted several
days. At its close Captain Loyola mounted his horse, and placing himself
at the head of his forces ordered a sortie. He made havoc among the
enemy; but in the melee he received two shots from an arquebus. One of
them fractured his right leg just below the knee, the other took him
under the left hip. My gallant was carried to his house and we laid him
in his bed. Do you know what were the first words that Don Ignatius
uttered? They were these: 'Death and passion, I may remain deformed all
my life!' And would you believe it? Captain Loyola wept like a woman!
Aye, he wept, not with pain, no, by the bowels of St. Quenet, but with
rage! You may imagine how crossed the handsome and roistering cavalier
felt at the prospect. Imagine a limping cripple strolling under
balconies and warbling his love songs! Imagine such a figure running
after the señoras! What a sight it would be to have such a disjointed
lover throwing himself at their feet at the risk of being unable to pick
himself up again and yelling with pain: 'Oh, my leg! Oh, my knee!' Just
think of such a lame duck attempting to try conclusions with jealous and
irate husbands and brothers, arms in hand! Don Ignatius must have
thought of all that--and wept!"

"It is almost incomprehensible that a man of his temper could be so
enamoured of his physical advantages," remarked Christian.

"Not at all!" replied Monsieur John thoughtfully. "Oh, what an abyss is
the human soul! I now think I understand--" but suddenly breaking off he
asked the Franc-Taupin: "Accordingly, Don Ignatius was dominated by the
fear of remaining crippled for life?"

"That was his only worry. But I must hurry on. I have a horror of empty
wine pots. My present worry is about the wine spigot. Well, all the
same, after healing, Captain Loyola's legs remained, as he feared, of
unequal length. 'Oh, dogs! Jews! Pagan surgeons!' bawled Don Ignatius
when he made the discovery. 'Fetch me here the robed asses! the brothers
of Beelzebub! I shall have them quartered!' Summoned in great hurry, the
poor wretches of surgeons hastened to Don Ignatius. They trembled;
turned and turned him about; they examined and re-examined his leg;
after all of which, the slashers of Christian flesh and sawers of
Christian bones declared that they could render Captain Loyola as nimble
of foot as ever he was. 'A hundred ducats to each of you if you keep
your promise!' he cried, already seeing himself prancing on horseback,
prinking in his finery, strutting about, warbling love songs under
balconies, parading, and above all Loyolizing. 'Yes, señor; the lameness
will disappear,' answered the bone-setters, 'but, we shall have, first
of all, to break your leg over again, where it was fractured before; in
the second place, señor, we shall have to cut away the flesh that has
grown over the bone below your knee; in the third place, we shall have
to saw off a little bone that protrudes; that all being done, no doe of
the forest will be more agile than your Excellency.' 'Break, re-set,
cut off, saw off, by the death of God!' cried Captain Loyola 'provided I
can walk straight! Go ahead! Start to work!'"

"But that series of operations must have caused him frightful pain!"

"By the bowels of St. Quenet! When the protruding bone was being sawed
off, the grinding of Captain Loyola's teeth drowned the sound of the
saw's teeth. The contortions that he went through made him look like a
veritable demon. His suffering was dreadful."

"And did he heal?"

"Perfectly. But there still remained the left thigh in its bandages. The
fraternity of surgeons swore that that limb would be as good if not
better than before the injury that it sustained. At the end of six weeks
Captain Loyola rose and tried to walk. He did walk. Glory to the
bone-setters! He no longer limped of the right leg; but, the devil! his
left thigh had shrunk by two inches by reason of a tendon that was
wounded. And there was my gallant still hobbling, worse than ever. It
had all to be done over again."

"Don Ignatius's fury must have been fierce!"

"Howling tigers and roaring lions would have been as bleating lambs
beside Captain Loyola in his boiling rage. 'Dear, sweet master,' his old
majordomo said to him, 'the saints will help you; why despair? The
surgeons performed a miracle on your right leg; why should not they be
equally able to do the same thing on your left thigh?' The drowning man
clings to a straw. 'Halloa, page, run to the surgeons!' yelled my
master at me; 'bring them here instantly!' The surgeons came. 'Here they
are, señor.' 'I suffered the pangs of death for the cure of my right
leg; I am willing to suffer as much or worse for the lengthening of my
left thigh. Can you do it?' said Don Ignatius to the bones-setters.
Whereupon they fell to feeling, pressing, kneading and manipulating the
twisted thigh of the patient; without desisting from their work at the
member after a while they raised their heads and mumbled between their
teeth: 'Señor, yes, we can free you from this limp--but, firstly, we
shall have to strap you down upon your back, where you will have to lie,
motionless, for two months; secondly, a strap will have to be passed
under your arms and fastened firmly to the head of your couch; thirdly,
a weight of fifty pounds will have to be adjusted to a ring and fastened
to your left leg, to the end that the weight slowly, steadily, and
constantly distend your thigh. The result will then be obtained, seeing
you will be held firm and motionless by the two straps, the one that
binds you down to your bed and the other, under your arms, that holds
you to the head of your couch. With the aid of these contrivances, your
thigh will be restored to its normal condition at the end of two months,
and the does of the forest will then be less agile than your
Excellency.' 'Do it!' was Loyola's answer. 'Strap, distend, stretch me
out, blood of God, provided I can walk!'"

"That is frightful!" cried Christian. "It is the 'wooden horse' torture,
prolonged beyond the point of human endurance."

"By the bowels of St. Quenet! There is nothing beyond endurance to a
gallant who is determined not to hobble. Don Ignatius underwent the
torture for the two months. The old majordomo and myself nursed our
master. At times he screamed--Oh, such screams! They were heard a
thousand feet from the house. Exhausted with pain, his eyelids would
droop in sleep, but only to be suddenly reawakened with a start by his
shooting pains. At such times the sounds that he emitted were screams no
longer, but the howlings of the damned. At the end of two months of
insomnia and continuous agony, which left nothing but the skin on his
bones, but during which he was held up at least with the hope of final
cure, Captain Loyola's surgeons held a consultation, and allowed him to
leave his bed of torture. He rose, walked--but, the devil! not only was
his left thigh not sufficiently lengthened, but his right knee, that had
been previously operated upon, had become ossified from lying motionless
for so long a time! Captain Loyola said not a word; he became livid as a
corpse and dropped unconscious to the floor. We all thought he was dead.
The next day the majordomo notified me that our master did no longer
need a page. My wages were paid me; I left Spain and returned to France
with other prisoners who had been set free. After all that, and after
the lapse of fourteen or fifteen years, I ran a few hours ago across Don
Ignatius, near a booth on the market place, in the company of your
friend Lefevre. That, brother, ends my story. Jarnigoy! Is it not racy?
But by the bowels of St. Quenet, my tongue is parched; it cleaves to
the roof of my mouth; my whistle burns; it is on the point of breaking
out into flame; help! help! wine! wine! Let the wine act as water to put
out the fire! I shall now run out for the promised nectar of
Argenteuil!" added the Franc-Taupin, rising from his seat. "I shall be
back in a jiffy! And then we shall drinkedrille, drinkedraille, gaily
clink glasses with our guest. A full pot calls for a wide throat!"

So saying, Josephin went out, singing in a sonorous voice his favorite
refrain:

    "A Franc-Taupin had an ash-tree bow,
    All eaten with worms, and all knotted its cord;
    His arrow was made out of paper, and plumed,
    And tipped at the end with a capon's spur.
    _Derideron, vignette on vignon! Derideron!_"




CHAPTER VII.

BROTHER ST. ERNEST-MARTYR.


The moment the Franc-Taupin left the house the stranger said to
Christian:

"Your brother-in-law's story is a revelation to me. The past life of
Ignatius Loyola explains to me his present life."

"But who is that man? Whence the interest, curiosity and even alarm that
he seems to inspire you with?"

Christian was saying these words when his wife descended from the floor
above. The sight of her reminded him it was urgent that the stranger be
taken to the garret before the return of Josephin. "Bridget," he
accordingly said to his wife, "has Hena gone to bed?"

"Yes; both the dear children have retired for the night."

"Master Robert Estienne has confided a secret to me and asked of me a
service, dear Bridget. For two or three days we are to hide Monsieur
John, our guest of this evening, in this house. The garret seems to me
to offer a safe retreat. I have temporarily got your brother out of the
way. Take our refugee upstairs; I shall remain here to wait for
Josephin."

Bridget took up again the lamp that she had deposited upon the table,
and said to the stranger as she prepared to lead the way upstairs:

"Come, monsieur; your secret will remain with Christian and myself; you
may rely upon our discretion."

"I am certain of that, madam," answered Monsieur John; "I shall never
forget your generous hospitality;" and addressing the artisan: "Could
you join me later, after your brother-in-law has gone? I should like to
speak with you."

"I shall join monsieur after Josephin's departure," Christian answered
the stranger, who followed Bridget to the upper loft.

The latter two had both withdrawn when suddenly an uproar was heard in
the street. Peals of laughter were interspersed with the plaintive cries
of a woman. Although quite familiar with these nocturnal disorders,
seeing that the Guilleris, the Mauvais-Garçons, the Tire-Laines and
other bandits infested the streets at night, and not infrequently
disturbed the carousals of the young seigneurs bent upon their
debauches, Christian's first impulse was to go out to the help of the
woman whose cries resounded ever more plaintive. Considering, however,
that no decent woman would venture outside of her house at such a late
hour, and, above all, fearing that by interfering in the affray he might
provoke an assault upon his house and thereby put the safety of his
guest in jeopardy, he contented himself with partly opening the window,
whereupon, by the light of the torches held by several pages dressed in
rich liveries, he saw three seigneurs, evidently just come from some
orgy, surrounding a woman. The seigneurs were in an advanced stage of
intoxication and sought to drag the woman after them; she resisted and
held her arms closely clasped around a large cross that stood in the
center of the bridge. The woman cried imploringly: "Oh, leave me,
seigneurs. In the name of heaven, leave me! Mercy! Have pity for a
woman--mercy, seigneurs!"

"May the flames of St. Anthony consume me if you do not come with us,
strumpet!" yelled one of the seigneurs, seizing the woman by the waist.
"A street walker to put on such airs! Come, my belle, either walk or we
shall strip you on the spot!"

"You are mistaken, seigneurs," answered the poor creature panting for
breath in the unequal struggle; "I am an honest widow."

"Honest and a widow!" exclaimed one of the debauchees. "'Sdeath, what a
windfall! We shall marry you over again."

Saying which the seigneurs tried anew to tear their victim from the foot
of the cross to which she clung with terror and screamed aloud for help.
Attracted by the cries, a young monk, who happened to be in a nearby
side street, ran to the scene, saw the distressed condition of the
persecuted woman, and rushed at her aggressors, saying in a deeply moved
voice:

"Oh, brothers, to outrage a woman at the very foot of the cross! That is
a cowardly act, condemned by God!"

"What business is that of yours, you frockist, you convent rat!" cried
one of the assailants, stepping towards the monk with a menacing
gesture. "Do you know whom it is that you are talking with? Do you know
that I have the power, not only to kill you, but to excommunicate you,
you beggar? I am the Marquis of Fleurange, the colonel of the regiment
of Normandy, and over and above that, Bishop of Coutances. So, then, go
your ways quickly and without further ado, you tonsured knave and
mumbler of masses. If you do not, I shall use my spiritual powers and my
temporal powers--I shall excommunicate you and run you through with my
sword!"

"Oh, Brother St. Ernest-Martyr! Come to my help! It is I, Mary La
Catelle!" cried the young widow, as she recognized the monk by the light
of the torches. "For pity's sake stand by me!"

"Oh, my brothers!" cried the monk indignantly, running towards Mary.
"The woman whom you are outraging is a saint! She gathers the little
children that are left unprotected; she instructs them; she is blessed
by all who know her; she is entitled to your respect."

"If she is a saint, I am a bishop--and between a female saint and a
bishop the relations are close!" answered the Marquis of Fleurange with
a winey guffaw. "She loves children! 'Sdeath, she shall be delighted! I
shall swell her family!"

"You shall kill me before you reach her!" cried the monk, vigorously
thrusting the marquis back. The latter, being heavily in his cups,
reeled, swore and blasphemed, while Brother St. Ernest-Martyr threw
himself between the widow, who clung to the cross, and her assailants.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he looked defiantly at the seigneurs
and said to them challengingly, as he barred their way to their victim:

"Come forward, if you will; but you will have to kill me before you
touch this woman!"

"Insolent frockist! You dare threaten us and to raise your hand against
me!" yelled the colonel-bishop furious and tottering on his unsteady
limbs; and drawing his sword in its scabbard out of his baldric, he took
it in both his hands, and struck so hard a blow with its heavy hilt upon
the forehead of the monk, that the latter was dazed by the blow,
staggered backward, and fell bleeding from an ugly scalp wound at the
feet of Mary La Catelle.

Despite the caution that his guest's safety imposed upon him, Christian
could no longer remain a passive witness of such acts of brutality; he
entertained a respectful esteem for the young widow whose virtuous life
he was acquainted with; moreover, he feared lest the monk, who had so
generously interposed between the drunken seigneurs and their victim, be
subjected to further maltreatment. Christian shut the window, armed
himself with a heavy iron bar, slipped quietly out of his house, shut
the door after him without making any noise, in order to prevent its
being known from whence he came, and, seeing several of his neighbors,
whom the disturbance had drawn to their windows, he shouted:

"To your clubs, my friends, to your clubs! Will you allow women to be
assailed, and defenseless men to be killed? To your clubs, my friends,
to your clubs! Let us save the victims!"

Saying this, Christian ran resolutely upon the three seigneurs and their
pages. At that very moment, the Franc-Taupin returned upon the bridge
with the pot of Argenteuil wine that he had gone after. Seeing the
artisan by the light of the torches and hearing him summon the neighbors
to their clubs, the Franc-Taupin deposited the pot of wine at the
threshold of the door, drew his sword and rushed to the fray crying:

"By the bowels of St. Quenet, here I am! My fine blade has not taken the
air for a long time! It itches in my hands! Death to the enemies of the
good people of Paris! Death to the nobles and their pages!"

Several of Christian's neighbors answered his summons and issued from
their houses, some armed with clubs, others with pikes. For a moment the
three seigneurs stood their ground bravely; they drew close abreast of
one another and drew their swords. Their pages, however, as much out of
fear of being hurt in the broil as out of mischief, suddenly put out
their torches and screamed:

"Seigneurs! There is a squad of armed constables coming this way! There,
on the bridge! Look out! Run who run can!"

Upon shouting this lie the pages ran off as fast as their legs could
carry them and left their masters and their assailants in utter
darkness. The three seigneurs did not feel much concern on the score of
the constables, who never dared to suppress the disorders of the
nobility; but realizing that they had to do with eight or ten
determined men, the assailants of the defenseless woman profited by the
darkness in which they found themselves to slip away upon the heels of
their pages, while Christian's neighbors called for lanthorns in order
to raise the wounded man. The artisan ran back into his house, lighted,
and came out with a taper. By the light the monk was discovered
stretched out at the foot of the cross, with his head bathed in the
blood that ran profusely from his scalp wound. On her knees beside him,
and weeping tears of thankfulness, Mary La Catelle sought to staunch the
wound of her defender. Brother St. Ernest-Martyr was carried into
Christian's house with the help of the Franc-Taupin and some neighbors.
The artisan offered asylum also to the widow, who was almost fainting
with fright. Commissioned by her husband to conduct the stranger to the
garret, the only window of which opened upon the river, Bridget remained
ignorant of what was occurring upon the street. When, however, she
returned downstairs, great was her surprise and alarm at the sight of
Mary La Catelle, pale, her dress thrown into disorder, and leaning
against a table compassionately contemplating the wounded young monk.
The latter was slowly regaining consciousness, thanks to the attention
that he was receiving from the artisan and the Franc-Taupin.

"Good God!" cried Bridget, hastening to approach the young widow. "Look
at the poor monk covered with blood. What has happened, Mary?"

"I was delayed at a friend's longer than I had expected; her maid
servant accompanied me home; we were crossing the bridge when several
swaggering seigneurs approached and made insulting remarks to us. The
poor servant was frightened and ran away, leaving me alone. The men
sought to drag me away with them. Brother St. Ernest-Martyr happening
by, came to my rescue; he received on the forehead a blow with the hilt
of a sword and fell bleeding at my feet. Happily your husband and
several neighbors rushed to our help; thanks to them we escaped further
maltreatment from our assailants; but the poor monk is wounded."

"Dear sister, let me have some fresh water and some lint," said the
Franc-Taupin to Bridget. Having often been wounded in war the soldier of
adventure had some knowledge of the dressing of wounds.

"I shall go upstairs for the lint, and bring my daughter down to help
you," answered Bridget as she proceeded to the storey above.

Slightly recovered from her own fright, Mary La Catelle drew nearer to
the monk with deepening interest. The Franc-Taupin looked around and
said to Christian:

"What has become of your guest? Did he show the white feather? I would
have preferred he were a braver man."

"No, no, Josephin. Our guest left the house shortly before the
disturbance on the street; he feared it was growing too late for him."

"Why did he not wait for me? I would have escorted him home safely after
emptying our pot of Argenteuil. But, coming to think of it," the
Franc-Taupin broke off, while he left Christian to hold up the head of
the friar, "I shall pour a few drops of wine down the wounded man's
throat; the devil! wine has the miraculous power of being as helpful to
the sick as to the well;" and taking up the pot he approached it to his
own lips. "Before administering the potion to others let me try it
myself--it is the duty of all prudent pharmacists to assure themselves
of the quality of their own medicine."

While the Franc-Taupin was thoroughly "trying" the beverage, Bridget
came down again with her daughter. The latter had hastily put on her
clothes. Her brother also, whom the noise had awakened, dressed himself
and came out of his room. Hervé was on the point of inquiring from his
father what was the cause of the commotion in the house when his eyes
alighted upon St. Ernest-Martyr, and he recognized the man whom his
sister Hena had ingenuously called "her monk." A flash of lightning shot
from Hervé's eyes and for an instant his looks assumed a ferocious
expression. The lad, however, controlled his sentiments and closely
watched his sister and the friar, to the latter of whom the Franc-Taupin
was administering a few mouthfuls of the comforting wine. Speedily
recalled to himself by the strengthening elixir, Brother St.
Ernest-Martyr opened his eyes. Before him he saw, like a celestial
apparition, the angelic countenance of Hena, who, with eyes moist with
pity, held out to her uncle with a trembling hand the lint that he was
using to dress the wound of the monk whose head Christian held in his
hands. When he had completely regained consciousness and collected his
thoughts, the monk became aware of the solicitude with which he was
surrounded by the family that had taken him in; tears of gratitude and
tenderness welled up in his eyes and rolled down his face, which, pale
with the loss of blood, recalled the touching beauty that painters
impart to the image of Christ. The expression of ineffable gratitude on
the monk's countenance gave it at the moment so sweet a charm that Hervé
trembled with suppressed rage. His anger was such that it even
threatened to break out when he surprised the eyes of the monk and of
his sister once as they accidentally met. The lad noticed that both
dropped their eyes and seemed embarrassed. These circumstances escaped
all the other members of the family. Brother St. Ernest-Martyr turned
his head towards Christian and said to him in a feeble voice:

"It is to you, no doubt, monsieur, that I owe my life. And yet I am a
stranger to you. May heaven place it some day in my power to attest to
you the gratitude with which I am penetrated. I thank you for your
help."

"Brother," answered the artisan, "I would have fulfilled my duty as a
Christian by assisting you even if you were a stranger to me; but often
did our mutual friend Mary La Catelle speak to us of you and of the
esteem that you deserve. Besides, my wife often was present when you
were teaching the little ones. She has preserved cherished recollections
of the evangelical morality that you preached to them."

"Oh, we could never sufficiently praise the good brother!" exclaimed
Mary La Catelle. "What is known of him is like nothing beside the
numerous acts of charity that he practices in secret--"

"Sister, sister," said the monk, blushing with modesty and interrupting
the widow, "do not exaggerate my poor deserts; I love little ones; to
instruct them is a pleasure to me and their affection more than rewards
me for the little that I do for them. My duty squares with my pleasure."

"Well, brother, I shall say no more," replied Mary La Catelle; "I shall
not say how highly I think of you, and how I but re-echo the sentiments
of all who know you; I shall say nothing of how, a short time ago, you
rushed to my defense at the risk of your life; I shall not say how, only
yesterday, a man who fell into the river near the isle of Notre Dame was
being carried down stream and about to sink when you threw yourself--"

"Dear sister," insisted Brother St. Ernest-Martyr with a melancholy
smile, and again interrupting the widow whose praises of the monk placed
Hervé upon the rack, "your style of not saying things is too
transparent. Oblige me; draw a veil over the acts that you refer to;
anyone else would have done as much. We all in this world owe assistance
to our fellows." As the young monk spoke these words, his eyes
involuntarily again encountered Hena's; he sought to flee from their
influence upon him; he rose from his stool, and said to Christian:
"Adieu, monsieur; I am only a poor friar of the Order of St. Augustine;
I can only preserve the deepest gratitude for your timely help. Believe
me, the remembrance of yourself and of your sympathetic family will
always be present in my mind. May the blessing of God rest upon your
house."

"What, brother," interposed the artisan, "your wound is barely dressed,
and you would leave the house so soon? Rest yourself a little longer;
you are still too weak to proceed on your route."

"It is late, and I feel quite strong enough to return to my convent. I
went with the Superior's consent to carry some consolation to a good old
priest of Notre Dame who lies dangerously ill. Night is now far
advanced, allow me to withdraw. I think that the fresh air will do me
good," and respectfully bowing to Hena and her mother, blushingly he
said to Mary La Catelle: "To-morrow will be school day, dear sister; I
hope I shall be able to go to your house as usual, and give the children
their lessons."

"May it please God that you can keep your promise, dear brother,"
answered the young widow; "but I am less courageous than you; I would
not dare to return home to-night any more; I shall request Bridget to be
so kind as to afford me asylum for the night."

"Do you imagine, dear Mary, that I would have allowed you to go?"
answered Christian's wife. "You shall share Hena's bed."

After the monk's wound was dressed, the Franc-Taupin had remained
silent, sharing, as he did, the interest felt by the whole family,
Hervé, alas, only excepted, in poor Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. The
latter's modest bearing, the sweetness of his countenance, the good
words that all had for him, deeply moved Josephin, who, his soldier's
manners and the adventurous life he led notwithstanding, was susceptible
to generous emotions. Seeing the friar, after expressing his thanks anew
to Christian, move towards the door, the Franc-Taupin took up his sword,
put on his hat, and said:

"My reverend man, you shall not go out alone. I shall escort you to the
Augustinian Convent. It is common with blows received on the skull, to
be followed after a while by dizziness. You might be seized with such a
fit on your way. Let me offer you my arm."

"Thanks, Josephin," said Bridget affectionately; "thanks for your kind
thoughtfulness, my friend. Do accompany the worthy monk."

"I am obliged to you for your offer," answered the monk to the
Franc-Taupin; "but I can not consent to your troubling yourself by
escorting me. The function with which I am clad, besides my robe, will
be ample protection against marauders."

"Your robe! Were it not that I know how worthy a man is inside of it, I
would let it depart alone. By the bowels of St. Quenet! I have no love
for frockists. Monkeys do not watch houses like dogs, they do not draw
the plow like oxen, they do not carry loads like horses. Very much like
the useless monkey, monks do not till the soil like the peasant, they do
not defend the country like the soldier, they do not heal the sick like
the physician. By the bowels of St. Quenet! These frockists deafen their
neighborhood with the clatter of their bells, on the theory that the
mass that is well rung is half said. They mumble their prayers in order
to earn their fat soups, not to save souls. You, however, my reverend
man, you who plow the field of science, you who defend the oppressed,
you who comfort the sorrowful, you who sacrifice your life for others,
you who are the prop of the poor, you who indoctrinate the little ones
like a good evangelical doctor--you are not one of those mumblers of
prayers, of those traffickers in masses, although you wear their
costume. It might, therefore, well happen that some gang of
Mauvais-Garçons, or of Tire-Laines, or of the associates of these _in
partibus_, mendicant monks, might scent the honest man under your frock,
and hurt you out of sheer hatred of good. For that reason you shall take
my arm, by the devil, and I shall escort you whether you want it or
not."

At first alarmed at the unconventionality of the Franc-Taupin's words,
the family of Christian soon felt easier, and, so far from interrupting
him, took pleasure in listening to him bestowing, after his own fashion,
praise upon the friar. Hena, above all, seemed with her ingenuous and
delighted smile to applaud her uncle, while Hervé, on the contrary, was
hardly able to repress his annoyance, and cast jealous side glances at
St. Ernest-Martyr.

The monk answered the Franc-Taupin: "My dear brother, if the larger part
of my brotherhood are, indeed, such as you depict them, I would request
you rather to pity and pardon them; if they are different from what you
take them for, if they are worthy beings, pray devoutly that they may
persevere in the right path. You offer me your arm; I accept it. If I
were to refuse you, you might think that I resent your satirical
outburst."

"Resent! You, my reverend man! One might as well expect ferocity from
the lamb. Good night, sister; good night, children," added the
Franc-Taupin as he embraced Bridget, Hena and Hervé successively. "The
only one wanting to my hugs is my little Odelin. But by the bowels of
St. Quenet! I shall not do like the paymaster of my company, who pockets
the pay of the absent men. When the darling apprentice to the armorer is
back again, I shall pay him the full arrears of hugs due him."

"The dear boy!" observed Bridget tenderly, as her thoughts flew to her
absent son. "May he soon again be back in our midst! It looks so long to
us before his return."

"His absence grieves me as much as it does you," interjected Christian.
"It seems to me so long since his place is vacant at our hearth."

"You will see him return to us grown up, but so grown that we shall
hardly know him," put in Hena. "How we shall celebrate his return! What
a joy it will be to us to make him forget the trials of the journey!
What a delight it will be to hear him tell us all about his trip to
Milan, his experiences on the road, and his excursions in Italy!"

Hervé alone had not a word on the absence of his brother.

Rising from the seat into which he had dropped for a moment, the young
monk took leave of the artisan, saying:

"May the heavens continue to bless your hospitality and your happy
home, the sanctuary of the domestic virtues that are so rare in these
days!"

"The devil, my friend! Your words are golden!" exclaimed the
Franc-Taupin, as he offered the monk the support of his arm. "Whenever I
step into this poor but dear house, it seems to me I leave the big devil
of hell behind me at the door; and whenever I go out again, I feel as if
I am quitting paradise. Look out! Who knows but Beelzebub, the wicked
one with the cloven hoofs, is waiting for me outside? But to-night,
seeing me in your company, my reverend man, he will not dare to grab me.
Come, let's start, reverend sir!"

So saying, the Franc-Taupin left with the monk; Bridget led La Catelle
to Hena's chamber; and Christian climbed up to the garret for a chat
with Monsieur John.

Left alone in the lower apartment, his fists clenched and his lips drawn
tight together, Hervé murmured moodily:

"Oh, that monk--that accursed monk!" The lad relapsed into gloomy
thoughts; suddenly he resumed: "What a scheme! Yes, yes--it will remove
even the shadow of a suspicion. I shall follow the inspiration, whether
it proceed from the devil or from God--"

Hervé did not finish his sentence. He listened in the direction of the
staircase by which Mary La Catelle, Bridget and Hena and his father had
just mounted to the floor above.




CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE GARRET.


Cautiously climbing the ladder that led up to the garret, Christian
found the stranger seated upon the sill of the narrow window that opened
upon the river. The moon, then on the wane, was rising in a sky studded
with stars, and shed her pale light upon the austere visage of the
unknown guest. Drawn from his absorbing thoughts, he turned towards
Christian:

"I thought I heard some noise toward the bridge. Has anything happened?"

"Some seigneurs, out on a carousal, attempted to do violence to a woman.
Several of our neighbors rushed to her aid with me and my
brother-in-law. Thanks be to God, Mary La Catelle is safe."

"What!" cried Monsieur John with deep concern, breaking in upon the
artisan's report. "Was that worthy widow, who is associated with John
Dubourg, the draper of St. Denis Street, with Etienne Laforge, the rich
bourgeois of Tournay, and the architect Poille in the charitable work of
gathering abandoned orphans, in peril? Poor woman, her charity, the
purity of her principles and her devotion to the little ones entitle
her to the esteem of all right-minded people."

"The task that she has imposed upon herself bristles with dangers. The
monks and friars of her quarter suspect her of partaking of the ideas
and hopes of the reformers. Already has she been locked up in the
Chatelet, and her school been closed. Thanks, however, to the
intervention of one of her relatives, who is in the service of Princess
Marguerite, a protector of the reform, Mary was set at liberty and her
school was re-opened. But the persecutions of the heretics are
redoubling, and I apprehend fresh dangers for our friend, whose faith is
unshakable."

"Yes, the persecutions are redoubling," rejoined Monsieur John
thoughtfully. "Monsieur Christian Lebrenn, I know I can unbosom myself
to you with all frankness. I am a stranger in Paris; you know the city.
Could I find within the walls, or even without, some secluded spot where
about a hundred persons could be gathered secretly and safely? I must
warn you, these persons belong to the Reformation."

The artisan reflected for a moment and answered: "It would be difficult
and dangerous to assemble so large a number of people within Paris.
Gainier, the chief spy of the Criminal Lieutenant, expends undefatigable
activity to discover and denounce all assemblages that he suspects. His
agents are spread everywhere. So considerable a gathering would
undoubtedly call their attention. Outside of Paris, however, we need not
apprehend the same watchfulness. I may be able to indicate some safe
place to you. But before proceeding farther, I should make a
confidential disclosure to you. A friend of mine and myself contemplate
printing secretly a few handbills intended to propagate the reform
movement. We are in the hope that, scattered through Paris, or posted
over night on the walls, these placards may stir public opinion. Only
one obstacle has, so far, held us back--the finding of some safe and
secluded place, where, without danger of being detected, we might set up
our little printing establishment. I understand from my friend that he
has at last found a suitable place for our purpose. It may turn out to
be suitable for yours also."

"Is the house outside the walls of Paris?"

"It is not a house; it is an abandoned quarry situated on Montmartre. My
friend was born in that suburb; his mother still lives there; he is
familiar with every nook and corner of that rocky hill. He is of the
opinion that a certain wide and deep grotto which he inspected will
guarantee to us the seclusion and safety that we are in search of. If he
is not mistaken, the meeting that you have mentioned to me might be held
at Montmartre. To-morrow evening I am to go with my friend to look the
place over. When I shall have done so, I shall acquaint you with the
circumstances, and if the place is fit, you may fix the day of your
gathering."

"Suppose that your excursion to Montmartre to-morrow evening satisfies
you that the quarry is suitable for my meeting, that it offers perfect
safety; in what manner could the people, whom I shall convoke, be
furnished with the necessary directions to find the place?"

"I think that would be an easy matter, after the locality had been
carefully inspected. I shall be able to furnish you to-morrow with the
full particulars."

"Monsieur Christian, could you also tell me where I could find some
trustworthy person whom I could commission to carry the letters of
convocation to certain persons, who, in their turn, would notify their
friends?"

"I shall carry those letters myself, if you will, monsieur. I realize
the gravity of such a mission."

"In the name of the Cause that we both serve, Monsieur Christian, I
thank you heartily for your generous offer," replied the stranger with
effusion. "Oh, the times bode evil. The conversation that we had this
evening with your brother-in-law was almost a revelation to me
concerning the singular man, the intrepid swordsman, the former runner
of gallant adventures, whose darksome dealings I was previously
acquainted with."

"Ignatius Loyola? And what may be his scheme?"

"Some slight overtures made by him to a man whom I hold worthy of all
credence, and whom he hoped to capture, were reported to me. I was
thereby enabled to penetrate the infernal project pursued by Ignatius
Loyola, and--"

Bridget's voice, sounding from the middle of the ladder that led up to
the garret, and cautiously calling her husband, interrupted the unknown.
Christian listened and heard his wife say:

"Come down quick; I heard Hervé come out of his room; I hear him coming
upstairs; he may want to see us."

The artisan made a sign to his guest that he had nothing to fear, and
quickly descended the stairs into a dark closet, the only door of which
opened into the chamber occupied by himself and his wife. Christian had
just time to close noiselessly the door of the closet and to sit down,
when Hervé rapped gently at his father's door and called him. Bridget
opened and said to her son:

"What do you want, my child?"

"Dear parents, grant me a few words with you."

"Gladly," responded Christian, "but let us go downstairs. Our poor
friend Mary La Catelle is sharing your sister's bed; the woman needs
rest; our conversation might disturb her sleep."




CHAPTER IX.

THE PENITENT.


Father, mother and son proceeded downstairs to the room on the ground
floor where the distressing scene of the night before was enacted.
Hardly had they touched the lowermost step of the staircase when Hervé
threw himself upon his knees, took his father's hands, kissed them
tearfully and murmured in a smothered voice:

"I beg your pardon--for my past conduct--pardon me--my good parents!"

"God be praised! We were not deceived in the boy," was the thought that
rushed to the minds of Christian and Bridget as they exchanged a look of
profound satisfaction. "The unfortunate lad has been touched by
repentance."

"My son," said the artisan, "rise."

"No, not before I have obtained from you and my mother forgiveness for
my infamous act;" and he added, amid sobs: "It was myself, I, your
son--it was I who stole your gold!"

"Hervé," replied Christian, deeply moved by the manifestations of
remorse which he took to be sincere, "last night, in this same room,
your mother and I said to you: 'If you forgot yourself for a moment and
committed the theft, admit it--you will be forgiven.'"

"And we shall gladly keep our promise," added Bridget. "We pardon you,
seeing that you repent. Rise."

"Oh, never more so than at this moment am I penetrated with the
unworthiness of my conduct. Good God! So much kindness on your part, and
so much baseness on mine! My whole life shall be consecrated to the
atonement of my infamy!" said Hervé, rising from the floor.

"I shall not conceal it from you, my boy," proceeded Christian with
paternal kindness. "I was quite prepared for this admission of your
guilt. Certain happy symptoms that your mother and myself noticed
to-day, led us to expect your return to the right path, to the
principles of honesty in which we brought you up."

"Did I not tell you so, yesterday?" broke in Bridget. "Could our son
really become unworthy of our tenderness, unworthy of the example that
we set to him, as well as to his sister and brother? No; no; we will
regain him; he will see the error of his ways. So you see, dear, dear
boy," she added embracing him effusively, "I knew you better than you
knew yourself! Blessed be God for your return to the path of
righteousness!"

The consummate hypocrite threw himself upon his mother's neck, and
answering her caresses with feigned affection, said in a moved voice:

"Good father, good mother, the confession of my shameful act earned your
pardon for me. Later I hope your esteem for me may return, when you will
have been able to judge of the sincerity of my remorse. Let me tell you
the cause of my repentance, the suddenness of which may astonish you."

"A sweet astonishment, thanks be to God. Speak, speak, my son!"

"You surmised rightly, father. Yes, led astray, corrupted by the counsel
of Fra Girard, I pilfered your money for the purpose of consecrating it
to works that I took to be pious."

"Ah, it is with pride both for us and yourself that I say it," cried
Bridget; "never once, while we suspected you, did we believe you capable
of the guilty act out of love for gold, out of a craving for selfish
enjoyment, or out of cupidity! No, a thousand times no!"

"Thanks! Oh, thanks, good mother, to do me at least that justice, or,
rather, to do it to the bringing up that I owe you! No; the fruit of my
larceny has not been dissipated in prodigality. No; I did not keep it
like a miser, out of love for gold. The gold pieces were all thrown into
the chest of the Apostolic Commissioner of indulgences, for the purpose
of obtaining the redemption of the souls in purgatory."

"I believe you, my son. The charitable and generous side of that
idolatry, that is so profitable to the cupidity of the Church of Rome,
must have had its fascination for your heart. But how did you discover
the fraud of that monastic traffic? Explain that to me."

"This morning, after I deposited my offering in the chest of indulgences
that was set up in the Church of St. Dominic, I heard the Apostolic
Commissioner preach. Oh, father, all the still lingering sentiments of
honor within me revolted at his words. My eyes were suddenly opened; I
fathomed the depth of the abyss that blind fanaticism leads to. Do you
know what that monk, who claimed to speak in the name of the Almighty,
dared to say to the mass of people gathered in the church? 'The virtue
of my indulgences is so efficacious,' the monk cried out, 'so very
efficacious, that, even if it were possible for any man to have raped
the mother of our Savior, that crime without name would be remitted to
him by the virtue of my indulgences. So, then, buy them, my brothers!
Bring, bring your money! Rummage in your purses, rummage'--"

Christian and his wife listened to their son's tale in silent affright.
The sacrilegious words which the lad reported to them caused them to
shiver with horror and their own horror explained to them the repentance
and remorse of Hervé.

"Oh, I now see it all, my child!" cried Christian. "The sacrilegious
monstrosity was a revelation to you! It shocked you back to your senses!
Yes, your eyes were suddenly opened to the light; you conceived a horror
for those infamous priests; you recoiled with dread from the fatal slope
down which superstition was driving you!"

"Yes, father, the monstrous thought was a revelation to me; the veil was
torn; I regained my sight. I was to be either the dupe or the accomplice
of these abominable frauds. Disgust and indignation recalled me to
myself. It was to me as if I awoke from a painful dream. When I
recalled that, for several months, I had been dominated by the influence
of Fra Girard, I cursed the detestable charm under which the man had
held me captive, and which was alienating me from a cherished, a
venerated family. I cursed the devilish sophisms, which, exactly as you
expressed it, father, were corrupting in my mind the most elemental
principles of right and wrong, and led me to the commission of a theft,
an act that was doubly infamous seeing that it was perpetrated under the
trusting security of the paternal roof! Oh, mother, in the measure that
I thus regained the possession of my soul, overwhelmed with shame as I
was, and torn with remorse, I felt there was but one way of
safety--repentance! Only one hope--your pardon! Only one refuge--your
love. I have returned to you, beloved parents."

Christian and Bridget could not suspect their son's sincerity. They
reposed faith in his repentance, in the return of his filial devotion,
in the horror that the past inspired him with. Father and mother
devoutly rendered thanks to God for having restored their son to them.
When the two closed their eyes in sleep that night their last thought
concerned their son Hervé--alas, a treacherous happiness.




CHAPTER X.

LOYOLA AND HIS DISCIPLES.


The day after the proscribed stranger and friend of Robert Estienne had
found an asylum in the home of Christian, the latter sallied forth after
dark with his friend Justin for the purpose of inspecting the abandoned
quarry where the two expected to be able to set up their secret press.
The secluded spot was also expected speedily to serve as the trysting
place for the leaders of the Reformation in Paris. The late moon was
rising when the two artisans arrived in the neighborhood of the Abbey of
Montmartre. They struck a road to the left of the church, leading to a
hillock crowned with a cross. Arrived there they descended a steep path
at the bottom of which was the entrance to the quarry.

"Unless the recollections of my childhood deceive me," said Justin to
Christian, "I'm under the impression that this quarry formerly had two
openings--one being this, through which we are about to enter, the
other, the issue of a sort of underground gallery, located at the
opposite slope of the hill, and through which the descent is steep down
to the bottom of the quarry. I even recall that a portion of the
gallery bore traces of some very ancient masonry."

"It probably is one of those places of refuge that, centuries ago, were
dug into the bowels of the earth by the inhabitants of these regions, in
the days of the invasions of the Northman pirates."[11]

"Quite probable. At the same time, seeing it is well to be prepared for
all emergencies, this quarry can be rendered an all the safer meeting
place for our friends of the Reformation by placing a watchman at each
entrance. The alarm being given from either side, escape could then be
safely made by the other. The agents of the Criminal Lieutenant have a
hundred eyes and as many ears. We cannot take too many precautions."

"If your recollections are correct, that double entrance would be a
priceless fact. The meeting place would be doubly guarded."

"We can easily make sure of that," said Justin. Saying this he fumbled
in his pocket for his tinder and flint, while Christian drew out of his
pocket the butt of a candle that he had provided himself with for the
occasion.

The jagged opening of the grotto was overhung by an abutting ledge of
lime rock, covered with a few inches of earth overgrown with briars and
furze. A rather abrupt path led to the species of platform that lay
under the beetling rock. The two artisans stepped in. They did not light
their candle at first for fear it would be extinguished by the wind. But
after having groped their way through the dark for a few paces, they
struck a light, and presently the feeble flame of the candle threw its
light into the wide though low-arched cavern. A huge boulder, about five
or six feet high and from eight to ten through, that doubtlessly had
been loosened and dropped from the walls of the cave, seemed to mark the
further extremity of the underground walk.

"I now remember the place exactly," said Justin; "the inside opening of
the gallery that I spoke of to you must be on the other side of the
stone. Let's move on. We are on the right path."

Saying this, and followed by his friend, Justin stepped into a narrow
space left between the natural wall and the boulder. Suddenly they heard
the noise of footsteps and the voices of several persons drawing near
from the side of the opening through which they had themselves shortly
before entered the cavern. As much surprised as alarmed, the first
motion of Justin was to extinguish the candle, and approaching his lips
to the ear of Christian he whispered: "Let us not budge from this spot.
We may here remain unseen, should these people come this way."

The two artisans held their breath and remained motionless in their
hiding place, wondering with as much astonishment as anxiety who it
might be that was resorting at so late an hour to so solitary a spot.

The personages who penetrated into the quarry had also equipped
themselves with lighting materials. One of them lighted a large wax
candle, the reddish glare of which illuminated the features of the new
arrivals, seven in number. The one who came in last, cast around him
soon as the torch was lighted, looks indicative of the retreat being
familiar to him. He walked with difficulty, and he stooped low as he
leaned upon a heavy staff much resembling a crutch. Yet he seemed to be
a man in the maturity of life. Black, threadbare and shabby clothes
outlined his tall and robust stature. A Spanish ruff of doubtful white
set off his long and olive-hued visage that terminated in a pointed
beard. His head was almost bare of hair. His dominating eyes, his
imperious brow, the haughty carriage of his head--all imparted to his
strongly marked physiognomy the impression of absolute inflexibility.
That personage stepped forward. It was Ignatius Loyola.

His six companions were James Lainez, a Spaniard; Alfonso Salmeron,
Inigo of Bobadilla, and Rodriguez of Azevedo, Portuguese; Francis
Xavier, a French nobleman; and lastly, Peter Lefevre, a native of the
mountains of Savoy, the same who, for ten years, had been the intimate
friend of Christian Lebrenn.

Francis Xavier held the lighted wax candle. Lefevre carried on his
shoulder a large bundle. Motionless and mute the six disciples of Loyola
fixed their eyes upon their master, not in order to discover his
thoughts--they were incapable of such audacity--but in order to
forestall his will, whatever it might be.

Looking around in silent contemplation of the interior of the grotto,
Loyola broke the silence in a solemn voice: "I greet thee, secret
retreat, where, as formerly in the cavern of Manres, I have often
meditated, and matured my purposes!" He then sat down upon a nearby
stone, crossed his hands over his staff, leaned his chin upon his hands,
let his eyes travel slowly over his disciples, who, impassive as statues
stood beside him, and, after an instant of silent meditation resumed:
"My children, I said to you this evening: 'Come!' You came, ignorant of
whither I was leading you. Why did you follow me? Answer, Xavier. To
hear one of my disciples is to hear them all--to hear one of them
to-day, is to hear all those who are to follow them from age to age--all
will be but the distant echoes of my thought."

"Master, you said to us: 'Come!' We came. Command, and you shall be
obeyed."

"Without inquiring whither I led you; without even seeking to ascertain
what I might demand of you? Answer, Lefevre."

"Master, we followed you without reflecting--without inquiring."

"Why without reflecting, without inquiring? Answer, Lainez."

"The members of the body obey the will that directs them; they do not
interrogate that will; they obey."

"Xavier," resumed Loyola, "plant your candle in some interstice of that
boulder. Lefevre, deposit your bundle at your feet. It contains your
sacerdotal vestments and the articles necessary to celebrate the holy
sacrifice of the mass."

Francis Xavier planted the lighted candle firmly between two stones.
Lefevre deposited his bundle on the ground. The other disciples remained
standing, their eyes lowered. Still keeping his seat, and with his chin
resting on the handle of his staff, Loyola resumed:

"Francis Xavier, when I first met you on the benches of the
University--what was then your nature? What were your habits?"

"Master, I was passionately given to the pleasures of life."

"And you, Inigo of Bobadilla?"

"Master, all obstacles upset me. I was weak and pusillanimous. My spirit
lacked energy. My nature was cowardly and springless."

"And you, John Lainez?"

"Master, I had excessive confidence in myself. Extreme vanity--"

"And you, Rodriguez of Azevedo?"

"Master, my heart ran over with tenderness. A touching act, an
affectionate word, was enough to bring the tears to my eyes. I was kind
to all, was ever eager to run to the help of our fellow men. I was of a
confiding and accessible nature."

"And you, Alfonso Salmeron?"

"Master, pride dominated me. I was proud of my vigor of bone and of my
intelligence. I deemed myself a superior man."

"And you, John Lefevre?"

"Master, my mountaineer tenacity never looked upon any obstruction but
to overcome it. I brooked no contradiction."

"Aye! Such were you. And what are you now? Answer, John Lefevre. To hear
one of you is to hear all the rest."

"Master, we are no longer ourselves. Your soul has absorbed ours. We are
now the instruments of your will. We are the body, you the spirit. We
are submissive slaves, you the inflexible master. We are the clubs, you
the hand. Without your animating breath we are but corpses."

"How did you arrive at this complete self-effacement? In what manner was
the absorption of your personalities in mine effected?"

"Master, the study of your _Spiritual Exercises_ effected the miracle."

Loyola seemed satisfied. With his chin resting upon his two hands
crossed over the head of his heavy staff, he remained silent for a
moment. Presently he resumed: "Yes, that you were; now you are this. And
I myself, what was I, and what have I become? I shall tell you. I was a
haughty Grandee of Viscaya, a handsome cavalier, a valiant captain, a
daring seducer, and lucky swordsman. The hand of God suddenly smote me
in war and rendered me a cripple. Great was my despair! To renounce
women, dueling, horses, the battle, the command of my regiment, which I
had broken in, drilled and fashioned by military discipline! Nailed to a
couch of tortures, which I welcomed in the hope of removing my
deformity, I was seized by Grace! I felt myself full of strength and of
energy. I was possessed of an invincible craving for dominion. At that
juncture the Holy Ghost said to me: 'Devote thyself to the triumph of
the Catholic Church. Thy dominion shall extend in the measure of thy
faith.' I then asked myself what services could I render the Catholic
Church. I looked around me. What did I see? The spirit of Liberty, that
pestilential emanation of a fallen humanity, everywhere at war with
Authority, that sacred emanation of Divinity. I promised to myself to
curb the spirit of Liberty with the inflexible curb of Authority,
identically as I had formerly subjugated indomitable horses. The goal
being set, what were the means to reach it? I looked for them. I wished
first to experiment upon myself, to determine upon myself the extent to
which, sustained by faith in the idea a man pursues, he can shake off
his former self. Rich by birth, I begged my bread; a haughty Grandee, I
exposed myself to outrage; a skilful swordsman, I submitted to insult;
sumptuous in my habits of dress, careful of my personal appearance, I
have lived in rags and in the gutter. Ignorant of letters, I took my
seat at the age of thirty among children on the benches of the Montaigu
College, where any slight inattention was visited upon me with the whip.
Some of my purposes, being detected by orthodox priests, earned for me
their persecution and I was ostracised. I stood it all without a murmur.
From that time, certain that I could demand from my disciples the
sacrifices I imposed upon myself, I made you that which you are required
to be. You have said it. You are the members, I the spirit; you are the
instrument, I the will. The hour for action has come; our work calls us.
What work is that?"

"That work is the insurance of the reign of authority upon earth."

"What authority?"

"Master, there is but one. The authority of God, visibly incarnated in
His vicar, the Pope, who is in Rome."

"Do you understand by that the spiritual or the temporal authority?"

"Master, he who has authority over the soul must have authority over the
body also. He who dictates the Divine law must dictate the human law
also."

"What must the Pope be?"

"Pontiff and Emperor of the Catholic world."

"Who, under him, is to govern the nations?"

"The clergy."

"Must temporal authority, accordingly, also belong to the Roman Catholic
and Apostolic Church?"

"All authority flows from God. His ministers are by divine right the
masters of the nations, and must be invested with full authority."

"Is that, then, the work in hand?"

"Yes, master."

"Are there any obstacles to its accomplishment?"

"Enormous ones."

"What are they?"

"First of all, the Kings."

"Next?" queried Loyola impatiently. "Next?"

"The indocility of the bourgeois classes."

"Next?"

"The new heresy known by the name of the Reformation."

"Next?"

"The printing press, that scourge that every day and everywhere spreads
its ravages."

"Next?"

"The too publicly scandalous habits of the ecclesiastics."

"And lastly?"

"Often the ineptness, the feebleness, the insatiable cupidity and the
excesses of the papacy."

"These, then, are the obstacles to the absolute rule of the Catholic
world by her Church?"

"Yes, master."

"Is it possible to overcome these obstacles?"

"We can, master, provided your spirit speaks through our mouths, and
your will dictates our actions."

"All honor to the Lord--let's begin with the Kings. What are they with
regard to the Popes?"

"Their rivals."

"What should they be?"

"Their first subjects."

"Would it not be preferable for the greater glory and security of the
Catholic Church that royalty were abolished?"

"That would be preferable."

"How are Kings to be absolutely subordinated to the Popes? Or, rather,
how is royalty to be destroyed?"

"By causing all its subjects to rise against it."

"By what process?"

"By unchaining the passions of an ignorant populace; by exploiting the
old commune spirit of the bourgeoisie; by fanning the hatred of the
seigneurs, once the peers of Kings in feudal days; by setting the people
against one another."

"Is there a last resort for the riddance of Kings?"

"The dagger, or poison."

"Do you understand by that that a member of the Church may and has the
right to stab a King; may and has the right to poison a King?"

"Master, it is not the part of a monk to kill a King, whether openly or
covertly. The King should first be paternally admonished, then
excommunicated, then declared forfeit of royal authority. After that
_his execution falls to others_."[12]

"And who is it that declares Kings forfeit of royal authority, and thus
places them under the ban of mankind, and outside the pale of human and
divine law?"

"Either the people's voice, or an assembly of priests and theologians,
or the decision of men of sense."[13]

"Suppose royal authority is overthrown by murder, or otherwise, will not
the power thereby fall either into the hands of the nobility and the
seigneurs, or into those of the bourgeoisie, or into the hands of the
populace?"

"Yes, but only for a short interval. If the power falls into the hands
of the populace, the seigneurs, that is, the nobility and the
bourgeoisie, are to be turned against the populace. If the power should
fall into the hands of the bourgeoisie, then the populace and the
nobility are to be turned against the bourgeoisie; finally, in case the
power falls into the hands of the nobility, the bourgeoisie and the
populace are to be turned against the nobility."

"Civil war being over, what will be the state of things?"

"All powers being annihilated, the one destroyed by the other, only the
Catholic Church will remain standing, imperishable."

"You spoke of operating upon the populace, upon the bourgeoisie, upon
the nobility, to the end of using these several classes for the
overthrow of royal power, and subsequently of letting them loose against
one another. What lever will you operate upon them?"

"The direction of their conscience, especially that of their wives,
through the confessional."

"In what manner do you expect to be able to direct their conscience?"

"By establishing maxims so sweet, so flexible, so comfortable, so
complaisant to men's passions, vices and sins that the larger number of
men and women will choose us for their confessors, and will thereby hand
over to us the direction of their souls.[14] To direct the souls of the
living is to secure the empire of the world."

"Let us consider the application of this doctrine," said Loyola.
"Suppose I am a monk, you, I suppose," he added addressing his disciples
successively, "are my confessor. I say to you: 'Father, it is forbidden,
under penalty of excommunication, to doff, even for an instant, the garb
of our Order. I accuse myself of having put on lay vestments.'"

"'My son,' I would answer," responded one of the disciples of Ignatius,
"'let us distinguish. If you doffed your religious garb in order not to
soil it with some disgraceful act, such as going on a pickpocket
expedition, or patronizing a gambling house, or indulging in debauchery,
you obeyed a sentiment of shame, and you do not then deserve
excommunication.'"[15]

"Now," resumed Loyola, "I am a trustee, under obligation to pay a life
annuity to someone or other, and I desire his death that I may be free
of the obligation; or, say, I am the heir of a rich father, and am
anxious to see his last day--I accuse myself of harboring these
sentiments."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'a trustee may, without sin, desire the death
of those who receive a pension from his trust, for the reason that what
he really desires is, not the death of his beneficiary, but the
cancellation of the debt. My son,' I would answer the penitent, 'you
would be committing an abominable sin were you, out of pure wickedness,
to desire the death of your father; but you commit no manner of sin if
you harbor the wish, not with parricidal intent, but solely out of
impatience to enjoy his inheritance.'"[16]

"I am a valet, and have come to accuse myself of acting as go-between in
the amours of my master, and, besides, of having robbed him."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'to carry letters or presents to the
concubine of your master, even to assist him in scaling her window by
holding the ladder, are permissible and indifferent matters, because, in
your quality of servant, it is not your will that you obey, but the will
of another.[17] As to the thefts that you have committed, it is clear
that if, driven by necessity, you have been forced to accept wages that
are too small, you are justified in recouping your legitimate salary in
some other way.'"[18]

"I am a swordsman. I accuse myself before the penitential tribunal of
having fought a duel."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'if in fighting you yielded, not to a
homicidal impulse, but to the legitimate call to avenge your honor, you
have committed no sin.'"[19]

"I am a coward. I rid myself of my enemy by murdering him from ambush.
I come to make the admission to you, my confessor, and to ask
absolution."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'if you committed the murder, not for the
sake of the murder itself, but in order to escape the dangers which your
enemy might have thrown you into, in that case you have not sinned at
all. In such cases it is legitimate to kill one's enemy in the absence
of witnesses.'"[20]

"I am a judge. I accuse myself of having rendered a decision in favor of
one of the litigants, in consideration of a present made to me by him."

"'Where is the wrong in that, my son?' I would ask. 'In consideration of
a present you rendered a decision favorable to the giver of the gift.
Could you not, by virtue of your own will, have favored whom you
pleased? You stand in no need of absolution.'"[21]

"I am a usurer. I accuse myself of having frequently derived large
profits from my money. Have I sinned according to the law of the
Church?"

"'My son,' I would answer, 'this is the way you should in future conduct
yourself in such affairs: Someone asks a loan of you. You will answer:
"I have no money to loan, but I have some ready to be honestly invested.
If you will guarantee to reimburse me my capital, and, besides that, to
pay me a certain profit, I shall entrust the sum in your hands so that
you may turn it to use. But I shall not loan it to you."[22] For the
rest, my son, you have not sinned, if, however large the interest you
may have received from your money, the same was looked upon by you
simply as a token of gratitude, and not a condition for the loan.[23] Go
in peace, my son.'"

"I am a bankrupt. I accuse myself of having concealed a considerable sum
from the knowledge of my creditors."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'the sin is grave if you retained the sum out
of base cupidity. But if your purpose was merely to insure to yourself
and your family a comfortable existence, even some little luxury, you
are absolved.'"[24]

"I am a woman. I accuse myself of having committed adultery, and of
having in that way obtained considerable wealth from my paramour. May I
enjoy that wealth with an easy conscience?"

"'My daughter,' I would answer, 'the wealth acquired through gallantry
and adultery has, it is true, an illegitimate source. Nevertheless, its
possession may be considered legitimate, seeing that no human or divine
law pronounces against such possession.'"[25]

"I have stolen a large sum. I accuse myself of the theft, and ask for
your absolution."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'it is a crime to steal, unless one is driven
thereto by extreme necessity; and even less so if grave reasons prompt
the act.'"[26]

"I am rich, but I give alms sparingly, if at all. I accuse myself."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'charity towards our fellows is a Christian
duty. Nevertheless, if superfluity is needed by you, you commit no sin
by not depriving yourself of those things which, in your eyes, are
necessaries.[27] I absolve you.'"

"I coveted a certain inheritance. I accuse myself of having poisoned the
man from whom I was to inherit. May I retain the property?"

"'My son,' I would answer, 'the possession of property, acquired by
unworthy means, and even through manslaughter, is legitimate, so far as
possession is concerned. You may retain the property.'"[28]

"I am summoned to take an oath. My conscience forbids, my interest
orders me to commit perjury. You are my confessor. I wish to consult you
on the matter."

"'You can, my son, reconcile your interest and your conscience. This
way--I suppose you will be asked: "Do you swear you did not commit such
and such an act?" You will answer aloud: "I swear before God and man
that I have not committed that act," and then you add mentally: "_On
such and such a day_." Or, you are asked: "Do you swear you will never
do such or such a thing?" You will answer: "I swear," and mentally you
add: "_Unless I change my mind; in which case I shall do the
thing_."'"[29]

"I am an unmarried woman. I have yielded to a seducer. I fear the anger
and reproaches of my family."

"'My daughter,' I would answer, 'take courage. A woman of your age is
free to dispose of her body and herself. Have all the lovers you please.
I absolve you.'"[30]

"I am a woman, passionately addicted to gambling. I accuse myself of
having purloined some moneys from my husband, in order to repay my
losses at the gaming table."

"'My daughter,' I would answer, 'seeing that, between man and wife,
everything is, or ought to be, in common, you have not sinned by drawing
from the common purse.[31] You may continue to do so. I absolve you.'"

"I am a woman. I love ornaments. I accuse myself."

"'My daughter,' I would answer, 'if you ornament yourself without impure
intentions, and only in order to satisfy your natural taste for
ornamentation, you do not sin.'"[32]

"I accuse myself of having seduced the wife of my best friend."

"'My son,' I would answer, 'let us distinguish: If you treacherously
seduced the woman just because she was the wife of your best friend,
then you have sinned. But if you seduced her, as you might have done any
other woman, you have not outraged friendship.[33] It is a natural thing
to desire the possession of a handsome woman. You have not sinned. There
is no occasion for absolution.'"

"Well done!" exclaimed Loyola. "But I notice you grant absolution for
all that human morality and the Fathers of the Church condemn."

"Master, you said: 'Absolved penitents will never complain.'"

"What is the object of the complaisance of your doctrines in all
circumstances?"

"At this season an incurable corruption reigns among mankind. Rigor
would estrange them from us. Our tolerance for their vices is calculated
to deliver the penitents to us, body and soul. By leaving to us the
direction of their souls, this corrupt generation will later relinquish
to us the absolute education of their children. We will then raise those
generations as may be suitable, by taking them in charge from the cradle
to the grave; by molding them; by petrifying them in such manner that,
their appetites being satisfied, and their minds for all time delivered
from the temptation of those three infernal rebels--Reason, Dignity and
Freedom--those generations will bless their sweet servitude, and will
be to us, master, what we are to you--servile slaves, body and soul,
mere corpses!"

"Among the obstacles that our work will, or may encounter, you mentioned
the papacy."

"Yes, master, because the elections of the sacred college may call to
the pontifical throne Popes that are weak, stupid or vicious."

"What is the remedy at such a juncture?"

"To organize, outside of the papacy, of the college of cardinals, of the
episcopacy, of the regular clergy and of the religious Orders, a society
to whose members it shall be strictly forbidden ever to be elected Pope,
or to accept any Catholic office, however high or however low the office
may be. Thus this society will ever preserve its independence of action
for or against the Church, free to oppose or uphold its Chief."

"What shall be the organization of that redoubtable society?"

"A General, elected by its own members, shall have sovereign direction
over it."

"What pledge are its members to take towards him?"

"Dumb, blind and servile obedience."

"What are they to be in his hands?"

"That which we are in yours, O, master! Instruments as docile as the
cane in the hand of the man who leans upon it."

"What will be the theater of the society's work?"

"The whole world."

"Into what parts will it divide the universe?"

"Into provinces--the province of France, the province of Spain, the
province of Germany, the province of England, the province of India, the
province of Asia, and others. Each will be under the government of a
'provincial,' appointed by the General of the society."

"The society being organized, what name is it to assume?"

"The name of the SOCIETY OF JESUS."

"In what manner is the Society of Jesus to become a counterpoise to the
papacy, and, if need be, dominate the papacy itself, should the latter
swerve from the route it should pursue in order to insure the absolute
government of the nations of the world to the Catholic Church?"

"Independent of the established Church, from whom it neither expects nor
demands aught--neither the purple, nor the cross, nor benefices--the
Society of Jesus, thanks to its accommodating and tolerant doctrines,
will speedily conquer the empire of the human conscience. It will be the
confessor of Kings and lackeys, of the mendicant monk and the cardinal,
of the courtesan and the princess, the female bourgeois and her cook, of
the concubine and the empress. The concert of this immense clientage,
acting as one man under the breath of the Society of Jesus, and inspired
by its General, will insure to him such a power that, at a given moment,
he will be able to dictate his orders to the papacy, threatening to
unchain against it all the consciences and arms over which he disposes.
The General will be more powerful than the Pope himself."

"Besides its action upon the conscience, will the Society of Jesus
dispose over any other and secondary levers?"

"Yes, master, and very effective ones. Whosoever, whether lay or
clerical, poor or rich, woman or man, great or small, will blindly
surrender his soul to the direction of the Society of Jesus, will always
and everywhere, and against whomsoever, be sustained, protected,
favored, defended and held scathless by the Society and its adherents.
The penitent of a Jesuit will see the horizon of his most ardent hopes
open before him; the path to honors and wealth will be smoothed before
his feet; a tutelary mantle will cover his defects, his errors and his
crimes; his enemies will be the Society's enemies; it will pursue them,
track them, overtake them and smite them, whoever and wherever they may
be, and with all available means. Thus the penitent of a Jesuit may
aspire to anything. To incur his resentment will be a dread ordeal."

"Accordingly, you have faith in the accomplishment of our work?"

"An absolute faith."

"From whom do you derive that faith?"

"From you, master; from you, Ignatius Loyola, whose breath inspires us;
from you, our master, him through whom we live."

"The work is immense--to dominate the world! And yet there are only
seven of us."

"Master, when you command, we are legion."

"Seven--only seven, my sons--without other power than our faith in our
work."

"Master, faith removes mountains. Command."

"Oh, my brave disciples!" exclaimed Ignatius Loyola rising and
supporting himself with his staff. "What joy it is to me to have thus
imbued you with my substance, and nourished you with the marrow of my
doctrine! Be up! Be up! The moment for action has come. That is the
reason I have caused you to gather this evening here at Montmartre,
where I have so often come to meditate in this hollow, this second to
that cavern of Manres, where, in Spain, after long years of
concentration, I at last perceived the full depth, the immensity of my
work. Yes, in order to weld you together in this work, I have broken,
bent and absorbed your personalities. I have turned you into instruments
of my will as docile as the cane in the hand of the man who leans upon
it. Yes, I have captured your souls. Yes, you are now only corpses in my
hands. Oh, my dear corpses! my canes! my serfs! my slaves! glorify your
servitude. It delivers to you the empire of the world! You will be the
masters of all the men! You will be supreme rulers of all the women!"

Loyola's disciples listened to him in devout silence. For a moment he
remained steeped in the contemplation of his portentous ambition,
meditating universal domination. Presently he proceeded:

"We must prepare ourselves by means of the holy sacrifice of the mass
for the last act of this great day. We must receive the body of Jesus,
we who constitute his intrepid militia! We the Jesuits!" And addressing
himself to Lefevre: "You have brought with you the necessaries for the
celebration of mass. Yonder rock"--pointing to the boulder behind which
Christian and Justin were concealed--"yonder rock will serve us for
altar. Come, to work, my well-beloved disciple."

Lefevre opened the bundle which he had taken charge of. He drew from it
a surplice, a chasuble, a Bible, a stole, a chalice, a little box of
consecrated wafers, and two small flasks with wine and water. He clothed
himself in sacerdotal garb, while one of the disciples took the wax
candle, knelt down and lighted the improvised altar upon which the other
Jesuits were engaged in disposing the rest of the requisites for the
celebration of the divine sacrifice. It was done before Loyola and his
disciples. The voice of Lefevre, as he droned the liturgy, alone
disturbed the silence of the solitude upon which the wax candle cast a
flickering ruddy glow. The time for communion having come, the seven
founders of the Society of Jesus received the Eucharist with unction.
The service over, Loyola rose again to his feet, and with an inspired
mien said to his disciples:

"And now, come, come."

He walked away, limping and followed by his acolytes, leaving behind
them the religious implements on the block of stone.

Soon as the Jesuits moved away, Christian and Justin cautiously emerged
from their hiding place, astounded at the secret they had just had
revealed to them. Christian could still hardly believe that Lefevre,
one of his oldest friends, and whose sentiments inclined him to the
Reformation, had become a priest, and was one of the most ardent
sectarians of Loyola.

"They are gone," Justin whispered to his companion; "I have not a drop
of blood left in my veins. Let's flee!"

"What imprudence! We might run against those fanatics. I doubt not they
will come back. Let us wait till they have departed."

"No, no! I will not stay here another minute. I am overcome with fear."

"Then let us try to escape by the other issue, which, as you were
telling me, runs behind this rock. Come, be brave!"

"I am not sure whether that passage is not now obstructed. It would be
dangerous to enter it without a light. A light would betray us. Let's
return upon our steps."

More and more frightened, Justin walked rapidly towards the entrance of
the quarry. Christian followed, unwilling to leave him alone. The moment
they were about to emerge from the subterranean cavern, their ears were
struck by the sound of human voices coming from above. The moon was now
high in the sky, and lighted the only path that led to the abbey.

"We can not leave this place without being seen," observed Justin in a
low and anxious voice. "Those men have gathered upon the platform above
the entrance of the cave."

"Listen," said Christian, yielding to an irresistible impulse of
curiosity; "listen, they are talking."

The artisans remained motionless and mute. For a moment a solemn silence
reigned. Presently the voice of Ignatius Loyola reached them as if it
descended from heaven.

"Do you swear?" came from the founder of the Society of Jesus. "Do you
swear in the name of the living God?"

"In the name of God," responded the Jesuits. "We swear! We shall obey
our master!"

"My sons," Loyola's voice resumed solemnly, "from this place you can see
the four cardinal points of that world whose empire I parcel out among
you, valiant soldiers of the Society of Jesus. Down yonder, towards the
north, lie the land of the Muscovite, Germany, England. To you, Germany,
England and the land of the Muscovite--John Lainez."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Yonder, to the east, Turkey, Asia, the Holy Land. To you, Turkey, Asia
and the Holy Land--Rodriguez of Acevedo."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Yonder, towards the west, the new America and the Indies. To you, the
new America and the Indies--Alfonso Salmeron."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Yonder, to the south, Africa, Italy, Spain, Portugal, the islands of
Corsica and Sardinia, and the Balearic Isles. To you, Africa, Italy,
Spain, Portugal, the islands of Corsica and Sardinia and the Balearic
Isles--Inigo of Bobadilla. Behold your empire."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Finally, here at our feet, Paris, the capital of France, a world in
itself. To you, Paris, to you, France--John Lefevre."

"Master, your will be done!"

"Beginning with to-morrow, gird up your loins. Depart, staff in hand,
alone, unknown. To work, soldiers of Jesus! To work, Jesuits! The
kingdom of earth is ours! To-morrow I depart for Rome, to offer or force
upon the Pope our invincible support."

Loyola's voice died away. Hearing the sectarians descending from the
platform, Christian and Justin hurried back to their hiding place,
behind the huge rock upon which were the implements that Lefevre had
used in the celebration of the mass. The latter soon came back, followed
by his companions. He doffed his sacerdotal vestments, and approached
the improvised altar to gather the sacred vessels. So busied, his hand
struck against the chalice, which rolled down and fell behind the rock
at the place where the two artisans were crowding themselves from sight.
John Lefevre walked back of the rock after the chalice which had fallen
close to Christian's feet. The latter saw the Jesuit approach; stoop
down and pick up the vase, without seeming, in the demi-gloom, to notice
his old friend, whom his hand almost touched, and rejoin the other
disciples.

"Lefevre has seen us!" thought Christian to himself. "It is impossible
he should not have noticed us. And yet, not a word, not a gesture
betrayed upon his countenance the astonishment and uneasiness into which
he must have been plunged by our presence at this place, and the
knowledge that we are in possession of the secret of his society."

While Christian was absorbed by these thoughts, Lefevre, ever
imperturbable, returned to his bag the objects which he used in
celebrating the mass, walked out of the cavern with his companions, and
whispered a few words into the ear of Loyola. A slight tremor ran
through the frame of the latter, who, however, immediately recovered his
composure, and whispered back his answer to Lefevre. The latter lowered
his head in token of acquiescence. Thereupon the founder of the Society
of Jesus and his disciples disappeared in the windings of the road and
reached Paris.

Such was the origin of that infernal society.




CHAPTER XI.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.


As soon as Christian returned home, late towards midnight, he hastened
to communicate to his guest the occurrences at Montmartre. Monsieur John
concluded it was urgent to assemble the chiefs of the Reformation in the
abandoned quarry, where there was no danger of apprehending the return
of the Jesuits, seeing that Ignatius Loyola was to depart immediately
for Rome, while his disciples were to scatter to the distant countries
parceled out to them. Finally, if, as Christian persisted with good
reason in believing, Lefevre had noticed the presence of the two
artisans at the Jesuit conventicle, it would be an additional reason to
keep them from returning to the spot. Accordingly, Monsieur John decided
to convoke the chiefs of the Reformation in Paris for six o'clock in the
afternoon of the following day at Montmartre. To this effect he prepared
a letter giving the directions to the trysting place. Justin was to
proceed in time to make certain that the second issue was practicable.
Furthermore, it was agreed between Bridget and her husband that she
would absent herself together with her daughter before sunset, in order
to allow the stranger to leave the house unnoticed by Hena. On his
part, Christian was to pretend an invitation to supper with a friend, in
order to engage his son's company in a walk, and was to dismiss him when
he thought that Monsieur John had departed. The program was carried out
as agreed. When Bridget and Hena returned home after a short walk along
the banks of the Seine, the proscribed man had quitted his hospitable
refuge, and betaken him to the Montmartre Gate, where Christian was to
await him, and conduct him to the place of meeting.

The artisan's wife and daughter busied themselves at their trade of
embroidery. They worked in silence by the light of a lamp--Bridget
musing over Hervé's repentance, while Hena, lost in revery, frequently
allowed her needle to drop inactive on her lap. The young girl was
absorbed in her own thoughts, a stranger to what went on around her. The
hour of nine struck from the distant clock in the tower of St.
James-of-the-Slaughter-House.

"Nine o'clock," observed Bridget to herself. "My son can not be long in
coming back. With what joy shall I not embrace him this evening! What a
heavy load did not his repentance roll off my heart! The dear child!"

And addressing Hena without removing her eyes from her needlework:

"God be blessed! Dear child, you will no longer have cause to complain
of Hervé's indifference. No, no! And when my little Odelin comes back
from Italy we shall then all live together again, happy as of old. I am
awaiting with impatience the return of Master Raimbaud, the armorer,
who will bring us back our gentle Odelin."

Not receiving any answer from her daughter, Bridget looked up and said
to her:

"I have been speaking to you some time, dear daughter. You do not seem
to hear me. Why are you so absentminded?"

Hena remained silent for an instant, then she smiled and answered
naïvely:

"Singular as it may be, why should I not tell you, mother? It would be
the first time in my life that I kept a secret from you."

"Well, my child, what is the reason of your absent-mindedness?"

"It is--well, it is Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, mother."

Dropping her embroidery, Bridget contemplated her daughter with extreme
astonishment. Hena, however, proceeded with a candid smile:

"Does that astonish you, mother? I am, myself, a good deal more
astonished."

Hena uttered these words with such ingenuousness, her handsome face,
clear as her soul, turned to her mother with such trustfulness, that
Bridget, at once uneasy and confident--uneasy, by reason of the
revelation; confident, by reason of Hena's innocent assurance--said to
her after a short pause:

"Indeed, dear daughter, I am astonished at what I learn from you. You
saw, it seems to me, Brother St. Ernest-Martyr only two or three times
at our friend Mary La Catelle's, before that unhappy affair of the
other evening on the bridge."

"Yes, mother. And that is just the extraordinary thing about it. Since
day before yesterday I constantly think of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr.
And that is not all. Last night I dreamt of him!"

"Dreamt of him!" exclaimed Bridget.

So far from evading her mother's gaze, Hena's only answer was two
affirmative nods of the head, which she gave, opening wide her beautiful
blue eyes, in which the childlike and charming astonishment, that her
own sentiments caused her, was depicted.

"Yes, mother; I dreamt of him. I saw him picking up at the door of a
church a poor child that shook with cold. I saw him pick up the child,
hold it in his arms, warm it with his breath, and contemplate it with so
pitying and tender an air, that the tears forced themselves to my eyes.
I was so moved that I woke up with a start--and I really wept!"

"That dream is singular, my daughter!"

"Singular? No! The dream is explainable enough. Day before yesterday
Hervé was telling me of the charitable nature of Brother St.
Ernest-Martyr. That same evening we saw the poor monk carried into our
house with his face bleeding. That I should have been deeply impressed,
and should have dreamt of him, I understand. But what I do not
understand is that when I am awake, wide awake, I should still think of
him. Look, even now, when I shut my eyes"--and, smiling, Hena suited the
action to the words--"I still see him as if he stood there, with that
kind face of his that he turns upon the little children."

"But, my dear daughter, when you think of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr,
what is the nature of your thoughts?"

Hena pondered for an instant, and then answered:

"I would not know how to explain it to you, mother. When I think of him
I say to myself: 'How good, how generous, how brave is Brother St.
Ernest-Martyr! Day before yesterday he braved the sword to defend Mary
La Catelle; another day, on the Notre Dame Bridge, he leaped into the
water to save an unhappy man who was drowning; he picks up little
deserted children, or gives them instruction with so much interest and
affection that their own father could not display more solicitude in
them.'"

"Thinking over it, dear child, there is nothing in all that but what is
perfectly natural. The brother is an upright man. Your thoughts turn
upon his good deeds. That's quite simple."

"No, mother, it is not quite so simple as you put it! Are not you all
that is best in this world? Is not my father as upright a man as Brother
St. Ernest-Martyr? Are not you two my beloved and venerated parents? And
yet--that is what puzzles me, how comes it that I oftener think of him
than of either of you?"

And after a pause the young maid added in an accent of adorable candor:

"I tell you, mother, it is truly extraordinary!"

Several impatient raps, given at the street door interrupted the
conversation. Bridget said to her daughter:

"Open the window, and see who it is that knocks. Probably it is your
brother."

"Yes, mother; it is he; it is Hervé," said Hena, opening the window.

She descended to the floor below.

"My God!" thought Bridget to herself in no slight agitation. "How am I
to interpret the confidence of Hena? Her soul is incapable of
dissimulation. She has told me the whole truth, without being aware of
the sentiments the young monk awakens in her. I can hardly wait to
inform Christian of this strange discovery!"

The sound of Hervé's steps hurriedly ascending the stairs drew Bridget
from her brown study. She saw her son rush in, followed by his sister.
As he stepped into the room he cried with a troubled countenance:

"Oh, mother! mother!" and embracing her tenderly he added: "Oh, mother!
What sad news I bring you!"

"Dear child, what is it?"

"Our poor Mary La Catelle--"

"What has happened to her?"

"This evening, as I was about to leave the printing shop, father asked
me to accompany him part of the way. He was going to a friend's, with
whom he was to take supper this evening. Father said: 'La Catelle's
house is on our way, we shall drop in and inquire whether she is still
suffering from her painful experience of the other evening'--"

"Yesterday morning," Bridget broke in, "after I took her home with your
sister, we left Mary calm and at ease. She is a brave woman."

"Notwithstanding her firm nature and her self-control, she succumbed to
the reaction of that night's excitement. Last night she was seized with
a high fever. She was bled twice to-day. A minute ago we found her in a
desperate state. A fatal end is apprehended."

"Poor Mary!" exclaimed Hena, clasping her hands in despair, and her eyes
filling with tears. "What a misfortune! This news overwhelms me with
sorrow!"

"Unhappily her sister-in-law left yesterday for Meaux with her husband,"
remarked Hervé. "La Catelle, at death's door, is left at this moment to
the care of a servant."

"Hena, quick, my cloak!" said Bridget rising precipitately from her
seat. "I can not leave that worthy friend to the care of mercenary
hands. I shall run to her help."

"Good, dear mother, you but forestall father's wishes," observed Hervé,
as his sister hurried to take Bridget's cloak out of a trunk. "Father
told me to hurry and notify you of this misfortune. He said he knew how
attached you were to our friend, and that you would wish to spend the
night at her bed, and render her the care she stands in need of."

Wrapping herself in her cloak, Bridget was about to leave the house.

"Mother," said Hena, "will you not take me with you?"

"How can you think of such a thing, child, at this hour of night!"

"Sister, it is for me to escort mother," put in Hervé; and, with a
tender voice, accompanied with the offer of his forehead for Bridget to
kiss, the hypocrite added:

"Is it not the sweetest of my duties to watch over you, good mother?"

"Oh," said Bridget, moved, and kissing her son's forehead, "I recognize
you again, my son!" With this passing allusion to the painful incidents
of the last few days, which she had already forgiven, the unsuspecting
mother proceeded: "A woman of my age runs no risk on the street, my son;
besides, I do not wish your sister to remain alone in the house."

"I am not afraid, mother," Hena responded. "I shall bolt the door from
within. I shall feel easier that way than to have you go out without
company at this hour of night. Why, mother, remember what happened to La
Catelle night before last! Let Hervé go with you."

"Mother," put in Hervé, "you hear what my dear sister says."

"Children, we are losing precious time. Let us not forget that, at this
hour, our friend may be expiring in the hands of a stranger. Good-bye!"

"How unlucky that just to-day our uncle should have gone to St. Denis!"
put in Hervé with a sigh. But seeming to be struck with an idea he
added: "Mother, why could not both Hena and I accompany you?"

"Oh, darling brother, you deserve an embrace, twenty embraces, for that
bright thought," said the young girl, throwing her arms around Hervé's
neck. "It is agreed, mother, we shall all three go together."

"Impossible. The house can not be left alone, children. Who will open
the door to your father when he comes home? Besides, did not Master
Simon send us yesterday a little bag of pearls to embroider on the
velvet gown for the Duchess of Etampes? The pearls are of considerable
value. I would feel very uneasy if these valuable articles remained
without anybody to watch them. Knowing you are here, Hervé, I shall feel
easy on that score," remarked Bridget with a look of affectionate
confidence that seemed to say to her son: "Yesterday you committed
larceny; but you are now again an honorable boy; to-day I can entrust
you with the guardianship of my treasure."

Hervé divined his mother's thoughts. He raised her hand to his lips and
said:

"Your trust in me shall be justified."

"Still, this very evening, shortly before nightfall, we left the house
all alone for a walk along the river," objected Hena. "Why should we run
any greater risk now, if we go out all three of us?"

"Dear daughter, it was then still light; the shops of our neighbors were
still open; burglars would not have dared to make a descent upon us at
such a time. At this hour, on the contrary, all the shops being closed,
and the streets almost deserted, thieves are in season."

"And it is just at such an hour that you are going to expose yourself,
mother."

"I have nothing about me to tempt the cupidity of thieves. Good-bye!
Good-bye, my children!" Bridget said hastily, and embracing Hena and her
brother: "To-morrow morning, my dear girl, your father will take you to
La Catelle's, where you will find me. We shall return home together.
Hervé, light me downstairs."

Preceded by her son, who carried the lamp, Bridget quickly descended the
stairs and left the house.




CHAPTER XII.

HERVE'S DEMENTIA.


No sooner had Hervé closed the street door upon his mother than he
slowly re-ascended the stairs to the upper chamber, saying to himself:

"It will take my mother an hour to reach La Catelle's house; at least as
long to return; father will not be home until midnight; I have two full
hours to myself. They shall be turned to profit."

Pressing with a convulsive hand against his heart the scapulary
containing Tezel's letter of absolution, Hervé entered the room in which
Hena was left alone.

From the threshold Hervé saw his sister on her knees. Astonished at her
posture, he stepped towards her and asked:

"Hena, what are you doing?"

"I was praying to God that He may guard mother, and restore our friend
to health," answered the young girl, rising; and she proceeded with a
sigh: "My heart feels heavy. May no misfortune threaten us."

Saying this, the confiding girl sat down to her embroidery. Her brother
took a seat beside her on a stool. After a few seconds he broke the
silence:

"Hena, do you remember that about three months ago I suddenly changed
towards you?"

Not a little surprised at these opening words, the young girl answered:

"Why recall those evil days, brother? Thank heaven, they are over; they
will not return."

"Do you remember," Hervé proceeded without noticing his sister's words,
"do you remember that, so far from returning, I repelled your caresses?"

"I do not wish to remember that, Hervé; I do not think of it now."

"Hena, the reason was I had made a strange discovery in my heart--I
loved you!"

The young girl dropped her needle, turned suddenly towards her brother,
and, fixing upon him her astonished eyes, looked at him for a moment in
silence. Thereupon, smiling, and in accents of tender reproach, she
said:

"How! Were you so long making the discovery that you loved me? And did
the discovery seem to you--strange?"

"Yes," answered Hervé, ignoring the childlike reproach implied in his
sister's words; "yes, the discovery was slow--yes, it seemed to me
strange. Long did I struggle against that sentiment; my nights were
passed sleepless."

"You slept no more because you loved me? That's odd!"

"Because I loved you--"

"Come, Hervé, it is not handsome to joke about so painful a subject. Do
you forget the sorrow that fell on us all when, all of a sudden, we saw
you become so somber, so silent, and almost to seem indifferent to us?
Our dear little Odelin, who departed since then to Milan with Master
Raimbaud, was probably less saddened by the thought of leaving us, than
by your coolness for us all."

"Remorse gave me neither peace, nor rest. Alas, I say correctly,
remorse."

"Remorse?" repeated the young girl stupefied. "I do not understand you."

"The tortures of my soul, coupled with a vague instinct of hope, drove
me to the feet of a holy man. He listened to me at the confessional. He
unrolled before my eyes the inexhaustible resources of the faith. Well,
my remorse vanished; peace re-entered my heart. Now, Hena, I love you
without remorse and without internal struggles. I love you in security."

"Well, if that is the game, I shall proceed with my embroidery," said
the young girl; and picking up her needle, she resumed her work, adding
in a playful tone: "Seeing that the Seigneur Hervé loves me without
remorse and in security, all is said--although, for my part, I do not
fathom those big words 'struggles' and 'tortures' with regard to the
return of the affection of the Seigneur Hervé for a sister who loves him
as much as she is beloved." But speedily dropping the spirit of banter
and sadly raising her eyes to her brother's, she continued: "Here, my
friend, I must quit jesting. You have long suffered. You seemed whelmed
with a secret sorrow. Come, what was the cause? I am still in the dark
thereon. Acquaint me with it."

"The cause was love for you, Hena!"

"Still at it? Come, Hervé, I am but a very ignorant girl, beside you who
know Latin. But when you say that the cause of your secret sorrow was
your attachment for me--"

"I said love, Hena--"

"Love, attachment, tenderness--is it not all one?"

"You spoke to me day before yesterday of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr."

"I did. And only a short time ago I was talking about him with mother--"
Suddenly breaking off, Hena exclaimed: "Good God! Dear, good mother!
When I think of her being all alone at this hour on the street, without
anyone to protect her!"

"Be not alarmed. Our mother runs no danger whatever."

"May heaven hear you, Hervé!"

"Let us return to Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, of whom you were just
before speaking with mother. Do you love the monk in the same manner
that you love me?"

"Can the two things be compared? I have spent my life beside you; you
are my brother--on the other hand, I have seen that poor monk but five
or six times, and then for a minute only."

"You love him--do not lie!"

"My God! In what a tone you speak, Hervé. I have nothing to conceal."

"Do you love that monk?"

"Certainly--just as one loves all that is good and just. I know the
generous actions of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. You, yourself, only a
few days ago, told me a very touching deed done by him."

"Do you constantly think of the monk?"

"Constantly, no. But this very evening I was saying to mother that I was
astonished I thought so frequently of him."

"Hena, suppose our parents thought of marrying you, and that the young
monk, instead of being a clergyman, was free, could become your husband
and loved you--would you wed him?"

"What a crazy supposition!"

"Let us suppose all I have said--that he is not a monk and loves you; if
our parents gave their consent to the marriage, would you accept that
man for your husband?"

"Dear brother, you are putting questions to me--"

"You would wed him with joy," Hervé broke in with hollow voice, fixing
upon his sister a jealous and enraged eye that escaped her, seeing the
embroidery on which she was engaged helped her conceal the embarrassment
that the singular interrogatory to which she was being subjected threw
her into. Nevertheless, the girl's natural frankness regained the upper
hand, and without raising her eyes to her brother, Hena answered:

"Why should I not consent to wed an honorable man, if our parents
approved the marriage?"

"Accordingly, you love the monk! Yes, you love him passionately! The
thought of him obsesses you. Your grief and the sorrow that day before
yesterday you felt when he was carried wounded into the house, the tears
I surprised in your eyes--all these are so many symptoms of your love
for him!"

"Hervé, I know not why, but your words alarm me, they disconcert me,
they freeze my heart, they make me feel like weeping. I did not feel
that way this evening when I conversed with mother about Brother St.
Ernest-Martyr. Besides, your face looks gloomy, almost enraged."

"I hate that monk to death!"

"My God! What has he done to you?"

"What has he done to me?" repeated Hervé. "You love him! That is his
crime!"

"Brother!" cried Hena, rising from her work to throw herself on the neck
of her brother and holding him in a tight embrace. "Utter not such
words! You make me wretched!"

Convulsed with despair, Hervé pressed his sister passionately to his
breast and covered her forehead and hair with kisses, while Hena,
innocently responding to his caresses, whispered with gentle emotion:

"Good brother, you are no longer angry, are you? If you only knew my
alarm at seeing you look so wicked!"

A heavy knock resounded at the street door, followed immediately by the
sonorous and merry voice of the Franc-Taupin singing his favorite song:

    "A Franc-Taupin had an ash-tree bow,
    All eaten with worms, and all knotted its cord;
    _Derideron, vignette on vignon!! Derideron!_"

A tremor ran through Hervé. Quickly recalling himself, he ran to the
casement, opened it, and leaning forward, cried out: "Good evening,
uncle!"

"Dear nephew, I am back from St. Denis. I did not wish to return to
Paris without telling you all good-day!"

"Oh, dear uncle, a great misfortune has happened! La Catelle is dying.
She sent for mother, who left at once. I could not accompany her, being
obliged to remain here with Hena in father's absence. We feel uneasy at
the thought that mother may have to come back all alone on this dark
night."

"All alone! By the bowels of St. Quenet, of what earthly use am I, if
not to protect my sister!" replied Josephin. "I shall start on a run to
La Catelle's, and see your mother home. Be not uneasy, my lad. When I
return I shall embrace you and your sister, if you are not yet in bed."

The Franc-Taupin hastened away. Hervé shut the window, and returned in a
state of great excitement to Hena, who inquired:

"Why did you induce uncle to go to-night after mother? She is to stay
all night at La Catelle's. Why do you not answer me? Why is your face so
lowering? My God! What ails you? Brother, brother, do not look upon me
with such eyes! I am trembling all over."

"Hena, I love you--I love you carnally!"

"I--do not comprehend--what--you say. I do not understand your words.
You now frighten me. Your eyes are bloodshot."

"The kind of love you feel for that monk--that love I feel for you! I
love you with a passionate desire."

"Hervé, you are out of your mind. You do not know what you say!"

"I must possess you!"

"Good God, am I also going crazy? Do my eyes--do my ears deceive me?"

"Hena--you are beautiful! Sister, I adore you--"

"Do not touch me! Mercy! Hervé, brother, you are demented! Recognize
me--it is I--Hena--your own sister--it is I who am here before you--on
my knees."

"Come, come into my arms!"

"Help! Help! Mother! Father!"

"Mother is far away--father also. We are alone--in the dark--and I have
received absolution! You shall be mine, will ye nil ye!"

The monster, intent upon accomplishing his felony in obscurity, knocked
down the lamp with his fist, threw himself upon Hena, and gripped her in
his arms. The girl slipped away from him, reached the staircase that led
to the lower floor, and bounded down. Hervé rushed after her, and seized
her as she was about to clear the lowest steps. The distracted child
called for help. Holding her with one hand, her brother tried to gag her
with the other, lest her cries be heard by the neighbors. Suddenly the
street door was thrown open, flooding the room with moonlight, and
disclosing Bridget on the threshold. Thunderstruck, the mother perceived
her daughter struggling in the arms of her brother, and still, though in
a smothered voice, crying: "Help! Help!" The wretch, now rendered
furious at the danger of his victim's escaping him, and dizzy with the
vertigo of crime, did not at first recognize Bridget. He flung Hena
behind him, and seizing a heavy iron coal-rake from the fireplace, was
about to use it for a club, not even recoiling before murder in order to
free himself from an importunate witness. Already the dangerous weapon
was raised when, by the light of the moon, the incestuous lad discovered
the features of his mother.

"Save yourself, mother," cried Hena between her sobs; "he is gone crazy;
he will kill you. Only your timely help saved me from his violent
assault."

"Infamous boy!" cried the mother. "That, then, was your purpose in
removing me from the house. God willed that half way to La Catelle's I
met her brother-in-law--"

"Be gone!" thundered back Hervé, a prey to uncontrollable delirium; and
raising the iron coal-rake which he had lowered under the first impulse
of surprise at the sight of his mother, he staggered towards Bridget
yelling: "Be gone!"

"Matricide! Dare you raise that iron bar against me--your mother?"

"All my crimes are absolved in advance! Incest--parricide--all are
absolved! Be gone, or I kill you!"

Hardly were these appalling words uttered, when the sound of numerous
and rapidly approaching steps penetrated into the apartment through the
door that Bridget had left open. Almost immediately a troop of
patrolling archers, under the command of a sergeant-at-arms, and led by
a man in a black frock with the cowl drawn over his head, halted and
drew themselves up before the house of Christian. The Franc-Taupin had
met them a short distance from the Exchange Bridge. A few words,
exchanged among the soldiers, notified him of the errand they were on.
Alarmed at what he overheard, he had quickly retraced his steps and
followed them at a distance. The sergeant in command stepped in at the
very moment that Hervé uttered the last menace to his mother.

"Does Christian Lebrenn dwell here?" asked the soldier. "Answer
quickly."

Ready to sink distracted, Bridget was not at first able to articulate a
word. Hena gathered strength to rise from the floor where Hervé had
flung her, and ran to Bridget, into whose arms she threw herself. Hervé
dropped at his feet the iron implement he had armed himself with, and
remained motionless, savage of mien, his arms crossed over his breast.
The man whose face was hidden by the cowl of his black frock--that man
was John Lefevre, the disciple of Ignatius Loyola--whispered a few words
in the ear of the sergeant. The latter again addressed Bridget, now in
still more peremptory tones:

"Is this the dwelling of Christian Lebrenn, a typesetter by trade?"

"Yes," answered Bridget, and greatly alarmed by the visit of the
soldiers, she added: "My husband is not at home. He will not be back
until late."

"You are the wife of Christian Lebrenn?" resumed the sergeant, and
pointing to Hena and then to Hervé: "That young girl and that young man
are your children, are they not? By order of Monsieur John Morin, the
Criminal Lieutenant, I am commissioned to arrest Christian Lebrenn, a
printer, his wife, his son and his daughter as being charged with
heresy, and to take them to a safe place."

"My husband is not at home!" cried Bridget, her first thought being to
the safety of Christian, although herself stupefied with fear at the
threatened arrest. That instant, and standing a few steps behind the
archers, the Franc-Taupin, taller by a head than the armed troop before
him, caught the eyes of Bridget. With a sign he warned her to keep
silent. He then bent his long body in two, and vanished.

"Do you want to make us believe your husband is not at home?" resumed
the sergeant. "We shall search the house." Then turning to his men:
"Bind the hands of that young man, of the young girl and of the woman,
and keep guard over the prisoners."

John Lefevre, his face still concealed under the cowl of his frock,
could not be recognized by Bridget. He knew the inmates of the house, at
whose hearth he had often sat as a friend. He motioned to the sergeant
to follow him, and taking a lanthorn from the hand of one of the
archers, mounted the stairs, entered the chamber of the married couple,
and pointing with his finger to a cabinet in which Christian kept his
valuables, said to him:

"The papers in question must be in there, in a little casket of black
wood."

The key stood in the lock of the cabinet. The sergeant opened the two
doors. From one of the shelves he took down a casket of considerable
proportions.

"That is the one," said John Lefevre. "Give it to me. I shall place it
in the hands of Monsieur the Criminal Lieutenant."

"That Christian must be hiding somewhere," remarked the sergeant,
looking under the bed, and behind the curtains.

"It is almost certain," answered John Lefevre. "He rarely goes out at
night. There is all the greater reason to expect to find him in at this
hour, seeing he spent part of last night out of the house."

"Why did they not try to arrest him during the day at the printing
office of Monsieur Estienne?" the sergeant inquired while keeping up his
search. "He could not have been missed there."

"As to that, my friend, I shall say, in the first place, that, due to
the untoward absence of Monsieur the Criminal Lieutenant, who was
summoned early this morning to Cardinal Duprat's palace, our order of
arrest could not be delivered until too late in the evening. In the
second place, you know as well as I that the artisans of Monsieur
Estienne are infected with heresy; they are armed; and might have
attempted to resist the arrest of their companion. No doubt the archers
would have prevailed in the end. But Christian might have made his
escape during the struggle, whereas the chances were a thousand to one
he could be taken by surprise at his house, in the dark, along with his
family."

"And yet he still escapes us," observed the sergeant, after some fresh
searches. Noticing the door of Hena's chamber, he entered and rummaged
that room also, with no better results, and said: "Nothing in this
direction either."

"Come, let us investigate the garret. Give me the lanthorn, and follow
me. If he is not there either, then we must renounce his capture for
to-night. Fortunately we got the woman and the children--besides this,"
added the Jesuit, tapping upon the casket under his arm. "We shall find
Christian, sure enough."

Saying this, John Lefevre opened the panel leading to the nook where
stood the ladder to the attic; he climbed it, followed by the sergeant,
arrived in the garret which had served as refuge to the unknown, noticed
the mattress, some crumbs of bread and the remains of some fruit, pens
and an inkhorn on a stool, and, scattered over the floor, fragments of
paper covered with a fine and close handwriting.

"Somebody was hiding here, and spent some time, too!" exclaimed the
sergeant excitedly. "This mattress, these pens, indicate the presence of
a stranger of studious habits;" and running to the dormer window that
opened upon the river, he mused: "Can Christian have made his escape by
this issue?"

While the archer renewed his search, vainly rummaging every nook and
corner of the garret, John Lefevre carefully collected the bits of paper
that were strewn over the floor, assorted them, and kneeling down beside
the stool, on which he placed the lanthorn, examined the manuscript
intently. Suddenly a tremor ran over his frame, and turning to the
sergeant he said:

"There is every reason to believe that Christian Lebrenn is not in the
house. I think I can guess the reason of his absence. Nevertheless,
before quitting the place we must search the bedroom of his two sons. It
is in the rear of the ground floor room. Let us hurry. Your expedition
is not yet ended. We shall probably have to leave Paris to-night, and
carry our investigation further."

"Leave Paris, reverend Father?"

"Yes, perhaps. But I shall first have to notify the Criminal Lieutenant.
What a discovery! To be able at one blow to crush the nest of
vipers!--_ad majorem Dei gloriam!_"[34]

John Lefevre and the sergeant re-descended to the ground floor. After a
few whispered words to the soldier, the Jesuit departed, carrying with
him the casket in which the chronicles of the Lebrenn family were
locked.

The chamber occupied by Hervé was ransacked as vainly as had been the
other apartments of the house. During these operations Bridget had
striven to allay the fright of her daughter. Hervé, somber and sullen,
his hands bound like his mother's and sister's, remained oblivious to
what was happening around him. Giving up the capture of Christian, the
sergeant returned to his prisoners and announced to Bridget that he was
to carry both her and her children away with him. The poor woman
implored him to take pity on her daughter who was hardly able to keep
her feet. The sergeant answered harshly, that if the young heretic was
unable to walk she would be stripped and dragged naked over the streets.
Finally, addressing his archers, he concluded:

"Three of you are to remain in this house. When Christian raps to be let
in you will open the door, and seize his person."

Bridget could not repress a moan of anguish at hearing the order.
Christian, she reflected, was fatedly bound to fall into the trap, as he
would return home unsuspecting. The three archers locked themselves up
on the ground floor. The others, led by their chief, left the house,
and, taking Bridget and her two children with them, marched away to lead
them to prison.

"For mercy's sake," said the unhappy mother to the sergeant, "untie my
hands that I may give my daughter the support of my arm. She is so
feeble that it will be impossible for her to follow us."

"That's unnecessary," answered the sergeant. "On the other side of the
bridge you will be separated. You are not to go to the same prison as
your daughter."

"Good God! Where do you mean to take her to?"

"To the Augustinian Convent. You are to go to the Chatelet. Come, move
on, move quickly."

Hervé, who had until then remained sullenly impassive, said impatiently
to the sergeant:

"If I am to be taken to a convent, I demand to go to the Cordeliers."

"The Criminal Lieutenant is to decide upon that," replied the sergeant.

After a short wait, the archers took up their march. Alas! How shall the
pain and desolation of Hena and her mother be described at learning they
were not to be allowed even the consolation of suffering this latest
trial in each other's company? Nevertheless, a ray of hope lighted
Bridget's heart. Her last words with the sergeant had been exchanged
near the cross that stood in the middle of the bridge, and close to
which the archers were passing at the time. Christian's wife saw the
Franc-Taupin on his knees at the foot of the crucifix, gesticulating
wildly, raising his head and crying out like a frantic devotee:

"Lord! Lord! _Thy eye has seen everything. Thy ear has heard
everything_; there is nothing hidden from Thee. Have pity upon me,
miserable sinner, that I am! Thanks to Thee _he will be saved_. I hope
so! In the name of the most Holy Trinity."

"There is a good Catholic who will not fail to be saved," said the
sergeant, making the sign of the cross and looking at the kneeling
figure of the Franc-Taupin, who furiously smote his chest without
intermission, while the archers redoubled their pace and marched away,
dragging their prisoners behind them.

"God be blessed!" said Bridget to herself, understanding the information
that Josephin meant to convey. "My brother has seen everything and heard
everything. He will remain in the neighborhood of the house. He expects
to save Christian from the danger that threatens him. He will inform
Christian that his daughter has been taken to the Augustinian Convent
and I to the Chatelet prison."

Such indeed was the purpose of the Franc-Taupin. When the archers had
disappeared he drew near to Christian's house and contemplated it sadly
and silently by the light of the moon. Accidentally his eyes fell upon a
scapulary that had dropped near the threshold. He recognized it, having
more than once seen it hanging on the breast of Hervé. The strings of
the relic had snapped during the struggle of Hena with her brother, and
the bag being thus detached from Hervé's neck it had slipped down
between his shirt and his jacket, and dropped to the ground. The
Franc-Taupin picked up the relic, and opened it mechanically. Finding
therein the letter of absolution, he ran his eye hurriedly over the
latter, and at once replaced it in the scapulary.




CHAPTER XIII.

CALVINISTS IN COUNCIL.


While the events narrated in the previous chapter were occurring at his
house, Christian Lebrenn was climbing in the company of his mysterious
guest the slope of Montmartre, along the path that led to the abbey.

"Monsieur Lebrenn," said Monsieur John, who had been in deep silence, "I
should feel guilty of an act of ingratitude and of mistrust were I any
longer to withhold from you my name. Perhaps it is not unknown to you. I
am John Calvin."

"I feel happy, monsieur, in having given asylum to the chief of the
Reformation, to the valiant apostle who has declared war to Catholicism,
and who propagates the new ideas in France."

"Alas, our cause already counts its martyrs by the thousands. Who knows
but I may soon be added to their number? My life is in the hands of the
Lord."

"Our enemies are powerful."

"Among these, the most redoubtable ones will be the Jesuits, the
sectarians whose secret you surprised. Their purposes were not so well
concealed but that I already had intimation of the endeavors of their
chief to gather around himself active, devoted and resolute men. Hence
the lively interest I felt in the narrative of your relative, the
one-time page of Ignatius Loyola, when the latter was still a military
chieftain. That revelation, coupled with yours, has given me the key to
the character of the founder of the Society of Jesus, his craving after
power, and the means that he uses in order to satisfy his ambition. The
military discipline, that turns the soldier into a passive instrument of
his captain, is to be applied to the domination of souls, which are to
be rendered no less passive, no less servile. His project is to center
in himself, to direct and to subjugate human conscience, thanks to a
doctrine that extenuates and encourages the most detestable passions.
Ignatius Loyola said the word: 'The penitent of a Jesuit will see the
horizon of his most ardent hopes open before him; all paths will be
smoothed before his feet; a tutelary mantle will cover his defects, his
errors and his crimes; to incur his resentment will be a dreaded
ordeal.'"

"I shuddered as I heard that man distribute the empire of the world
among his disciples in the name of such an impious doctrine. It cannot
choose--the painful admission must be made--but impart to the Jesuits a
formidable power until man be regenerated. Thanks, however, to God, the
Reformation also now counts fervent adepts."

"The disciples of the Reformation are still few in number, but their
influence upon the masses of the people is no less extensive, due to the
moral force of our doctrine. All straightforward, pure and generous
souls are with us. Men of learning, poets, merchants, enlightened
artisans like yourself, Monsieur Lebrenn; rich men, bourgeois, artists,
professors; even military men will gather this evening at our meeting to
confess the true Evangelium."

"Civil war is a fearful extremity. All the same, the day may come when
the men of arms will be needed by the Reformation."

"May that untoward day never arrive! My opinion is that patience,
resignation and respect for the laws and the Crown should be carried to
the utmost limit possible. Nevertheless, should the sword have to be
drawn, not for the purpose of imposing the Evangelical church through
violence, but for the purpose of defending our lives, and the lives of
our brothers, I should not, then, hesitate to call upon the men of arms
who are partisans of the Reformation. Among these, it is my belief, we
shall number a young man who has barely emerged from adolescence, and
who gives promise of becoming a great captain at maturer age. He is
called Gaspard of Coligny. His father bore himself bravely in the late
wars of Italy and Germany. He died leaving his sons still in their
childhood. Madam Coligny raised them in the Evangelical faith. About a
year ago I found a place of refuge under her roof, at her castle of
Chatillon-on-the-Loing, in Burgundy. I there met her eldest son,
Gaspard. The precocious intellectual maturity of the lad, his devotion
to our cause, awakened in me the best of hopes. He will be one of the
pillars of the new temple--besides a terrible enemy raised against the
Pope and Satan."

"Monsieur," put in Christian, interrupting John Calvin in a low voice,
"we are shadowed. I have noticed for some little while three men not far
behind us, who seem to be timing their steps to ours."

"Let us stop, let us allow them to pass. We shall ascertain whether they
are bent upon following us. They may be friends, like ourselves bound to
our assembly."

Christian and John Calvin halted. Shortly they were passed by three men
clad in dark colors, and all three carrying swords. One of these seemed,
as he passed closely by John Calvin, to scan his face intently in the
moonlight. A moment later, after having proceeded a little distance with
his friends, he left them, retraced his steps, and walking towards
Christian and his companion, said, courteously touching his cap with his
hand:

"Monsieur Calvin, I am happy to meet you."

"Monsieur Coligny!" exclaimed the reformer gladly. "You did come--as I
hoped you would."

"It was natural I should respond to the summons of him whose doctrines I
share, and for whom my mother entertains so much esteem and affection."

"Are the two gentlemen you are with of our people, Monsieur Coligny?"

"Yes. One is French, the other a foreigner, both devoted to our cause. I
have felt safe to bring them to our assembly. I vouch for them, as for
myself. The foreigner is a German Prince, Charles of Gerolstein, a
cousin of the Prince of Deux-Ponts, and, like him, one of the boldest
followers of Luther. My other friend, a younger son of Count Neroweg of
Plouernel, one of the great seigneurs of Brittany and Auvergne, is as
zealous in favor of the Reformation as his elder brother for the
maintenance of the privileges and dominion of the Church of Rome."

"Sad divisions of the domestic hearth!" observed John Calvin with a
sigh. "It is to be hoped the truth of the Evangelium may penetrate and
enlighten all the hearts of the great family of Christ!"

"May that era of peace and harmony soon arrive, Monsieur Calvin,"
replied Gaspard of Coligny. "The arrival of that great day is anxiously
desired by my friend Gaston, the Viscount of Plouernel and captain of
the regiment of Brittany. With all his power has he propagated the
Reformation in his province. To draw you his picture with one stroke, I
shall add that my mother has often said to me I could not choose a wiser
and more worthy friend than Gaston Neroweg, the Viscount of Plouernel."

"The judgment of a mother, and such a mother as Madam Coligny, is not
likely to go astray regarding her son's choice of his friends," answered
John Calvin. "Our cause is the cause of all honorable people. I would
like to express to your friends my great gratification at the support
they bring to us."

Gaspard of Coligny stepped ahead to inform his friends of John Calvin's
wish that they be introduced to him.

Upon hearing the name of the Viscount of Plouernel, Christian had
started with surprise. Accident was bringing him in friendly contact
with one of the descendants of the Nerowegs, that stock of Frankish
seigneurs which the sons of Joel the Gaul had, in the course of
generations, so often encountered, to their sorrow. He felt a sort of
instinctive repulsion for the Viscount of Plouernel, and cast upon him
uneasy and distrustful looks as, accompanied by Gaspard of Coligny and
Prince Charles of Gerolstein, he stepped towards John Calvin. While the
latter was exchanging a few words with his new friends, Christian
examined the descendant of Neroweg with curiosity. His features
reproduced the typical impress of his race--bright-blonde hair, aquiline
nose, round and piercing eyes. Nevertheless, the artisan was struck by
the expression of frankness and kindness that rendered the young man's
physiognomy attractive.

"Gentlemen," said John Calvin, whose voice interrupted the meditations
of Christian, "I am happy, in my turn, to introduce you to one of ours,
Monsieur Lebrenn, a worthy coadjutor in the printing office of our
friend Robert Estienne. Monsieur Lebrenn has incurred no little danger
in affording hospitality to me. Moreover, it is to him we are indebted
for the discovery of the locality where we are to meet to-night."

"Monsieur," replied Gaspard of Coligny addressing Christian with
emotion, "my friends and I share the sentiments of gratitude that
Monsieur John Calvin entertains for you."

"Besides that, Monsieur Lebrenn," added Neroweg, the Viscount of
Plouernel, "I am delighted to meet one of the assistants of the
illustrious Robert Estienne. All that we, men of arms and war, have to
place at the service of the cause of religious liberty is our sword; but
you and your companions in your pursuit, you operate a marvelous
talisman--the press! Glory to that invention! Light follows upon
darkness. No longer is Holy Writ, in whose name the Church of Rome
imposed so many secular idolatries upon the people, an impenetrable
mystery. Its truth owes to the press its second revelation. Finally,
thanks to the effect of the press, the hope is justified that
Evangelical fraternity will one day reign on earth!"

"You speak truly, Monsieur Plouernel. Yes, the invention of the press
bears the mark of God's hand," observed John Calvin. "But the night
advances. Our friends are surely waiting for us. Let us move on, and
join them."

With Gaspard of Coligny on one side, and the Viscount of Plouernel on
the other, John Calvin, the great promoter of the new doctrines,
proceeded to climb the slope of the hill of Montmartre.

Much to his regret, the extreme astonishment that the affable words of
the descendant of the Plouernels threw him into, deprived Christian of
the power to formulate an answer. He followed John Calvin in silence,
without noticing that, for some time, Prince Charles of Gerolstein was
examining him with increasing attention. This seigneur, a man in the
full vigor of life, tall of stature, of a strong but open countenance,
fell a little behind his friends and joined Christian, whom he thus
addressed after walking a few steps beside him:

"Believe me, monsieur, if, a minute ago, I failed to render just praise,
as my friends did, to the courageous hospitality you accorded John
Calvin, I do not, therefore, appreciate any the less the generosity of
your conduct. It was that your name fell strangely upon my senses. It
awoke within me numerous recollections--family remembrances."

"My name, Prince?"

"Spare me that princely title. Christ said: 'All men are equal before
God.' We are all brothers. Your name is Lebrenn? Is Armorican Brittany
the cradle of your family?"

"Yes, monsieur. It is."

"Did your family live near the sacred stones of Karnak, before the
conquest of Gaul by Julius Caesar?"

Christian looked at Charles of Gerolstein without attempting to conceal
his astonishment at meeting a stranger acquainted with incidents that
ran back so many centuries in his family's history. The Prince pursued
his interrogatory:

"Towards the middle of the Eighth Century, one of your ancestors, Ewrag
by name, and son of Vortigern, one of the most intrepid defenders of the
independence of Brittany, and grandson of Amael, who knew Charlemagne,
left his native land to take up his home in the lands of the far North."

"Yes, after the great Armorican insurrection. During that uprising the
Bretons appealed for aid to the Northman pirates, who had established
themselves at the mouth of the Loire. Ewrag afterwards embarked for the
North with those sea-faring peoples."

"Did he not leave behind two brothers?"

"Rosneven and Gomer."

"Ewrag, who first settled down in Denmark, had a grandson named Gaëlo.
In the year 912 he was one of the pirate chiefs who came down and
besieged Paris under the command of old Rolf, later Duke of Normandy.
Gaëlo was recognized as a member of your family by Eidiol, at that time
dean of the Parisian skippers."

"Yes, indeed. Gaëlo was taken wounded into the house of my ancestor
Eidiol. While dressing the wound of the Northman pirate, the words
'Brenn--Karnak' were discovered, traced with indelible letters on his
arm. It was a custom, often followed in those disastrous days, when ware
or slavery frequently scattered a family to the four winds. They hoped,
thanks to the indelible marks, to recognize one another should fresh
upheavals happen to throw them again in one another's way."

"After wedding the Beautiful Shigne, one of the Buckler Maidens who
joined the expedition of Rolf, Gaëlo returned to the North. Since then
there have been no tidings of him."

"Yes. For all these past centuries we have remained in ignorance
concerning that branch of our family. But, monsieur, I cannot understand
how you, a German Prince, can possess such exact information of my
humble family, which, besides, is of Gallic race. I wish you would
explain yourself."

Christian was interrupted by John Calvin, who, turning back, said to
him:

"Here we are at the top of the hill. Which path are we to follow now
out of the many in sight? Be so good as to lead us out of this maze."

"I shall walk ahead, and show you the path to follow," answered
Christian.

As Christian hastened his steps to take the lead of the group, the
Prince of Gerolstein said to him:

"I can not at this moment carry on the conversation that for a thousand
reasons I am anxious to hold with you. Where could I meet you again?"

"I live on the Exchange Bridge, facing the right side of the cross as
you come from the Louvre."

"I shall call upon you to-morrow evening, Monsieur Lebrenn;" and
extending his hand to the artisan, Prince Charles of Gerolstein added:
"Give me your hand, Christian Lebrenn, we are of the same blood. The
cradle of my own stock is old Armorican Gaul. The course of the
centuries, and the accidents of conquest have raised my house to
sovereign rank, but it is of plebeian origin."

After cordially clasping the hand of the amazed Christian, the Prince
rejoined John Calvin and his friends. At that moment, Justin, who had
been stationed on the lookout at the head of the rocky path that led to
the quarry, walked rapidly up to his fellow workman, saying:

"I had begun to feel uneasy. All the persons who have been convoked to
the meeting have arrived long ago. I counted sixty-two. I am here on the
lookout. Master Robert Estienne requested one of our friends to plant
himself near the mouth of the excavation leading to the underground
issue of the cavern. You know that gallery, cut behind the large rock,
which recently sheltered us from the eyes of Loyola and his disciples. I
inspected the passage this morning. It is open."

"In case of danger you will run and notify the assembly. I understand."

"From his side also Master Robert Estienne's friend will give the alarm
in case of need. It is not likely the quarry will be invaded by both
passages at once. One will always remain free. Our friends can
deliberate in perfect safety."

"If the gathering is not disturbed by some accident, friend Justin, I
shall return by this path and we shall reenter Paris together."

"Agreed. Our arrangements are made."

A moment later, Christian, John Calvin and his friends entered the
quarry. There they found assembled the leading partisans of the
Reformation in Paris--lawyers, literary men, rich merchants, seigneurs,
courtiers and men of arms and of science. Thus, besides Gaspard of
Coligny, Prince Charles of Gerolstein and the Viscount of Plouernel,
there were present the following personages of distinction: John
Dubourg, a Parisian draper of St. Denis Street; Etienne Laforge, a rich
bourgeois; Anthony Poille, an architect, and brother-in-law of Mary La
Catelle, who, herself, had been invited as one of the most useful
promoters of the Reformation; Clement Marot, one of the most renowned
poets of those days; a young and learned surgeon named Ambroise Paré,
the hope of his art and science, a charitable man who opened his purse
even to the sufferers whom he attended; and Bernard Palissy, a potter,
whose work will be imperishable, and who is as well versed in alchemy as
he is celebrated in sculpture. A small number of chiefs of guilds were
also present. The guilds, being plunged in ignorance, were still under
the influence of the monks, and entertained a blind hatred for the
Reformation. A few wax candles, brought along by several of the persons
present, lighted the bowels of the cavern and threw a flickering glamor
upon those grave and thoughtful faces. When John Calvin entered the
cavern he was recognized by some of the reformers. His name immediately
flew from mouth to mouth. Those who had not yet seen him drew nearer to
contemplate him. The resolute stamp of his character was reflected upon
his pensive countenance. A profound silence ensued. The reformers ranked
themselves in a circle around their apostle. He stepped upon a block of
stone in order to be better heard, and proceeded to address them:

"My dear brothers, I have just traversed the larger portion of France. I
have conferred with most of our pastors and friends in order to
determine in concert with them the articles of faith of the Evangelical
religion, the basis of which was laid by the immortal Luther. If the
formula of our common belief is adopted by you, such as it has been
adopted by most of our friends, the unity of the reformed church will be
an established thing. This is our Credo:[35]

"'We believe and confess that there is one only God, a sole, spiritual,
eternal, invisible, infinite, incomprehensible, immutable essence, who
is all-powerful, all-wise, all-good, all-just and all-merciful.'"

"That we believe; that we confess," answered the reformers.

"'We believe and confess,'" continued Calvin, "'that God manifests
Himself as such to man by creation, and by the preservation and guidance
of creation; furthermore, by the revelation of His Word, gathered by
Moses, and which constitutes what we call Holy Writ, contained in the
canonical books of the Old and the New Testament.'"

"That is the Book; the only Book; the Code of good and evil; the
instructor of men and of children alike; the divine source of all
goodness, all power, all consolation, all hope!" responded the
reformers.

"Moses was a disciple of the priests of Memphis. I can well see how he
gave out this or that Egyptian dogma, as emanating from divine
revelation--but that remains, however, a hypothesis. I do not accept the
pretended sacredness of the texts," said Christian Lebrenn, apart; while
Calvin continued:

"'We believe and confess that the Word contained in the sacred books,
which proceed from God to man, is the norm of all truth; that it is not
allowable for man to change the same in aught; that custom, judgments,
edicts, councils and miracles must in no manner be opposed to Holy Writ,
but, on the contrary, must be reformed by it.'"

"We want the Word of God pure and simple. We want it disengaged of all
the Romish impostures, that, for centuries, have falsified and
perverted it," the reformers replied.

"Here," said Christian, again to himself, "here starts the freedom of
inquiry. That is the reason for my adherence to the Reformation." Calvin
resumed:

"'We believe and confess that Holy Writ teaches us that the divine
essence consists of three persons--the Father, the Son and the Holy
Ghost, and that this Trinity is the source of all visible and invisible
things. That is our belief.'"

"It is an article of faith with us; it is the foundation of our
religion," chorused the reformers, while Christian Lebrenn added, to
himself:

"This also belongs to the domain of hypothesis--and of religious
absurdities. One more article of faith to be rejected."

"'We believe and confess,'" continued Calvin, "'that man, having been
born pure and clean in the image of God, is, through his own sin, fallen
from the grace he had received, and that all the descendants of Adam are
tainted with original sin, down to the little children in their mothers'
wombs. That is our belief on these subjects.'"

"We are bound to accept all that is found in the sacred books. The will
of the Lord is impenetrable--let it be done in all things. Our reason
must humble itself before that which seems incomprehensible," was the
response of the reformers.

"Oh, God of Love and Mercy!" exclaimed Christian Lebrenn, apart. "To
proclaim in Thy name that Thy will smites the unborn child even in its
mother's womb! Just God! Thou who knowest all things--past, present and
to come--Thou knewest Thy creature, man, who is not but because Thou
hast said, Be! was bound to fall into sin. Thou knewest it. Generations
upon generations, all guiltless of the sin of the first man, were to
undergo the terrible chastisement that it has pleased Thee to inflict
upon them. Thou knewest it. And yet, Thou art supposed to have said:
'Man, you will fall into sin. The original stain shall mark your
children even in their mothers' wombs'! Merciful God! Pardon the
infirmity of my intellect. I cannot believe a father will devote his own
children to eternal misery. I cannot believe a father can take pleasure
in allowing his children's mind to waver between justice and injustice,
especially when he knows beforehand they are fatedly certain to elect
iniquity, and when he knows the consequence of their choice will be
fearful to themselves and to all their posterity. Just God! What is the
constant aim of the thoughts and efforts of every honorable man, within
the limits of his faculties? To give his children such an education as
will keep them from the path of vice; an education that may justify him
to say: 'My children will be upright men!' And yet, Thou, almighty God,
Thou art supposed to have said: 'I _will_ that the evil inclinations of
my children carry the day over the good ones; I _will_ that they become
criminals, and that they be forever damned!' Never shall I accept such a
doctrine."

John Calvin continued his Credo:

"'We believe and confess that, as a consequence of original sin, man,
corrupt of body, blind of mind, and depraved of heart, has lost all
virtue, and, although he has still preserved some discernment of right
and wrong, falls into darkness when he aspires to understand God with
the aid of his own intelligence and human reason. Finally, although he
should have the will to choose between right and wrong, his will being
the captive of sin, he is fatedly devoted to wrong, is destined to
malediction, and is not free to choose the right but by the grace of
God.'"

"Such," responded the reformers, "is the will of the Lord. We fall into
darkness if we strive to understand God with the aid of our own reason."

"No! No!" Christian said to himself, "God never said: 'My creatures,
instead of loving Me and adoring Me in all the splendor of My glory,
shall adore Me in the darkness of their intelligence, dimmed by My
will.' No! God has not said: 'Man, you shall be fatedly devoted to
wrong! You shall be for all time a captive of sin! I enclose you within
an iron circle from which there is no escape but by My grace!' If God's
omnipotence made man sinful or good, why punish or reward him? Another
article of faith to be rejected."

"'We believe and confess,'" Calvin proceeded, "'that Jesus Christ, being
God's wisdom and His eternal Son, clad himself in our flesh to the end
of being both God and man in one person. We worship Him so entirely in
His divinity, that we strip Him of His humanity. We believe and confess
that God, by sending us His Son, wished to show His ineffable goodness
toward us, and by delivering Him to death and raising Him from the
dead, wished that justice be done and heavenly life be gained for us.'"

"Glory to God!" cried the reformers. "He has sent us His Son to redeem
us with His blood! God has been crucified for the salvation of man!"

Communing with himself, Christian Lebrenn only said: "Another absurdity
laid by Calvin at the door of the Godhead. Can God condemn man for the
pleasure of afterwards redeeming him? O, Christ! Poor carpenter of
Nazareth, the friend of the afflicted, the penitent and the
disinherited, you do not wrap yourself in an impenetrable cloud. I see
your pale and sweet smile encircled by a bloody aureola, and bearing a
stamp that is truly human. Your divine words are accessible even to the
intelligence of children. Your Evangelical morality should and will be
the code of all humankind. The chains of the slave will be broken, said
you now more than fifteen hundred years ago; and yet, the Pharisees, who
call themselves your priests, have, during all these centuries, owned
slaves, later serfs, and to-day they count their vassals by the
thousands. Love ye one another, said you; and yet, the Pharisees, who
call themselves your priests, caused, and to this hour continue to
cause, torrents of Christian blood to flow. I do not share the belief of
the reformers, but I remain with them body and soul so long as they
combat the cruelties, the iniquities and the idolatries of the Roman
Church! I remain body and soul with them so long as they devote their
lives to the triumph of your doctrine, O, Christ! in the name of
equality and human fraternity! In that does the real strength lie, the
real power of the Reformation. Of what concern to us are those Mosaic
dogmas concerning original sin, the fatedness of evil, the inherent
wickedness of man? The Reformation _acts_ valiantly, it _acts_
generously, it _acts_ in a Christian spirit in seeking to restore your
Church, O, Christ! to its simplicity and pristine purity by combating
the Pope of Rome."

Calvin continued: "'We believe and confess that, thanks to the sacrifice
our Lord Jesus Christ offered on the cross, we are reconciled to God and
fit to be held and looked upon as just before Him. Accordingly, we
believe that we owe to Jesus Christ our full and perfect deliverance. We
believe and confess that, without disparagement of virtues and deserving
qualities, we depend upon them for the remission of our sins only
through our faith, and the law of Jesus Christ.'"

"The law and faith in Jesus Christ is embraced in that" responded the
reformers. "It is our code. The law and faith in Jesus Christ--that
means love towards our fellow men; it means equality; it means
fraternity; it means revolt against the idolatries, in whose name the
greatest malefactors are and believe themselves absolved of their crimes
by the purchase of indulgences! Only through faith and the practice of
the Evangelical law will our sins be remitted."

"'We believe and confess,'" proceeded Calvin, "'that whereas Jesus
Christ has been given us as the only intermediary between us and God,
and since He recommends to us that we withdraw into seclusion in order
to address, in private and in His name, our prayers to His Father, all
the inventions of men concerning the intercession of martyred saints is
but fraud and deception, schemed in order to lead mankind aside from the
straight and narrow path. Furthermore, we hold purgatory to be an
illusion of the same nature, likewise monastic vows, pilgrimages, the
ordinance of celibacy to clergymen, auricular confession, and the
ceremonial observance of certain days when a meat diet is forbidden.
Finally we consider illusions the indulgences and other idolatrous
practices through which grace and salvation are expected, and we regard
them as human inventions calculated to shackle human conscience.'"

"That is the essence of the Reformation," said Christian Lebrenn, apart.
"The reform of action, the militant reform. Hence it is that my dignity
as a man, my mind and my heart are with it. It is a long step towards
the reign of pure reason, planted upon the freedom of inquiry. The road
is cleared. Man is in direct communion and communication with God
through prayer, without the intervention of any church. No more
Popes--the incarnation of divine and human autocracy, as Ignatius Loyola
understands it! No more dissolute and savage pontiffs, claiming to be
Your vicars, O, God of mercy! No more saints, no more purgatory! Down
goes the traffic in indulgences! No more monastic vows--the idle monks
shall become honest and industrious citizens! No more priestly
celibacy--the pastors shall themselves become heads of families! No more
auricular confession--a bar to Ignatius Loyola, whose aim is to take
possession of the conscience of mankind by means of the tribunal of
penitence; through the conscience of mankind, the soul of man; through
the soul, the body; and thus to rear the most frightful theocratic
tyranny! O, sweet carpenter of Nazareth! May the Reformation triumph!
May your Evangelical law in all its pristine purity become the law of
the world! The power of the casqued, the mitred or the crowned
oppressors will then have ceased to be! No more Kings, no more priests,
no more masters!"

"No more Popes! No more cardinals, or bishops! No more idolatry! No more
celibacy! No more adoration of images! No more confession! No more
intermediaries between God and man! Such is our confession, such our
belief," cried the reformers in answer to Calvin, who continued:

"'We believe and confess those Romish inventions to be pure idolatries.
We reject them. Sustained by the authority of the sacred books, by the
words and acts of the apostles--I Timothy 2; John 16; Matthew 6 and 10;
Luke 11, 12 and 15; the Epistle to the Romans 14, and other Evangelical
texts--we believe and confess that where the word of God is not received
there is no Church. Therefore we reject the assemblages of the papacy,
whence divine truth is banished, where the sacraments are corrupted,
adulterated and falsified, while superstitious and idolatrous practices
flourish and thrive in their midst.'"

"Yes," answered the assembled reformers, "let us draw away from the
usurping Roman Church--that impure Babylon; that sink of all vices;
that notorious harlot; that poisoned well, whence flow all the ills that
afflict humanity! No more Popes, bishops, priests or monks!"

"'We believe and confess,'" Calvin continued, "'that all men are true
pastors wherever they may be, provided they are pure of heart, and that
they recognize for sole sovereign and universal bishop our Lord Jesus
Christ. Therefore we repudiate the papacy; we protest that no church,
even if it call itself "Catholic," can lay claim to any authority or
dominion over any other church.'"

"Therefore we do repudiate the Church of Rome! Christ is our Pope, our
bishop! There should be no intermediary between him and us!" responded
the reformers.

"'We believe and confess,'" Calvin went on, "'that the offices of
pastors, deans and deacons must proceed from the election of their own
people, whose confidence they will thus show they have earned. We
believe that, in order to exercise their functions, they should
concentrate within them the general rules of the church, without
attempting to decree, under the shadow of the service of God, any rules
to bind human conscience.'"

"Freedom of conscience--that means human emancipation!" Christian
exclaimed to himself. "All honor to the Reformation for proclaiming that
great principle! May it remain faithful thereto!"

The reformers meanwhile answered: "Yes, we wish to elect our own
pastors, as they were elected in the primitive church;" and John Calvin
continued:

"'We believe and confess that there are but two sacraments--baptism,
that cleanses us of the soilure of original sin; and communion, which
nourishes us, vivifies us spiritually by the substance of Jesus Christ,
a celestial mystery accessible only through faith.

"'Finally, we believe and confess that God has willed that the peoples
on earth be governed; that He has established elective or hereditary
kingdoms, principalities, republics and other forms of government. We
therefore hold as unquestionable that their laws and statutes must be
obeyed, their tributes and imposts paid, and all the duties that belong
to citizens and subjects must be fulfilled with a frank and good will,
even if such governments be iniquitous, _provided the sovereign empire
of God remains untouched_. Therefore we repudiate those who would reject
government and authority, and who would throw society into confusion
through the introduction of community of goods among men, and thereby
upset the order of justice.'"

"No! No!" was Christian's muttered comment at these words. "Man must not
submit to an iniquitous authority! No! No! John Calvin himself realizes
the offensiveness to human dignity of such a resignation, and its
contradiction to the very spirit of the Reformation. Is not the
Reformation itself a legitimate revolt against the iniquity of the
pontifical authority, and, if need be, against whatever temporal power
might seek to impose the Roman cult upon the reformers? Indeed, after
having set up the principle, 'The peoples must submit to their
governments, even if these be iniquitous,' Calvin adds, '_provided the
sovereign empire of God remains untouched_.' No obedience is due an
authority that would raise its hand against the sacred rights of man, or
aught that flows therefrom."

"Such, dear brothers," concluded John Calvin, "is our confession of
faith. Do you accept it?"

"Yes, yes!" cried the reformers. "We accept it. We shall practice it. We
shall uphold it, at the risk of our property, our freedom and our life!
We swear!"

"This, then, is the confession of faith of those 'heretics' whom the
Catholic clergy represents to ignorant and duped people as monsters
steeped in all manner of crimes, and vomited upon earth out of hell, as
inveterate foes of God and man," said Calvin. "What do these 'heretics'
confess? They confess the fundamental dogmas of the Christian Church, as
revealed by the Divinity itself. But these 'heretics' reject the
inventions, the abuses, the idolatries and the scandals of the Church of
the Popes. In that lies our crime, an unpardonable crime! We attack the
cupidity, the pride and the despotism of the priesthood!

"Here, on this very spot where we are now gathered in council in order
to confess the most sacred of rights, the freedom of conscience, seven
priests have pledged themselves with a terrible oath to secure the
absolute omnipotence of Rome over the souls of men, and to found the
reign of theocratic government over the whole earth! The new
organization is named the Society of Jesus. It is intended to and will
become a formidable instrument in the hands of our enemies. The
circumstance is a symptom of the dangers that threaten us. Let us
prepare to combat that new militia everywhere it may show itself.

"Our Credo, our confession of faith is fixed. This confession will be
that of all the Evangelical churches of France. And, now, what attitude
must we assume in the face of the redoubled persecutions that we are
threatened with? Shall we submit to them with resignation, or shall we
repel force with force? I request our friend Robert Estienne to express
his views upon this head."

"It is my opinion," replied Robert Estienne, "that we should address
fresh petitions to King Francis I, praying that it may please him to
allow us to exercise our religion in peace, while conforming ourselves
to the laws of the kingdom. Should our petition be denied, then we
should draw from the strength of our convictions the necessary fortitude
to sustain persecution to the extreme limit possible. Beyond that we
shall have to take council again."

"I share the opinion of Robert Estienne," said John Dubourg. "Let us
resign ourselves. An upright man should drain the cup of bitterness and
pain sooner than let loose upon his country the horrors of a fratricidal
conflict."

"Monsieur Coligny, what is your opinion?"

"Monsieur," replied the young noble, "I am, I think, the youngest man in
this assemblage; I shall accept the opinion that may prevail."

"Speak. You are a man of arms. We should know your opinion," returned
Calvin.

"Since you insist, monsieur," Coligny began, "I should here declare
that my family owes a good deal to the kindness of the King. It has
pleased him to entrust me--me who am barely passed the age of
youth--with a company of his army. I am, accordingly, bound to him by
bonds of gratitude. But there is to me a sentiment superior to that of
gratitude for royal favors--that sentiment is the duty that faith
imposes. While deploring the cruel extremities of civil war, which I
hold in horror; while deeply regretting ever to have to draw my sword
against the King, or, rather, against his ill-omened advisers, I should
feel constrained to resort to that fatal extremity if, persecution
having reached the limits of endurance, it became necessary to defend
the lives of our brothers, driven face to face with the alternative,
'Die, or abjure your faith!' As to pronouncing myself with regard to the
opportune moment for the conflict, in case, which God forfend, the
conflict must break out, I leave the decision to more experienced heads
than my own. At the moment of action, my property, my sword, my
life--all shall be at the service of our cause. I shall do my duty--all
my duty."

Ambroise Paré, the surgeon, was the next to speak. "Both Christ and my
professional duties," he said, "command me to bestow my care upon friend
and enemy alike. I could not, accordingly, brothers, bring hither any
but words of peace. Let us be inflexible in our belief. But let us force
our persecutors themselves to acknowledge our moderation. Let us tire
their acts of violence with our patience and resignation. Let us leave
the swords sheathed."

"Patience, nevertheless, has bounds!" objected the Viscount of
Plouernel. "Has not our resignation lasted long enough? Does it not
embolden the audacity of our enemies? Would you resort yet again to
humble petitions? Very well. Let us pray, let us implore, once more. But
if we are answered with a denial of justice, let us, then, resolutely
stand up against our persecutors. We are the majority, in several
mercantile cities, and several provinces. Let us, then, repel force with
force. Our enemies will recoil before our attitude, and will then do
justice to our legitimate wishes. I hold that to carry our forbearance
any further would be to expose our party to be decimated day by day.
Then, when the hour of battle shall have come--it is fatedly bound to
come--we shall find ourselves stripped of our best forces. In short, let
us make one more peaceful effort to secure the free exercise of our
religion. Should our appeal be denied--to arms!"

"Brothers," advised Prince Charles of Gerolstein, "I am a foreigner
among you. I come from Germany. I there assisted at the struggles and
the triumph of the Reformation preached by the great Luther. In our old
Germany we did not appeal and request. We affirmed the right of man to
worship his Creator according to his own conscience. Workingmen,
seigneurs, bourgeois--all proclaimed in chorus: 'We refuse to bend under
the yoke of Rome; whosoever should seek to impose it upon us by the
sword will be resisted with the sword.' To-day, the Reformation in
Germany defies its enemies. Germany is not France; but men are men
everywhere. Everywhere resolution has the name of resolution, nor are
its consequences anywhere different. We are bound to uphold our rights
by our arms."

"Monsieur Christian Lebrenn, what is your opinion on the grave subject
before us?" asked Calvin. The printer replied:

"History teaches us that to request from Popes and Kings a reform of
superstition and tyranny is absolutely idle. Never will the Church of
Rome voluntarily renounce the idolatries and abuses that are the sources
of its wealth and power. Never will a Catholic King--consecrated by the
Church and leaning upon it for support, as it leans upon
him--voluntarily recognize the Reformation. The Reformation denies the
authority of the Pope. To attack the Pope is to attack royal authority.
To overthrow the altar is to shatter the throne. All authority is
interdependent. What is it that we demand? The peaceful exercise of our
creed, while conforming to the laws of the kingdom. But the laws of the
kingdom expressly forbid the exercise of all creeds, except that of the
Catholic Church. Either we must confess our faith and then expose
ourselves to the rigors of the law, or escape them by abjuration; or,
yet, resist them, arms in hand. Are we to obtain edicts of tolerance? We
should entertain no such hope. But, even granted we obtained them, our
security would be under no better safeguard. An edict is revocable. The
end of it all is fatedly one of three conclusions--abjuration,
martyrdom, or revolt. The blood of martyrs is fruitful, but the blood of
soldiers, battling for the most sacred of rights, is also fruitful. We
neither should, nor can we, I hold, hope for either the authorization,
or tolerance, of our cult. Sooner or later, driven to extremities by
persecution, we shall find ourselves compelled to repel violence with
violence. Let us boldly face the terrible fact. But, suppose, for the
sake of our peace of conscience, we said: 'It still depends upon the
Church of Rome and the King of France to put an end to the torture of
our brothers, and to prevent the evils of a civil and religious war.' To
that end a decree conceived in these terms will suffice: '_Everyone may
freely and publicly exercise his religion under the obligation to
respect the religion of others_.' Such a decree, so just and simple,
consecrating, as it does, the most inviolable of rights, is the only
equitable and peaceful solution of the religious question. Do you
imagine that such a decree would be vouchsafed to our humble petition?"

"Neither King nor Pope, neither bishops, priests nor monks would accept
such a decree," was the unanimous answer. Christian continued:

"Nevertheless, in order to place the right on our side, let us draw up
one last petition. If it is rejected, let us then run to arms, and
exterminate our oppressors. It is ever by insurrection that liberty is
won."

"Will Brother Bernard Palissy let us know his views?" asked Calvin when
Christian had finished.

With a candor that breathed refinement, the potter replied: "I am but a
poor fashioner of earthen pots. Seeing the issue is to shatter them
resolutely--according to the opinion of our friend the printer--I shall
tell you what happened to me the other day. I was wondering how it came
about that the Evangelical religion--benign, charitable, peaceful, full
of resignation, asking for naught but for a modest place in the sun of
the good God in behalf of its little flock--should have so many
inveterate enemies. Being a little versed in alchemy, 'Let's see,' said
I to myself, 'when, mixing the varnish, colors and enamel with which I
decorate my pottery, I encounter some refractory substance, what do I
do? I submit it to the alembic. I decompose it. In that way I ascertain
the different substances of which it consists. Well now, let me submit
the enemies of the Reformation to the alembic in order to ascertain what
there is in their composition to render them so very refractory.' First
of all, I submit to my philosophic alembic the brains of a canon. I ask
him: 'Why are you such a violent enemy of the Evangelical faith?' 'Why!'
the canon makes answer, 'because, your clergymen being men of science as
well as preachers, our flocks will also want to hear us preach as men of
knowledge. Now, then, I know nothing about preaching, and still less
about reading or writing. Since my novitiate I have been accustomed to
taking my comfort, to ignorance, to idleness. That's the reason I
sustain the Church of Rome, which sustains my ignorance, my delightful
comfort and my idleness.' Through with that monk, I experimented with
the head of an abbot. It resisted the alembic. It shook itself away,
bit, roared with vindictive choler, resisting strenuously to have that
which it contained within seen by me. Nevertheless, I succeeded in
separating its several parts, to wit: the black and vicious choler, on
one side; ambition and pride, on the other; lastly, the silent thoughts
of murder that our abbot nourished towards his enemies. That done, I
discovered that it was his arrogance, his greed and his vindictiveness
that kept him in a refractory temper toward the humility of the
Evangelical church. I afterwards experimented upon a counsellor of
parliament, the finest Gautier one ever laid eyes upon. Having distilled
my gallant in my alembic I found that his bowels contained large chunks
of church benefices, which had fattened him so much that he almost burst
in his hose. Seeing which I said to him: 'Come, now, be candid, is it
not in order to preserve your large chunks of church benefices that you
would institute proceedings against the reformers? Isn't it damnable?'
'What is there damnable in that?' he asked me. 'If it were damnable
there must be a terrible lot of damned people, seeing that in our
sovereign court of parliament, and in all the courts of France, there
are very few counsellors or presidents without some slice of an
ecclesiastical benefice which helps them to keep up the gilding, the
trappings, the banquets and the smaller delights of the household, as
well as the grease in the kitchen. Now, then, you devil's limb of a
potter' (he was talking to me) 'if the Reformation were to triumph,
would not all our benefices run to water, and, along with them, all our
small and large pleasures? That's why we burn you up, you pagans!' At
hearing which I cried: 'Oh, poor Christians, where are you at? You have
against you the courts of parliament and the great seigneurs, all of
whom profit from ecclesiastical benefices. So long as they will be fed
upon such a soup they will remain your capital enemies.' That is my
reason, brothers, for believing we shall be persecuted all our lives.
Let us therefore take refuge with our captain and protector Jesus
Christ, who one day will wipe out the infliction of the wicked and the
wrong that will have been done us.[36] Therefore, let us suffer; let us
be resigned, even unto martyrdom; and, according to the judgment of a
poor potter, let us not break the pots. Of what use are broken pots?"

"Will our celebrated poet Clement Marot acquaint us with his views?"
asked Calvin.

"Brothers," said the man thus called upon, "our friend Bernard Palissy,
one of the great artists of these days--and of all future days--spoke to
you in his capacity of a potter. I, a poet, shall address you on the
profit that can be drawn from my trade for our cause. Why not make one
more endeavor to use the methods of persuasion before resorting to the
frightful extremity of civil war? Why not endeavor to draw the world
over to our side by the charm of the Evangelical word? Listen, the other
day a thought flashed through my mind. The women are better than we.
This acknowledgment is easily made in the presence of our sister, Mary
La Catelle, whom I see here. She is the living illustration of the truth
of what I say. None among us, even the foremost, excels her in
tenderness or pity for the afflicted, in delicate and touching care for
deserted children. I therefore say the women are better than we, are
more accessible than we to pure, lofty and celestial sentiments.
Furthermore, to them life is summed up in one word--_love_. From
terrestrial love to divine love it is but one aspiration higher. Let us
endeavor to elevate the women to that sublime sphere. The common but
just saying, Little causes often produce great results, has inspired me
with the following thought. I asked myself: 'What do the women usually
sing, whether they be bourgeois or workingmen's wives?' Love songs. The
impure customs of our times have given these songs generally a coarse,
if not obscene turn. As a rule, the mind and the heart become the echo
of what the mouth says, of what the ear hears, of what engages our
thoughts. Would it not be a useful thing to substitute those licentious
songs with chaste ones that attract through love? Hence I have
considered the advisability of putting in verse and to music the sacred
canticles of the Bible which are so frequently perfumed with an adorable
poetic flavor. My hope is that little by little, penetrated by the
ineffable influence of those celestial songs, the women who sing them
will soon be uttering their sentiments, not with the lips only but from
the depth of their hearts. Our aspirations will then be realized."

Clement Marot was about to recite some of the charming verses composed
by himself, when Justin suddenly broke in upon the assemblage crying:

"Danger! Danger! A troop of archers and mounted patrolmen are coming up
the road to the abbey. I have seen the glitter of their casques. Flee
by the opposite issue of the quarry!"

A great tumult ensued upon the artisan's words. Justin took up one of
the candles, ran to the gallery that was masked by the huge boulder, and
entered the narrow passage, ordering all the others to follow him.

"Brothers!" cried out the Viscount of Plouernel, "let all those of us
who are men of arms remain here and draw our swords. The patrol will not
dare to lay hands upon any of us. The court must reckon with our
families. As to you, Calvin, and the rest of our friends whom no
privilege shelters from the pursuit of our enemies, let them flee!"

"You can leave the place in all safety," added Gaspard of Coligny; "the
armed patrol, finding us ready to cross irons with them, will not push
their search any further."

"Should they push forward so far as to discover this other issue," put
in Prince Charles of Gerolstein, "we shall charge upon them vigorously,
and shall force them back far enough to leave the passage free for our
retreat."

John Calvin, whose life was so precious to the Evangelical church, was
the first to follow upon the heels of the torch-bearer Justin. The other
reformers pressed close behind. The gallery, narrow at the entrance,
widened by degrees, until it opened into an excavation surrounded by
bluffs, up one of which a narrow path wound itself to the very top of
the ravine, with the tierred fields and woods stretching beyond on the
further slope of the hill of Montmartre. Robert Estienne, Clement Marot,
Bernard Palissy and Ambroise Paré remained close to Calvin. Christian
Lebrenn assisted Mary La Catelle to cross the rocky ground. When the
fugitives were all again assembled in the hollow of the excavation, John
Calvin addressed them, saying:

"Before separating, brothers, I renew to you the express recommendation
not to attempt a rebellion, which, especially at this season, would only
subserve the cause of our enemies. Resignation, courage, perseverance,
hope--such must be our watchwords for the present. Our hour will come.
Assured, after this night's council, of the adhesion of the reformers of
Paris to the Credo of the Evangelical church, I shall continue my
journey through France to engage our brothers in the provinces to
imitate the example of Paris by opposing the violence of our enemies
with patience." And turning to Christian: "Monsieur Lebrenn, you uttered
a sentiment the profoundness of which has impressed me strongly. A
simple decree to the effect that all are free to profess publicly their
own creed while respecting the creed of others, you said, would prevent
frightful disasters. Let the blood, that may some day flow, fall upon
those who, by denying justice, will have kindled the flames of civil
war! Anathema upon them! For the very reason that equity and right are
on our side we are in duty bound to redouble our moderation."

After touching adieus, exchanged by Calvin and his co-religionists, it
was agreed to return to Paris in separate groups of threes and fours, to
the end of not awakening the suspicion of the guards at the Montmartre
and St. Honoré Gates, who were no doubt apprized of the expedition of
the patrol against a nocturnal assembly of heretics held on Montmartre.
Day was about to dawn. John Calvin, Robert Estienne, Clement Marot,
Ambroise Paré, Bernard Palissy and a few others ascended the path that
led out of the ravine, and took their way across-fields in the direction
of the St. Honoré Gate. Other little groups formed themselves, each
striking in a different direction. Christian, Justin, John Dubourg,
Laforge, who was another rich bourgeois, Mary La Catelle and her
brother-in-law the architect Poille, took the road to the Montmartre
Gate, where they arrived at sunrise. Although their group consisted of
only six persons, they decided, out of excessive caution, not to enter
Paris but by twos--first John Dubourg and Laforge; then Mary La Catelle
and her brother-in-law; lastly Justin and Christian. Their entrance,
thought they, would awaken no suspicion, seeing that already the
peasants, carrying vegetables and fruit for the market, crowded in the
neighborhood of the gate with their carts. Soon separated from their
friends in the midst of the medley of market carts, Justin and Christian
were but a few steps from the arched entrance of the gate when suddenly
they heard a loud clamor, and these words, repeated by a mob of voices:
"Lutherans! Lutherans! Death to the heretics!" A pang of apprehension
shot through the hearts of Christian and his companion. Some of their
companions who preceded them must have been recognized at the gate. To
rush to their assistance would have been but to share their fate.

"Let us not attempt to enter Paris at this hour," suggested Justin to
Christian, "we are workmen in the printing shop of Robert Estienne. That
would be enough to cause us to be suspected of heresy. Gainier, the spy
of the Criminal Lieutenant, has surely given the mob our description.
Let us go around the rampart and enter by the Bastille of St. Antoine.
That gate is so far from Montmartre that it is possible the alarm has
not been given from that side."

"My wife and children would be in mortal agony not to see me home this
morning," answered Christian. "I shall make the attempt to go through,
under shelter of the tumult which, unhappily for our friends, seems to
be on the increase. Do you hear those ferocious cries?"

"I do not care to run the danger. Adieu, Christian. I have neither wife
nor children. My prolonged absence will cause uneasiness to no one. I
prefer to go to the Bastille of St. Antoine. We shall meet shortly, I
hope, at the printing shop. May God guard you!"

The two friends separated. Christian, whose anxiety increased every
minute, thinking of Mary La Catelle and those with her, decided to enter
Paris at all risks. Nevertheless, noticing not far from where he stood a
peasant driving a cart filled with vegetables and overspread with a
cloth held up by hoops, he said to the rustic, drawing a coin from his
pocket:

"Friend, I am exhausted with fatigue. I need a little rest. Would you be
so good as to take me in your cart only as far as the center of the
city?"

"Gladly, climb in and go to sleep, if you can," answered the peasant as
he pocketed the coin.

Christian climbed in, ensconced himself in a corner of the wagon and
raised a little fold of the cloth in order to catch a glimpse of what
was going on outside, seeing the tumult waxed louder and more
threatening. Alas! Hardly had the wagon passed through the gate and
entered the city when Christian saw at a little distance Mary La
Catelle, her brother-in-law Poille, John Dubourg and Laforge--all four
manacled. A troop of archers held back with difficulty the furious mob
that loudly clamored for the lives of the "heretics," those "heathens,"
those "Lutheran stranglers of little children"! Pale, yet calm, the four
victims looked serenely upon the surging mass of fanatics. With her eyes
raised to heaven and her arms crossed over her bosom, Mary La Catelle
seemed resigned to martyrdom. The imprecations redoubled. Already the
most infuriate of the populace were picking up stones to stone the
victims to death. The wagon in which Christian was concealed slowly
pursued its way and saved the artisan the harrowing spectacle of the
mob's murderous preparations. Later he learned the details of the arrest
of his friends. La Catelle and her brother-in-law, who had long ago been
reported by the spy Gainier as hardened heretics, had been recognized
and seized by the agents of the Criminal Lieutenant, who had been posted
since midnight at the Montmartre Gate. John Dubourg and Laforge, who
came a few steps behind La Catelle, having yielded to a generous
impulse and run to her assistance, were, in punishment for the very
nobility of their act, likewise suspected, arrested and manacled.
Christian also learned later that Lefevre was the informer against the
meeting of the reformers at Montmartre. The bits of paper Lefevre had
picked up while directing the search of the sergeant in the garret of
Christian's house, proved to be bits of Calvin's draft convoking the
assembly, and on one of these the word Montmartre was to be read. Armed
with this evidence, Lefevre had hastened to impart his suspicions to the
Criminal Lieutenant, and caused the patrol to be ordered afield; but
these, finding themselves confronted with the seigneurs at the entrance
of the quarry, and seeing these determined to resist them, had not dared
to effect an arrest.

Christian jumped out of the wagon in the center of Paris and hastened
his steps towards his house. Hardly had he stepped upon the Exchange
Bridge when he saw the Franc-Taupin running towards him. Josephin had
watched all night for the artisan's return. He informed him of the
arrest of his wife and children, of the danger that awaited him if he
entered his house, and induced him to take refuge in a place of safety.




CHAPTER XIV.

HENA'S DIARY.


     After being separated from her mother, Hena Lebrenn was taken to
     the Augustinian Convent and locked up. One day during her
     confinement she narrated the incidents of her incarceration in a
     letter destined for Bridget, but which never reached the
     ill-starred mother, due to a series of distressful circumstances.
     Hena wrote:

"December, 1534. At the Convent of the Augustinians.

"Joy of heaven! I am given the assurance, dear mother, that you
will receive this letter. My thoughts run wild in my head. I wish I
could tell you, all at once, all that has happened to me since our
separation until this moment. Alas! I have so many things to
communicate to you. You all--yourself and my good father, and my
uncle Josephin--will be so astonished, and perhaps so chagrined, to
know that this very day--

"But I must go back with my narrative, and begin with that unhappy
day when we were led away, you to the Chatelet prison, I to this
place. I am ignorant of what may have happened to you and to
father. All my questions on those topics have ever remained
unanswered. They assure me you are in good health--that is all. I
hope so; I believe it. What interest could they have in deceiving
me regarding your lives?

"Well, I was brought to this place in the dark of night, and locked
up in a little cell, without having seen a soul except the
turning-box attendant. What would it avail to tell you how I wept?
In the morning the attendant informed me that I would be visited at
noon by the Madam Superior. I asked leave to write to my family in
order to inform them of my whereabouts. I was answered that the
Mother Abbess would have to decide about that. She called upon me
at noon. At first, I thought I had before me a lady of the court,
so superbly ornamented she was. There was nothing in her dress to
recall the religious garb. She is young and handsome. Methought I
could read kindness on her face. I threw myself at her feet,
imploring her to have pity upon me, and to have me taken to my
parents. This was her answer:

"'My dear daughter, you have been brought up in impiety. You are
here in order to labor at your salvation. When you are sufficiently
instructed in our holy Roman Catholic and apostolic religion, you
shall take the eternal vows to enter our Order of the Augustinians.
You will then be allowed to see your parents again. You are not to
leave this cell before taking the veil. You will be allowed out
every day only to take a little walk under the archway of the
cloister, in the company of one of our sisters. It depends upon
yourself how promptly you will have gained the religious
instruction necessary to enter our Order, after which you will be
allowed to receive your family once a week in the convent parlor.'

"'But, madam,' I answered the Abbess, 'I have not the religious
vocation. Even if I had, I would not take vows without the sanction
of my father.'

"'Your father is in heaven; He is our Lord God. Your mother also is
in heaven; she is the holy Virgin Mary. Your obedience is due to
those divine parents, not to your carnal and heretical parents.
These have infected you with a pestilential heresy. The Lord, in
His mercy, has willed, for the salvation of your soul, that you be
removed from that school of perdition. The pale of our holy mother
the Church is open to you. Come back to it. Be docile and you shall
be happy. Otherwise, greatly to my regret, I shall employ rigor,
and constrain you to your own welfare. Beginning with to-morrow,
one of our brothers of the Order of St. Augustine will come to
impart religious instruction to you. You are to have no intercourse
with your parents before you have taken the vows. It depends, then,
upon yourself how soon you will see your parents again. Think it
over well.'

"Without wishing to hear me any further, the Mother Superior left
me alone.

"The choice left to me was to embrace the monastic life, or give up
the hope of ever seeing you again, dear father! dear mother! The
bare thought made me shudder. I thought of resisting the orders of
the Abbess. I thought that, if they were made to know my
determination, they would set me free. Great was my error!

"Towards evening one of the sisters came and proposed to take a
walk with me under the archway of the cloister. I declared to her
that no human power could compel me to take vows that would forever
separate me from my beloved parents. The nun, a woman with a sharp
and wicked face, recommended to me to think before speaking, adding
that, if I obstinately refused salvation, they would know how to
lead me to obedience by severe treatment. Our promenade ended, I
returned to my cell. My supper was brought to me. I went to bed
steeped in sadness.

"At midnight I was rudely waked up. The old turning-box attendant
came in, accompanied by four others, large and strong women. One of
them carried a lanthorn. I was afraid. I sat up on my couch, and
asked what they wanted of me.

"'Rise and follow us,' answered the old nun. I hesitated to obey.
She then added: 'No resistance, otherwise these sisters will take
you by force.'

"I resigned myself. I started to put on my dress, but the nun threw
upon my couch a sort of horsehair sack which she had brought with
her.

"'That is the only dress you are henceforth to use!' she said.

"I robed myself in the haircloth, and was about to put on my shoes
when the nun again put in:

"'You are to walk barefoot. Your rebellious flesh must be
mortified.'

"The expression on the faces of that woman and of her companions
looked to me pitiless. I realized the uselessness of resistance or
of prayer. Barefoot and clad in the haircloth I followed the nuns.
One of them lighted our way with her lanthorn. We crossed the
cloister and several long passages. A solitary low window, shaded
from within by a red curtain through which a bright light shone,
opened upon one of these passages. While passing the place I heard
a man's voice singing, accompanying himself on an arch-lute. The
song was received with peals of laughter that proceeded from
several men and women, gathered in the apartment. Their words
reached our ears distinctly. They seemed to me to be such as no
honorable woman should hear.

"The nun hastened her steps, and we entered a little court. One of
the turning-box attendants opened a door; by the light of the
lanthorn I noticed a staircase that descended under ground. Seized
with fear I drew back, but pushing me forward by the shoulders the
nun said:

"'Go on! Go on! We are taking you to a place where you will
meditate at leisure over your obstinacy.'

"I followed the turning-box attendant with the lanthorn. I
descended the steps of the stone staircase. The moisture froze my
naked feet. At the bottom of the staircase was a vaulted gallery
upon which several doors opened. One of them was opened, and I was
made to step into a vault where I saw a box shaped like a coffin
and filled with ashes, a wooden prie-dieu surmounted by a cross,
and near the bed of ashes an earthen pitcher and a piece of bread
on the floor.

"'This is to be your dwelling place until you shall have recovered
from your stubbornness,' said the nun to me. 'If solitude and
mortification do not subdue your rebellious spirit, recourse shall
be had to other chastisements.'

"I was left alone in the vault without a light. When the door was
closed and locked upon me, I threw myself upon my couch of ashes. I
was shivering with cold. The haircloth smarted me insupportably.
The darkness frightened me. I recalled, poor dear mother, my own
little chamber near yours, my bed that was so neat and white, and
the kiss that every evening you came into my room and gave me
before I fell asleep. I sobbed aloud. Little by little my tears
ceased to flow. Numb with cold I slumbered till morning, the light
of day reaching me through the airhole of my dungeon. I admit it,
dear mother, and you will forgive my weakness, dejected by the
sufferings of that first night, fearing I would be condemned to
remain a long time in that dungeon, I resigned myself to agree to
all that might be demanded of me. I wished above all to quit that
gloomy place. I awaited impatiently the return of the nun, in order
to make my submission to her. No one came, neither that day nor for
about a week. I thought I would lose my senses. Every minute I
shivered with fear. The very silence of that species of tomb
inspired me with wild terrors. I moaned and called out to you, dear
father and mother, as if you could hear me. I then fell down upon
my couch of ashes, worn out. How sad was my soul!

"By little and little, however, I became accustomed to my prison,
to my haircloth robe, to my bread, black and hard. Calmness
returned to me. I said to myself: 'I am the victim of a wicked
scheme. My parents have taught me it was our duty to sustain
courageously the trials of life, and never to bow down before
cowardice or slander. I shall perish in this convent, or leave it
to return to my family.' I now waited for the nun, no longer in
order to make my submission to her, but to announce to her my firm
determination to resist her wishes. Vain expectations! For about
another week no one came near. Instead of weakening, my
determination grew more exalted in my solitude. I spent my days
thinking of you. Often did the tension of my mind become so strong
that I imagined I saw, I heard you. I then was no longer in that
subterraneous dungeon; I was by your side, at our house. Every
morning at awakening, I invoked heaven's blessing upon you. Then I
would say to myself: 'Good morning, father, good morning, mother.'
I would tell you all about my affliction and my sufferings; you
encouraged me not to succumb in my cruel trial. Your wise and
tender words comforted me. Then also my thoughts would wander to--

"I have hesitated to tell you the truth. But you taught me to abhor
untruth and dissimulation. I shall continue. Only, dear mother, I
know not whether, when you receive this letter, you will still be a
prisoner and separated from father. If, on the contrary, you are
again together, perhaps you should not let him know the passage you
are about to read. Perhaps, and it is my ardent hope, father is
ignorant of the circumstance that he whom I called brother--did--in
a fit of insanity--

"My hand trembles at the bore recollection of that incident.

"During that horrible evening, before your unexpected return home,
before I could understand the meaning of Hervé's words, he had
himself enlightened me concerning the nature of the feelings that I
entertained for Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. I have no doubt of it,
at this hour. It was love I entertained for him. In the depth of my
prison, during my nights of affliction, I could not prevent myself
from thinking of you, without my thoughts running to him.

"That is the admission that a minute ago I hesitated to make. If
that attachment is a guilty one, good mother, forgive me, it is
involuntary.

"My thoughts wandered in my prison, beloved parents, no less to
Brother St. Ernest-Martyr than to yourselves, resolved, as I was,
to die here or rejoin you. Suddenly a cruel thought, that had not
before occurred to me, flashed through my mind. To live by your
side would be to live under the same roof with Hervé! I
attributed--I still attribute the occurrences of that fatal night
to a temporary derangement of his reason. You, no doubt, withheld
the incident from father's knowledge. Hervé, once again returned to
sanity, must have cursed his temporary aberration. His repentence
must have moved you. One is indulgent towards crazy people!
Nevertheless the mere thought of seeing him again caused me to
shudder. The only hope that had hitherto sustained me, the hope of
spending my life near you, as of yore, drooped its wings. It
seemed to me impossible ever after to support the sight of Hervé.
As I was a prey to these new and painful thoughts, one morning the
door of my cell was opened and the turning-box attendant entered,
followed by the other nuns.

"'Are you now more docile?' she asked. 'Do you now consent to
receive the religious instruction necessary to take the vows of the
Order of the Augustinians?'

"'No!' I screamed. 'You will gain nothing from me, either by
persuasion, or force. I shall remain faithful to my belief!'

"At a sign from the nun two of the turning-box attendants fell upon
me. Despite all my struggles, my tears, and my cries, they stripped
me of my haircloth robe, the only clothing I had on; they held me
fast; and their two other companions flagellated me mercilessly.
Shame and pain--my shoulders and bosom ran blood under the
lacerating lashing--wrung from me a cowardly entreaty. I promised
absolute submission. My obedience appeased my torturers. I was
taken back to my nun's cell. For a first proof of my submission I
was to consent that very day to confess to one of the Augustinian
monks under whose direction the convent stood, and one of whom was
to be charged with imparting religious instruction to me. Towards
noon I was conducted to the chapel. Oh, mother, what a surprise was
in store for me! At the very first words that the monk, who
occupied the confessional, addressed to me, I recognized the voice
of St. Ernest-Martyr. I took myself for saved. I gave him my name;
I informed him of our arrest; I conjured him to hunt up my father
and my dear uncle Josephin, who surely must have remained at large,
and notify them where you and I were held in confinement. Alas, my
hopes were but short-lived! Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, himself an
object of suspicion to the other monks and especially to the Abbot
of the convent, was not allowed to go out. For several days he had
been a prisoner in his own cell, which he left only to fulfil his
ministry in the Augustinian Convent, which he reached through an
underground passage that joined the two monasteries. I asked him
whether it would be possible for him to have a letter reach my
family. He doubted whether I would be allowed to write;
furthermore, he did not, on his part, see any means by which my
missive could reach its destination, such was the surveillance
under which he himself was held. I narrated to him the recent
ordeals and the trials that I underwent since my entrance in the
convent. I heard him cry in the dark. I then entreated him to
counsel me. He answered:

"'Sister, even if you experienced a decided religious vocation, and
your parents gave their consent, even then I would urge you to
reflect before pronouncing those eternal vows. But you have not
that vocation, you are kept here against your will and without your
parents' knowledge. What is to be done under such trying
circumstances? To refuse to receive the veil, as you have hitherto
done, is to expose yourself to fresh ill-treatment and severities,
under which you would perish; to enter a religious Order, even if
forced thereto, is to renounce forever all tender family joys.
Before deciding, sister, endeavor to gain time. I shall help you by
urging upon our Abbess the necessity of delay in order to complete
your religious education. Your father and uncle have undoubtedly
set on foot inquiries concerning your whereabouts. Keep up the hope
that their efforts will be successful. Your father will move Robert
Estienne, and he the Princess Marguerite to obtain your liberation.
Rely upon my ardent wish to be useful to you. It is my duty to
console you, and to sustain you in your cruel plight. I shall not
fall short in my duty.'

"This, dear mother, was the advice of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. I
followed it. In the meantime it remained impossible for him either
to leave the convent, or write to you. He dared not trust such a
secret to any of the other monks. They would in all likelihood have
betrayed him to the Abbot.

"Alas, dear mother, yet another misfortune was to befall me;
Brother St. Ernest-Martyr ceased to be my religious instructor. A
few days after our first conference he was replaced by another
Augustinian monk.

"So many afflictions threw me upon a sick bed. I became seriously
ill. By the grief that the absence of St. Ernest-Martyr caused me I
realized how much I loved him. Of this love he is ignorant; he does
not even suspect it; he shall never know it. My heart breaks at the
mere thought of what remains for me to tell you.

"The new Augustinian monk, who was charged to catechise me,
inspired me with such instinctive repulsion that I could not
conceal its manifestations. He complained to the Mother Superior
of my ill will towards him. The Abbess summoned me before her, and
notified me that, whether instructed or not, I was to take the vow
the day after the next, adding that I would then be allowed to see
my family.

"I entreated the Superior to grant me one more day to reflect upon
so grave a step. My entreaty was granted. I then reasoned as
follows: To refuse to become a nun is to expose myself to renewed
acts of violence and flagellations the very recollection of which
render me purple with shame; it is also to renounce the only hope
of seeing from time to time my beloved parents. On the other hand I
feel that my love for Brother St. Ernest-Martyr will end but with
my life; seeing I can not be his, to renounce him is to renounce
the world, and all family joys. Why, then, not take the veil?

"I was alone, without an adviser, weakened with suffering, beset by
nuns who alternately resorted to persuasion and threats. I
despaired of ever finding the means of informing you of my fate,
good mother. I resigned myself to take the vow--

"This morning the ceremony was celebrated. I was christened in
religion with a sad name. I am called St. Frances-in-the-Tomb.
To-night I am to spend in prayers in the chapel of the Virgin,
according to the custom for maids who have taken the veil.

"My vows being pronounced, the Abbess caused me to be supplied with
writing material--paper, pen and ink--promising me that this
letter would be forwarded to my family.

"I am wrong for having taken so grave a step without your consent,
good mother, and without the consent of father.

"I break off at this place. The convent clock strikes nine. I am to
be taken to the chapel, where I am to watch all night. May God have
mercy upon me.

"To-morrow, good mother, I shall finish this letter which I shall
carry concealed in my corsage. I shall tell you then what were my
thoughts.

"Until to-morrow, mother. I shall then close my confidences."

     The sequel of this chronicle will instruct you, sons of Joel,
     concerning the events that led to Christian's coming into
     possession of the letter of the ill-starred Hena, as also of the
     following fragments of the diary written by Ernest Rennepont, in
     religion St. Ernest-Martyr, during the time that he also was held a
     prisoner under surveillance in the Augustinian Convent.




CHAPTER XV.

DIARY OF ST. ERNEST-MARTYR.


"Lord God! Have mercy upon me! I have just seen the young girl. I have
confessed her in the convent of our Augustinian sisters. She is
imprisoned there. They wish to compel her to take the vows. Poor victim!

"When I recognized her voice; when, in the shadow of the confessional, I
perceived her angelic face, my heart thrilled with an insensate joy. I
then trembled, and wept. Oh, Thou who seest to the bottom of the heart
of man, Thou knowest, my God! my first thought was to leave the tribunal
of penitence. I did not deem myself worthy of sitting in that place. But
in her distress, the child had only me for her support. She thanked
Thee, oh, my God! with such fervor for having sent me across her path,
that my first impulse weakened, and I remained."

       *       *       *       *       *

"To Thee, my divine Master, I make my confession. Yes; the first time I
saw that young girl at the house of Mary La Catelle, as I was engaged in
teaching the children at her school, I was struck by the beauty of Hena
Lebrenn, her modesty, her candor, her grace! Without knowing it, Mary
La Catelle rendered still more profound the deep impression her friend
had made upon me, by recounting to me her virtues, her goodness, the
truthfulness of her character. Yes; I confess it; since that day, and
despite my reason that said to me: 'Such a love is insane;' despite my
faith that whispered to me: 'Such a love is guilty;' despite all, the
mad passion, the criminal passion gained every day a more powerful sway
over my being. Our meeting to-day, by unveiling to me without reserve
that ingenuous and charming soul, has forever riveted my chains. I love
her passionately. I shall carry that love with me to the grave--"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Impossible to leave my convent! I am the object of constant
surveillance. Suspicion and hatred mount guard around me. How is Hena's
family to be apprized of the constraint she is placed under? The days
are passing away. I shudder at the thought of the Mother Superior
compelling her to pronounce the vows, regardless of the observations I
made to her that Hena's religious instruction is not yet sufficiently
advanced. Were I sufficient of a wretch to listen to the voice of an
execrable selfishness, I would rejoice at the thought that Hena, not
being granted to me, would be none else's after her ordination as a nun.
No! Were it in my power, I would restore the unfortunate girl to her
family. I would open the gates of the convent--"

       *       *       *       *       *

"A family!--a wife!--children!--the tenderest of sentiments, the
dearest, the most sacred that can elevate the soul to the height of Thy
providential purposes, O, heavenly Father!--a family--that ineffable
sanctuary of domestic virtues--is forever barred to me! A curse upon
those who founded the first convents!

"And who is it that bars me from that sanctuary? Is it Thy will, O, God
of justice--Thou who gavest a companion to man? No! No! Neither the Word
revealed by the prophets, nor the Word of Thy Son, our Redeemer, ever
said to Thy priests: 'You shall remain without the pale of mankind; you
are above, or below, the duties imposed by the sacred mission of
assuring the happiness of a wife, raising children in the love and
practice of right, and giving them the bread of the soul and the bread
of the body!'

"The reformers, those heretics, they have remained faithful to Thy
divine precepts. Their pastors are husbands and fathers."

       *       *       *       *       *

"At this moment the noise and the songs of orgy penetrate to the very
recesses of my cell. Mysteries of corruption and debauchery! The poor,
ignorant people believe in the celibacy of the monks and the chastity of
the nuns! Monks and nuns give themselves over to all manner of
abominations!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Before ever I met Hena at the home of Mary La Catelle, Thou knowest,
Oh, my God! I was seized with the justice of the reforms that were
proclaimed in Thy name by the Lutherans. I was in communion with them,
if not in the communion of lips, at least in that of the soul. The
adoration of images and saints, the arrogance of the clergy, auricular
confession which places infamous priests in possession of the secrets of
the domestic hearth, the redemption of sins and souls for a money price,
the traffic in indulgences--so many iniquities, so many outrages against
morality, rendered me indignant. My soul opened to the light."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I have had a strange dream!

"Having become a pastor of the reformed religion, I had married Hena. We
lived in a village, located in a smiling valley. I gave lessons to the
lads. Hena gathered the girls around her. God blessed our union. Two
beautiful children drew closer the bonds of our mutual tenderness. Oh,
sacred family joys! Hena, my beloved wife!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Fool that I am! Instead of allowing my thoughts to dwell upon that
dream, could I but tear it out of my memory. Until now I had, at least,
found some bitter comfort in the word--_Impossible_. I am a monk. An
insurmountable obstacle separates me from Hena. My grief fed upon the
most mournful of thoughts. Astray in a labyrinth from which there was no
exit, no ray of hope penetrated to the depth of my despair.

"But now, after that tempting dream, I find myself saying:

"'And yet I could be happy. I could embrace the Evangelical religion,
become one of its pastors, remain guiltless of faithlessness to my vow
of devoting myself to the service of God, and yet wed Hena. The reform
ministers are not held to celibacy.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Mercy, Oh, my God! However intense the hope, it has evaporated. I have
fallen back into the very depth of despair. In order to wed Hena, she
must love me! Can her heart ever have beaten for a man clad in a monk's
frock?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Who made me a monk? Could I, at the age of thirteen, be endowed with
judgment enough to decide upon my vocation, and understand the
significance of monastic vows? Was it not in mere obedience to my father
that I entered as a novice the Order of the Augustinian monks? That was
my first step in religious life. Subsequently, partly through lassitude,
partly through habit, partly through submission, I proceeded to
consecrate myself to this gloomy and sterile life. I bowed before the
paternal will. Thus goes the world! To my elder brother freedom to
choose his career and a wife; to him the hereditary patrimony; to him
family joys; to me the cloister; to me the vows that shackle me to
celibacy and poverty! Such are the iniquities of the Catholics."

       *       *       *       *       *

"A slow fever undermines and consumes me. I am only the shadow of my
former self.

"The religious education that every day I impart to Hena in the shadow
of the confessional is torture to me. I have become so nervously
sensitive that the sweet sound of my penitent's voice makes every fiber
of my brain to twitch. Her breath, that occasionally reaches my face
through the grating of the confessional, makes my forehead to be bathed
in perspiration that burns, and then freezes my temples. I have not the
courage to endure this torture any longer. I shall go crazy. To see, to
feel near me the young girl the thought of whom fills my soul, and to be
forever on guard, in order to restrain myself, to watch every single
word I utter, its inflection, my hardly repressed sighs, the tears that
her sorrows and my own draw from my eyes in order to conceal my secret
from her! I am at the end of my strength. Fever and sleeplessness have
used up my life. I can hardly drag myself from my cell to the church of
the Augustinian monks. Call me to Your bosom, O Lord God! Have pity upon
me. Mercy! Shorten my torments!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"There is no longer any doubt. Hena will be forced to take the vows.
Yesterday I went to the convent of the Augustinian sisters to inform the
Mother Superior that my weakened health commanded me absolute rest, and
I could not continue the religious education of the young novice.

"'Is Hena Lebrenn at last in a condition to take the veil?' she asked
me.

"'Not yet,' I answered.

"'In that case,' replied the Mother Superior, 'the Lord will enlighten
her with His grace when it shall please Him. It is His concern. Obedient
to the orders I have from my ecclesiastical superiors, the girl must
take the veil within a week. Some other of our Augustinian brothers will
take charge of completing the education of the novice, somehow or other.
It is the reverend Father Lefevre who sent her here. She has a brother
who also was snatched from perdition. The task was easy with him. So far
from refusing to take the vows, he requested to be allowed to enter the
Order of the Cordeliers, and has been taken to their convent and placed
near Fra Girard. The father and mother are devil-possessed heretics. A
curse upon them.'

"And thus, in violation of all law and equity the two children have been
wrested from their family, and will evermore be separated from it. I
would give my life to inform Christian Lebrenn and his wife of the fate
that is reserved for his daughter. Alas, there is no means of seeing
them."

       *       *       *       *       *

"To-morrow Hena takes the vows at the convent of the Augustinian
sisters. I was informed of it by the monk who replaced me as her
catechiser. My God! The poor girl is lost forever to her family.

"And yet a glimmer of hope remains. The surveillance at first exercised
over me becomes less rigorous, now that my life is ebbing away, and I
hardly leave my couch. If this evening, to-night, I can leave the
convent, I shall notify Monsieur Lebrenn of the imminent danger that
threatens his daughter. Perchance, thanks to the influence of Robert
Estienne, the Princess Marguerite may yet be able to obtain the freedom
of Hena before she has taken the veil.

"My God! Vouchsafe my prayer and deliver me speedily of life. I shall
ask to be buried in my frock, where I keep hidden these leaves, the only
confidants of my love."




CHAPTER XVI.

THE TAVERN OF THE BLACK GRAPE.


"The Black Grape" was the device roughly painted on the escutcheon of a
tavern that served for rendezvous to all sorts of bandits, who at that
season infested the city of Paris. Even the archers of the patrol held
in awe the semi-underground cut-throats' resort. They never ventured
into the tortuous and dark alley at about the middle of which the old
sign of the Black Grape, well known by all the thieves, creaked and
swung to the wind. Three men, seated at a table in one of the nooks of
that haunt, were discussing some important project, judging from the
mystery in which they wrapped their conversation. Pichrocholle, the
Mauvais-Garçon, and his pal Grippe-Minaud, the Tire-Laine, who, several
months before, had attended the sale of indulgences in St. Dominic's
Church, were two of the interlocutors in the consultation they were for
some time holding with Josephin, the Franc-Taupin. Strange
transformation! The adventurer, once a man of imperturbable good nature,
was unrecognizable. His now somber and even savage physiognomy revealed
a rooted grief. He left his pot of wine untouched. What stronger
evidence of his grief!

"St. Cadouin!" said Pichrocholle with a tone and gesture of devout
invocation. "We are here alone. You can now tell us what you want of us,
Josephin."

"Pichrocholle, I met you in the war--"

"Yes, I was an arquebusier in the company of Monsieur Monluc. I got
tired of killing in battle, and without profit to myself, Italians,
Spaniards, Swiss and Flemings, whom I did not know, and decided to kill
for cash Frenchmen whom I did know. I became a Mauvais-Garçon. I now
place my dagger and my sword at the service of whoever pays me. Tit for
tat."

"'Tis but to be a soldier, only in another manner," explained
Grippe-Minaud. "But this trade requires a certain courage that I do not
possess. I prefer to tackle honest bourgeois on their way home at night
without any other weapon than--their lanthorns."

"Pichrocholle," proceeded the Franc-Taupin, "I saved your life at the
battle of Marignan. I extricated you from two lansquenets, who, but for
my help, would have put you through a disagreeable quarter of an hour. I
believe I bore myself as a true comrade."

"St. Cadouin! Do you take me for an ingrate? If you have any service to
ask of me, speak freely without fear of a refusal."

"When I ran across you a few minutes ago, it occurred to me you were the
man I needed--"

"Is it some enemy you wish to rid yourself of? All you have to do is to
place me before him."

Josephin shook his head negatively, and pointed with his finger at his
own long sword, that lay across the table before him. It would have been
quite enough for such a contingency.

"You are yourself able to rid yourself of an enemy," replied the
Mauvais-Garçon. "I know it. What, then, is the job?"

The Franc-Taupin proceeded with a tremulous voice while a tear rolled
down from his eye:

"Pichrocholle, I had a sister--"

"How your voice trembles! You could not look any sadder. Pichrocholle,
the pots are empty, and no money to fill them with!" said Grippe-Minaud.

"'Sdeath, my sister!" cried the Franc-Taupin in despair. "There is a
void in my heart that nothing can fill!" and he hid his face in his
hands.

"A void is useful when it is made in the purse of a bourgeois,"
commented Grippe-Minaud, while his companion remarked:

"Come, now, Josephin, you had a sister. Is it that you have lost her?
Proceed with your story."

"She is dead!" murmured the Franc-Taupin, gulping down a sob; but
recovering, he added: "I still have a niece--"

"A niece?" asked the Mauvais-Garçon. "Is it she we must help? Is she
young and handsome--?"

The bandit stopped short at the fierce look that the Franc-Taupin shot
at him. Presently he resumed:

"I knew you one time for a jollier fellow."

"I laugh no more," rejoined the Franc-Taupin with a sinister smile. "My
cheerfulness is gone! But let us come to the point. My sister died in
prison. I succeeded at least in being allowed to see her before she
closed her eyes, and to receive her last wishes. She leaves behind three
children--a girl and two boys, but the elder does not count."

"How's that? Explain the mystery."

"I am coming to that. My sister's daughter was seized and taken to the
convent of the Augustinian sisters, where she is now detained."

"St. Cadouin! What is there to complain about? To have a niece in a
convent, is almost like having an angel on your side in paradise!"
Saying which the Mauvais-Garçon crossed himself devoutly by carrying his
thumb from his nose to his chin, and then across from one corner to the
other of his mouth.

"Oh!" exclaimed Grippe-Minaud, "And I have neither sister, daughter nor
niece in a convent! They would pray for the remission of my sins. I
could then be unconcerned for the hereafter, like a fish in the water!"

"And their prayers would not cost you a denier!" added Pichrocholle with
a sigh.

"Oh, if only my daughter Mariotte had not run away at the age of
fourteen with a jail-bird, she would now be in a convent, praying for
her good father, the Tire-Laine! By the confession! That was the dream
of my life," whereupon the thief crossed himself as the Mauvais-Garçon
had done.

The words of the two bandits suited the Franc-Taupin. They were fresh
proofs of the mixture of superstition and crime that marked the bandits'
lives. Their fanaticism squared with his own projects. He proceeded with
his story, to which his two comrades listened attentively:

"My niece has no religious vocation. She was taken to the convent, and
is held there by force. She must come out. Will you help me to carry her
off?'

"St. Cadouin!" cried the Mauvais-Garçon, terror stricken, and crossing
himself anew. "That would be sacrilege!"

"To violate a holy place!" came from Grippe-Minaud, who grew pale and
crossed himself like Pichrocholle. "By the confession! My hair stands on
end at the bare thought of such a thing!"

Dumb and stupefied, the two brigands looked at each other with dilated
eyes. The Franc-Taupin seemed in no wise disconcerted by their scruples.
After a moment of silence he proceeded:

"Mauvais-Garçons and Tire-Laines are good Catholics, I know. Therefore,
be easy, my devout friends, I have the power to absolve you."

"Are you going to make us believe you are an Apostolic Commissioner?"

"What does it matter, provided I guarantee to you a plenary indulgence?
Eh, comrades!"

"You--you--Josephin? You are mocking us! And yet you claim you have lost
your taste for mirth!"

Separated from the two thieves by the full length of the table, the
Franc-Taupin placed his sword between his legs, planted his bare dagger
close before him, and then drew a parchment out of the pocket of his
spacious hose. It was Hervé's letter of absolution, which the
Franc-Taupin had picked up from the threshold of his sister's house when
the Lebrenn family was arrested. He unfolded the apostolic schedule; and
holding it open in plain view of both the brigands, he said to them:

"Look and read--you can read."

"A letter of absolution!" exclaimed the Mauvais-Garçon and the
Tire-Laine, with eyes that glistened with greed as they carefully ran
over the parchment. "It bears the seals, the signatures--there is
nothing lacking!"

"I saw day before yesterday a schedule like that in the hands of the
Count of St. Mexin, who paid me two ducats to dispatch a certain fat
advocate, a husband who stands in the way of the love affairs of the
advocatess with the young seigneur," said the Mauvais-Garçon.

"By the confession!" cried Grippe-Minaud, re-crossing himself. "The
letter is complete! It gives remission even for _reserved cases_. Thanks
to this absolution, one can do anything! Anything, without danger to his
soul!"

After reading and contemplating with ecstasies the apostolic schedule,
the two bandits exchanged a rapid and meaning look, which, however, did
not escape the Franc-Taupin, thoroughly on his guard as he was. He drew
back quickly, rose from his seat, dashed the precious parchment back
into his pocket, took a few steps away from the table, and standing
erect, his right foot forward, his sword in one hand, his dagger in the
other, thus addressed the two desperadoes:

"By the bowels of St. Quenet, my lads! I knew you for too good a brace
of Catholics not to wish to stab me to death in order to get possession
of this absolving schedule, which remits all past, present and future
crimes. Come on, my dare-devils, I have only one eye left, but it is a
good one!"

"You are crazy! It is not right to mistrust an old friend that way,"
expostulated Pichrocholle. "You misunderstood our intentions."

"We only wanted to examine more closely that blessed and priceless
letter," added the Tire-Laine. "By the confession! Happy man that you
are to possess such a treasure!" and he crossed himself. "Saints of
paradise, but grant me such a windfall, and I shall burn twenty wax
candles come Candlemas!"

"It depends upon you whether you shall own this treasure or not,"
proceeded the adventurer. "I shall give you this letter of absolution,
if you help me, to-night, to carry off my niece from the convent of the
Augustinian sisters. By virtue of this apostolic schedule, you will be
absolved of all your sins--past, present and future, and of this night's
sacrilege for good measure. Thenceforth, you will be privileged fairly
to swim in crime, without concern for your souls, as Pichrocholle just
said. Paradise will then be guaranteed to you!"

"But," remarked the Mauvais-Garçon, shaking his head, "this letter
absolves only one Christian--we are two."

"The job being done, you will cast dice for the schedule," Josephin
answered readily. "There will be one to lose and one to gain. The
chances are equal for you both."

The two bandits consulted each other with their eyes. Pichrocholle spoke
up:

"But how do you come into possession of that letter? Those absolutions
are the most expensive. St. Cadouin! The least that they cost, I hear,
is twenty-five gold crowns."

"It is none of your business from whom I hold the schedule. 'Sdeath, my
sister! All the gold in the world will not pay for the tears that piece
of parchment has caused to flow!" answered the Franc-Taupin, whose
visage expressed a profound grief as he thought of the revelations
Bridget made to him about Hervé.

Recovering his composure the adventurer added:

"Will you, yes or no, both of you, lend me a strong hand to-night, in
order to carry off my niece from the convent of the Augustinian sisters,
and for another expedition? It is a double game we have to play."

"St. Cadouin! We are to make two strokes. You never told us about
that--"

"The second expedition is but child's play. To seize a little casket."

"What does the casket contain?" queried the Tire-Laine, all interest.

"Only papers," answered the Franc-Taupin, "besides a few trinkets of no
value. Moreover, seeing you are scrupulous Catholics, I shall add, for
the sake of the peace of your souls, that the casket which I wish to
recover, was stolen from my brother-in-law. You will be aiding a
restitution."

"Josephin, you are trying to deceive us!" remarked the Mauvais-Garçon.
"People do not attach so much importance to a bunch of papers and
worthless trinkets."

"When the casket is in our possession you may open it--if there be any
valuables in it, they shall be yours."

"There is nothing to say to that," rejoined Pichrocholle, looking at the
Tire-Laine. "That's fair, eh? We shall accept the proposition."

"Quite fair," returned the latter. "But let us proceed in order. The
abduction of the nun--by the navel of the Pope! I shiver at the bare
thought. Should the cast of the dice not give me the letter of
absolution, I remain guilty of a sacrilege!"

"That is your risk," answered the Franc-Taupin; "but if you gain the
indulgence--there you are, my Catholic brother, safe for all eternity,
whatever crimes you may commit."

"By the limbs of Satan! I know that well enough! It is that very thing
that lures me."

"And me too," put in the other brigand. "But how are we to manage things
in order to enter the convent?"

"I shall explain my plan to you. My brother-in-law is in hiding for fear
of being arrested. My niece, who was taken to the Augustinian Convent,
was compelled to take the vows to-day."

"How do you know that?"

"I had gone, as latterly I often get into the humor of doing, and
planted myself before my sister's house--and dreamed."

"To what end?"

"In order to contemplate that poor house, deserted to-day, and where,
every time I returned from the country, Bridget, her husband and her
children gave me a pleasant reception. You devout fellows talk of
paradise. That house was a paradise to me. So that, even to-day, I
roamed into the neighborhood as an erring soul, my eyes fastened upon
that closed window where I had so often seen the dear faces of my sister
and her daughter smiling upon me when I knocked at their door--"

The expression on the face, the tone of the voice of the Franc-Taupin,
touched even the two bandits, hardened men though they were. Josephin
smothered a sob and proceeded:

"As I was saying a short while ago, I was roaming around the house when
I saw a monk approaching me. Oh, a good monk! So pale, so worn that I
had trouble to recognize him. But he, although he had met me only once,
recognized me by my port and by the plaster on my eye. He asked me
whether he could have a speedy word with my sister, or my
brother-in-law. 'My sister is dead, and my brother-in-law is in hiding,'
I answered the monk. He thereupon informed me that my niece was locked
up in the convent of the Augustinian sisters, where he, an Augustinian
monk, was her confessor; that, himself subjected several months to a
rigorous sequestration, he had only just succeeded in coming out, seeing
that the surveillance under which he was held had somewhat begun to
relax. Poor monk, he looked so wan, so emaciated, so feeble that he
could hardly keep himself on his feet. Uninformed concerning the
misfortunes of our family, his errand was to impart to the parents of my
niece what he knew about her. He ran the risk, in the event of his
outing being discovered, of being pursued and punished. I took him to
the place where my brother-in-law has found a safe retreat. On the way
thither I learned the following from the monk: My niece took the veil
to-day. According to the custom in such cases, she is to pass the night
alone in prayer in the oratory of the Virgin, which is separated from
the church of the convent by an enclosure of the cloister. Now,
attention, my lads, to the directions that the monk gave me. The walls
of the court-yard of the chapel run along St. Benoit's Alley. Just
before sunset, I went over the place and examined the walls. They are
not very high. We can easily scale them, while one of us will keep watch
on the outside."

"That shall be I!" broke in Grippe-Minaud nervously. "That post for me!
I have the eye of a lynx and the ear of a mole!"

"You shall be the watcher. Pichrocholle and I shall scale the wall. The
monk will be waiting for me near the chapel, ready to aid us should
anyone attempt to oppose my niece's abduction. I shall find her in the
oratory; she will follow me; we shall force open one of the garden
gates; and before dawn I shall have the daughter with her father, who is
in perfect safety. Immediately after, it will then be just early dawn,
we shall undertake the second expedition."

"The casket that we are to take?"

"Nothing easier. We shall go, all three, to Montaigu College, and shall
ask the porter for the number of Abbot Lefevre's chamber. He is the
thief of the casket."

"Horns of Moses!" cried Grippe-Minaud crossing himself. "An Abbot! To
raise our hands against another anointed of the Lord!"

"Two sacrileges in one day!" added the Mauvais-Garçon shaking his head
thoughtfully. "That weighs heavy on one's conscience."

"What about the letter of absolution!" interjected the Franc-Taupin
impatiently. "By the devil, whose frying pan you are afraid of, my
precious Catholics! Have you faith--yes or no?"

"That's so," responded Pichrocholle, "there is the schedule of
absolution. It covers us! Thanks to its beneficent virtue, one of us
shall be white as the inside of a snowball."

"Accordingly," the Franc-Taupin proceeded, "we shall ask for Abbot
Lefevre, under the pretext of some urgent matter that we must
communicate to him; we go up to his room; we knock at the door. Our man
will still be in bed. We throw ourselves upon him. You two bind and gag
him. I shall look for the casket in question--and shall find it. I am
certain of that. We then tie our Abbot to the bed, keeping him gagged
all the while, lest he scream and give the alarm. We close the door
after us--and we make tracks for the nearest place of safety."

"Oh, that would be the merest child's play, provided no priest were
concerned," broke in the Tire-Laine; "besides the abduction of your
niece, the violation of a sanctuary!"

"Yesterday I despatched my seventh man," put in the Mauvais-Garçon.
"Accordingly, my conscience is not very well at ease, because, to obtain
absolution for a murder, I would have to pay more than the murder
fetches me. But a lay murder is but a peccadillo beside a
sacrilege!--And then, if after the expedition that you propose to us,
the dice should fail to give me the apostolic schedule? What then! St.
Cadouin! I would dream only of the eternal flames ever after."

"That is your risk," again replied Josephin imperturbably. "The hour
approaches. Have you decided? Is it yes? Is it no? Must I look for
assistance elsewhere?"

"When will you deliver the letter to us?"

"Just as soon as my niece is safely with her father, and the casket is
in my hands. Agreed?"

"And if you deceive us? If after the expeditions have been successfully
carried out, you refuse to deliver the letter to us?"

"By the bowels of St. Quenet! And if, taking advantage of a moment when
I may not be on my guard, you should stab me to-night, that you may
seize the letter before rendering me the services which I expect of you?
The risks are equal, and compensate each other. Enough of words!"

"Oh, Josephin, such a suspicion against me--me your old comrade in
arms!"

"By the confession! To take us--us who have drunk out of the same pot,
for capable of so unworthy an action!"

"God's blood! Night draws near. We shall need some time to prepare for
the escalade," ejaculated the Franc-Taupin. "For the last time--yes or
no?"

The two bandits consulted each other for a moment with their eyes. At
the end of the consultation Pichrocholle reached out his hand to the
Franc-Taupin, saying:

"Upon the word of a Mauvais-Garçon, and by the salvation of my
soul--'tis done! You can count with me to the death."

"Upon the word of a Tire-Laine, and by the salvation of my soul--'tis
done! You may dispose of me."

"To work!" ordered the Franc-Taupin.

Josephin left the tavern of the Black Grape accompanied by the two
bandits.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE COTTAGE OF ROBERT ESTIENNE.


The cottage or country-house, that Robert Estienne owned near St. Ouen,
on the St. Denis road, was located in a secluded spot, and at a
considerable distance from the village. The byroad which led to the
entrance of the residence ran upon a gate of grated iron near a little
lodge occupied by the gardener and his wife. The principal dwelling rose
in the center of a garden enclosed by a wall. The day after that on
which the Franc-Taupin, the Mauvais-Garçon and the Tire-Laine held their
conference at the tavern of the Black Grape, Michael, Robert Estienne's
gardener, having returned from the field late in the afternoon, and
being not a little out of sorts at not finding his wife Alison at their
home, the key of which she had carried away with her, was grumbling,
storming and blowing upon his fingers numb with the December chill.
Finally his wife, no doubt returning from the village, hove in sight,
and wended her way towards the gate.

"Where the devil did you go to?" Michael called out to Alison as he saw
her from a distance. "Could you not at least have left the key in the
door? The devil take those forgetful women!"

"I went--to confession," answered the gardener's wife avoiding her
husband's eyes, and pushing open the gate. "I took the key with me
because you were afield."

"To confession!--To confession!" replied Michael with a growl. "And I
was freezing to death."

"All the same I must see to my salvation. You sent me this morning with
a letter to our master. The curate was good enough to wait for me at the
confessional after dinner. I availed myself of his kindness."

"Very well. But, may the devil take it! I wish you would try to gain
paradise without exposing me to be frozen to death."

The couple had barely stepped into the lodge when Michael stopped to
listen in the direction of the gate and said, surprisedly:

"I hear the gallop of a horse!"

The brave Michael stepped out again, looked through the grating of the
gate, recognized Robert Estienne, and called out:

"Alison, come quick; it is our master!"

Saying this the gardener threw open the gate to Robert Estienne. The
latter alighted from his horse, and giving the reins to his servant
said:

"Good evening, Michael. Any news?"

"Oh, monsieur, many things--"

"Does my guest run any danger? Has any indiscretion been committed?"

"No, thanks to God, monsieur. You may be easy on that score. You can
rely upon my wife as upon myself. No one suspects at the village that
there is anyone hiding at the house."

"What, then, has happened, since my last call? Alison brought me this
morning a note from the friend to whom I am giving asylum. But although
the note urged my coming here, it indicated nothing serious."

"No doubt the person who is here, monsieur, reserves for his own telling
the news that he is no longer alone at the house."

"How is that?"

"Day before yesterday, the tall one-eyed fellow who comes here from time
to time, and always at night, called in broad daylight, mounted upon a
little cart, drawn by a donkey and filled with straw. He told me to
watch the cart, and he went in search of your guest. The two came out
together, and out of the straw in the cart they pulled--a monk!"

"A monk, say you!--A monk!"

"Yes, monsieur, a young monk of the Order of Saint Augustine, who looked
as if he had not another hour to live, so pale and weak was he."

"And what has become of him?"

"He remained here, and your guest said to me: 'Michael, I beg you to
keep the arrival of the monk an absolute secret. I shall inform Monsieur
Estienne of the occurrence. Your master will approve the measures I have
taken.'"

"Did you follow his recommendation?"

"Yes, monsieur, but that is not all. Last night the big one-eyed fellow
came back just before dawn. He was on horseback, and behind him,
wrapped in a cloak on the crupper of his mount, he brought--a nun! I
went immediately to notify your guest. He came out running, and almost
fainted away at the sight of the nun. Bathed in tears he returned with
her into the house, while the big one-eyed man rode off at a gallop. It
was daylight by that time. Finally, towards noon to-day, the big
one-eyed man returned once more, but this time clad in a peasant's
blouse and cap. He brought a little casket to your guest, and then went
off--"

Astounded at what the gardener was telling him, Robert Estienne walked
up to the house, where he rapped in the nature of a signal--two short
raps and then, after a short pause, a third. Instantly Christian opened
the door.

"My friend, what is the matter? What has happened?" cried Robert
Estienne, struck by the profound change in the appearance of the
artisan, who threw himself into the arms of his patron, murmuring
between half-smothered sobs:

"My daughter!--My daughter!"

Robert Estienne returned Christian's convulsive embrace, and under the
impression that some irreparable misfortune had happened, he said in
sympathetic accents:

"Courage, my friend! Courage!"

"She has been found!" cried Christian. The light of unspeakable joy
shone in his eyes. "My child has been restored to me! She is here! She
is with me!"

"True?" asked Robert Estienne, and recalling the gardener's words he
added: "Was she the nun?"

"It is Hena herself! But come, come, monsieur; my heart overflows with
joy. My head swims. Oh, never have I needed your wise counsel as much as
now! What am I now to do?"

Christian and his patron had all this while remained at the entrance of
the vestibule. They walked into a contiguous apartment.

"For heaven's sake, my dear Christian, be calm," remarked Robert
Estienne. "Let me know what has happened. Needless to add that my advice
and friendship are at your service."

Recovering his composure, and wiping with the back of his hand the tears
that inundated his face, the artisan proceeded to explain:

"You are aware of the arrest of my wife, my daughter and my eldest son
at our house. I would also have been arrested had I been found at home.
My brother-in-law, who lingered in the neighborhood of my house,
notified me of the danger I ran, and made me retrace my steps. Thanks to
Josephin and yourself I found a safe refuge, first in Paris itself, and
then here, in this retreat which seemed to you to offer greater
security."

"Did I not by all that but repay a debt of gratitude? Your hospitality
to John Calvin is probably the principal cause of the persecution that
you and your family have been the victims of. Despite my pressing
solicitations, Princess Marguerite, whose influence alone has hitherto
protected me against my enemies, declined to attempt aught in your
behalf. Cardinal Duprat said to her: 'Madam, the man in whom you are
interesting yourself is one of the bitterest enemies of the King and the
Church. If we succeed in laying hands upon that Christian Lebrenn he
shall not escape the gallows, which he has long deserved!' Such set
animosity towards you, a workingman and obscure artisan, passes my
comprehension."

"I now know the cause of that bitter animosity, Monsieur Estienne.
Before proceeding with my narrative, the revelation is due to you. It
may have its bearings upon the advice that I expect from you."

Christian opened the casket that contained the chronicles of his family,
brought to him that very noon by the Franc-Taupin. He took from the
casket a scroll of paper and placed it in Robert Estienne's hand,
saying:

"Kindly read this, monsieur. The manuscripts to which this note refers
are the family chronicles that I have occasionally spoken of to you."

Robert Estienne took the note and read:


    "IGNATIUS LOYOLA, GENERAL OF THE SOCIETY OF JESUS
    "A. M. D. G.
    "(_Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam_)

     "Despite the incorrectness of their style and other defects of
     form, the within manuscripts may, especially since the invention of
     the printing press, become a weapon of great mischief.

     "This narrative, transmitted from century to century at the
     domestic hearth to obscure generations of common people could not,
     before the invention of the printing press, have any evil effect
     further than to perpetuate execrable traditions within a single
     family. It is so no longer. These rhapsodies are stamped with the
     race hatred borne by the Gauls towards the Franks, the conquered
     towards the conquerors, the serf towards the seigneur, the subject
     towards the Crown and the Church. To-day these rhapsodies could be
     multiplied indefinitely through the printing press, and thus
     diffused among the evil-minded people, ever but too prone to
     rebellion against the pontifical and royal authorities. Enlightened
     by these narratives upon historical events that should forever be a
     _closed book_ to them, if they are to entertain a feeling of blind
     submission, a sense of respect, and a wholesome dread for the
     throne and the altar, the evil-minded common people would in the
     future engage with ever greater audacity in those revolts that not
     a single century has hitherto been wholly free from,--a state of
     things that the Society of Jesus, with the aid of God, will reduce
     to order.

     "Therefore, it is urgent that these manuscripts be destroyed
     without delay, as proposed by our beloved son Lefevre, and that the
     traditions of the _Lebrenn_ family be shattered by the following
     means:

     "To cause the father and mother to be sentenced as heretics. The
     proofs of their heresy are plentiful. The torture and the pyre for
     the infamous wretches.

     "To lock up in a convent the son and the daughter (Hena and Hervé)
     now in Paris, and compel them to take the vows.

     "As to the youngest son, Odelin, fifteen years of age, and at
     present traveling in Italy with Master Raimbaud, an armorer, who is
     also reported to be a heretic, the return of the lad to Paris must
     be awaited, and then the identical course pursued towards
     him--capture him, lock him up in a convent, and compel him to take
     the vows. He is fifteen years old. Despite the taint of his early
     bringing-up, it will be easy to operate upon a child of that age.
     If, contrary to all likelihood, he can not be reduced to reason, he
     shall be kept in the convent until eighteen. Then he shall be
     pronounced guilty of heresy, and burned alive.

     "_I insist_--it is important, not only to destroy the said
     manuscripts, but also to shatter the traditions of the Lebrenn
     family, and extinguish the same, either by delivering it to the
     secular arm on crimes of heresy, or by burying its last scions
     forever in the shadow of the cloister.

     "The fact must be kept well in mind--there is no such thing as
     small enemies. The slightest of causes often produces great
     effects. At a given moment, on the occasion of a rebellion, one
     resolute man may be enough to carry the populace with him. Due to
     its secular traditions, the Lebrenn family might produce such a
     man. Such an eventuality must be prevented; the family must be
     uprooted.

     "If, supposing the impossible, the measures herein indicated should
     fail of success, if this dangerous stock should perpetuate itself,
     then, it is necessary that our ORDER, equally perpetual, always
     keep its eye upon these _Lebrenns_, who are certain to generate
     infamous scoundrels.

     "The instance of this family is one instance among the thousand
     that go to prove the necessity of the register I have often
     mentioned. I ORDER that one be kept in each division by the
     provincial of our Society. I ORDER that the names of the families
     upon whom the attention of our Society should be particularly
     directed, be inscribed in these registers. These records, preserved
     and transmitted from century to century, will furnish our Society
     the means of surveillance and of action upon future generations.
     Such is my will.

     "Our beloved son Lefevre will therefore start the register for the
     _province of France_ by entering in it the name of the _Lebrenn_
     family. There shall also be entered the names of _Robert Estienne_,
     of _Gaspard of Coligny_, of the _Prince of Gerolstein_, of
     _Ambroise Paré_, of _Clement Marot_, of _Bernard Palissy_, of the
     _Viscount of Plouernel_ and of others, too numerous to recite at
     this place, but who will be found on the heretics' lists furnished
     by Gainier to the Criminal Lieutenant, who shall furnish the said
     documents without delay to our beloved son Lefevre, whom may God
     guard.

     "I. L."

"Ignatius Loyola!" explained Christian translating the initials I and L
pronounced by Robert Estienne, who gazed upon the artisan dumbfounded.
The latter proceeded with a mournful and bitter tone: "The orders of
Ignatius Loyola were followed. My wife--" and he choked a sob, "my wife
was arrested and imprisoned for a heretic. Blessed be Thou, Oh, God! she
died in prison. Her death saved her, no doubt, from the stake! My
daughter was taken to the convent of the Augustinian sisters, where the
poor child was yesterday compelled to pronounce eternal vows. My son
Hervé--Oh, the monster no longer deserves to be called a son--"

"What is there against him?"

"A letter of my daughter, written to her mother, whose death she was not
aware of, put me on the scent of a horrible secret. This morning I
questioned my brother-in-law, who, happier than I, had the opportunity
of seeing Bridget in her prison. He unveiled to me a distressful
mystery--"

"Proceed with your tale, my friend."

Wiping away the cold perspiration that bathed his forehead, the artisan
went on to say: "Hervé entered the Convent of the Cordeliers, not
against his will, but joyfully! He will not part from Fra Girard, the
demon who led him astray. They are now waiting for my son Odelin to
return from Italy. Alas, the boy is on his way to Paris and I have not
been able to notify Master Raimbaud of what has happened, not knowing
where to address a letter to him. They will fall into the hands of our
enemies."

"Just heavens!" exclaimed Robert Estienne, struck by a sudden thought
and breaking in upon Christian. "There can be no doubt about it. A
minute ago, as I listened to your account of how the orders of Ignatius
Loyola were followed, I wondered how--even in these sad days when the
freedom and lives of our citizens are at the mercy of the good or ill
will of Cardinal Duprat and his agent, the Criminal Lieutenant, John
Morin--I wondered how the plot concocted against your whole family could
be executed with such rapidity. I now wonder no longer. Ignatius Loyola
exercises a powerful influence over the Cardinal, who has joined the
Society of Jesus."

"Is, then, the Society of Jesus already so highly connected?"

"No doubt about it! When I went to entreat the intercession of Princess
Marguerite in behalf of Mary La Catelle, John Dubourg, Laforge and
others of our friends, my protectress inquired from me whether I knew a
certain nobleman, still young of years and lame of foot, who almost
every day held protracted conferences with the Cardinal, over whom he
wielded an absolute sway. Thanks to the information I had from you, I
was able to enlighten the Princess concerning the chief of the new Order
of Jesuits. It is evident that it was with the connivance of the
Cardinal that Ignatius Loyola was enabled to smite your family. But what
I could not yet understand was the reason that drove that man to pursue
you with such inveteracy and to aim at your very life."

"Ignatius Loyola undoubtedly does not pardon my having surprised the
secret of his Order. Lefevre, one of his disciples and a former friend
of mine, saw me on the occasion of that fatal night concealed behind a
big boulder at the bottom of the quarry. He affected not to notice me,
in order not to awaken my suspicions, and the very next day he led the
archers of the patrol to my house, seized my family papers, with which I
had made him acquainted, and climbed to the garret, where, finding some
scraps of letters left behind him by John Calvin, he must by those means
have been put upon the track of the council of the reformers held at
Montmartre. Only an hour or two after the arrival of our co-religionists
the quarry was invaded by the archers."

"But how did your family chronicles and the note about them fall back
into your hands?"

"Also through the efforts of my wife's brother, the soldier of adventure
I have often spoken of to you. Josephin, that is my brother-in-law's
name, was going to our house when Bridget and my children were arrested.
He saw them taken away. He also saw a man, clad in a black frock, with
the cowl over his head, carry off the casket that contained our legends.
That man was my friend Lefevre. Once out of my house, and no longer
deeming it necessary to conceal his face, he raised his cowl and
Josephin recognized him. The discovery was a revelation to me. That
night my brother-in-law could not attempt to free my wife and children
from the hands of the archers. He remained in the neighborhood on the
watch for me. It was by him I was apprized of the arrest of my family.
At length, yesterday, having encountered near my house an Augustinian
monk, who left the convent surreptitiously, he learned from him that my
daughter had been made to take the veil. Once posted upon where Hena
was to be found, the Franc-Taupin decided to abduct her from the
cloister, helped therein by two other resolute fellows. He succeeded in
the perilous undertaking. Finally, having no doubt that the casket
containing my family chronicles was in Lefevre's possession, he repaired
early in the morning to Montaigu College with his two trusty companions,
and took away from the Jesuit the casket in which, jointly with our
family chronicles, was the note of Ignatius Loyola. These he brought to
me at noon to-day."

"What devotion! Thanks to the brave adventurer, your daughter is
restored to you! The monk to whom you have extended hospitality is, I
suppose, the same who escaped from the convent, and placed the
Franc-Taupin in position to deliver your daughter. The situation begins
to look less dangerous."

"Yes, Monsieur Estienne. And now I implore you, lighten my path with
your advice. My head swims. I am a prey to cruel perplexities."

"Are you afraid your daughter may be traced to this house?"

"That fear is terrible enough, but is not what troubles me most."

"What is it that troubles you?"

Christian sobbed aloud: "You do not yet know all. The monk is Brother
St. Ernest-Martyr."

"He is a true disciple of Christ! Often did Mary La Catelle tell me he
inclined towards the Reformation."

"Listen, Monsieur Estienne. The monk was hardly in the house, where he
arrived worn to a skeleton by a slow fever, when he lost consciousness.
I gave him all the care I could. I divested him of his frock, laid him
in my bed, and watched over him. A few leaves of paper dropped out of
his clothes. I picked them up. As I ran my eyes over them I read the
name of my daughter. I admit that I yielded to an impulse of curiosity,
blameworthy, perhaps, but irresistible. I opened the leaves. What a
discovery!"

"The leaves of paper--"

"Contained fragments of a sort of diary, to which the thoughts of the
young monk were confided. From them I learned that he was chosen for the
confessor and instructor of my daughter at the convent of the
Augustinian sisters--and he became enamored of her. He loves Hena to
distraction!"

"Does he know you to be aware of his secret?"

"Yes. When he recovered consciousness he saw the fragments of his
journal in my hands. He uttered a cry of fear. 'Be calm,' I said to him;
'it is the soul of an honest man that stands reflected in these
revelations. I can only pity you.'"

"Is your daughter here in the house with him?"

"My daughter," answered Christian, turning to Robert Estienne a face
bathed in tears, "my daughter is not aware of the young monk's
passion--and, in her turn, she loves him."

"Unhappy child!"

"Her love is killing her. It was one of the reasons that decided her to
take the veil. She has told me all, with her natural candor."

"Have Hena and the young monk met since they are here?"

"No. The poor young man--his name was Ernest Rennepont before he took
orders--the moment he learned from me of my daughter's presence in the
house, wanted to deliver himself forthwith to the Superior of his Order,
lest we be all taken for accomplices in his flight. I firmly objected to
his determination, seeing it meant the loss of his life."

"Then these young folks are unaware that their love is reciprocated?"

"It will be her death, Monsieur Estienne, it will be her death! I lose
my head endeavoring to find a way out of this tangle of ills. What am I
to do? What shall I decide? I asked you to come to me without saying
why, because I rely upon your great wisdom. You may, perhaps, be able to
light the chaos of these afflictions which cause me to stagger with
despair. I see only pitfalls and perils around us."

Christian paused.

Robert Estienne remained a few minutes steeped in silent reflection.

"My friend," said the latter, "you know the life of Luther as well as I.
That great reformer, a monk like Ernest Rennepont, and, like him, one
time full of faith in the Roman Church, withdrew from her fold on
account of the scandals that he witnessed. Do you think Ernest
Rennepont is ready to embrace the Reformation?"

"I do not know his intentions in that regard. But when he saw I was
informed of his love for Hena, he exclaimed: 'Miserable monk that I am,
by loving Hena I have committed a crime in the eyes of the Church. And
yet, God is my witness, the purity of my love would do honor to any
upright man, not condemned to celibacy.'"

"Let us return to Luther. That reformer always took the stand with
irresistible logic against the celibacy of clergymen--"

"Great God!" cried Christian breaking in upon Robert Estienne. "What
recollections your words awaken in my memory! The fragments of the diary
written by the unfortunate monk mention a dream in which he saw himself
a pastor of the Evangelical religion, and husband of Hena, giving, like
herself, instruction to little children."

"Why should not Ernest Rennepont conform his conduct with the precepts
of Luther?"

"Oh, monsieur!" murmured Christian, carrying both his hands to his
burning temples. "Hope and doubt disturb my reason. I dare not give
myself over to such a thought, out of fear that I be miserably
disillusioned. And yet, your words bear the stamp of wisdom and good
will."

"My friend, let us reason calmly. Control your anxiety for a moment. The
young monk is a man of heart; we may not doubt that. Has not his conduct
during these recent circumstances increased your affection for him?"

"It is true. I esteem him greatly."

"Does not, as he expressed it, his pure and noble love for Hena do honor
to any upright man?"

"I firmly believe so after reading the pages which Ernest Rennepont
believed he wrote for none but his own eyes."

"Now, my friend, let us suppose he embraces the reformed religion. His
knowledge, his good habits and his liking for teaching little
children--all that would render him worthy of being a minister of the
new church. I feel almost certain our friend would present his name with
joy to our brothers for election, and these will acclaim him their
pastor. Never could the Evangelical word have a worthier interpreter."

"Oh, Monsieur Estienne, have mercy! Do not cheer my heart with such
supreme hopes, destined, perhaps, to be dashed."

"Alas, you have suffered so much, that I can well understand your
hesitation to foster a consoling hope. But reflect an instant, and you
will admit that the hope is in no wise an exaggerated one. Let us sum
up--Ernest Rennepont renounces his Order, embraces the Reformation, is
chosen a pastor, and he can then contract marriage. Granting all this,
do you not believe your daughter will consent to the union, if you
approve of it?"

"She is dying of that fatal love, believing herself separated from
Ernest Rennepont by an unbridgeable chasm of impossibilities. She surely
would not refuse to wed the man she loves."

"Well, then, my friend, what other obstacles do you see? Do not these
expectations, so far from being deceptive, become certainties? Does not
the grief of the unfortunate couple change into ineffable bliss? You
remain worried, dejected."

"Monsieur Estienne, the project is too beautiful!"

"Christian! How can you, a man of sense and firmness, succumb to such
weakness of spirit!"

"The death of my wife, the lamentable position in which my beloved
daughter finds herself, the crime of the wretch whom I can no longer
call my son--so many sorrows, heaped one upon the other, have cracked
the springs of my soul. I feel myself overwhelmed and nerveless."

"And yet, at no time have you been in greater need of energy. You say,
my friend, that the plan is too beautiful? But, should it be realized,
do you not still run grave dangers? Do you forget that your freedom and
life are both threatened? Do you forget that, at this very hour, they
are seeking to track Ernest Rennepont and your daughter? Regain courage
with the hope of triumphing over your enemies. We must carry on the
struggle without truce or let."

"Thanks, Monsieur Estienne; thanks! Your words comfort me. Yes;
nevertheless, the plan you propose and which would snatch my daughter
from the despair that is killing her--that plan is yet far from being
accomplished."

"This is what I shall do. Should the errand embarrass you, I shall
myself see Ernest Rennepont, shall propose to him to embrace the
Reformation and become a pastor of the new church in order to verify his
dream--provided Hena accepts the union. When we shall have made sure of
Ernest Rennepont's consent, you shall see your daughter. I do not
believe there is any doubt about her answer. The marriage being agreed
upon, we must make haste. The disappearance of Hena and the forceful
restitution of your family archives will redouble the zeal of your
persecutors. Neither you, your daughter, nor her husband would any
longer be safe in the neighborhood of Paris. I have already considered
the emergency when this retreat would cease to offer security to you. I
have a friend who is a printer in La Rochelle, a fortified town, rich,
industrious, well armed, wholly devoted to the Reformation, and so full
of reliance on the power of her municipal franchise, her ramparts and
the bravery of her numerous inhabitants, as confidently to defy our
enemies. You and yours will be there in perfect safety. You can live
there on the fruit of your labor. Better than anyone else, I know how
skilled a mechanic you are. Finally, if you should have to leave Paris
before the return of Odelin--"

"Oh, Monsieur Estienne, I tremble at the thought of that Lefevre on the
watch for the lad's return in order to kidnap him! What a blow that
would be to me! What a fate have our enemies in store for my poor
Odelin!"

"I shall take charge of that. To-morrow I shall see Madam Raimbaud. Her
husband has probably notified her when she may expect him home from
Italy. If so, and even otherwise, your brother-in-law, the Franc-Taupin,
who already has given you so many proofs of his devotion, will be able
to aid us in preventing your son from being kidnapped. I greatly rely
upon his assistance."

"May heaven hear you!"

"Travelers from Italy usually enter Paris by the Bastille Gate."

"Yes. Besides, seeing that Master Raimbaud, like most all armorers,
resides in the neighborhood of that fortress, it is almost certain he
will come by the suburb of St. Antoine. That point is settled."

"If Madam Raimbaud is informed upon the date of her husband's arrival,
the Franc-Taupin must be placed on watch along the road from Italy, or
near the Bastille. He will then warn your son not to enter the city, and
deliver to him a letter from you directing him to meet you in La
Rochelle. I shall take charge of supplying Odelin with the necessary
funds for the journey. When in La Rochelle, near you, he will continue
his armorer's trade. And now, Christian, I share your prevision. The
times are approaching when, more than ever, there will be work for those
whose occupation is the forging of implements of war. Come, courage! Let
us reserve ourselves for the struggle."

"How can I express my gratitude to you. You think of everything."

"My friend, for the space of two generations your family and mine have
mutually rendered each other so many services that it is impossible to
say on which side the debt lies heavier. Let us not lose an instant's
time. Take me to Ernest Rennepont. So soon as I shall know his mind, I
shall inform you. You will then propose the marriage to your daughter
with the caution that the occasion requires. In her present delicate
condition, after all the sufferings she has undergone, care must be
taken not to shock her even with joy. Joy may kill, as well as despair."

Christian led Robert Estienne to the apartment of the young monk, and
leaving the two alone, impatiently awaited the issue of their interview,
whereupon he was to see Hena.




CHAPTER XVIII.

FOR BETTER AND FOR WORSE.


Sister St. Frances-in-the-Tomb, as Hena Lebrenn was christened in
religion, occupied in the cottage a chamber contiguous to that of her
father. The young girl still wore the nun's garb. The pallor of her
visage, framed in the folds of her coif and her long white veil, was
hardly distinguishable from the dull whiteness of the linen. Pain and
resignation were traced on her features, that emaciation rendered almost
transparent. Seated near a window, her hands clasped over her knees, and
her large blue eyes raised to heaven, she seemed to contemplate without
seeing them the somber clouds which the north wind drove before it with
weird moanings. Hena's thoughts turned upon the events of the last three
days. Despite her decision to devote herself to a nun's life, as the
only means of again seeing her family, to live never again under the
same roof with her brother whose passion for her inspired the maid with
invincible horror, and to bury forever in the chilly shadows of the
cloister her fatal love for St. Ernest-Martyr--despite these sentiments,
on the night that, her vows being pronounced, she was praying in the
solitude of the Virgin's chapel, she welcomed her uncle Josephin as a
liberator, and never hesitated an instant to flee with him from the
convent of the Augustinian sisters. She was ignorant of her mother's
fate. The hope of soon, after so cruel a separation, being again in the
embrace of the parents she loved so dearly, occupied all her thoughts.
When, upon seeing Christian again, the young girl learned of her
mother's death, the persecutions that he himself was the object of, and
the presence of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr in the same retreat, her head
reeled. Weakened by suffering and bewildered by so many unexpected
events, the girl's mind threatened for a moment to go astray. Her native
vigor carried, however, the day. She said to herself:

"My duty is clear. I shall stay near my father. I shall endeavor with my
tenderness to soften his sorrow for the loss of my mother. He must flee
this place. I shall accompany him in his exile. I shall also take my
mother's place to my brother Odelin. I shall not endeavor to forget
Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. But, while preserving this love sacred in the
recesses of my heart, to you, O, my God, I pray--grant through Your
infinite mercy that this love do not kill me--grant to preserve my life
for the sake of my father, who stands in need of my care and my
affection!"

Such were the reflections of the young girl, when, some hours after his
interview with Robert Estienne, she saw Christian enter her chamber. The
printer's face reflected suppressed happiness. Tears, sweet tears they
now were, flowed from his eyes. Despite his desire not to betray his joy
before his daughter, lest he cause her too deep an emotion, he could
not withhold pressing her repeatedly to his heart, and covering her face
with kisses. Touched by such tender effusion, and struck by the change
in her father's appearance, Hena cried:

"God be praised, father, you bring me good news! Are you no longer
pursued? You will no longer have to keep in hiding?"

Christian shook his head, and still holding his daughter in his arms,
contemplated her, enraptured. He sat down; placed her on his knees, as a
little child is placed; and in a voice that trembled with emotion, said:

"Yes, my dear Hena; yes, my beloved child, I have good news for you--but
not what you thought. We are soon to leave this retreat, where our
persecutors might discover us, and we shall go far away from here, in
order to escape all pursuit."

"And yet, father, your voice trembles with joy. I read happiness on your
face."

"The good, the unexpected tidings that I bring--concern you--you
alone--"

"Me alone, father?"

"No; not you alone--what is good to you, is it not good to me also?"

Hena looked at her father, surprised. The latter hesitated to say more,
fearing the consequences of too sudden a revelation. He paused for a
moment and proceeded:

"Do you know, my child, what the pastor of the reformed religion is?"

"I believe he is a minister of the Evangelium; is it not?"

"Yes, the pastors spread the Evangelical word. But, contrary to the
Catholic priests, who are condemned to celibacy by the Church, the
ministers of the reformed cult are free to contract matrimony, and to
fulfil its obligations."

A smile of sadness flitted over Hena's lips. Her father followed her
closely with his eyes. He fathomed her secret thoughts.

"The right of its ministers to be husbands and fathers, recognized by
the Evangelical church, has induced several Catholic priests to break
with Rome and embrace the Reformation."

Dropping her head upon her father's shoulder, Hena wept. Christian drew
himself slightly back in order to raise the tear-bedewed visage of his
daughter, whom he still kept upon his knees, his arms around her, and
his heart beating with hope.

"Hena, no doubt you have been thinking to yourself: 'Alas, Brother St.
Ernest-Martyr is a Catholic priest!'"

"You have guessed my thoughts, dear father. I thought to myself there
was nothing for me but to bow before so fatal a state of things. But let
us talk about that good news which you seem so anxious to impart to me."

"Very well, dear child--but in order not to have to return again to a
matter painful to you, I shall begin by saying that Brother St.
Ernest-Martyr, or rather Ernest Rennepont, which is his real name,
withdraws himself from the Catholic Church and embraces the
Reformation."

Christian felt Hena trembling convulsively upon his knees. The poor
child carried both her hands to her face, whence fresh drops of tears
flowed down upon her robe.

"My dear child," resumed the artisan, hardly able to repress his
gladness, "there is still another confession which I expect from your
frankness. You are saying to yourself, are you not: 'Ernest Rennepont
abjured his vows--he is free--he can now choose a wife--if he would only
love me!'"

"Father, good father, let us drop such thoughts!"

"Oh, my beloved child!" cried the artisan radiant with joy. "Oh, my only
support, my only consolation! Courage! Courage! Not now any more in
order to resist sorrow--but to defend you--from the transports that an
unexpected happiness often causes us--"

"An unexpected happiness, father?"

"Yes, the gladsome tidings that I bring to you are--first, Ernest
Rennepont's resolution to become a pastor of the Evangelical church.
Thus he is free to marry, without discontinuing his services to God.
Yes, and do you know, Hena, that if the most cherished wish of his heart
is verified, do you know, Hena, who would be the wife of his choice? It
would be--it would be you--you, my treasure! Ernest Rennepont loves you
to distraction since the day he first saw you at Mary La Catelle's."

Despite the precautions taken by her father, Hena could not resist the
shock of the revelation. Still holding his daughter upon his knees,
Christian saw her lose color, her head dropped upon his shoulder, she
lost consciousness. He rose, carried the girl to her bed, at the head of
which he knelt down, and awaited the end of the crisis that the excess
of joy had brought on. A moment later he heard a rap at the door. He
asked:

"Is it you, Monsieur Estienne?"

"Yes--and I am not alone."

"Do not come in now," answered Christian. "Hena is in a swoon. I fear
that in recovering consciousness the sight of her betrothed might cause
an immediate relapse."

Certain motions of Hena, and the light flush that by degrees returned to
her cheeks, announced the girl's gradual recovery. Her eyes remained
half shut. She turned her haggard face towards her father. Presently,
fixing upon him her still partly veiled eyes, she seemed to interrogate
her confused recollections.

"No, my dear child," said the artisan; "it is not a dream. You are not
the sport of an illusion. Ernest Rennepont renounces the monastic life;
he embraces the Evangelical creed, of which he will be a pastor. He has
long loved you with the purest and noblest love. I surprised the secret
of his soul. Never did father wish for his daughter a husband more
worthy of esteem and affection." And pointing with his finger to the
door: "He is there, accompanied by our friend, Monsieur Estienne. Do you
feel yourself strong enough to receive them, my poor, dear child? Would
you like to have them come in?"

"He loves me!" cried Hena, taking her father's hands and kissing them.
"He loves me, also! Since when?"

"Yes, yes--he will tell you all that himself," answered Christian with a
smile of ineffable happiness. "He is there. He awaits but your consent
to come to you, my dear child."

Hena sat up on her couch, placed one of her hands on her heart to
restrain its throbs and still too much moved to speak, made to her
father an affirmative sign. The artisan thereupon introduced Robert
Estienne, supporting on his arm Ernest Rennepont. At that moment the
sound of a horse's hoofs was heard from the yard. Yielding to an
involuntary sense of uneasiness, Christian ran to the window, and was at
once put at ease at seeing his brother-in-law the Franc-Taupin alighting
from his mount. Hena and Ernest Rennepont, strangers to what went on
around them, saw but each other. When the young man was near enough to
the couch on which Hena was seated, he dropped on his knees before her,
clasped his hands, and raised up to her his pale visage, now radiant
with celestial bliss. Unable to utter a word, the two contemplated each
other, absorbed. Robert Estienne could not hold back the tears that
gathered in his eyes. The artisan stepped towards the two lovers, took
Hena's hand, placed it in Ernest Rennepont's, who had remained on his
knees, and said in a voice broken with emotion:

"Be betrothed--never have nobler hearts been worthier of each other."

Christian was pronouncing these solemn words when the Franc-Taupin
entered. Already informed by his brother-in-law of the mutual love of
the two young folks, the soldier of adventure thrilled with joy at
seeing them united.

"Know the rest, my friend," said the artisan to Josephin. "My daughter
and he who from this day is my son owe their liberty to you. You are
entitled to know all that concerns them. Ernest Rennepont renounces his
monastic vows; he abjures Catholicism and embraces the Reformation, of
which he is to be a pastor. As you know, the Evangelical pastors can
marry."

"It is my advice that the marriage be promptly concluded," answered the
Franc-Taupin in a low voice as he led Christian and Robert Estienne to
the window, while the betrothed couple remained under the spell of a
profound ecstasy, hearing nothing, seeing nothing of what happened
around them. The Franc-Taupin proceeded in a low voice: "I have come
from Paris in a hurry. I heard an announcement made to the sound of
trumps, to the effect that Sister St. Frances-in-the-Tomb and Brother
St. Ernest-Martyr are adjudged relapsed, and subject to the punishment
visited upon such a sin--the stake!"

"The stake!" muttered Robert Estienne, shivering with horror, while
making an instant sign intended to check an exclamation of terror that
Christian was on the point of giving vent to.

"Time presses," proceeded the Franc-Taupin. "My brother-in-law, his
daughter and the young monk must leave this house this very night. It
will not be safe to-morrow."

"I am of your opinion," answered Robert Estienne. "This is the way we
shall proceed: You, Josephin, will return to Paris on the spot with a
letter from me to one of our pastors, urging him to come here this very
evening in order to take the abjuration of Ernest Rennepont, and give
his nuptial benediction to the betrothed couple. Immediately after, Hena
and her husband will set out, with you, and Christian, who will take my
horse. His daughter will ride on the crupper."

"The young monk shall ride behind me on my nag," said the Franc-Taupin.
"I shall escort the fugitives to a distance of five or six leagues from
Paris."

"When you come back here bring with you lay clothes for the young
couple," said Robert Estienne, handing his purse to the Franc-Taupin.
"You will also pay the price of your nag to the stableman from whom you
have the animal. Ernest Rennepont shall keep it, and ride on it with
Christian and his daughter to La Rochelle. Only there will they all
three be safe. There is not an instant to lose. Quick, to horse,
Josephin, to horse! The lives of us all are at stake."

The Franc-Taupin left hurriedly, casting a tender look upon Hena and
Ernest Rennepont. The two, their hearts in heaven, remained ignorant of
the new dangers that threatened them. The eyes of the Society of Jesus
were open.

       *       *       *       *       *

Midnight soon arrived. Robert Estienne, Christian, his daughter, Ernest
Rennepont and the Franc-Taupin assembled in the parlor of the country
house, the unsafe refuge that they were soon to quit. An old man, with
long white hair, the pastor of the Evangelical church, responded to the
call of Robert Estienne, in order to receive the abjuration of the
betrothed couple and bestow upon them his nuptial benediction. A table
with a few wax candles stood at the rear of the apartment. On the table
were also an ink-horn, pens, paper, and a little pocket Bible with
silver clasps. Hena and Ernest Rennepont were in front of the table.
Behind it stood the pastor. Robert Estienne, Christian and the
Franc-Taupin assisted the betrothed couple. The agitation caused by so
many unexpected events, and the intoxication of repressed happiness
animated the recently pallid countenances of the bride and bridegroom.
Wrapped in meditation, and their thoughts turning to the past, they
raised their souls to God in a transport of speechless gratitude. They
implored the mercy of their Creator. There was nothing terrestrial in
their love. They saw in the consecration of their marriage only the
right to devote themselves to each other, to vie in mutual sacrifices
and abnegation, and to serve the holy cause of progress. They knew the
perils that the apostles of the new doctrine must confront.

Taking from the table a sheet of paper, the pastor read in a solemn
voice the following act of abjuration:

"'On this 19th day of December, 1534, appeared before us Ernest
Rennepont, called in his religion Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, and Louise
Hena Lebrenn, called in her religion Sister St. Frances-in-the-Tomb, who
declare they desire to renounce the Roman idolatry, and swear to confess
the Evangelical religion, to live and die in the faith, and to
participate in the holy sacrament of communion. Upon these conditions
Louise Hena Lebrenn and Ernest Rennepont have been informed that they
will be admitted to the Evangelical church'[37]--Be pleased to sign the
act of abjuration."

Hena and Ernest signed the act with steady hands. Thereupon they knelt
down upon two seats brought in by Christian and the Franc-Taupin. The
pastor resumed, and addressed the couple with a moved voice:

"You, Hena Lebrenn, and you, Ernest Rennepont, will you live together in
the marriage state that God himself has instituted, and which St. Paul
represents as among the most honorable of conditions? If that is your
intention, Hena Lebrenn and Ernest Rennepont, make your will known. Are
you willing to be united to each other?"

"Yes," answered Ernest, raising his eyes as if to take heaven for his
witness.

"Yes," answered Hena in her turn.

"Then," resumed the pastor, "may the Lord deign to bless your wishes.
You, Ernest Rennepont, do you declare, here before God, that you have
taken and do hereby take Hena Lebrenn, here present, for your wife? Do
you promise to live holily with her, to be true to her, as is the duty
of a good and faithful husband, and God commands you by His word?"

"Yes!" answered Ernest Rennepont.

"And you, Hena Lebrenn, do you declare here before God, that you have
taken and do hereby take Ernest Rennepont, here present, for your
husband? Do you promise to love him, to live holily with him, and to
keep your troth to him as is the duty of a faithful wife, and as God
commands you by His word?"

"Yes," answered Hena, with her eyes modestly cast down.

"Keep your promises to each other," said the pastor in conclusion.
"Seeing God has united you in the sacred bonds of matrimony, live
together in peace, in unity, in purity, helpful to each other, and
faithful to your pledge, obedient to the divine command. Oh, Lord God!
Lord of wisdom and of goodness!" added the Evangelical pastor, joining
his venerable hands in prayer, "since it has pleased Thee to call this
man and this woman to the holy state of matrimony--should it be Thy will
that children be born to them, cause them, as worthy husband and wife,
to raise their offspring in piety and to train them to virtue."[38]

The touching solemnity of the ceremony was suddenly interrupted by the
precipitate entrance of Michael, the gardener. Pale and distracted he
rushed to the house and threw the door open, crying:

"Monsieur Estienne--malediction upon me! You are betrayed!"

A moment of silent stupor ensued upon these words. Hena threw herself
instinctively into her father's arms. Ernest Rennepont approached her.
The Franc-Taupin dashed to the window and listened in the direction of
the yard, while the pastor raised his eyes heavenward, saying:

"Oh, Lord, if Thou reservest me for martyrdom, the victim is ready, may
Thy will be done!"

"We are betrayed, Michael?" cried Robert Estienne. "Who could have
betrayed us?"

"My wife--Oh, that accursed confession! Alison revealed to our curate
that a monk and a nun were here in hiding. My wife has just admitted it
to me amid tears. The curate departed post haste to Paris, immediately
after confessing and extracting the secret from her. Death and a curse
upon the infamous wretch!"

And throwing himself at the feet of Robert Estienne, Michael cried with
clasped hands:

"My good and worthy master! Do not take me for a wicked or dishonorable
man. I am not guilty of the treason!"

"To horse!" bellowed the Franc-Taupin. "We must depart at once! The
curate will have notified his bishop, the bishop will have notified
Cardinal Duprat, and he will have issued orders to the Criminal
Lieutenant. By this time the archers must be on the road to St. Ouen.
Let us lose not an instant--to horse! Mine is saddled--have yours
saddled, Monsieur Estienne. Christian will take his daughter on the
crupper of his horse. I shall take Ernest Rennepont on my nag--and, away
at a gallop! We shall soon be out of reach."

Putting the word to the deed, the Franc-Taupin dashed out of the parlor,
dragging Ernest Rennepont with him almost against his will. Realizing
the wisdom of the Franc-Taupin's orders, Christian put one arm around
Hena, sustained and led her in the steps of the Franc-Taupin. Robert
Estienne and the pastor hastened to follow them, while the despairing
gardener lamented his fate, repeating:

"That accursed confession! The infamous curate!"

The Franc-Taupin was hurrying his horse out of the stable and Robert
Estienne was precipitately saddling his own with the help of Michael,
when Alison, running in all in a flurry from the bypath that led to the
outer gate of the cottage, cried:

"Oh, my poor man, all is lost! The mounted archers are here! I heard the
tramp of their horses down the avenue. I saw their muskets glistening
through the hedges along the road."

"Is the iron gate locked?" asked the Franc-Taupin, the only one to
preserve coolness in the presence of the imminent danger. "Is the gate
strong?"

"It is strong and locked--double locked," answered the gardener. "The
key is in my house."

"It will take them some time to force the gate," observed the
Franc-Taupin; and addressing Robert Estienne: "Is there any issue,
besides the gate, to leave the place?"

"None other--the garden is enclosed by a wall."

"Is the wall high?"

"About ten feet."

"Then," replied the Franc-Taupin, "we need not despair."

At that moment the clank of sabres and muskets was heard down the
principal avenue, and a voice called out:

"Open! In the name of the King, open!"

"There are the archers!" cried Hena stricken with terror. "It is done
for us!"

"I shall deliver myself up!" cried Ernest Rennepont, rushing out towards
the alley. "The archers may thereby be induced not to push their search
any further. May the all-powerful God protect you!"

The Franc-Taupin seized Hena's bridegroom by the sleeve of his coat, and
prevented him from taking another step. Turning to the gardener, he
asked:

"Have you a ladder?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fetch it quick."

Michael obeyed, while the archers redoubled their clamor and threatened
to force the gate if it was not opened.

"Monsieur Estienne," said the Franc-Taupin, "go forward quickly and
speak with the archers. Ask them what brings them here, at this hour.
Engage them in conversation all you can. Keep them outside. Gain time. I
take charge of the rest. If you can succeed in keeping the soldiers off
for about ten minutes, we shall have won. They will find no one else at
the house."

Robert Estienne turned to Christian, who still held Hena in his arms:

"Come, Christian! Courage! Coolness! The situation is hedged in with
dangers; but it is not forlorn." Saying this he walked to the iron gate,
at the moment when the gardener reappeared carrying a long ladder on his
shoulder.

"What is there outside of the garden," asked the Franc-Taupin, "a
highroad or fields?"

"Fields, sir; they are separated from the walls by a path and hedges.
Beyond are meadows, as far as the eye extends."

Josephin listened a moment, and noticing that the clamor of the archers
at the gate had subsided, he said:

"Courage! All's well! Monsieur Estienne is parleying with the soldiers.
We shall have time to flee." And addressing the gardener: "Lead us
quickly to the furthest end of the garden."

Michael led the fugitives along a narrow path. After having walked about
three hundred paces, he stepped before a wall, against which he placed
the ladder.

"Quick!" ordered the Franc-Taupin, again stopping to listen. "The
archers are becoming impatient. They are about to force the gate."

Christian was the first to ascend the ladder; he climbed to the top of
the wall, straddled it, and, stooping down, reached his hand out to
Hena. He took firm hold of her, raised her, and seated her, still
holding her in his arms, in front of him on the top of the wall, where
he was successively joined by Ernest Rennepont and the Franc-Taupin. The
latter drew the ladder up, with the help of the gardener, tipped it over
to the other side, and quickly planted it outside the wall. One by one
the fugitives descended and alighted upon a path bordered by thick and
high hedges.

"We are saved!" cried Christian, passionately clasping Hena to his
heart. "We are saved, my dear child!"

"Not yet!" came thundering upon their ears.

An archer rose from behind the hedge where he had been lying in ambush.
Immediately he sounded the alarm at the top of his voice:

"Here, comrades! Here! This way!"

To leap over the hedge at a bound; to seize the archer by the throat
with one hand, while with the other he drew his sword--these were the
rapid moves of the Franc-Taupin. It was too late. The alarm given by the
soldier was heard. Several other foot soldiers, who came on the cruppers
of the mounted archers, and were posted around the walls, hurried to the
spot, preceded by a sergeant, and all cried in chorus:

"Kill all who resist! Keep only the monk and the nun alive!"

A melee ensued in the semi-darkness of the night. After superhuman
efforts to tear his daughter from the soldiers, Christian was hewed down
with a sword. Ernest Rennepont and Hena remained in the hands of the
armed men. After almost strangling the soldier who had given the alarm,
the Franc-Taupin profited by the darkness to creep on hands and feet to
a hedge under which he blotted himself from sight. From his hiding place
he heard Christian drop to the ground and call out in a fainting voice:
"I am killed--help! help!"

The artisan was left for dead by the archers. Obedient to the orders
from their chief, their main object was the capture of the monk and the
nun, whom they now carried safely away. Little by little silence
returned to the sequestered region. Soon the sound of a retreating troop
of horsemen announced the departure of the archers for Paris. The
Franc-Taupin emerged from his place of concealment, ran to Christian,
knelt beside him, opened his coat and shirt soaked in blood, and placed
his hand upon his heart. He felt it beat.

"There is but one chance of safety for Christian," said the Franc-Taupin
to himself. "If the gardener has not been arrested, he will consent to
grant asylum to the wounded man. Let me endeavor to snatch my
brother-in-law from death--after that, I swear, you shall be avenged,
Oh, my sister! Avenged shall be also your daughter, whose horrid fate I
well foresee!"

Michael and his wife consented to take in the wounded man, and nurse him
in Robert Estienne's house. The latter and the pastor were taken
prisoners to Paris by the archers.




CHAPTER XIX.

ON THE ROAD TO PARIS.


On the 21st of January, 1535, a few weeks after the seizure of Hena
Lebrenn and Ernest Rennepont at the cottage of Master Robert Estienne,
two riders crossed the Charenton bridge on their way to Paris. Master
Raimbaud, the armorer, one of the riders, was a man in robust middle
age, and of an open and resolute countenance. His headgear consisted of
a broad-brimmed felt hat; he wore a coat of mail over his jacket, and
large traveling boots on his sturdy legs. A cutlass hung from his side,
his holsters were furnished with pistols, and his wide brown coat flowed
down over the crupper of his horse. The other rider, Odelin Lebrenn, was
then just fifteen. His candid and pleasant features, slightly browned by
the sun of Italy, recalled those of his sister Hena. A black bonnet,
ornamented with a little red feather and placed slightly aslant over the
lad's blonde hair, left wholly exposed the smiling face that radiated
with increasing joy in the measure that he approached the end of his
journey. The apprentice and his master were at that moment ascending a
steep hill, at a steady pace. Despite the steepness of the hill,
however, Odelin's mount frequently broke out into a trot,
surreptitiously urged thereto by the spurs of the boy. Master Raimbaud
smiled under his brown beard, as he guessed the cause of Odelin's
impatience, while he himself kept his own horse well in hand. He had
just once more baffled the innocent manoeuvre of his apprentice, who had
run ahead:

"Well, Odelin," he called after him, "there is your horse again breaking
out into a trot. One would think he'd got the devil at his heels."

"Master Raimbaud, it is not my fault," answered the youngster, somewhat
abashed, and reining in, to his regret. "My horse forces my hand. It
must be the flies that torment him. That's why he runs ahead."

"God's head! Flies in the month of January, my boy!" replied the armorer
jovially, as he came abreast of his apprentice. "You must be thinking
yourself still in summer on the roads of Milan."

"Well, I shall not insist on my fib, Master Raimbaud. I must admit to
you that the nearer we approach Paris, where my mother, and father, and
sister, and brother, and my good uncle Josephin are expecting me, I feel
such a thrill of joy, that without my knowledge my spurs approach the
flanks of my horse--and then the beast starts trotting."

"I can understand your impatience, my lad. It does credit to your heart.
But endeavor to control yourself a little. We have ridden a long stretch
to-day. We should not wind our horses. Certain of the joy in wait for
you, what is the use of running after it?"

"That's true, Master Raimbaud," replied Odelin, red with emotion and
his eyes dimmed with moisture. "Within two hours I shall see again all
those whom I love; I shall embrace them--"

"And I shall add to their happiness at seeing you back again, by telling
them how well pleased I have been with you during our trip."

"How could I otherwise than endeavor to please you, Master Raimbaud? If
I were your own son you could not treat me with greater tenderness, or
more attention."

"For the simple reason that a worthy son would not behave differently
toward me than yourself, my little Odelin. Such are the fruits of the
bringing up you have received from your worthy father and your excellent
mother."

"Oh, Master Raimbaud, when I think of the caresses that await me!"

"Look to your spurs, my lad! Look to your spurs. We shall now soon be at
the top of the hill. Stop your horse a moment. One of the straps of your
valise is loose. Fasten it."

"Oh, heaven! If I had lost my valise!" cried the apprentice, reddening
at the thought. Stopping his horse, he turned in his saddle, and
hastened to fasten the strap, enumerating with childish glee as he did
so the treasures contained in the bag: "Had I lost you, my dear valise,
it would then have been adieu to my little presents--the brooch of
chiseled silver for my mother, the Quintus Curtius printed in Bologna
for my good and learned father, a vermillion pin for my handsome sister
Hena, a bronze writing case, with all its accessories, for the studious
Hervé--"

"And that famous flask of Imola wine for your uncle, the Franc-Taupin,
who will be delighted to taste the Italian nectar."

"That's not all, Master Raimbaud; I also have for my uncle a fine steel
Milanese dagger, which I forged myself at the workshop of Master Gaspard
during my idle moments. Oh, dear uncle, I would fear to offend him if I
brought him a wine flask only."

"Come, the strap is now fast. Let us resume our way. Once we reach the
top of the hill we shall start on a trot, my impatient fellow. I said a
trot, did you understand? No galloping! We must husband the strength of
our mounts."

Master Raimbaud and his apprentice resumed their route at a rapid pace.
Already they descried in the distant horizon the numerous spires and
belfries of the churches of Paris. As they were passing before an
isolated house on the road, the battered sign of which announced it as a
roadside tavern, they heard someone loudly call out to them:

"Master Raimbaud! Odelin! Halloa! Halloa, there!"

"It is my uncle!" cried the lad, startled, and quickly making his horse
rear on its haunches. "I recognize my uncle's voice!"

"He must have come out to meet us, apprized by my wife of the day of our
arrival," explained the armorer, also reining in. But looking to the
right, and to the left, and all around him, he added, not a little
surprised: "Where the devil may the Franc-Taupin be niched? He is not
in heaven, I suppose, although the voice seemed to come from above."

No less astonished than his patron, Odelin also looked in all
directions, when he saw, emerging from the tavern which they had ridden
by, a tall Capuchin friar with his face almost wholly concealed in the
cowl of his frock, and a chaplet of large beads girdling his waist. The
monk moved with long strides towards the travelers.

"Good God!" cried Odelin as the cowl of the monk who ran towards them
was blown back by the wind. "My uncle Josephin has become a Capuchin
friar!"

"God's head!" exclaimed the armorer, sharing the astonishment of his
apprentice. "May the fire of my forge consume me if I ever expected to
see such a metamorphosis! The Franc-Taupin a Capuchin friar!"

Seeing that his nephew, upon whom he kept his eyes fixed, was about to
jump down to the ground, the soldier of fortune checked him with a wave
of his hand, saying:

"Remain on horseback, my boy!"

And addressing the armorer:

"Master Raimbaud, let us go into the tavern. It is a safe place, and
there is a stable for your horses. We have matters to talk over."

"Halt here? No, indeed! I am in too great a hurry to embrace my wife. A
few hours later, if you should feel so disposed, we may empty a pot of
wine at my own house, my gay friend!" answered the armorer,
misunderstanding the Franc-Taupin's invitation. "Everything in its
season. Business before pleasure. I wish to be back in Paris before
night. So, then, good-bye!"

"Master Raimbaud, you can not enter Paris before dark and without great
precautions," said the Franc-Taupin in a low voice. "Follow me into the
tavern. You can stable your horses there, and I shall impart to you
grave tidings, the saddest that you can imagine--but not a word of that
to Odelin."

"Be it so! Let us go in," answered Master Raimbaud, turning his horse's
head, while evil presentiments assailed him. Ignorant of the secret
information whispered by his uncle to the armorer, the apprentice
followed the two into the tavern, asking himself with increasing
wonderment how the Franc-Taupin could have become a friar.

Josephin pulled down over his face the cowl of his frock and led the two
travelers to the yard of the tavern, from which access was had to the
stable.

"Unsaddle the horses, my friend," said Master Raimbaud to Odelin, "and
give them feed. Join us in the tavern when that is attended to."

"What, Master Raimbaud, are we to stay here when we are barely two hours
from Paris!"

"Mind the horses, my boy. I shall tell you afterwards why we must stop
here."

Obedient to his master's orders, Odelin unwillingly alighted and threw
himself upon his uncle's neck, saying with a voice broken with
affectionate remembrances: "My dear uncle! How are mother, father,
sister and brother? All well at home?"

Without answering his nephew, Josephin held him in a close embrace. The
boy felt upon his cheeks the tears that flowed from his uncle's eyes.

"Uncle, you weep!"

"With joy, my boy!" answered Josephin in a broken voice. "It is out of
joy to see you after such a long absence." And disengaging himself from
his nephew's arms, he proceeded: "You will join us presently. Ask the
tavern-keeper the way to the room in the attic facing the road." Then
turning to the armorer: "Come, Master Raimbaud, come!"

Overjoyed at having met his uncle, and consoling himself with the
thought that, after all, the hour of seeing his family, so impatiently
awaited, might not be greatly delayed, Odelin busied himself with
unsaddling the horses and furnishing them with provender. The
goodhearted boy, thereupon, in his hurry to offer the Franc-Taupin the
little presents he brought him from Italy, rummaged in his valise for
the flask of Imola wine and the dagger that he himself forged for him.
The boy was anxious to show his affection to Josephin even before he was
back home in Paris.

The Franc-Taupin led Master Raimbaud to a room on the top floor of the
tavern, facing the highroad. There he informed the armorer of the death
of Bridget and of the capture of Hena and Ernest Rennepont, who were
since held imprisoned as relapsed sinners; and, finally, of Christian's
departure for La Rochelle. The Franc-Taupin's hopes had been verified.
The presence of his brother-in-law at Robert Estienne's country house
was not suspected. The last ineffectual searches, undertaken by the
archers at the house, sheltered him against any further visitations. The
influence of Princess Marguerite, and the luster shed upon the reign of
Francis I by the marvelous productions of Robert Estienne's printing
establishment, combined to save the printing master once more--alas, it
was to be the last time!--from the hatred of his enemies. Although a
relapsed monk and nun were found on his premises, he was set free and
left unmolested. Accordingly, Christian awaited in safety the time when,
healed of his wound by the skill of the surgeon Ambroise Paré, who
visited him secretly, he could take his departure for La Rochelle. The
casket containing the narratives of the Lebrenn family had been
concealed by the Franc-Taupin with admirable foresight among the brush
of the garden, on the very night after the archers seized Hena. As soon
as Christian was able to undertake the journey, he assumed the disguise
of a traveling seller of chaplets and relics. The religious traffic was
essential to his safety along the road. Carrying on his back his pack of
religious trumpery, among which his family legends were secreted, he
tramped to La Rochelle, where he arrived safe and sound.

Dumbfounded by these revelations, seeing the deep interest he harbored
for Christian and his family, Master Raimbaud exclaimed in distraction:

"Poor Odelin! What an unexpected blow for the unhappy boy! Only a short
time ago the mere thought of seeing his family threw him into
transports of joy--and now he is to learn--Oh, it is horrible!"

"Horrible!" echoed the Franc-Taupin in sinister accents. "But blood
calls for blood! A soldier of adventure since my fifteenth year, already
I had become a wolf--now I shall be a tiger! The reformers will draw the
sword to avenge their martyrs--no quarter for the assassin priests! By
my sister's death!" proceeded the Franc-Taupin, livid with rage and
raising his clenched fist heavenward, "call me a wooden-bowled cripple
and a lame poltroon if I do not tear up the papists with my very teeth!
But," restraining himself, he resumed: "Let us consider what now most
presses. Master Raimbaud, here is a letter from your wife. I know its
contents. She conjures you not to go back to your establishment, and to
take shelter in the place of safety that she mentions. She will join you
there in order to consider with you what is to be done. She is a
cautious and resolute woman."

"My good Martha alarms herself unnecessarily," observed the armorer
after reading his wife's letter. "However violent the persecution of the
reformers may be, and although a heretic myself, I have nothing to fear.
I work for several seigneurs of the court; I have fashioned their finest
arms; they will not refuse me their protection."

"Master Raimbaud, do the papist court jays, with the feathers of
peacocks and the talons of vultures, owe you any money?"

"Indeed, they owe me large sums."

"They will burn you to cancel their debts. Make no doubt of that."

"God's head! You may be telling the truth, Josephin! I must consider
that."

"Well, then, return secretly to Paris; remain in hiding a few days,
gather all your valuables--and flee to La Rochelle. Place yourself
beyond the reach of the tigers' claws. It is the best thing you can do."

"But what of the poor lad--Odelin?"

"My nephew and myself will accompany you to La Rochelle. I scent battle
and carnage in that quarter. When I say 'battle' I see things red. Here
is to the red! I love wine--I shall drink blood! Oh, blood! You shall
flow streaming and warm from the breast of the papists, like wine from
the bung-hole of a cask. By my sister's death! Oh, for the day when I
shall avenge Bridget--Hena--my two poor martyrs!"

After a moment's silent reflection the armorer blurted out: "My head
reels under so many afflictions. I forgot to ask you where is
Christian's daughter, Hena?"

"She is a prisoner at the Chatelet. Her trial is on," and burying his
face in his hands the soldier of adventure added in heartrending tones:
"She will be pronounced guilty, sentenced, and brought to the
stake--burned alive as a relapsed nun."

"Great God, is such barbarity possible?"

"Hena!" Josephin proceeded without answering Master Raimbaud, "you sweet
and dear creature! Image of my sister! Poor child whom, when a baby, I
rocked upon my knees--you shall be avenged--"

The Franc-Taupin could not utter another word; he broke down into sobs.

"Unhappy Christian!" exclaimed Master Raimbaud pitifully. "What must not
have been his agony!"

"We had to fabricate a tale before we could induce him to depart,"
answered the Franc-Taupin, wiping his burning eye with the back of his
hand. "Monsieur Estienne assured Christian that the Princess had
obtained grace for Hena's life, but under the condition that she was to
spend her existence in some convent far away from Paris. Christian then
decided to flee and preserve himself for his only remaining child,
Odelin. He is now safe at La Rochelle."

"And Hervé? You have not mentioned him."

"By my sister's death! Do not mention the name of that monster. I could
strangle him with my own hands, child of Bridget's though he be. He has
joined the Cordelier monks. He has already preached in their church upon
the necessity of exterminating the heretics. The Queen was present on
the occasion. They extol the eloquence of the young monk. Death and
damnation!" Shivering with horror and disgust, the Franc-Taupin
proceeded after a pause: "Never again mention the monster's name in my
hearing! May hell swallow him up!"

Uninformed upon the events that led to Hervé's taking orders, the
armorer was no less stupefied at the news of the young man's having
become a monk than at hearing Josephin give vent to his execration of
his sister's son. Nevertheless, unwilling to aggravate the sorrow of
the Franc-Taupin, he refrained from dwelling upon a subject that so
greatly inflamed him.

"The tidings you have brought me have so upset me that it did not yet
occur to me to ask you the reason for your assuming the garb you wear--"

"The reason is quite simple," Josephin broke in; "I was described to the
spies of the Criminal Lieutenant; and probably informed against by the
two bandits who helped me in the abduction of my niece from the convent.
My size and the plaster over my eye make me an easy mark for capture. I
took the robe of a Capuchin mendicant because it best enables me to
conceal my face. These friars have no convent of their own in the city.
A few of them straggle into Paris from time to time from their hives at
Chartres or Bourges, to pick up crumbs. If any one of them, coming from
Chartres, addresses me, I would say: 'I am from Bourges.' To those from
Bourges I shall say: 'I am from Chartres.' I have been established in
this tavern for the last three days. I told the inn-keeper that I
expected a stranger upon business of my Order. I pay for my lodging
regularly every morning. The inn-keeper has not manifested any curiosity
about me. Thus, in short, runs the explanation of my disguise. For your
own guidance, Master Raimbaud, I shall add that the exasperation of the
Catholics against the reformers is just now at white heat. They even
talk of slaughtering the Huguenots in mass."

"What are these threats, this increased hatred, attributed to?"

"To certain printed placards clandestinely posted on the walls of Paris
by the activity of Christian's friend Justin. The placards scourge the
priests, the monks and all other papists. A large number of heretics
have already been arrested and sentenced to the stake; others have been
massacred by the brutified populace--that _huge she-greyhound, with
bloody craw_, as the monks say when they refer to the poor and ignorant
masses. You may judge from that what dangers you would run in Paris,
were you to attempt to enter the city openly, you who are pointed at as
a heretic. My nephew Odelin runs the same danger. They are ready to
seize him the moment he steps into your house."

"What! They want to arrest a child?"

"Children become men with time--and they fear men. I should have stabbed
you to death, Ignatius Loyola, when I was your page! It is you who order
the father and mother to be burned as heretics, and the three children
to be clapped into cloisters to the end of uprooting a stock that you
pronounce accursed! But the father has escaped death, and I shall know
how to thwart your search after his last child! After that--battle and
carnage! By my sister's death--I shall cause the blood of papists to run
like water. Time presses--let us make haste. You can not return home,
Master Raimbaud, any more than my nephew could safely step into your
house. This is the plan I submitted to Monsieur Robert Estienne, and
which he approves: I have provided myself with a second Capuchin frock
for Odelin. He and I will go to Paris, our bags on our backs, without
awakening suspicion. We shall turn in at a friend's on St. Honoré
Street, where Monsieur Estienne will call to see us. It is a safe place.
Monsieur Estienne has taken upon himself the painful task of informing
Odelin concerning the misfortunes that have smitten his family.
To-morrow evening we leave Paris again in our disguise, and I shall take
my nephew to his father at La Rochelle. Should you also decide to change
your residence, and to move to La Rochelle with your wife, we may agree
upon some town near Paris in which Odelin and myself could join you.
This is for you to consider and decide."

"Your plan seems wise to me, Josephin; I shall probably decide to follow
it. From what is happening in Paris, I perceive I would not be safe
there."

"Well, then, Master Raimbaud, leave the horses behind in the tavern. One
of your employees may come to-morrow for them. Do not enter Paris until
after dark and keep your head well hooded. Proceed straight to the house
that your wife mentions to you--"

The Franc-Taupin was interrupted in the directions he was issuing by the
entrance of his nephew, holding in one hand a flask wrapped in fine
paper, and in the other a steel dagger. He held out the two objects with
a radiant face to Josephin, saying with exquisite kindness:

"Dear uncle, I forged this dagger for you out of the best steel there
was in Milan; I bring you this flask of old Imola wine for you to
celebrate this happy day and to drink to the speedy reunion of our
family."

So poignant was the contrast between the lad's words and the sad reality
of which he still remained in ignorance, that Master Raimbaud and the
Franc-Taupin exchanged sad glances and remained silent. Josephin's cowl,
now resting wholly upon his shoulders, left his face entirely exposed.
So visible were the traces of sorrow and mental suffering that face
revealed, that Odelin, now seeing his uncle for the first time wholly
uncovered, drew back a step. Immediately he also noticed the profound
sadness of Master Raimbaud. Alarmed at the silence of the two, Odelin
felt oppressed. He felt a vague presentiment of some great misfortune.
Touched by the token of his nephew's affection, the Franc-Taupin took
the flask and the dagger, examined the weapon, placed it in his belt
under his frock, and muttered to himself:

"Ah, a good blade. You are given to me by the son--you shall wreak
vengeance for the mother, the father--and their daughter!" He then
placed the flask down beside him, and embracing Odelin, added aloud:
"Thank you, my dear boy. The dagger will be useful to me. As to the
flask--tastes change--I drink wine no more. Now to business. I have a
note for you from your father. Post yourself upon its contents."

"But am I not to see father shortly, at home?"

Not a little astonished, Odelin read:

     My dearly beloved Odelin.--Do everything your uncle Josephin may
     tell you, without asking any questions. Do not feel alarmed. I
     shall soon embrace you. I love you as ever, from the bottom of my
     heart.

     Your father,

     CHRISTIAN.

Despite his vague and increasing uneasiness, Odelin felt quieted by
those words of his father's: "I shall soon embrace you." He said to the
Franc-Taupin:

"What must I do, uncle?"

The soldier of fortune took a bundle from his bed, drew out of it a
Capuchin's robe, and said to his nephew:

"The first thing to do, my boy, is to put this robe over your clothes,
and when we are out of doors you will take care to keep the cowl over
your face, as I am doing now."

"I?" asked Odelin, startled. "Am I to put on such a costume?" But
recalling the instructions of his father, he added: "I forgot that
father wrote me to obey you, uncle, without asking any reasons for your
orders. I shall put on the robe, immediately."

"Fine," said Master Raimbaud, forcing a smile on his lips in order to
quiet Odelin. "There you are, from an armorer's apprentice transformed
into a Capuchin's apprentice! The change does not seem to be to your
taste, my little friend."

"It is my father's will, Master Raimbaud. I but obey. Truth to say,
however, I do not fancy a monk's garb."

"I am a better papist than yourself, little Odelin," put in the
Franc-Taupin ironically, as he helped his nephew to don his disguise; "I
love the monks so well that I hope soon to start bestowing upon every
one of them whom I may meet--the red skullcap of a Cardinal! Now,
shoulder that wallet and bend your back; and then with a dragging leg,
and neck stuck out, we shall imitate as well as we can the gait of that
Roman Catholic and Apostolic vermin."

"How comical I shall look to mother and to my sister Hena when they see
me arrive thus accoutred!" observed Odelin with a smile. "Dear uncle, if
father is the only one informed of my disguise, I shall knock at the
door of our house, and beg for an alms with a nasal twang. Just think of
their surprise when I throw up my cowl! _Corpo di Bacco!_ as the
Italians say, we shall laugh till the tears run down our cheeks."

"Your idea is not bad," answered the Franc-Taupin, embarrassed. "But it
is getting late. Bid Master Raimbaud good-bye, and let us depart."

"Is Master Raimbaud to stay here?"

"Yes, my boy--"

"Who is to see to the horses?"

"Do not trouble yourself about that; they will have their provender."

The armorer embraced his apprentice, whom he loved almost as an own son
and bade him be of good cheer.

"Your adieu sounds sad, Master Raimbaud, and as if our separation were
to be a long one," observed Odelin with moistening eyes. "Uncle! Oh,
uncle! My alarm returns, it grows upon me. I can not account for the
sadness of Master Raimbaud, and I do not understand the mystery of this
disguise to enter Paris--"

"My dear boy, remember your father's instructions," said Josephin. "Put
me no questions to which I can not now make an answer."

The boy resigned himself with a sigh. Shouldering his wallet, he
descended after his uncle. As the latter heard the clink of Odelin's
spurs on the stairs, he turned to him:

"I forgot to make you take off your spurs. Remove them while I go and
pay the inn-keeper. Wait for me outside at the cross road."

"Uncle, may I put into my wallet a few little presents that I bring from
Italy for the family?"

"Do about that as you please," answered the Franc-Taupin.

While Odelin walked into the stable to remove his spurs and take out of
his valise the articles which he wished to take with him, Josephin went
to settle his score with the inn-keeper. The latter, who hugged his
taproom, did not see young Odelin come down in his Capuchin vestments.
To the Franc-Taupin he said: "You leave us early, my reverend. I hoped
you would pay us a longer visit. But I can understand that you are in a
hurry to reach Paris to witness the great ceremony."

"What ceremony have you in mind, my good man?"

"A traveler informed us that the bells and the chimes have been ringing
in Paris with might and main since morning. All the houses along the
road that the superb procession is to traverse were decorated with
tapestry by orders of the Criminal Lieutenant, who also ordered that a
lighted wax candle be held at every window. He also told us that the
King, the Queen and all the Princes, as well as a crowd of great
seigneurs and high dignitaries were to assist at the ceremony--the most
magnificent that will yet have been seen--"

"Good evening, my host," said Josephin, anxious to put an end to the
conversation and join his nephew who waited for him outside. To himself
he was saying:

"What can the ceremony be that the inn-keeper has been informed about?
After all, the event can only be favorable to us. The crowds that the
streets will be filled with will facilitate our passage, and help us to
reach unperceived the retreat designated by Monsieur Estienne."

The Franc-Taupin and his nephew walked rapidly towards Paris where they
arrived as the sun was dipping the western horizon.




CHAPTER XX.

JANUARY 21, 1535.


January 21, 1535! Alas, that date must remain inscribed in characters of
blood in our plebeian annals, O, sons of Joel! If there is justice on
earth or in heaven--and I, Christian Lebrenn, who trace these lines,
believe in an avenging, an expiatory justice--some day, on that distant
day predicted by Victoria the Great, the 21st of January may be also a
day fatal to the race of crowned executioners, the princes, the nobles,
and the infamous Romish priests.

You are about to contemplate, O, sons of Joel--you are about to
contemplate the pious work of that King Francis I, that chivalrous King,
that Very Christian King, as the court popinjays love to style him. A
chivalrous King--he is false to his troth! A knightly King--he sells
under the auctioneer's hammer the seats on the courts of justice and in
the tribunals of religion! A very Christian King--he wallows in the
filthiest of debauches! In order to impart a flavor of incest to
adultery, he shares with one of his own sons, the husband of Catherine
De Medici, the bed of the Duchess of Etampes. Finally, he expires
tainted with a loathsome disease after ten years of frightful
sufferings! At this season, however, the miscreant is still in full
health, and is engaged in honoring God, his saints and his Church with a
human holocaust. Hypocrisy and ferocity!

A magnificent solemnity was that day to be the object of edification to
all the good Catholics of Paris, as the inn-keeper announced to the
Franc-Taupin. Read, O sons of Joel, the ordinance posted in Paris by
order of the Very Christian King Francis I:

     On Thursday the 21st day of January, 1535, a solemn procession will
     take place in the honor of God our Creater, of the glorious Virgin
     Mary, and of all the blessed Saints in Paradise. Our Seigneur, King
     Francis I, has been informed of the errors that are rife in these
     days, and of the placards and heretical books that are posted or
     scattered around the streets and thoroughfares of Paris by the
     vicious sectarians of Luther, and other blasphemers of the sacred
     Sacrament of the altar, the which accursed scum of society aims at
     the destruction of our Catholic faith and of the constitutions of
     our mother, the Holy Church of God.

     Therefore, our said Seigneur Francis I has held a Council, and, in
     order to repair the injury done to God, has decided to order a
     general procession, the same to close with the torture and
     execution of several heretics. At the head of the procession shall
     be carried the sacred Eucharist and the most precious relics of the
     city of Paris.

     First, on the 17th day of the said month of January, proclamation
     shall be made to the sound of trumpets, throughout the
     thoroughfares of Paris, ordering that the streets through which the
     said procession is to pass shall be swept clean, and all the houses
     ornamented with beautiful tapestry. The owners of the said houses
     shall stand before their doors, bare-headed and holding a lighted
     taper in their hands.--_Item_, on the Wednesday following, the 20th
     of the said month, the principals of all the Universities of Paris
     shall meet and orders shall be issued to them to cause the students
     of the said Colleges to be locked up, with the express injunction
     that the same shall not be allowed outside until the procession
     shall have passed, in order to obviate confusion and tumult.
     Furthermore the students shall fast on the eve and the day of the
     procession.--_Item_, provosts of the merchant guilds and the
     aldermen of the city of Paris shall cause barriers to be raised at
     the crossing of the streets through which the said procession is to
     pass, in order to prevent the people from crossing the lines of the
     marchers. Two soldiers and two archers shall be placed in charge of
     each one of the said barriers.--_Item._ halting places shall be
     erected in the middle of St. Denis and St. Honoré Streets, at the
     Cross-of-Trahoir, and at the further end of the Notre Dame Bridge,
     the latter of which shall be decorated with a gilded lanthorn,
     historical paintings of the holy Sacrament, and a dais of evergreen
     from which shall hang a number of crowns, and bannerets bearing the
     following sacred device: IPSI PERIBUNT, TU AUTEM PERMANEBIS (_They
     shall perish, but you, Holy Mother Church, shall remain forever_).

     The same device shall be inscribed on the cards attached to the
     swarm of little birds that are to be set free along the passage of
     the said procession.[39]

The program of the ceremony was followed out point by point. The
Franc-Taupin and Odelin entered Paris by the Gate of the Bastille of St.
Antoine. They were wrapped in their Capuchin hoods, and took the route
of St. Honoré Street. That thoroughfare was lighted by the tapers which,
obedient to the royal decree, the householders held at the doors of
their dwellings. Lavish tapestries, hangings and rich cloths ornamented
with greens carpeted the walls of the houses from top to bottom. Men,
women and children crowded the windows. A lively stream of people moved
about gaily, loudly admiring the splendors of the feast. Arrived near
the Arcade of Eschappes, which ran into St. Honoré Street, the
Franc-Taupin and Odelin were forced to halt until the procession had
passed before they could cross the street. All the crossings were closed
with barriers and guarded by soldiers and archers.

Thanks to the respect that their monastic garb inspired, Josephin and
his nephew were allowed to clear the barrier which separated them from
the first ranks of the procession, and finally to fall in line with the
same.

Romish idolatry and royal pride exhibited themselves in the midst of the
pomp and circumstance of the occasion. King, Queen, Princes, Princesses,
Cardinals, Archbishops, Marshals, courtiers, ladies in waiting, high
dignitaries of the courts of justice, magistrates, consuls, bourgeois,
guilds of artisans--all were about to batten upon the torture and death
of the heretics, whose only crime consisted in the practice of the
Evangelical doctrine in its pristine purity.

Read, O, sons of Joel, the narrative of this execrable ceremony,
transmitted by a spectator, an ardent Catholic and fervent royalist, Dom
Felibien. Preserve the pages in our family annals, they are the
irrefutable witnesses of the religious fanaticism of those days of
ignorance, under clerical domination and monarchic despotism. Dom
Felibien says:

     "At the head of the procession marched the Swiss of the King's
     guard. They preceded the Queen, who was richly attired in a robe of
     black velvet lined with lynx skin. She rode a white palfrey with
     housings of frizzled gold cloth, and was accompanied by mesdames
     the King's daughters, likewise richly accoutred in robes of crimson
     satin embroidered with gold thread, and riding beautiful and
     splendidly caparisoned palfreys. Many other dames and princesses,
     besides a troop of knights, seneschals and palace dignitaries on
     horseback, pages, lackeys and Swiss Guards on foot marched beside
     the Queen.

     "After her came the Cordelier monks in large numbers, carrying many
     relics, each holding a little lighted taper with profound devotion.

     "After these came the preaching Jacobin friars, also carrying many
     relics. Each bore a chaplet of Notre Dame, and all were devoutly
     engaged in prayer to God.

     "After these, the Augustinian monks, marching in similar order, and
     also carrying many relics.

     "After these, the Carmelites, in the same order, and, in their wake
     all the parish priests of the city of Paris, each with his cross,
     robed in their capes, and carrying relics surrounded with numerous
     tapers.

     "After these, the collegiates of the churches, carrying many relics
     and holy bodies, the latter surrounded by many tapers.

     "After these, the Mathurins, dressed all in white. They marched
     devoutly wrapped in prayer and holding tapers.

     "After these, the friars of St. Magloire carrying the shrine of
     Monsieur St. Magloire.

     "After these, the friars of St. Germain-des-Prez, carrying the
     shrine of Monsieur St. Germain-le-Vieil, who, as far back as man's
     memory went, had never before been known to leave the precincts of
     St. Germain. To the right of the holy body, the said friars, each
     with a lighted white wax candle; to the left, the friars of St.
     Martin-of-the-Fields, carrying the shrine of St. Paxant, a martyr.
     The two shrines abreast and beside each other.

     "After these the relics of Monsieur St. Eloi in the shrine of the
     said Saint, carried by locksmiths, each wearing a hat of flowers.

     "After these, Monsieur St. Benoit, with other shrines containing
     the bodies of Saints belonging to the said city.

     "After that, a huge relic of solid gold and inestimable value,
     studded with precious stones and enclosing the bones of several
     Saints, the whole carried on the shoulders of sixteen bourgeois of
     the city of Paris. Beside this relic was to be seen that of the
     great St. Philip, an exquisite coffer from Notre Dame of Paris.

     "After these, came in beautiful order the shrines of Madam St.
     Genevieve, carried by eighteen men, naked (except for their
     shirts), with hats of flowers on their heads, and by four monks,
     also in their shirts, with bare legs and feet. Then the shrine of
     Monsieur St. Martel, reverently carried by the goldsmiths, dressed
     in dress of state. That shrine also had not in the memory of man
     been carried beyond the bridge of Notre Dame. In order to secure
     the safe and orderly carriage of these shrines through the large
     concourse of people, all of whom were curious to see and draw near
     them, a number of archers and other officers were detailed to
     escort the same.

     "After these, the monks of St. Genevieve and St. Victor,
     barefooted, each holding a lighted taper and praying to God with
     great devotion.

     "After these, the canons and priests of St. Germain-of-Auxerre,
     chanting canticles of praise put to music.

     "After these, the secular doctors and regulars of the four
     faculties of the University of Paris. The rector and his beadles,
     the latter carrying before him their maces of gold and silver.

     "After these, the doctors of theology and medicine in large numbers
     dressed in their sacerdotal and other garbs, each holding a lighted
     wax candle.

     "After these came, marching in beautiful order on both sides of the
     street, the Swiss Guards of the King, dressed in the velvet of his
     livery, each armed with his halberd. The fifers and war drummers
     marched two by two at the head of the said Swiss Guards, beating
     upon their drums and blowing their fifes in funeral notes.

     "After these, the hautboys, trumpets, cornet and clarion players,
     all in the King's livery, and melodiously intoning the beautiful
     hymn _Pange, lingua, gloriosi corporis mysterium_, etc., which is
     the hymn of the holy Sacrament, and which moved all the bystanders
     to tears, such was its power.

     "After these, Monsieur Savigny, one of the captains of the King's
     guards, establishing order and preventing tumult during the
     procession.

     "After him, came the King's heralds-at-arms, clad in their jackets
     of silver cloth.

     "After them, the choristers of the same Seigneur, those attached to
     the domestic service as well as those attached to the holy chapel
     of the palace. They marched together, singing: _O salutaris
     Hostia_, and other beautiful anthems.

     "After these, ten priests robed in chasubles, their heads bare, and
     carrying the relic of Monsieur St. Louis, once King of France,
     encased and studded with quantities of precious stones of
     inestimable value.

     "After these, the holy and precious relic of the holy CROWN OF
     THORNS of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, an inestimable relic
     which, as far back as the memory of man runs, was never before
     carried in any procession whatever, and caused the hair to stand on
     end of all those who saw it, and rendered them charmed with God, as
     they considered His blessed passion.

     "After this, the TRUE CROSS on which our Lord Jesus Christ was
     crucified. It was taken from the Holy Chapel, besides another piece
     of the said TRUE CROSS from Notre Dame of Paris.

     "After that the ROD OF AARON, an old relic; the holy IRON of the
     lance wherewith Longus pierced the precious side of our Savior
     Jesus Christ; one of the HOLY NAILS with which He was nailed to the
     cross; the SPONGE, the CARCAN, the CHAIN with which our Lord was
     fastened to the pillar; His IMMACULATE ROBE; the SHEET in which He
     was wrapped in the tomb as in a winding-cloth; the NAPKINS of His
     babyhood; the REED stuck into His hand when He was crowned with
     thorns; the TABLE OF STONE which the children of Israel hewed in
     the desert; a DROP OF THE PRECIOUS BLOOD of our Lord Jesus; finally
     a DROP OF MILK of the glorious Virgin Mary, Mother of God. The
     which beautiful relics, all taken from the treasury of the Holy
     Chapel, were accompanied and carried by ten archbishops and bishops
     dressed in their pontifical vestments, and marching two by two.

     "After these, the ambassadors from the Emperor, from the King of
     England, from Venice, and other potentates and seigneurs.

     "After these, and marching abreast, the Cardinals of Tournon,
     Veneur and Givry; the Bishop of Soissons; and Monsieur Gabriel of
     Saluces, carrying a beautiful relic of a cross studded with several
     precious stones.

     "After these, Knights with their battle-axes escorting the precious
     and sacred body of our Lord Jesus Christ at the sacrament of the
     altar, which was carried by Monsieur the Bishop of Paris on a cross
     under a canopy of crimson velvet spangled with gold fleur-de-lis,
     the canopy being borne aloft by our Seigneurs, the King's sons, to
     wit, Monsieur the Dauphin, Monsieur of Orleans, Monsieur of
     Angoulème, and Monsieur of Vendosme, all the said Princes
     bareheaded, and clad in robes of black velvet with heavy gold
     borders and lined with white satin, and near them several counts
     and barons to relieve them.

     "After these, came the KING OUR SIRE, bareheaded, in great
     reverence. He was clad in a robe of black velvet lined with black
     silk, girded with a girdle of taffeta, and in his hand a large
     white wax candle furnished with a holder of crimson velvet. Beside
     him, the Cardinal of Lorraine, to whom, every time the holy
     sacrament rested at the halting places, the said Seigneur our King
     passed the wax candle, while he himself made his prayers with his
     hands joined. Seeing the which, there was none among the
     spectators, whether grown or little, who did not weep warm tears,
     and who did not pray to God for the King whom the said people saw
     in such great devotion, and performing so devout an act and so
     worthy of remembrance for all time. And it may well be presumed
     that neither Jew nor infidel present, seeing the example of the
     King and his good people, failed of being converted to the Catholic
     faith.

     "After these, the parliaments, with the ushers walking before, each
     with a staff in his hands; the four notaries; the clerks of the
     criminal courts, dressed in scarlet gowns and wearing their furred
     hats; messieurs the presidents with their mantles over their
     shoulders and their mortars on their heads; the chiefs of
     departments, and the counsellors, in red robes.

     "After these, the Chief Justices, and heads of the treasury and the
     mint; the comptrollers of the city of Paris, each with a lighted
     white wax candle in his hand, and clad in their parti-colored robes
     of red and blue, the city colors.

     "Finally, the archers, the cross-bowmen, and the arquebusiers of
     Paris, dressed in their uniforms, and each holding a wax
     candle."[40]

Such was that great Catholic procession!

The procession wound its way through St. Honoré, St. Denis and St.
James-of-the-Slaughterhouse Streets, and then crossed the Notre Dame
Bridge.

Cages full of birds were opened, and the little feathered brood flew
from their prisons with open wings. The procession deployed on the
square before the parvise of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. All the
surrounding houses, tapestried from top to bottom, were lined with
spectators at the windows, on the cornices, the shafts of pillars and
the roofs. As they stood waiting for the procession to go by near the
Arcade of Eschappes, the Franc-Taupin and his nephew caught sight of
Hervé among the Cordelier monks, whose garb he wore.

"My brother!" cried Odelin, making to rush forward towards Hervé and
embrace him. "There is my brother!"

But Josephin seized his nephew by the arm, and whispered to him:

"My boy, if a single move made by you draws attention upon us, we shall
be discovered and arrested."

Odelin's exclamation, being drowned by the psalmody of the Cordeliers,
did not reach the ears of Hervé. The latter did not even notice his
brother, whose face was partially covered by his cowl. The Cordeliers
passed by, then the Augustinians, the Carmelites, the Dominicans, the
Genevievians, the Jacobins, and many other monks of differently shaped
and colored garbs. Josephin sought to place the greatest distance
possible between himself and Hervé. He fell in line with the Mathurins,
who brought up the rear of the division of monks.

Odelin began to feel disturbed in mind. The events in which he had
already that day participated, his apprehensions regarding his family,
the sight of his brother in the habits of a Cordelier monk, the
preparations for the torture and death of the heretics, a spectacle that
he now saw himself forced to witness--everything combined to harass his
mind with perplexities. At times Odelin imagined himself under the
obsession of a nightmare. His uncertain and almost stumbling step was
noticed by the Superior of the Mathurins, who expressed his surprise
thereat to Josephin. The Franc-Taupin merely answered that this was the
first time the novice attended an execution of heretics.

The procession having arrived before the parvise of Notre Dame, each
division of which it was composed took the place assigned to it. A
stage, covered with rich tent-cloth was prepared for King Francis I, the
Queen, the Princes and Princesses of the royal family, the court ladies,
the Cardinals, the Archbishops, the Marshals, the presidents of the
parliaments, and the principal courtiers. The pyre faced the royal
platform at a convenient distance, in order that the noble assemblage be
annoyed neither by the heat nor smoke of the fire, and yet could follow
closely the cruel details of the tragedy. The pyre consisted of a heap
of fagots from fifteen to twenty feet long, and about six or seven feet
high. Close to the pyre rose six machines. Each consisted of a
perpendicular beam, the bottom driven into the earth and the top
furnished with an iron clamp in the socket of which a cross-beam was
attached. This beam could be made to tip forward over the fagots. At the
forward extremity of the cross-beam, and hanging from chains, was an
iron chair provided with a back and foot-board after the fashion of a
swing. To the rear extremity of the cross-beam ropes and pulleys were
attached, holding it down to the ground.

The Franc-Taupin contemplated with horror those implements of torture,
while he gave his support to poor Odelin, who shook convulsively. The
Superior of the Mathurins, who happened to stand near Josephin,
addressed him with a smile:

"Perhaps you do not understand the value of those machines which we
shall shortly see put into operation?"

"No, dear brother, you are right. I have no idea of what those machines
are for in this affair."

"They are an invention due to the genius of our Sire the King, to whom
the men put to the torture for coining false money already owe the rack
on which they are executed.[41] To-day the application of these new
machines, which you are contemplating with so much interest, is
inaugurated in our good city of Paris. The process is very simple,
besides ingenious. When the pyre is well aflame, the patient is chained
fast to the chair which you see there, dangling from the end of that
cross-beam; then, the beam acting as a lever, he is, by slacking and
pulling in the ropes at the other end, alternately sunk down into the
flames and pulled out again, to be re-plunged, and so on, until, after
being plunged and re-plunged, death ensues. Do you now understand the
process?"

"Clearly, my reverend. Death by fire, as formerly practiced, put too
speedy an end to the patient's torture."

"Altogether too speedy. A few minutes of torture and all was over, and
the heretic breathed his last breath--"

"And now," broke in the Franc-Taupin, "thanks to this royal invention by
our Sire Francis I, whom may God guard, the patient is afforded leisure
to burn slowly--he can relish the fagot and inhale the flame! How superb
and meritorious an invention!"

"It is that, my dear brother! Your expressions are correct--quite
so--_relish_ the fagot--_inhale_ the flame. It is calculated that the
agony of the patients will now last from twenty to thirty minutes.

"There are to-night three such pyres raised in Paris," the Superior of
the Mathurins proceeded to explain. "The one before us, a second at the
market place, and the third at the Cross-of-Trahoir. After our good Sire
shall have assisted at the executions in this place, he will be able to
visit the two others on his way back to the Louvre."[42]

The colloquy with the monk was interrupted by a great noise. From mouth
to mouth ran the word: "Silence! Silence! The King wishes to speak!"

During the Franc-Taupin's conversation with the Mathurin, the King, his
family, the court, the high dignitaries of the Church and of the kingdom
had taken their seats on the platform. Anne of Pisseleu, Duchess of
Etampes, who shared her favors between Francis I and his eldest son,
drew the eyes of the multitude upon herself with the costliness of her
apparel, which was as dazzling as her beauty, then at its prime. The
royal courtesan cast from time to time a look of superb triumph upon her
two rivals--the Queen of France, and Catherine De Medici, the wife of
Henry, the King's son. The young Princess, at that season barely sixteen
years of age, born in Florence, the daughter of Laurent De Medici and
niece of Pope Clement VII, presented a perfect type of Italian beauty.
Pale with chestnut hair, and white of skin, her black, passionate and
crafty eyes frequently lingered surreptitiously with an expression of
suppressed hatred upon the Duchess of Etampes. Whenever their eyes met
accidentally, Catherine De Medici had for her a charming smile.
Conspicuous among the great seigneurs seated on the platform were the
Constable of Montmorency, Duke Claude of Guise and his brother Cardinal
John of Lorraine, the crapulous, dissolute Prince immortalized by
Rabelais under the name of "Panurge." These Guises--Princes of Lorraine,
ambitious, greedy, haughty and turbulent--whom Francis I at once
flattered and curbed, inspired him with so much apprehension that he was
wont to allude to them in his conversations with the Dauphin in these
words: "Be on your guard; I shall leave you clothed in a coat, they will
leave you in your shirt." In close proximity to the Guises stood John
Lefevre, the disciple of Ignatius Loyola, chatting with great
familiarity with Cardinal Duprat. Already the Jesuits had gained a
footing at the court of Francis I; they dominated the Chancellor, the
evil genius of that King. And what was that sovereign, physically and
morally? Here is his picture, as left by the writers of his time: "Six
feet high; broad-shouldered, wide of girth, round faced, fat, ruddy of
complexion, with short cropped hair, long beard, and a prominent
nose"--features that betray sensual appetites. The Sire walked towards
his throne, swaying to right and left. The heavy colossus affected the
gait and postures of a gladiator. He sat down, or rather dropped into
his seat. All present on the platform rose to their feet with heads
uncovered, the women excepted. He addressed himself to the Princes, the
Princesses of his family, and the dignitaries of the Church and the
kingdom:

"It will not seem strange to you, messieurs, if you do not find in me
the mien, the countenance and the words, which I have been in the habit
of being seen in and of using on previous occasions when I called you
together. To-day, I do not address you as a King and Master addresses
his subjects and servitors. I speak as being myself the subject and
servitor of the King of Kings, of the Master of Masters--the
All-powerful God.

"Some wicked blasphemers, people of little note and of less doctrine,
have, contrary to the honor of the holy Sacrament, machinated, said,
proffered and written many great blasphemies. On account thereof I have
willed that this solemn procession be held, in order to invoke the grace
of our Redeemer. I order that rigorous punishment be inflicted upon the
heretics, as a warning to all others not to fall into the said damnable
opinions, while admonishing the faithful to persevere in their
doctrines, the wavering to become firm, and those who have strayed away
to return to the path of the holy Catholic faith, in which they see me
persevere, together with the spiritual prelates.

"Therefore, messieurs, I entreat and admonish you--let all my subjects
keep watch and guard, not only over themselves, but also over their
families, and especially over their children, and cause these to be so
properly instructed that they may not fall into evil doctrines. I also
order that each and all shall denounce whomsoever they may happen to
know, or to suspect, of being adherents to the heresy, without regard
to any bonds, whether of family or of friendship. As to myself," added
Francis I in a thundering voice, "on the same principle that, had I an
arm infected with putrefaction, I would cause it to be separated from my
body, so if ever, should it unhappily so befall, any child of mine
relapse into the said damnable heresies, I shall be ready to immolate,
and to deliver him as a sacrifice to God."[43]

The discourse of Francis I was listened to amid religious silence, and
applauded enthusiastically.

The prostituted pack of clergymen, courtiers and warriors who surrounded
the Very Christian King knew the trick how to inherit the property of
heretics. To burn or massacre the reformers was to coin money for the
royal pack, the sovereign having the right to transmit to the good
Catholics the wealth confiscated from condemned heretics. But, to kill
the heretics, to torture them, to burn them alive, that did not satisfy
the pious monarch. Human thought was to be shackled. The sovereign
proceeded with his allocution:

"It is notorious that the pestilence of heresy spreads in all directions
with the aid of the printing press. My Chancellor shall now read a
decree issued by me abolishing the printing press in my estates under
pain of death."

The Chancellor, Cardinal Duprat, read in a loud voice the decree of that
_Father of Letters_, as the court popinjays styled Francis I with
egregious adulation:

     "We, Francis I, by the grace of God, King of France.--It is our
     will, and we so order, and it pleases us to prohibit and forbid all
     printers in general, and of whatever rank and condition they may
     be, TO PRINT ANYTHING, UNDER PAIN OF HANGING.

     "Such is our good pleasure.

     FRANCIS."[44]

Come! One more effort; listen to the end of this tale, O, sons of Joel.
My hand trembles as I trace these lines, my eyes are veiled in tears, my
heart bleeds. But I must proceed with my story.

After the reading of the edict which prohibited the printing press in
France under pain of death, the Criminal Lieutenant stepped forward to
receive the orders of the Chancellor. He turned to the King, and the
King commanded that the heretics be put to the torture and death without
further delay. The gallant chat among the courtiers was hushed, and the
eyes of the royal assembly turned towards the pyre.

The Franc-Taupin and Odelin stood in the midst of the Mathurins, close
to the spot of execution. Not far from them were ranked the Cordeliers.
Standing between Fra Girard and the Superior General of his Order, Hervé
seemed to be the object of the dignitary's special solicitude. Both the
sons of Christian Lebrenn were about to witness the execution. Their
sister Hena, sentenced together with Ernest Rennepont to the flames as a
relapsed and sacrilegious heretic, was to figure, along with her
bridegroom, among the victims. The frightful spectacle passed before
the eyes of Odelin like a vision of death. Without making a single
motion, without experiencing a shiver, without dropping a tear,
petrified with terror, the lad gazed--like him, who, a prey to some
stupefying dream, remains motionless, stretched upon his bed. It was a
horrible nightmare!

The order to proceed having gone from Francis I and been transmitted to
the Mathurin monks, several of these proceeded to the portico of the
Basilica of Notre Dame, whither the culprits had first been taken to
make the _amende honorable_ on their knees before the church. One of the
patients had his tongue cut out for preferring charges against the
Catholic clergy on his way from prison to the parvise.[45] The Mathurins
led the victims in procession to the pyre. As they approached, all the
religious Orders intoned in a sonorous voice the funeral psalmody--

    _De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine!_

The heretics, to the number of six, marched two by two, bareheaded and
barefooted, holding lighted tapers in their hands. John Dubourg and his
friend Etienne Laforge led; behind them came St. Ernest-Martyr
supporting the architect Poille. The wretched man had his tongue cut
out. Blood streamed from his mouth, and dyed his long white shirt red.
Mary La Catelle and Hena, called in religion Sister St.
Frances-in-the-Tomb, came next. Their feet were bare, their hair hung
down loose upon their shoulders. They were clad in long white shifts
held at the waist with a cord. Hena pressed against her heart a little
pocket Bible which Christian had printed in the establishment of Robert
Estienne, and which she was allowed to keep. It was a cherished volume
from which the Lebrenn family often read together of an evening, and
which recalled to Hena a whole world of sweet remembrances.

Hervé recognized his sister among the condemned heretics. A thrill ran
through his frame, a deadly pallor overcast his countenance, and,
turning his face away, he leaned for support on the arm of Fra Girard.
The executioners had set fire to the fagots, which soon presented the
sight of a sheet of roaring flames. As the prisoners arrived at the
place of their torture and death, and caught sight of the seats swaying
over the lambent flames, they readily surmised the cruel torments to
which they were destined. In her terror, poor Hena began to emit
heartrending cries, and she clung to the arm of Mary La Catelle. The
taper and the little pocket Bible which she held rolled to the ground.
The holy book fell upon a burning ember and began to blaze. One of the
executioners stamped out the fire with his heels and threw the book
aside. It fell near the Franc-Taupin. Josephin stooped down quickly,
picked up the precious token and dropped it into the pocket of his wide
frock. Petrified with terror, Odelin only gazed into space. The
frightful cries of his sister were hardly heard by him, drowned as they
were by the buzz and throb of the arteries in his own temples. The
executioners were at work. Hena and the other five martyrs were seized,
placed in their respective seats, and chained fast. All the six levers
were then set in motion at once, and dipped over the fire. It was a
spectacle, an atrocious spectacle--well worthy of a King! The victims
were plunged into the furnace, then raised up high in the air with
clothes and hair ablaze, to be again swallowed up in the flaming abyss,
again to be raised out of it, in order once more to be precipitated into
its fiery embrace![46]

Odelin still gazed, motionless, his arms crossed over his breast, and
rigid as if in a state of catalepsy. The Franc-Taupin looked at his
unhappy niece Hena every time the lever raised her in the air, and also
every time it hurled her down into the abyss of flames. He counted the
_plungings_, as the Superior of the Mathurins humorously called them. He
counted twenty-five of them. At the first few descents poor Hena twisted
and writhed in her seat while emitting piercing cries; in the course of
a few subsequent descents the cries subsided into moans; when she
disappeared in the burning crater for the sixteenth time she was heard
to moan no more. She was either expiring or dead. The machine continued
to dip twenty-five times--it was only a blackened, half naked corpse,
the head of which hung loose and beat against the back of the seat. The
Franc-Taupin followed also with his eyes Ernest Rennepont, who was
placed face to face with Hena. The unhappy youth did not emit a single
cry during his torment, he did not even utter a wail. His eyes remained
fixed upon his bride. Etienne Laforge, John Dubourg and Mary La Catelle
gave proof of the sublimest courage. They were heard singing psalms
amidst the flames that devoured them. Of these latter, only Anthony
Poille, whose tongue had been cut out, was silent. The death rattle
finally silenced the voice of the heretics. It was but charred corpses
that the executioners were raising and dropping.

When the frightful vision ceased, Odelin dropped to the ground, a prey
to violent convulsions. Two monks helped the Franc-Taupin carry the
young novice into a neighboring house. But before leaving the spot of
Hena's torture and death, Josephin stopped an instant before the brazier
which was finishing the work of consuming the corpses. There the
Franc-Taupin pronounced the following silent imprecation:

"Hate and execration for the papist executioners, Kings, priests and
monks! War, implacable war upon this infamous religion that tortures and
burns to death those who are refractory to its creed! Reprisals and
vengeance! By my sister's death; by the agony of her daughter, plunged
twenty-five times into the fiery furnace--I swear to put twenty-five
papist priests to death!"

After Odelin recovered consciousness, uncle and nephew resumed their way
to the place of refuge on St. Honoré Street, where Robert Estienne was
found waiting for them. The generous friend was proscribed. The next day
he was to wander into exile to Geneva. It was with great difficulty
that Princess Marguerite had obtained grace for his life. He informed
Odelin of his father's flight to La Rochelle and of Bridget's death. He
pressed upon Josephin the necessity of leaving Paris with Odelin and
proceeding on the spot to La Rochelle, lest he fall into the clutches of
the police spies who were on the search for them. At the same time he
placed in Josephin's hands the necessary funds for the journey, and took
charge of notifying Master Raimbaud should he also be willing to take
refuge in La Rochelle.

It was agreed between the three that the Franc-Taupin and his nephew
would wait two days for Master Raimbaud at Etampes. The directions of
Robert Estienne were instantly put into execution. That same night
Odelin and Josephin left Paris, and reached Etampes without difficulty,
thanks to the monastic garb which cleared the way for them. At Etampes
Master Raimbaud and his wife joined them before the expiration of the
second day, and the four immediately took the road to La Rochelle, where
they arrived on February 17, 1535. The four fugitives inquired for the
dwelling of Christian Lebrenn. His family, alas! was now reduced to
three members--father, son and the brave Josephin. The Franc-Taupin
delivered to his brother-in-law the pocket Bible which he picked up near
the pyre, the tomb of Hena--that Bible is now added to the relics of the
Lebrenn family.

END OF VOLUME ONE.




PART II.

THE HUGUENOTS.




INTRODUCTION.


Thirty-four years have elapsed since the martyrdom of Hena Lebrenn,
Ernest Rennepont and the other heretics who were burned alive before the
parvise of Notre Dame, in the presence of King Francis I and his court
on January 21, 1535. To-day, I, Antonicq Lebrenn, son of Odelin and
grandson of Christian the printer, proceed with the narrative broken off
above.

Safely established at La Rochelle, Christian was joined in that city by
his son Odelin and Josephin, the Franc-Taupin. Already shattered in body
on account of the profound sorrow caused by the death of his wife
Bridget and the revelation concerning the incestuous attempt made by his
son Hervé, the news of the frightful death of his daughter Hena
overwhelmed my grandfather. He did not long survive that last blow. He
languished about a year longer, wrote the narrative of which the
following one is the sequel, and died on December 17 of the same year at
La Rochelle, where he exercised his printer's trade at the establishment
of Master Auger, a friend of Robert Estienne. The latter himself ended
his days in exile at Geneva.

Odelin Lebrenn, my father, devoted himself, as in his youth, to the
armorer's trade. He worked in the establishment of Master Raimbaud, who
also settled down in La Rochelle in 1535. The old armorer drove a
lucrative trade in his beautiful arms, with England. Thanks to their
energy and their municipal franchises, the Rochelois, partisans of the
Reformation by an overwhelming majority, and protected by the well-nigh
impregnable position of their city, experienced but slightly the
persecutions that dyed red the other provinces of Gaul until the day
when the Protestants took up arms against their oppressors. The hour of
revolt having sounded, the Rochelois were bound to be the first to take
the field. Having married in 1545 Marcienne, the sister of Captain
Mirant, one of the ablest and most daring sailors of La Rochelle, my
father had three children from this marriage--Theresa, born in 1546; me,
Antonicq, born in 1549; and Marguerite, born in 1551. I embraced the
profession of my father, who, upon the death of Master Raimbaud,
deceased without heirs, succeeded to the latter's business.

About four years ago, the hardship of the times brought to La Rochelle,
where, together with other Protestants he sought refuge, Louis
Rennepont, a nephew of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, the bridegroom of
Hena, who was burned together with her. Informed by his father of the
tragic death of the Augustinian monk, Louis Rennepont conceived a horror
for the creed of Rome, in whose name such atrocities were committed, and
after his father's death he entered the Evangelical church. An advocate
in the parliament of Paris, and indicted for heresy, he escaped the
stake by his flight to La Rochelle. One day, as he strolled along the
quay before our house, my father's sign--_Odelin Lebrenn,
Armorer_--caught his eye. He stepped in to inquire into our
relationship with Hena Lebrenn. From us he gathered the information that
Hena was his uncle's wife, married to him by a Reformed pastor. Louis
Rennepont, from that time almost a relative of ours, continued to visit
the house. He soon seemed smitten with the grace and virtues of my
sister Theresa. His love was reciprocated. He was a young man of noble
heart, and of a modest and industrious disposition. Stripped of his
patrimony by the sentence of heresy, he earned his living at La Rochelle
with his profession of advocate. My father appreciated the merits of
Louis Rennepont, and granted him my sister Theresa. They were married in
1568. Their happiness justifies my father's hopes.

My youngest sister Marguerite disappeared from the paternal home at the
age of eight, under rather mysterious circumstances which I shall here
state.

Since his establishment at La Rochelle, my father was animated by a
lively desire to take us all--mother, sisters and myself--to Brittany,
on a kind of pious pilgrimage to the scene of our family's origin, near
the sacred stones of Karnak. The journey by land was short, but the
religious war included in those days Brittany also in its ravages. My
father feared to risk himself and family among the warring factions. His
brother-in-law Mirant, the sailor, having to cross from La Rochelle to
Dover, proposed that my father take ship with him on his brigantine. The
vessel was to touch at Vannes, the port nearest Karnak. Our pilgrimage
accomplished, we were to set sail for Dover, whither my father
frequently consigned arms, and where he would have the opportunity of a
personal interview with his correspondent in that place. After that, my
uncle Mirant was to return to France with a cargo of merchandise. Our
absence would not exceed three weeks. My father accepted the proposition
with joy. Shortly before the day of our departure my sister Marguerite
was taken sick. The distemper was not dangerous, but it prevented her
from joining in the trip, the day for which was set and could not be
postponed. My parents left her behind in the charge of her god-mother,
an excellent woman, the wife of John Barbot, a master copper-smith. We
departed for Vannes on board the brigantine of Captain Mirant. My sister
Marguerite recovered soon after. Her god-mother frequently took her out
for a walk beyond the ramparts. One day the child was playing with other
little girls near a clump of trees, and strayed away from Dame Barbot.
When her god-mother looked for her to take her home, the child was
nowhere to be found. The most diligent searches, instituted for weeks
and months after the occurrence, were all in vain. The child had been
abducted; the kidnappers remained undiscovered. Marguerite was wept and
her loss grieved over by us all.

Our pilgrimage to Karnak, the cradle of the family of Joel, left a
profound, an indelible impression upon me. I shall later return to some
of the consequences of that trip. Captain Mirant, my mother's brother, a
widower after only a few years' marriage, had a daughter named Cornelia.
I loved her from early infancy as a sister. As we grew up our affection
for each other waxed warmer. Our parents expected to see us man and
wife. Cornelia gave promise by her virtue and bravery of resembling one
of those women belonging to the heroic age of Gaul, and of approving
herself worthy of her ancestry. Having lost her mother when still a
child, my cousin occasionally accompanied her father on his rough sea
voyages. The character of the young girl, like her beauty, presented a
mixture of virility, grace and strength. At the time when this narrative
commences, Cornelia was sixteen years of age, myself twenty. We were
betrothed, and our families had decided that we were to be united in
wedlock three or four years later.

My grand-uncle the Franc-Taupin yielded, shortly after his arrival at La
Rochelle, to the solicitations of my grandfather Christian, who, feeling
his approaching dissolution, entreated the brave soldier of adventure
not to separate himself from his nephew, soon surely to be an orphan.
The Franc-Taupin adjourned the execution of his resolution to avenge the
death of Bridget and Hena. He remained near my father Odelin and
enrolled himself with the archers of the city. As a consequence of our
family sorrows, he gave up his former disorderly life. The guardianship
of his nephew, then still a lad, brought him new duties. He earned by
his merit the post of sergeant of the city militia. But when the
massacre of Vassy caused the Protestants to rise from one end of Gaul to
the other, and these finally ran to arms, the Franc-Taupin departed to
join the insurgents. He was elected the chief of his band, and proved
himself pitiless in his acts of reprisal. He had sworn to revenge the
papist atrocities committed upon his sister and niece. The provinces of
Anjou and Saintonge took a large part in the religious ware that broke
out. My father, although married several years before, left his
establishment to enlist himself among the volunteers of the Protestant
army, and deported himself bravely under the orders of Coligny, Condé,
Lanoüe and Dandelot. He was twice wounded. I accompanied him in the
second armed uprising of 1568, when, alas! I had the misfortune of
losing him. I took the field at his side as a volunteer, leaving in La
Rochelle my mother, my sister Theresa, then the wife of Louis Rennepont,
and my cousin Cornelia, who desired to join her father, Captain Mirant,
on a cruise against the royal ships, while I was to combat on land in
the army of Coligny.




CHAPTER I.

THE QUEEN'S "FLYING SQUADRON."


The Abbey of St. Severin, situated on the Limoges road not far from the
town of Malraye, belonged to the Order of St. Bernard. Before the
beginning of the religious wars, the abbey was a splendid monument,
built by the hands of _Jacques Bonhomme_,[47] like so many other
monasteries that dot the soil of France. As a church vassal, Jacques
Bonhomme transported either upon his own back, or, to the still greater
injury of field agriculture, with the help of oxen, the stones, the
lumber, the sand and the lime requisite for the erection of these
pretentious monastic residences. He thereupon carried to the idling
monks the tithes on his corn, on his cattle, on his poultry, on his
eggs, on his butter, on his wine, on his oil, on the fleece of his
sheep, on his honey, on his linen, in short, the prime of all that he
produced with the sweat of his brow. Then came the corvee[48]--to till
the convent lands, to sow, weed and gather the crops thereon; to keep
the convent roads in repair; to irrigate its meadows; to dredge its
ponds; to serve as watchman; and finally to lay down his life in its
defense against the roving bands of vagabonds and robbers. In return
for all these services--when either old, or sick, or exhausted with
toil, Jacques Bonhomme could work no more--he was allowed to hold out
his bowl at the gate of the monastery, when the monks would occasionally
deign to fill it with greasy water from their kitchen. When the church
vassal was at his last breath, stretched upon the straw in his hut, the
good Fathers came to assist and solace him with their _Oremus_.[49] "God
created man for sorrow and poverty," they would say to him; "you have
suffered--God is pleased; you shall enjoy a famous seat in Paradise.
Yours will be the delights of the celestial mansion."

When the spirit of the Reformation penetrated some of the provinces,
Jacques Bonhomme began to lend an ear to a new theory. "Poor, ignorant
people, poor duped and defrauded people," said the pastors of the new
church; "offerings to saints, masses, and purgatory are idolatries,
tricks, frauds, sacrilegious inventions with the aid of which the
priests and monks appropriate to themselves the silver laid by fools
upon the altars and at the feet of wooden and stone images. Good men!
Read the sacred Book. You will discover that God forbids the traffic on
which thousands of frocked and tonsured idlers grow fat." In sight of
such a revelation, based as it was upon the texts of Holy Writ, Jacques
Bonhomme said to himself in his own rustic common sense: "'Tis so! I
have been cheated, duped and robbed all these centuries by the Church of
Rome!" Thereupon Jacques Bonhomme turned himself loose upon the
convents and churches; he overthrew, broke and profaned the altars, the
relics and the statues of saints that had so long been the objects of
his veneration.

On the other hand, in the provinces where the population remained under
the mental domination of the clergy, Jacques Bonhomme turned himself
loose upon the houses of Huguenots, set them on fire, slaughtered the
men, violated the women, and dashed the brains of old men and children
against the walls.

Occupied before the religious wars by the Bernardine monks, the Abbey of
St. Severin had been repeatedly sacked, like so many other monastic
resorts in the districts of Poitou, Berri and Limousin. Reared on an
admirable site--the slope of a hill shaded by a thick forest--the
convent clearly revealed the traces of a sack, freshly undergone:
shattered windows, doors broken open or torn from their hinges, portions
of the walls blackened by fire, and the capitals of the columns
mutilated by the discharge of arquebuses and the fury of the
devastators.

One day, towards the middle of the month of June, 1569, as the sun drew
near the western horizon, the silence around the ruins of the Abbey of
St. Severin was disturbed by the arrival of two squadrons of light
cavalry belonging to the Catholic army. The cavalcade escorted a long
convoy of pack-mules, the men in charge of whom wore the colors and arms
of the royal house of France and of the house of Lorraine. The convoy
entered the yard of the cloister. The lackeys unloaded the mules and
took possession of the deserted abbey. True to their name, the horsemen
were armed in the lightest manner, with Burgundian helmets and
breastplates, together with armlets and gauntlets, besides thigh-pieces
partly covered by their boots; small arquebuses, only three feet long
and well polished, hung from their saddle pommels, and short swords and
iron maces completed their outfit.

The armed corps had for its commandant Count Neroweg of Plouernel, a man
beyond sixty years of age, of rough, haughty and martial mien. From head
to foot he was covered with armor damascened in gold. His Turkish
silver-grey horse was cased at the neck, chest and crupper in light
flexible sheets of chiseled and richly gilt steel. Its orange-colored
velvet housings and saddle were ornamented with green and silver lace,
the heraldic colors of the house of Plouernel. The jacket or floating
coat that the Count wore above his armor was also of orange-colored
velvet, and likewise embroidered with green and silver thread. The
commandant of the detachment alighted from his horse; ordered the
monastery to be searched; set up watches and sent out pickets over the
principal roads that led to the place. He then remounted and rode away
in the direction of Limoges, escorted by only one of the two squadrons.

Immediately after the departure of the Count, the quartermasters of
Queen Catherine De Medici, assisted by her serving-men and those of
Charles of Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine, fell to work on the task of
imparting to the devastated halls of the abbey the most presentable
appearance possible, with the view of lodging the Queen and the prelate
whose arrival they expected. The mules, to the number of more than
sixty, carried a complete traveling equipment on their pack-saddles, or
in large trunks strapped to their backs--tent cloths, lambrequins,
tapestry, easels, dismantled beds, curtains, mattresses, silver vessels,
besides an abundance of eatables and wines with the necessary kitchen
utensils, and even ice, in leather bags. The valets set to work with a
will, and with a promptitude truly marvelous they tapestried the
apartments destined for the Queen and for the Cardinal by hanging rich
cloths, provided in advance with gilt hooks, from nails that they deftly
drove along the upper edges of the walls. They then fitted out the two
rooms with the necessary furniture brought by the mules. A chamber,
separated from that of the Queen by a small passage was likewise
prepared for the reception of the sovereign's four maids of honor. The
pages, the knights, the chamberlains, the officers and the equerries
were all quartered, as in time of war, in the outhouses of the abbey,
the vast kitchen of which was invaded by the master cook and his aides,
who prepared supper, while the stewards spread the royal table in the
refectory of the monastery. Shortly before sunset forerunners announced
the approach of the Queen. Upon the heels of the forerunners came a
vanguard, and immediately after, several armed squadrons, in the center
of which was the royal litter, enclosed with hangings of
gold-embroidered violet velvet and carried by two mules, likewise in
trappings of violet velvet. A second litter, not so richly decorated and
empty at the time, was reserved for those maids of honor who might tire
of riding. These maids, however, together with their governess, had
preferred to cover the distance on the backs of their richly caparisoned
palfreys, the necks, flanks and cruppers of which were decked in
embroidered velvet emblazoned with the arms of the royal house of
France. Pages and equerries followed the maids of honor. The rear was
brought up by the litter of the Cardinal of Lorraine, wrapped in purple
taffeta hangings and surrounded by several leading dignitaries and
Princes of the Church.

Before entering the yard of the abbey the prelate put his head out of
his litter, and ordered one of his gentlemen-in-waiting to summon before
him the commandant of the escort. Charles of Guise, Cardinal of
Lorraine, was at that time forty-six years of age. His otherwise
handsome features, now marred by debauchery, reflected shrewdness,
craft, and above all haughtiness, these being the dominant traits of his
character. Count Neroweg of Plouernel, who was summoned by the prelate,
approached the litter.

"Monsieur," said the Cardinal in an imperious tone, "do you answer for
the safety of the Queen and myself?"

"Yes, Monsieur Cardinal."

"Have you taken sufficient precautions against any surprise on the part
of the Huguenot band known by the name of the 'Avengers of Israel' and
captained by a felon nicknamed the 'One-Eyed'?"

"Monsieur Cardinal, I answer with my life for the safety of the Queen.
The Huguenot forces need not alarm us. His Majesty's army covers our
escort. Marshal Tavannes is notified of the Queen's arrival; he has
undoubtedly kept clear the route followed by her Majesty. I told your
Eminence before that it would have been better to push straight ahead
until we joined the army of Marshal Tavannes, instead of spending the
night at this abbey."

"Do you imagine the Queen and I can travel like a couple of troopers,
without alighting for rest?"

"Monsieur Cardinal," replied Count Neroweg of Plouernel haughtily, "it
is not for others to remind me of the respect I owe her Majesty."

"Monsieur!" exclaimed the Cardinal angrily, "you seem to forget that you
are addressing a Prince of the house of Lorraine. Be more respectful!"

"Monsieur Cardinal, if you know the history of your house, I know the
history of mine. Pepin of Heristal, the grandfather of Charlemagne, from
whom you pretend to descend, was but a rather insignificant specimen
when the house of Neroweg, illustrious in Germany long before the
Frankish conquest, was already established in Gaul for two centuries on
its Salic domains of Auvergne, which it held from the sword of one of
its own ancestors, a leude of Clovis--"

"Lower your tone, monsieur! Do not oblige me to remind you that Colonel
Plouernel, your brother, is one of the military chiefs of the rebels who
have risen in arms against the Church and the Crown."

The colloquy was interrupted at this point by the arrival of a page who
hurried to announce to the Cardinal the entry of the Queen into the
cloister.

Leaving Count Neroweg under the stigma of insinuated treason, the
prelate stepped down from his litter in order to hasten to the Queen's
side and render her his homage. Catherine De Medici was then in her
fiftieth year. Not now was she, as on that fateful January 21, 1535,
merely a Princess, and the young butt of the arrows of the Duchess of
Etampes. Since then, Francis I had died and had been succeeded to the
throne by her husband as Henry II, who, dying later from the
consequences of an accident at a tourney, left her Queen
Regent--absolute monarch. In point of appearance also Catherine De
Medici was now her complete self. She preserved the traces of her
youthful beauty. A slight corpulence impaired in nothing the majesty of
her stature. Her shoulders, arms and hands--all of a dazzling
whiteness--would, thanks to the perfection of their lines, have
presented a noble model for a sculptor. Her hair preserved its pristine
blackness, and was on this evening covered by the hood of a damask
mantle, violet like her trailing robe, which exposed a front of brass.
Cunning, perfidy, cruelty, were stamped upon her striking countenance.
Catherine De Medici leaned upon the arm of her lover, the Cardinal of
Lorraine, and entered the abbey, followed by her maids of honor, a bevy
of ravishing young girls.

The maids of honor of Catherine De Medici indulged in these days, and by
express orders of their mistress, in the strangest of doings. The
ironical title was given them of the "Queen's Flying Squadron." Indeed,
according as her policy might require, Catherine De Medici commanded
her maids of honor to prostitute themselves and take for their lovers
the young seigneurs whom she wished to attract to her party, or whose
secrets she wished to fathom. Occasionally the Queen even pointed out to
her nymphs such court folks as she wished to be rid of. In such
instances, René, the court perfumer, prepared the most subtle poisons
and the surest to boot, wherewith the young maids impregnated the gloves
of their lovers, or the petals of a flower, or smelling boxes, or the
sugar plums which they offered to the victims designated to them. It was
a customary saying of Catherine De Medici to her new female recruits:
"My little one, you are free to worship at the shrine of Diana, or at
that of Venus, but if you sacrifice to the little god Cupid, have an eye
to the breadth of your waist."[50]

After supper the Cardinal of Lorraine remained alone with the Queen. The
maids of honor entertained themselves in a chamber adjoining the royal
apartment. There were four of them, each of a different type of beauty.
The youngest was eighteen years of age. A veneer of grace and elegance
concealed the precocious degradation of the four beauties. They were
superbly dressed. Catherine De Medici loved luxury; on their travels the
members of her suite took with them, laden in trunks strapped to the
backs of mules, complete outfits of splendid apparel. One of the maids
of honor, Blanche of Verceil, was temporarily absent. Diana of
Sauveterre, the senior of the Queen's squadron, was a white and pink
beauty of the blonde type. She wore a blue waist ornamented with open
gold lace-work; her coif, made of white taffeta and surmounted with
little curled feathers of blue and silver, marked with its point the
middle of her forehead, whence, widening in two rounded wings to either
side over her temples, it exposed an opulent growth of blonde hair
combed back from the roots. Clorinde of Vaucernay, a dainty little
creature with black hair and blue eyes, was clad in a waist and skirt of
pale yellow damask threaded with silver; her bonnet, made of the same
material, was embroidered with pearls. Finally, Anna Bell, the youngest
and most beautiful of all, seemed to unite in her single person the
different charms of the other maids of honor. Elegant of stature and
with a skin of dazzling white, her thick light-brown hair contrasted
marvelously with her eye-brows, jet-black like the long eyelashes which
partly veiled her large, soft, brown eyes. The maid's rose-colored satin
coat fell in graceful folds upon her robe of white satin. Her pink
bonnet was surmounted by little white frizzled feathers. Anna Bell
seemed to be in a mood of profound melancholy. Seated slightly apart
from her companions, with her elbows leaning on a window that opened
upon the enclosure of the abbey, she dreamily contemplated the starry
sky, lending but an absentminded attention to the conversation of her
sister maids of honor.

"Did I understand you to say there were philters that could make men
amorous?" asked Clorinde of Vaucernay.

"Yes, indeed," replied Diana of Sauveterre. "The effectiveness of
certain philters is indisputable. In support of what I say I shall quote
Madam Noirmoutier. She succeeded in pouring a few drops of a certain
liquid into Monsieur Langeais's glass. Before the repast was over, the
young seigneur was crazy in love with her."

"And yet there are people who remain incredulous concerning the efficacy
of love potions," returned the first speaker. "What about you, Anna
Bell, are you among the unbelievers?"

"Sincere love is the only philter that can effect prodigies," Anna Bell
sighed as she answered.

At that moment Blanche of Verceil joined her companions. Hers was a
masculine, brown-complexioned and tall type of beauty. The maid's
abundant black hair and thick eyebrows would have imparted the stamp of
harshness to her face were it not for the smile of merry raillery that
habitually flitted over her cherry-red lips, which were accentuated by a
light-brown down. She held in her hand several sheets of paper, and said
gaily to her companions:

"I have come to share with you, my darlings, a bit of good luck that has
befallen me."

"Good! Distribute your good things," cried Diana of Sauveterre.

"This morning, just as we were mounting our horses," began Blanche of
Verceil, "a page arrived from Paris, sent to me by my dear Brissac. The
page brought me sugar plums, fresh flowers wonderfully preserved, and a
letter full of love. But that is not all. The letter, which I could not
read until a few minutes ago, contained a treasure--an inestimable
treasure--the newest _pasquils_, the most daring and most biting that
have yet appeared! They are a true intellectual treat."

"What a windfall! And against whom are they directed?" asked Diana of
Sauveterre.

"Innocent creature that you are!" Blanche of Verceil returned. "Against
whom can they be written if not against the Queen, against the Cardinal,
against the court, and against the maids of honor of the Queen's 'Flying
Squadron'? It is all of us who are the butts of the satirists."

"Those vicious people treat us with scant courtesy," exclaimed the
black-haired Clorinde of Vaucernay. "But, at any rate, we are sung in
superb and royal company. By Venus and Cupid, we should feel proud."

"Come, Blanche, read us the verses," Diana of Sauveterre suggested. "The
Queen may send for us any moment before she retires."

Instead of complying at once with Diana's request, Blanche of Verceil
pointed to Anna Bell, who remained in silent abstraction, and in a low
voice said to her companions: "Decidedly, the little one is in love. Her
ears do not prick up at the sound of that tickling word _pasquil_--a
divine tid-bit of wit and wickedness the salt of which is worth a
hundred fold, a thousand fold more than all the sugar of the candies."

"I wager she is dreaming awake of the German Prince of whom she speaks
in her slumbers. How indiscreet sleep is! Poor thing, she thinks her
secret is well kept," rejoined Clorinde of Vaucernay.

"Blanche, the pasquils," again cried Diana, impatiently. "I burn with
curiosity to hear them."

"Honor to whom honor is due. We shall commence with our good dame the
Queen;" and with these words Blanche read:

    "People ask, What's the resemblance
    'Tween Catherine and Jesebel:
    One, the latter, ruined Israel,
    And the former ruins France;
    Extreme malice marked the latter,
    Malice's self the former is;
    Finally, the judgment fell
    Of a Providence divine
    Caused the dogs to eat up Jesebel,
    While the carcass rank of Catherine
    In this point doth differ much:
    It not even the dogs will munch."[51]

The maids of honor broke out into peals of laughter. Anna Bell, still
pensively seated apart at the open casement, let her eyes wander over
space, a stranger to the hilarity of her companions. She paid no
attention to the reading of the verses.

"You will yet see, in the event of our good Dame Catherine's being taken
unawares and swallowing some of the sugar plums destined for her
victims, that the rascally dogs may fear the remains of our venerable
sovereign are poisoned--and will run away from her carcass," said
Clorinde of Vaucernay.

"That pasquil should be read to the Queen. If she is in a good humor she
will have a good laugh over it," put in Diana of Sauveterre.

"Indeed, few things amuse her more than bold and witty verses,"
acquiesced Blanche. "Do you remember how, when she read the 'Marvelous
Discourses' from the satirical pen of the famous printer Robert
Estienne, the good dame laughed heartily and said: 'There is some truth
in that! But they do not know it all--how would it be if they were more
fully posted!'[52] Now, listen. After the Queen, Monsieur the Cardinal,
that is a matter of course. He is supposed to be dead--they wish he
were--that also is natural. Here is his epitaph written in advance:

    "The Cardinal, who, in his hours of life
      Kept heaven, sea and earth all seething o'er,
    In hell now carries on his furious strife,
      And 'mong the damned, as erst 'mong us makes war.

    "Why is it that upon his tomb is showered
      The holy water in such rare profusion?
    It is that there the torch of war lies lowered,
      And all fear lest it flare to new confusion."[53]

"Poor Monsieur Cardinal!" exclaimed Diana of Sauveterre. "What a
villainous calumny! He, such a poltroon as he, for a Guise--he is the
most craven of all cravens--to compare him with a bolt of war!"

"No, not a bolt, but a torch," Blanche corrected. "He rests satisfied
with holding the torch of war, like Madam Gondi, the governess of the
royal Princes and Princesses, held the torch of Venus to light the
amours of the late King Henry II, whose worthy go-between, or, to speak
more plainly, whose Cyprian, she was."

"As for me," said Clorinde of Vaucernay, "I highly commend the Queen for
having placed, as governess over her children, her own husband's
go-between. It is a sort of hereditary office which can not be entrusted
to hands too worthy, and should be perpetuated in titled families."

"Accordingly," said Blanche, "Gondi, faithful to the duties of her
Cyprian employment, took charge of carrying the first love letter from
Mademoiselle Margot[54] to young Henry of Guise, whom we are about to
meet in the army of Marshal Tavannes. Hence evil tongues are saying: 'In
these days, it is not the men who fall on their knees before the women,
but the women who fall on their knees before the men and entreat them
for amorous mercy.'"[55]

"Nothing wonderful in that!" replied Clorinde. "Is it not for a Queen to
take the first step towards her subjects? What are we? Queens. What are
the men? Our subjects. Besides that, Henry of Guise is so handsome, so
brave, so amorous! Although he is barely eighteen years old, all the
women are crazy over him--I first of all. My arms are open to him."

"Oh, Clorinde! If Biron were to hear you!" cried Diana of Sauveterre.

"He has heard me," answered Clorinde. "He knows that in pledging
constancy, exception is always implied for an encounter with Henry of
Guise. But let us hear the other pasquils, Blanche!"

"The next one," announced Blanche, "is piquant. It alludes to the new
custom that the Queen has borrowed from Spain. It alludes to the title
of _Majesty_ that she wishes to be addressed by, as well as her
children:

    "The Kingdom of France, to perdition while lagging,
    Has seized from the Spaniard his heathenish bragging:
    It rigs up a mortal in godhead's travesty,
    And when his estate with hypocrisy's smelling,
    I plainly can see, and without any telling,
    Our Majesty's booked--to be stript of majesty."[56]

"That last line is humorous," laughed Clorinde. "'Our Majesty's
booked--to be stript of majesty.'"

"For want of the thing we take the name--that is enough to impose upon
the fools," said Diana of Sauveterre.

Blanche pointed to their companion who was still seated by the window,
now with her forehead resting on her hands, and said: "Look at Anna
Bell. In what black melancholy is she plunged?"

"To the devil with melancholy!" answered Diana. "One has to fall in love
with some German Prince in order to look so pitiful!"

"Who may the Prince Charming be?" Blanche inquired. "We know nothing of
the secrets of that languishing maid, except a few words uttered by her
in her sleep--'Prince--Germany!--Germany!--My heart is all yours. Alas,
my love can not be shared.'"

"Can Anna Bell be German?" asked Clorinde.

"Ask our good Dame Catherine about that. She is no doubt acquainted with
the mystery of Anna Bell's birth, and may enlighten you on what you want
to know. As for me, I know nothing about it."

"The German Prince has turned her head and made her forget poor Solange
altogether," said Clorinde.

"The most famous preachers, among them Burning-Fire and Fra Hervé the
Cordelier, failed to draw the Marquis of Solange back to the fold of the
Church. Anna Bell undertook his conversion, and, by grace from above--or
from below--by virtue of her blue eyes or of her charming hips, the
Huguenot became an ardent Catholic."

"But to whom does he render his devotions?" asked Clorinde, meaningly.
"To the Church, or to the chapel of our little friend?" The maids of
honor laughed uproariously and Clorinde continued: "But let us return to
our pasquils."

"This one," resumed Blanche of Verceil, "is odd on account of its
form--and the climax is droll. Judge for yourselves:

    "The poor people endure everything;
    The men-at-arms ravage everything;
    The Holy Church pensions everything;
    The favorites demand everything;
    The Cardinal grants everything;
    The Parliament registers everything;
    The Chancellor seals everything;
    The Queen-Mother runs everything;
    And only the Devil laughs at everything;
    Because the Devil will take everything."[57]

The loud hilarity of the maids of honor, whom the wind-up of the last
pasquil amused intensely, finally attracted the attention of Anna Bell.
Her face bore the impress of profound sadness; her eyes were moist.
Fearing that she was the object of her companions' jests, the maid
furtively wiped away her tears, stepped slowly towards the other young
women, and let herself down beside Blanche of Verceil.

"We are somewhat after the fashion of the devil--we laugh about
everything," said Clorinde to her. "You alone, Anna Bell, among us all,
are as sad as a wife who sees her husband return from a long voyage, or
beholds her gallant depart for the wars. What is the reason of your
despondency?"

Anna Bell forced a smile, and answered: "Forget me, as the wife forgets
her husband. To-day I feel in a sad humor."

"The remembrance, perhaps, of a bad dream?" suggested Blanche of
Verceil, ironically. "Or perhaps bad news from a handsome and absent
friend?"

"No, dear Blanche," replied Anna Bell, blushing, "I am affected only by
a vague sorrow--without cause or object. Besides, as you are aware, I am
not of a gay disposition."

"Oh, God!" broke in Diana of Sauveterre, excitedly. "By the way of
dreams, I must tell you I had a most frightful one last night. I saw our
escort attacked by the Huguenot bandits called the Avengers of Israel."

"Their chief is said to be a devilish one-eyed man, who attacks monks
and priests by choice," said Blanche, "and, when he takes them prisoner,
flays their skulls. He calls that raising them to the cardinalate,
coifing them with the red cap!"

"It is enough to make one shiver with terror. One hears nothing but
reports of such atrocities," exclaimed Clorinde.

"We need not fear that we shall fall into the hands of that reprobate,"
said Diana reassuringly. "We have attended a special mass for the
success of our journey."

"I place but slight reliance upon the mass, my dear Diana, but a very
strong one upon Count Neroweg of Plouernel, who commands our escort,"
replied Blanche. "The Huguenot bandits will not dare to approach our
armed squadrons and light cavalry. The saber is a better protection to
us than the priest's cowl."

"May God preserve us!" laughed Diana. "All the same, I would not regret
undergoing a scare, or even running a certain degree of risk of being
carried off, together with the accessory consequences--anything to see
the frightened face of the Cardinal, who is as lily-livered as a hare."

"To tell the truth, I do not understand these charges of cowardice that
you fling at the Cardinal, after so many proofs of valor given by him,"
said Blanche.

Diana of Sauveterre burst out laughing again. "You must be joking," she
said, "when you speak of the 'bravery' of the Cardinal, and of the
'proofs of valor' given by him."

"No, indeed, my dear Diana," replied Blanche. "I am talking seriously.
First of all, did he not carry bravery to the point of charging old
Diana of Poitiers, as he would have done a citadel? Did he not
accomplish another exploit in passing from the arms of Diana into those
of our good Queen Catherine, though she be loaded with years and
corpulence? Besides, we know," she added with a sinister smile, "that to
play the gallant with Catherine is at times to court death. These are
the reasons why I look upon the Cardinal as a Caesar."

"You would be talking to the point, my dear, if, instead of braving the
one-eyed man, who has such a reputation for ferocity, the Cardinal were
now to turn to the assault of some one-eyed woman," said Clorinde of
Vaucernay.

"If heaven is just," said Diana, "it will yet place the Huguenot bandit
face to face with the Cordelier Hervé. Then would we see terrible
things. The monk commands a company of Catholics, all desperate men. For
arms he has a chaplet, the beads of which are arquebus balls, and a
heavy iron crucifix which he uses for a mace. All heretics who fall into
the hands of the troop of Fra Hervé are put to death with all manner of
refined tortures, whether they be men or women, old men or children. But
do let us return to our pasquils."

"The best are still to come. They are the cleverest and drollest, but
they are in prose;" and Blanche continued reading:

              "NEW WORKS BELONGING TO THE COURT LIBRARY.

     "The _Pot-pourri of the Affairs of France_, translated from the
     Italian into French by the Queen of France.

     "The _General Goslings' Record_, by the Cardinal of Bourbon. A
     collection of racy stories.

     "The _History of Ganymede_, by the Duke of Anjou, the Queen's
     favorite son."

"The dear Prince surely did not write that book without a collaborator,"
cried Diana of Sauveterre, laughing. "I wager the lovely Odet, the son
of Count Neroweg of Plouernel, his aide-de-camp, must have helped the
Duke of Anjou in his work. The two youngsters have become inseparable,
day--and night!"

"_O, Italiam! Italiam!_ O, Italy, the rival of Gomorrah and of Lesbos!"
exclaimed Clorinde, laughing boisterously.

"You speak Latin, my dear?" asked Diana, amused.

"Simply out of shame," replied Clorinde, "in order not to frighten the
modesty of the maids of honor, my pretty chickens."

"I have a horror of the little hermaphrodites," agreed Blanche. "They
are decked out like women--gaudy ruffles, jewelry in their ears, fans in
their hands! May Venus protect us from the reign of those favorites! May
the fires of hell consume the popinjays! But to proceed with the
pasquil. Attention, my dears:

     "_Singular Treatise on Incest_, by Monsignor the Archbishop of
     Lyons, recently published and dedicated to Mademoiselle Grisolles,
     his sister. A pretty couple!

"Monsignor Archbishop studies reserved cases--in the confessional, in
order to put them into practice.

     "_Sermons_, by the reverend Father Burning-Fire, faithfully
     compiled by the street-porters of Paris.

     "_The Perfect Pig_, by Monsieur Villequier, revised, corrected and
     considerably enlarged by Madam Villequier. Boar and sow!"

The maids of honor roared out aloud as they heard the burlesque title,
and they repeated in chorus--"The Perfect Pig!"[58]

"Now comes the last and best," proceeded Blanche. "We are again the
theme, together with our good Dame Catherine. Ours the honors, as ever.
Meditate upon these dainties:

                    "MANIFESTO OF THE COURT LADIES.

     "_Be it known to all by these presents that the Court Ladies have
     no less repentance than sins, as appears from the following
     lamentations_.

                 "CATHERINE DE MEDICI, THE KING'S MOTHER.

     "My God, my heart, feeling the approach of death, apprehends Thy
     wrath and my eternal damnation when I consider how many sins I have
     committed, as well with my body as through the violent death of
     others, even of near relatives--all in order to reign. How I have
     raised my children in vice, blasphemy and perfidy, and my daughters
     in unchaste licence, to the point of tolerating and even
     authorizing a brothel at my Court. France made me what I am. I
     unmake her all I can. With the good King David I say--_Tibi soli
     peccavi_."[59]

"That is carrying fiction to great lengths," laughed Diana of
Sauveterre. "I do not believe our good Dame Catherine is capable of
repenting any of the things laid to her door by the malignant
pasquil--neither her debaucheries nor any of her other evil
deeds--unchastities or assassinations."

"The word 'brothel' is rather impertinent when applied to us!" Clorinde
exclaimed. "They should have said, like our dear Rabelais, 'an Abbey of
Thalamia,' or 'a Monastery of Cyprus, of which the Queen is the Mother
Abbess.' That would have been elegant--without doing violence to the
truth. A 'brothel'--fie! fie! Nasty word! We are the priestesses of
Venus--only that!"

"I was not aware, dearest, that you had become a model of prudishness!"
returned Blanche of Verceil with exquisite mockery. "When you ply a
trade you must be willing to accept its name, and be indifferent to the
word with which it is designated;" and she proceeded to read:

                  "MANIFESTO OF THE MAIDS OF HONOR.

     "Oh! Oh! Oh! My God! What is to become of us, Lord! Oh, what will
     be of us, if Thou dost not extend to us Thy vast, very vast mercy!
     We cry out to Thee in a loud voice that it may please Thee to
     forgive us the many carnal sins we have committed with Kings,
     Cardinals, Princes, knights, abbots, preachers, poets, musicians
     and all manner of other folks of all conditions, trades and
     quality, down to muleteers, pages and lackeys, and even further
     down--people corroded with disease and soaked in preservatives!
     Therefore do we say with the good Madam Villequier: 'Oh, Lord,
     mercy! Grant us mercy! And if we can not find a husband, let us
     join the Order of the Magdalens!'

     "Done at Chercheau, voyage to Nerac.

     "_Signed_, CUCUFIN.

     "(With the permission of Monsignor the Archbishop of Lyons.)"[60]

Such was the cynicism and moral turpitude of the wretched girls,
corrupted and gangrened to the core as they were since early childhood
by the perversions of an infamous court and the example as well as the
advice of Catherine De Medici, that this scorching satire, more than any
of the other pasquils, provoked the boundless hilarity of the "Flying
Squadron." All sense of decorum was blotted out. Anna Bell alone blushed
and dropped her eyes.

The gay guffaws of the beautiful sinners were interrupted by the solemn
entrance of their governess.

"Silence!" she commanded. "Silence, young ladies! Her Majesty is close
by, in conference with Monseigneur the Cardinal."

"Oh, dear Countess!" answered Blanche of Verceil, endeavoring to smother
the outbursts of her laughter. "If you only knew what a wicked pasquil
we have just read! According to the author it would seem that we emerge
from our dormitory like the goddess Truth out of her fountain, or with
as scant clothing on our limbs as Madam Eve in her paradise."

"Less noise, you crazy lasses! Less noise!" ordered the governess; and
addressing Anna Bell: "Come, dearest, the Queen wishes to have a talk
with you after her conference with his Excellency the Cardinal. You are
to wait for her summons in a cabinet, which is separated from the
Queen's apartment by the little corridor. When you hear her bell ring
three times, the usual summons, you are to go in."

Anna Bell went out with the governess, leaving her lightheaded and
lighthearted companions in the room laughing and exchanging witticisms
upon the pasquils.




CHAPTER II.

ANNA BELL.


Catherine De Medici and Cardinal Charles of Lorraine were in the midst
of a conversation that started immediately after supper. The prelate,
complaisant, sly and attentive to the slightest word of the Italian
woman, showed himself alternately reserved and familiar, according to
the turn that the conversation took. The Queen, on the other hand,
intent, not so much upon what the retainer of the Guises said, as upon
fathoming what he suppressed, at once hated and feared him, and sought
to surprise upon his face the hidden secrets of his thoughts. Both the
one and the other stood on their guard, the two accomplices in intrigue
and crime vying with each other in dissimulation and perfidy, the
Italian woman crafty, the prelate cautious.

"Monsignor Cardinal," remarked Catherine De Medici with a touch of irony
in her tone, "you remind me at this moment--you must excuse the
comparison, I am a huntress you know--"

"Your Majesty unites all the deities--Juno on her throne, Diana in the
woods, Venus in her temple of Cytheria--"

"Mercy, Monsignor Cardinal, let us drop those mythological queens. They
are old, they have lived their time--Diana, with the rest of them; they
now inhabit the empyrean."

The pointed allusion to his amours with old Diana of Poitiers, Duchess
of Valentinois, stung the haughty prelate to the quick. He meant to give
tit for tat, and, in his turn hinting at his present amours with the
Queen herself, he replied:

"I perceive, madam, that the death of the Duchess of Valentinois has not
yet disarmed your jealousy. And yet, I feel hope re-rising in my
heart--"

Catherine De Medici had yielded herself to the prelate out of political
calculation, the same as he himself had laid siege to her out of
political ambition. The Italian woman affected not to have understood
the Cardinal's hint at their intimate relations, and darting upon him
her viper's glance, proceeded:

"As I was saying, monsignor, when I begged you to excuse a comparison
which I borrow from falconry, your oratorical circumlocutions remind me
of a falcon's evolutions when he rises in the air to swoop down upon his
prey. I have been searching through the mists of your discourse for the
prey you are in pursuit of, and am unable to discover it. You induced me
to join my son of Anjou in the army with the view of reviving the
spirits of the Catholic chiefs. Meseems my faithful subjects should be
sufficiently encouraged by the deaths of the Duke of Deux-Ponts, of
Monsieur Condé, and of Dandelot, the brother of Coligny,--three of the
most prominent chiefs of the Huguenot party, and all three carried off
within a month. These are all fortunate events."[61]

"We see God's hand in that, madam," observed the Cardinal. "These three
sudden deaths are providential. They are utterances from God."

"'Providential,' as you say Monsignor Cardinal," pursued the Queen.
"Nevertheless, the Huguenots are pushing the campaign with great vigor,
while the Catholic chiefs are flagging. You thought my presence at the
camp of Roche-la-Belle would exert a favorable influence upon the fate
of the campaign. Accordingly, I am on the way to join our army. Now,
however, you indicate to me that this journey might lead to unexpected
discoveries. You even dropped the word 'treason.' Once more I must say
to you, Monsignor Cardinal, I see in all this the evolutions of the
falcon, but not yet the prey that it threatens. In short, if there is
treason, tell me where it lies. If there is a traitor, name him. Speak
out plainly."

"Very well, madam. There is a plot concocted by Marshal Tavannes. The
revelation seems to cause your Majesty to start. I beg your leave to go
into the details of the affair. You will then be instructed upon its
purpose."

"Monsignor Cardinal, no act of treason can surprise me. All I care to
understand is the cause that brings the treason about. Please continue
your revelations."

"I have it from good authority that Marshal Tavannes is negotiating with
Monsieur Coligny. In present circumstances, negotiations smack of
treason."

"And what do you presume, Monsignor Cardinal, is the purpose of the
negotiations between Tavannes and Coligny?"

"To induce your Majesty's son, the Duke of Anjou, to embrace the
Reformation and join the Huguenots."

"Is my son of Anjou supposed to be implicated in the plot? That, indeed,
would mightily surprise me."

"Yes, madam. The Emperor of Germany and Monsieur Coligny have promised
to the Duke of Anjou, in case he consents to go over to the reformers,
the sovereignty of the Low Countries, of Saintonge and of Poitou. They
hope to drive the young Prince into open revolt against his reigning
brother, his Majesty Charles IX."

"Monsignor Cardinal, your insinuations, affecting as they do a son of
the royal house of France, are of so grave a nature that I am bound to
presume you have, ready at hand, the proofs of the plot which you are
revealing to me. I demand that you produce the proofs instantly."

"I am at the orders of my Queen. I now hasten to spread before your
Majesty's eyes the correspondence relating to the plot. Here is a letter
from his Majesty Philip II of Spain, who was the first to get wind of
the scheme, through one of his agents in the Low Countries.
Furthermore, here are the written propositions from his Catholic
Majesty and the Holy Father for common action with your Majesty against
the Huguenot rebellion and heresy."

"What are the propositions of his Catholic Majesty and venerated
Pontiff?"

"King Philip II and our Holy Father Pius V offer to your Majesty,
besides the five thousand Walloon and Italian soldiers that now
reinforce our army, a new corps of six thousand men--under the condition
that your Majesty remove Marshal Tavannes and place the supreme command
of the troops in the hands of the Duke of Alva."

"Accordingly," replied Catherine De Medici, fixing her eyes upon the
Cardinal, "our two allies, His Holiness and King Philip II demand that
the Duke of Alva, a Spanish general, be the commandant in chief of the
French forces?"

"That is their condition, madam. But it is also agreed that the Duke of
Alva is to exercise a nominal command only, and that the military
operations shall be conducted by my brother of Aumale and my nephew
Henry of Guise, who are to be his immediate subalterns."

Catherine De Medici remained impassive, betraying neither astonishment
nor anger at the proposition to deliver the command of the French royal
troops to the Duke of Alva, the pestiferous menial of Philip II, and to
strengthen the Duke's hand with the support of the brother and the
nephew of the prelate. The Queen seemed to reflect. After a short pause
she said to the Cardinal:

"The proposition is not inacceptable. It may serve as the basis for some
combination that we may offer later."

Despite his self-control, the Cardinal's face betrayed his secret joy.
The Queen seemed not to notice it, and proceeded:

"The first thing to do would then be to withdraw my son of Anjou from
the command of the army."

"The principal thing to do, madam, would be to remonstrate with the
young Prince, and to separate him from his present evil advisers."

"That, indeed, would be the wisest course to pursue, if that plot
exists, as I very much fear it can not be doubted in sight of the proofs
you have presented to me. And yet, I must be frank to confess, I feel
some repugnance against placing the Duke of Alva at the head of our
army. I would be afraid, above all, of displeasing the other military
chiefs and high dignitaries of our court. The measure will seem an
outrage to them."

"I have the honor of reminding your Majesty that, in that case, my
brother and my nephew will be joined to the Duke of Alva."

"You may feel certain, Monsignor Cardinal, that, without the express
condition of Messieurs of Aumale and Guise being joined to the Spanish
generalissimo, I would not for a moment have lent an ear to the scheme."

Thrown off the scent by the Queen, the prelate answered
enthusiastically:

"Oh, madam, I swear to God the throne has not a more faithful supporter
than the house of Guise."

"The fraud! The scamp!" said the Italian woman to herself. "I have
probed his thoughts! I scent his treason! But I am compelled to conceal
my feelings and to humor his family, however heartily I abhor it."

One of the Queen's pages, posted outside the door of the apartment and
authorized at certain emergencies of the service to enter the Queen's
cabinet without being called, parted the portieres, and bowing
respectfully, said:

"Madam, the Count of La Riviere, captain of the guards of the Duke of
Anjou, has just arrived from camp, and requests to be introduced to your
Majesty immediately."

"Bring him in," answered Catherine De Medici. And as the page was about
to withdraw, she added: "Should Monsieur Gondi arrive this evening, or
even later in the night, let me be notified without delay."

The page bowed a second time, and withdrew. The Queen's last words
seemed to cause the Cardinal some uneasiness. He asked with surprise:

"Does madam expect Monsieur Gondi?"

"Gondi must have received a letter from me at Poitiers, in which I
ordered him to meet me at the camp of my son, instead of pursuing his
route to Paris."

The Guisard had not quite recovered from his surprise when the Count of
La Riviere, captain of the guards of the Duke of Anjou, was ushered in
by the page. Catherine De Medici said to the prelate with a sweet smile:

"We shall see each other again to-night, Monsignor Cardinal. I shall
need the advice of my friends in these sad complications. I shall want
yours."

Charles of Lorraine understood that he was expected to withdraw; he
bowed respectfully to the Queen and left the apartment, a prey to
racking apprehensions.

The captain of the guards of the Duke of Anjou stepped forward, and
presenting a letter to Catherine De Medici, said:

"Madam, my master ordered me to place this letter in your Majesty's own
hands."

"Is my son's health good?" inquired the Queen, taking the missive. "What
is the news in the army?"

"My master is in admirable health, madam. Yesterday there was a skirmish
of vanguards between us and the Huguenots. The affair was of little
importance--only a few men killed on either side."

Catherine broke the seal on the letter. As her eyes ran over its
contents, her face, which at first was rigid with apprehension,
gradually relaxed, and reflected gladness and profound satisfaction.

"The Guisard," she muttered to herself, "dared accuse my son of
negotiating with Admiral Coligny. The infamous calumniator!" And turning
to her son's ambassador: "My son informs me of your plan, monsieur. You
wish to serve God, the King and France. Your arm and your heart are at
our disposal?"

"Madam, I am anxious to emulate Monsieur Montesquiou--and to rid the
King of one of his most dangerous enemies."

"You will surpass Monsieur Montesquiou if you succeed! One Coligny is
worth ten Condés. But are you sure of the man whom my son mentions?"

"The man swore by his soul that he would not falter. He received six
thousand livres on account of the fifty thousand promised to him. The
rest is not to be paid until the thing is done. That is our guarantee."

"Provided he is not assailed with some silly qualms of conscience. But
how did you become acquainted with the fellow?"

"Yesterday, as I just had the honor of advising your Majesty, there was
a skirmish at our outposts. Admiral Coligny charged in person, and
Dominic, that is the name of the man in question, led one of his
master's relay horses by the reins--"

"He is, then, in the service of Monsieur Coligny?"

"Yes, madam; since infancy he has been attached to the Admiral's house.
During the engagement he was separated from him. Two of our armed men
were on the point of despatching Dominic, as we despatch all Huguenots,
when, seeing me, he cried out 'Quarter!' 'Who are you?' I asked him. 'I
am a servant of Monsieur the Admiral,' he answered. It suddenly flashed
through my mind what profit we could draw from the man. Relying upon
attaching him to me by the bonds of gratitude, I granted him his life.
Later the proposition was made to him of causing the Admiral to drink a
potion that we would furnish him with, and of a rich reward for
himself."

"If your prisoner agreed readily to all," said the Queen, raising her
head, "there is reason to suspect him."

"On the contrary, madam, he hesitated long. It was the magnitude of the
promised sum that silenced his scruples. My master placed a certain
powder in his hands and instucted him how to use it. The thing may be
considered done."

"How is our man to explain his return to the heretic camp?"

"Very easily, madam. He will say that he was made a prisoner by us and
escaped. The Admiral will not suspect a servant who was raised in his
house."

"I hardly dare hope for success! In one month we have been rid of three
enemies--the Duke of Deux-Ponts, Condé and Dandelot. Now it will be
Coligny's turn! When is the man to leave our camp and rejoin the
Huguenots?"

"This very night."

"Accordingly--to-morrow--"

"If it shall please God, madam, our holy Church and the kingdom will
have triumphed over a redoubtable enemy."

"How I wish it were to-morrow!" exclaimed Catherine De Medici in a
hollow voice, as the page, reappearing at the portiere, announced:

"Madam, Monsieur Gondi and another rider are alighting from their
horses. Obedient to your Majesty's orders I have hastened to give you
the news, and await your orders."

"Summon Gondi to me," said the Italian woman; and addressing the Count
of La Riviere: "Go and take rest, monsieur; you may depart early in the
morning; you shall have a letter from me for my son. Whether the scheme
succeed or not, we shall reward your zeal for the triumph of the
Catholic faith and the service of the King--two sacred interests."

"Will your Majesty allow me to remind her that Maurevert has just
received the necklace of the Order of St. Michael for having put the
Huguenot captain, Monsieur Mouy to death, after having penetrated into
the camp of the reformers under the pretext that he renounced the
Catholic faith and embraced the Reformation? I would wish to be the
object of a like distinction."

"Monsieur La Riviere, you shall be as satisfied with us as we are with
you. Assassination, committed in the service of the King, deserves to be
rewarded. You shall be decorated Knight of the Order of St. Michael."

The captain of the guards of the Duke of Anjou saluted the Queen and
withdrew as Monsieur Gondi entered in traveling costume. This Italian
shared with his countryman Birago the confidence of Catherine De Medici.
Delighted, the Queen took two steps towards Gondi, saying with impatient
curiosity:

"What tidings from Bayonne?"

"Madam, I do not come alone. I bring with me the reverend Father
Lefevre, one of the luminaries of the faith, a pupil and disciple of the
celebrated Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Order of Jesuits."

"But what is the result of your particular mission?"

"At the very first words with which I broached the matter to the Duke of
Alva, he stopped me, saying: 'Monsieur Gondi, the reverend Father
Lefevre is just about to proceed to the Queen for the purpose of
considering with her the matter that brings you here. He has received
the instructions of my master and of the Holy Father. He will disclose
those instructions to the Queen.' It was impossible for me to draw
anything further from the Duke of Alva. Accordingly, I had no choice but
to return, madam, and to bring Father Lefevre to you."

"This is strange. What sort of a man is the Jesuit?"

"An impenetrable man. You can neither divine his thoughts, nor pick the
lock of his secrets. You may judge for yourself when you shall have him
before you. He requests an audience this very evening."

"And my daughter? What news from my poor Elizabeth?"

"The health of the Queen of Spain declines steadily, madam. She no
longer leaves her bed."

"Alas, Gondi, we one of these days shall hear that Philip II has
poisoned my daughter, as we learned last year that he caused his own
son, Don Carlos, to be put to death. Oh, Philip! Thou crowned monk! Thou
vampire that feedst on human blood!" And after a short pause: "Fetch me
the Jesuit."

Gondi left and returned almost immediately, accompanied by the one-time
friend of Christian the printer. The Queen made a sign to Gondi to be
left alone with the Jesuit.

"You are Father Lefevre, and belong to the Society of Jesus? I
understand that our Holy Father and the King of Spain have charged you
with a mission to me. Speak, I am listening."

"Madam, the Holy Father and his Majesty Philip II are very much
displeased--with you. Deign to acquaint yourself with this letter from
his Holiness."

The Jesuit extracted from a silk wallet a schedule sealed with the
pontifical seal, carried it respectfully to his lips, and handed it over
to Catherine De Medici. The Queen broke the seal and read:

     Madam and dearly beloved daughter:

     In no way and for no reason whatever should you spare the enemies
     of God. I have issued orders to the commander of my troops, the
     Count of Santa Fiore, that _he cause all the Huguenots that may
     fall into the hands of his soldiers to be_ KILLED ON THE SPOT.
     Accordingly, no human considerations for persons or things should
     induce you to spare the enemies of God, they never having spared
     either God or yourself. Only through the complete extermination of
     the heretics will the King be able to restore his noble kingdom to
     the old religion. The felons must be put to just torture and death.

     Receive, madam, our apostolic benediction.

     PIUS.[62]

After reading the apostolic schedule, Catherine De Medici placed it upon
a table and proceeded:

"I see, reverend Father, that both at Rome and Madrid I am charged with
tolerance towards the Huguenots. I am blamed with prolonging the war.
The two courts see in all this a political calculation on my part,
whence it follows that if I continue to displease Rome and Madrid
measures will be taken--"

"The Holy Father, the vicar of God on earth, has the power to release
subjects from obedience to their sovereign, if he falls into heresy,
deals with the same, or tolerates it."

"Proceed, reverend Father."

"The confirmatory bull of his Holiness Paul IV is formal--the Pope of
Rome, by virtue of his divine right, is vested with power to
excommunicate, suspend and depose all Kings guilty of divine _lese
majesté_, or tolerant toward that irremissible crime. After which, the
throne being declared vacant, it devolves upon the first good
Catholic--who make take possession."

"That sounds like a threat, directed at my son Charles IX and at
myself."

"It is a paternal warning, madam."

"In plain words, my son runs the risk of seeing himself deposed by the
Pope."

"A disagreeable possibility, madam."

"Reverend Father, assuming the throne is declared vacant--by whom will
our Holy Father have it filled? Surely not by a Bourbon, seeing the
house of Bourbon is heretical. Consequently, the good Catholic Rome and
Spain have in view probably is young Henry of Guise, the descendant of
Charlemagne, according to the theory of the house of Lorraine."

"That is a temporal question which does not concern me, madam. It is,
however, a notable fact that young Henry of Guise, son of the martyr of
Orleans, carries a name that is dear to all Catholics."

"Accordingly, the purpose of your mission, reverend Father, is to convey
a threat to me? But why blame me, a woman, with the slowness of the
military operations against the Huguenots?"

"It is believed, madam, that you would look with too much disfavor upon
a chief who would insure speedy triumph to the Catholic armies, and that
you deliberately hamper the military operations by inciting rivalry
among the several captains and setting them at odds. The strategic
mistake of allowing the Duke of Deux-Ponts to penetrate into the very
heart of France and carry a reinforcement of troops to the Huguenots is
laid to your door. The junction of the two army corps is now an
accomplished fact."

"The Duke of Deux-Ponts!" exclaimed Catherine De Medici with a sinister
smile. "You do not seem to know what has befallen that heretic chief.
But, before speaking of the miscreant, I wish to put you in condition to
appreciate the facts concerning myself. I shall be frank--my interests
command it."

"Madam, I am ready to hear."

"In order that you may have the key to my falsely interpreted conduct, I
shall begin by making the following declaration to you--I have no
religion! Does such an introduction, perchance, astonish or shock you?"

"By no means."

"Then, my reverend Father, we shall be able to understand each other.
You justify--according to what is reported of your Order--tolerance for
vice, provided appearances are saved. Now, then, I have no religion. It
follows that I concern myself only with promoting my own ambition."

"Frankness can not be carried further."

"With the same outspokenness I shall add that I love power--to rule is
life to me. I have been compared to Queen Brunhild. It is said I wink at
precocious debauchery among my children with the view of unnerving and
stupefying them. It is claimed I sow the seed of jealousy, intrigue and
lechery among them."

"Those things are said--and many more, and more grave, madam."

"Some credence must be accorded to _hear say_, reverend Father. At
least, in what concerns myself, people are rarely wide of the mark. But
let me proceed. The religious wars have furnished me with the means of
alternately cropping the crests, now with the aid of the ones, then with
the aid of the others, of both the Catholic and the Protestant
seigneurs, who, during my husband's reign, conceived the design of
restoring their old feudal sovereignties. I still have the house of
Guise to contend with, as Brunhild of old had the stewards of the palace
on her hands. Thus I combated the Reformation, or gave comfort to the
Huguenots against the Catholics, according as political exigencies
dictated. At present I am well acquainted with the purposes of the
Protestants, and I know how to conduct myself in order to annihilate
them--when the moment shall have come to strike the decisive blow."

"You have unfolded to me your theories, madam, but you have recited not
a single act in support of your predilection for our holy Church. We
require proofs."

"Now let us pass to acts, reverend Father. A few minutes ago you
mentioned the name of the Duke of Deux-Ponts, who hurried from Germany
in aid of the Huguenots Condé, Coligny and his brother Dandelot."

"The hydra-heads of the heresy, madam."

"Well, reverend Father, already the hydra has three heads less. The Duke
of Deux-Ponts is dead; Monsieur Dandelot is dead; the Prince of Condé is
dead!"

The Jesuit, though stupefied, contemplated Catherine De Medici
challengingly.

"Perhaps you would like to have some details concerning these great
events," the imperturbable Queen pursued. "I shall satisfy your
curiosity. The day following his junction with the Protestant army, the
Duke of Deux-Ponts was poisoned. That is the word which is current. But
you, reverend Father, and myself, look to facts, not words. The Duke of
Deux-Ponts was poisoned with a cup of Spanish wine, that was poured out
to him by a young beauty. Two days later, Dandelot, who suffered of a
slow fever, was coaxed by another young beauty to swallow a
pharmaceutical potion that quickly carried away both the disease and the
patient. At the battle of Jarnac, the Prince of Condé, who had
surrendered his sword to D'Argence under promise that his life would be
safe, was shot down dead with a pistol by Montesquiou, a captain of my
son of Anjou's guards. The occurrence came near turning my son crazy,
such was his joy! When notified of what had happened, he hastened to the
spot to see the corpse with his own eyes. He kicked it, and danced over
and around it. It was a delirium! Finally, for fun, the thought struck
him of placing the corpse across a she-ass, with the head dangling down
on one side, the legs on the other. On that distinguished mount he
returned the defunct general to the Protestant army, amid the hootings
and cat-calls of our own soldiers.[63] That is the way my children treat
their heretical relatives. Will his Holiness still insist that we deal
with the Huguenots, or that we have any consideration for the enemies of
the Church?"

"Oh, madam!" cried the Jesuit, almost choking with glee. "I lack words
to express to you my admiration."

"And yet you claimed," proceeded Catherine De Medici with a hyena-like
smirk, "that I favored the Huguenots! Would the Guisards, the Holy
Father or Philip II do better than I? Hardly has the campaign opened
when Condé, the soul of the French Protestant party, has ceased to
breathe; the Duke of Deux-Ponts, the soul of the German party, has
ceased to live; and Dandelot, one of the ablest Protestant generals, is
also dead. Nor is that all!" added the Italian woman, taking from the
table the letter of the Duke of Anjou, freshly brought to her by the
captain of her son's guards, and passing it over to Lefevre, "Read
this!"

The Jesuit took the letter, and, after informing himself of its
contents, cried, contemplating the Queen with ecstasy:

"So that we may expect, to-morrow, to see Coligny effect a junction with
his brother Dandelot!"

"Well, now, do you not think I have done a good deal of work?"

"Oh, you have accomplished and even exceeded all that the Holy Father
and the King of Spain could have asked!"

"And yet, I still have information for you." Saying this, the Queen rang
twice the bell near her. A page appeared. "Bring me," ordered Catherine,
"the ebony casket that you will find in my chamber, on the table near my
bed."

The page went out and Catherine turned again to the Jesuit:

"You surely know Prince Franz of Gerolstein by name and reputation?"

"I know, madam, that the principality of that heretical family is a
hot-bed of pestilence. We keep our eyes open upon that nest of
miscreants."

"The Duke of Deux-Ponts appointed as commander of his troops the aged
general Wolfgang of Mansfeld, but did so with the recommendation that
the active direction of operations be entrusted to the Prince of
Gerolstein, a young, but one of the ablest German generals. This very
night one of my maids of honor is to depart--"

The re-entrance of the page broke off the Queen's sentence. He deposited
the casket beside Catherine and withdrew.

"You were saying, madam," observed Father Lefevre, "that one of your
maids of honor was to depart this very night--"

"You seem to relish deeply my communications, reverend Father, and yet
it was only a few minutes ago that you almost treated me like a Huguenot
woman."

"Mercy, madam, a truce of raillery. The unexpected and happy tidings you
have imparted to me were not known by the Holy Father and the King of
Spain when I left them. I declare to you, madam, that these events
modify profoundly my mission to your court."

"Well, reverend Father, I am constantly saying to the Spanish ambassador
and the papal legate in France: 'Wait--let me do--have patience.' But
all to no avail. The Holy Father yields to the inspirations of the
agents of the Cardinal of Lorraine, while Philip II dreams of the
dismemberment of France and desires to place Henry of Guise on the
throne. In that Philip II plays a risky game, reverend Father! To
overthrow the reigning dynasty of France would be to set a bad example
to the people, and to deal a mortal blow to monarchy itself. We are
living in frightful times. Everything conspires against royalty. The
Huguenots, at least some of them who style themselves the most advanced
in politics, proclaim the people's right to federate in a republic after
the fashion of the Swiss cantons. And even you, my reverend Fathers, you
also attack royal authority by preaching the doctrine of regicide."

"That is true, madam; we maintain that the Kings who do not labor for
the greater glory of the Church must be smitten from the throne."

"Neither my sons nor I refuse to labor for the greater glory of the
Church. It must be a matter of indifference to the Holy Father whether
the Huguenots are exterminated by us or by the Guises, or by Spain. What
advantage could the court of Rome derive from suppressing the dynasty of
Valois?"

"His Holiness sees clearly through the game of the King of Spain. He
will never favor Philip's ambitious designs to the injury of your
dynasty--unless obliged thereto by your resistance to the court of Rome.
We aim at the extirpation of heresy by the extermination of the
Huguenots; and I have been commissioned, madam, to urge you to prosecute
the war with vigor--"

"The war!" broke in the Queen impatiently, and with marked contempt and
irony. "How come you, a Jesuit, a man of keenness and science, to make
yourself the echo of the Pope and of Philip II, two nearsighted
intellects? Let us reason together, my reverend Father. Would you, if
you want to kill your enemy, choose the time when he is on his guard and
armed? Would you not wait for when he sheathed his sword and was
peacefully asleep in his house? And in order to lead him to that state
of apparent security, would you not approach him with a smile on your
lips, your hand outstretched, and with the words: 'Let us forget our
enmity'?"

"But for the success of such tactics our enemy must have confidence in
us."

"Protestations of friendship are supported by oaths."

"Oh! Oh! Vain hope! Your Majesty errs if you believe you can lull the
suspicions of the Huguenots with oaths."

"I am of the school of Machiavelli, reverend Father; as such I have
faith in the efficacy of oaths. Listen to this passage from the volume
entitled _The Prince_. I learned it by heart; it deals upon this very
subject: 'The animals whose appearance a Prince must know how to assume
are the _fox_ and the _lion_. The former defends himself but poorly
against the wolf, while the latter readily falls into the snares laid
for him. From the fox a Prince will learn how to be adroit, from the
lion how to be strong. Whoever disdains the method of the fox knows
nothing of governing men. In other words, a Prince neither can nor
should keep his word, except when he can do so without injury to
himself. The thing is to play his part well, and to know when to feign
and dissimulate. To cite but one instance: Pope Alexander VI made
deception his life-work. This notwithstanding, despite his well known
faithlessness, he succeeded in all his artifices, protestations and
oaths.' Did you hear, reverend Father," added the Italian woman
interrupting her recitation and laying stress upon the word _oaths_, and
she proceeded: "'Never before did any Prince break his word more
frequently, or respect his pledges less, because he was master of the
art of governing.'[64] Alexander VI was an incestuous Pope; he committed
murder and sacrilege, yet there were those who believed they could rely
upon his oath. I am said to be an incestuous mother; I am said to have
caused blood to flow in streams; I am said to have caused my enemies to
be poisoned; all these and many more misdeeds are imputed to me. Very
well! Now, all this notwithstanding, they will place faith in my oaths.
Judge the future by the past. Remember that after the revocation of the
Edict of Amboise, the Huguenot party allowed itself to be trepanned by
the Edict of Longjumeau, confirmed by our royal word. But let us now
pass to another line of argument, my reverend Father. Please hand me
yonder casket--not the one the page just brought in, the other."

The Jesuit placed on the table before the Queen the casket that she
pointed out. She opened it with a little key suspended from her waist,
and took out of it a scroll of paper which she handed to Father Lefevre.

"Inform yourself on this document, reverend Father," she said.

Father Lefevre read as follows:

     "Summary of the matters primarily agreed upon between the Duke of
     Montmorency, Constable; the Duke of Guise, Grand Master and Peer of
     France; and Marshal St. André, for the conspiracy of the
     triumvirate, and subsequently discussed at the entrance of the
     sacred and holy Council of Trent, and agreed upon by the parties
     herein concerned at their private council held against the heretics
     and the King of Navarre, because of his maladministration of the
     affairs of Charles IX, minor King of France, the which King of
     Navarre is a partisan of the new sect which now infests France."

The Jesuit looked surprised. Deeply interested, he asked: "How is your
Majesty in possession of this secret pact?"

"It matters not how."

The Jesuit proceeded to read:

     "In order that the affair be conducted under the highest authority,
     it is agreed to vest the superintendence of the whole plan in the
     Very Catholic King of all the Spains, Philip II, who shall conduct
     the enterprise. He is to remonstrate with the King of Navarre on
     the score of the support that he affords to the new religion; and
     if the said Navarrais proves intractable, the said King Philip II
     is to endeavor to draw him over to him with the promise of the
     restitution of Navarre, or some other gift of great profit or
     emolument. By these means the said King Philip II is to soften him,
     to the end of inducing him to conspire against the heretical sect.
     If he still resists, King Philip II shall raise the necessary
     forces in Spain, and fall unexpectedly upon the territory of
     Navarre, which he will be easily able to be overrun, while the Duke
     of Guise, declaring himself at the same time _chief of the Catholic
     confession_, shall from his side gather armed men, and, thus
     pressed from two sides, the territory of Navarre can be easily
     seized."

"So you see, reverend Father, the pact dates back to 1651--eight years
ago--and already then did Francis of Guise declare himself _chief of the
Catholic confession_, under the protection of the King of Spain. Neither
myself, the Regent, nor my son, the King of France, although then a
minor, is at all taken into consideration."

The Jesuit proceeded to read aloud:

     "The Emperor of Germany and other Princes who have remained
     Catholic shall block the passages to France during the war in that
     country, in order to prevent the Protestant Princes from coming to
     the aid of the Navarrais, and they will also see to it that the
     Swiss cantons remain quiet. To that end it will be necessary that
     the Catholic cantons declare war upon the Protestant ones, and that
     the Pope give all the assistance in his power to the said Catholic
     cantons, and that he subsidize them with money and other
     necessaries for the war.

     "While war is thus keeping France and Switzerland busy, the Duke of
     Savoy shall fall unexpectedly upon Geneva and Lausanne, shall seize
     the two cities, _and shall put all the inhabitants who resist to
     the sword, and all the others shall be thrown into the lake_,
     WITHOUT DISTINCTION OF AGE OR SEX, to the end that all may be made
     to feel that divine Providence has compensated for the postponement
     of punishment with its grandeur, and wills that the children suffer
     for the heresy of their parents, obedient to the Biblical text."

"Oh, we must all admit, madam," exclaimed the Jesuit, interrupting his
reading, "Duke Francis of Guise is nourished with the marrow of
Catholicism--"

"We of the house of Valois will suck the identical bone, and we will
verify the dream of the Guisard, who was assassinated the very day after
he signed this pact--"

Again the Jesuit proceeded to read:

     "The same in France. For good and just reasons _all the heretics,
     without distinction, must be massacred at one blow_. THE PEACE
     SHALL BE PUT TO THAT USE. And this mission of exterminating all the
     members of the new religion shall be entrusted to the Duke of
     Guise, who shall, moreover, be charged with entirely effacing the
     name and stock of the lineage of the Navarrian Bourbons, lest from
     them there may arise some one to undertake the revenge of these
     acts, or the restoration of the new religion. All these matters are
     to be kept in mind.

     "Matters being thus disposed of in France, it will be well to
     invade Protestant Germany with the aid of the Emperor and the
     bishops, and to restore that country to the holy apostolic See. To
     this end, the Duke of Guise _shall lend the Emperor and other
     Catholic Princes all the moneys proceeding from the confiscations
     and spoils of so many nobles and rich bourgeois_, KILLED _in
     France_ as HERETICS. The Duke of Guise shall be later reimbursed
     from the _spoils of the Lutherans, who, by reason of the same taint
     of heresy shall have been killed in Germany_.

     "The Cardinals of the Sacred College have no doubt that, in the
     same manner, all the other kingdoms can be turned into the flocks
     of the apostolic shepherd. But, first of all, may it please God to
     help and favor these purposes, they being HOLY AND FULL OF
     PIETY."[65]

"Holy and full of piety were these Catholic purposes!" exclaimed the
reverend Father Lefevre laying the pact of the triumvirate upon the
table. "Alas, death palsied the hand of the Duke of Guise at the very
beginning of his great work!"

"The Lord evidently wished, my reverend Father, to reserve for us, the
Valois, the execution of the project that the Guisard organized with a
motive of purely personal ambition. I shall hatch the bloody egg that
the Lorrainian laid. But the chick can not break the egg except during
peace. Then the Huguenots will have ceased to be on their guard; then
they will be dozing in false security. The work of extermination will be
accomplished with the help of a peace that we shall have brought about.
All will be killed--men and women, children and the aged. Not one
heretic will escape the avenging sword. Let Rome and Madrid give me time
to move! Let Pius V and Philip II give over harassing me continually
with their threats on the ground that the war is dragging along! Are
hostilities to be suddenly stopped? No, indeed! I must profit, as I have
already profited, by all opportunities to destroy as many Huguenots as
possible, especially their leaders. The Duke of Alva is right: 'One
salmon is worth more than a thousand minnows.' At the first favorable
juncture I shall negotiate peace with the Protestants, and grant them
all they may demand. The more favorable the treaty shall be to the
Huguenots, all the smoother will the rope run that is to strangle them.
When the edict is promulgated it shall be scrupulously carried out, in
order to induce our adversaries to disarm. At the right moment we shall
organize the general massacre, for one day, all over France."

"The Holy Father and the King of Spain shall be posted on your Majesty's
project. They will be notified that it is thanks to you, the Duke of
Deux-Ponts, Dandelot and the Prince of Condé _have been dismissed to
appear before their natural Judge_."

"People of your cloth, my reverend Father," replied the Queen, "know how
to impart an ingenious and peculiar turn to the description of events."

"Madam, seeing we are considering those people in whose behalf we simply
advance the hour of final judgment, I wish above all to recommend to the
attention of your Majesty that most dangerous German Prince--Franz of
Gerolstein."

"The young Prince came last year to my court shortly before the
reformers took up arms. He is brilliant, daring and gifted with great
military talent. It was due to his influence that the Duke of Deux-Ponts
decided to bring to the Protestant army the reinforcement it received of
German troops. To-day Franz of Gerolstein is the real head of the forces
over which Wolfgang of Mansfeld exercises but titular authority."

"Do you expect to deliver the Church of that pestilential Gerolstein?"

"One of my maids of honor is to take charge of that delicate mission, my
reverend Father--" and stopping suddenly short and listening in the
direction of a little door that communicated with the apartment,
Catherine De Medici asked: "Did you not hear a sound, something like a
suppressed cry outside there?"

"No, madam."

"It seems to me I heard a voice behind that door. Throw it open,"
whispered Catherine to Father Lefevre; "see, I beg you, if there is
someone listening!"

The Jesuit rose, pushed open the door, looked out, and returned: "Madam,
I can see nobody; the corridor is dark."

"I must have deceived myself. It must have been the moaning of the wind
that I heard."

"Madam," said Father Lefevre as he resumed his seat, "once we are
considering dangerous persons, I request you to mention to your generals
two heretics in particular--Odelin Lebrenn and his son, armorers by
trade, who serve in the Admiral's army as volunteers. I would urge you
to recommend to your generals that they spare the lives of both
heretics if they are ever taken prisoners."

"Did I understand you correctly, my reverend Father? The lives of the
two miscreants are to be spared?"

"The grace extended to them will be but a short respite, which we would
put to profit by wresting from them certain valuable secrets with the
aid of the rack--before dismissing them to their supreme Judge."

"Those are details, my reverend Father, with which I can not burden
myself. Upon such matters you must treat with Count Neroweg of
Plouernel, the chief of my escort."

At the name of Neroweg of Plouernel the Jesuit gave a slight start. With
a face expressive of gratification he remarked: "Madam, Providence
seconds my wishes. There is none fitter than the Count of Plouernel for
me to address myself to in this affair."

"Let us return to more weighty questions, my reverend Father. I have
still two words to say to you concerning the Cardinal of Lorraine. This
evening the Guisard strove to make me believe that Marshal Tavannes, the
commandant of the army of my son of Anjou, was treating secretly with
Coligny. According to the Cardinal, the plot is to offer my son the
sovereignty of the Low Countries, besides Guyenne and other provinces,
upon condition that he embrace the Reformed religion. Have you received
any inkling of these projects through your spies? Unless your own
interests render it necessary for you to deceive me on this head, answer
me truthfully. I know how to hear and bear the full truth on all
matters."

The Jesuit reflected for a moment; he then made answer: "Yes, madam; we
are informed on those negotiations--indeed, it is due to that very
information that it was decided to send me upon the present mission to
your Majesty."

"And, with the view of thwarting the plot, did the Cardinal of Lorraine
induce Philip II to propose the Duke of Alva to me for general-in-chief
of the Catholic army, with young Henry of Guise, the Cardinal's nephew,
and his brother, the Duke of Aumale, as Alva's lieutenants?"

"The proposition was made to the King of Spain. It is true."

"Who, no doubt, received it favorably?"

"Yes, madam. But his Catholic Majesty was not then aware of the latest
happenings which you communicated to me, the same as he is still
ignorant of your resolution to put an end to the heresy when the moment
shall have come to strike the decisive blow, as you explained it."

"You are now informed on the contents of the letter which I showed you
from my son of Anjou, regarding the project against Coligny. The
Cardinal lied knowingly when he accused my son of dealing with the
Admiral. Of course he knows the Marshal and my son will stoutly deny the
charge. He merely seeks to arouse doubts and suspicions in my mind,
hoping I may be frightened into transferring the command of the French
army into the hands of the Duke of Alva and his nephew."

"The Cardinal's falsehood, madam, did not lack skill. It was an adroit
diplomatic move."

"Now, my reverend Father, let me sum up our interview--war upon the
Huguenots, merciless war, while it lasts; thereupon the offer or
acceptance of a peace, which is to be utilized by us in preparing their
extermination. That is my line of conduct."

"My mission to you is ended, madam. To-morrow I shall take my departure
and return to inform the King of Spain and the Holy Father of the happy
deeds done, and those in contemplation, all of which guarantee the
execution of your promises for the future."

"My reverend Father, is it in my power to bestow any favor upon you, to
grant you a present? It is a right enjoyed by all negotiators."

"Madam, we care but little for the goods and honors of this world. All I
shall ask of you is to cause your son, King Charles IX, to change his
confessor, and take one from our Society, the reverend Father Auger. He
is an able and accommodating man, skilful in understanding everything,
permitting everything--and advising everything."

"I promise you I shall induce my son Charles to take Father Auger for
his confessor. Good night, my reverend Father, go and rest. I shall see
you to-morrow before your departure and deliver to you a letter for the
Holy Father."

The Queen rang twice the little bell that lay at her elbow. A page
entered: "Conduct the reverend Father to Count Neroweg of Plouernel."

She then rang again, not twice, but three times. After bowing to
Catherine De Medici the Jesuit withdrew upon the steps of the page.
Almost immediately Anna Bell stepped into the apartment through the door
that opened upon the corridor.

Catherine De Medici was struck by the pallor and the troubled, almost
frightened, looks of her maid of honor as she presented herself upon the
summons of the bell. Fastening a penetrating look upon Anna Bell, the
Queen said:

"You look very pale, dearest; your hands tremble; you seem unable to
repress some violent emotion."

"May your Majesty deign to excuse me--"

"What is the cause of your great agitation?"

"Fear, madam. I was hurrying to answer your summons, and--as I crossed
the dark corridor--whether it was an illusion or reality, I know not,
madam, I thought I saw a white figure float before me--"

"It must be the ghost of some deceased belle, who, expecting still to
find here the sturdy abbot of the monastery, came to pay him a nocturnal
visit. But let us leave the dead to themselves, and turn our thoughts to
the living. I love you, my pet, above all your companions."

"Your Majesty has taken pity upon a poor girl."

"Yes; it is now about eight or nine years ago, that, as Paula, one of my
women, was crossing the Chatelet Square, she saw an old Bohemian wench
holding a little girl by the hand. Struck by the beauty and comeliness
of the little one, Paula offered to buy her. The gypsy quickly closed
the bargain. Paula told me the story. I desired to see her protegé. It
turned out to be yourself. The Bohemian woman must have kidnapped you
from some Huguenot family, I fear, judging from a little lead medal
that hung from your neck and bore the legend--_A Pastor calling the
sheep of the Church out of the desert_--a common expression in the
cabalistic cant of those depraved people."

"Alas! madam, I preserve no other memento of my family--you will pardon
me for having kept the medal."

"Well, from the instant that Paula brought you before me I was charmed
with your childish gracefulness. I had you carefully trained in the art
of pleasing, and placed you among my maids of honor."

"Your Majesty enjoys my unbounded gratitude. Whenever you commanded I
obeyed, even when you exacted a sacrifice--whatever it may have cost
me--"

"You are alluding, my pet, to the conversion of the Marquis of Solange!
I said to you: 'Solange is a Huguenot; he is influential in his
province; should war break out again, he may become a dangerous enemy to
me; he contemplates leaving the court;--make him love you, and be not
cruel to him; a handsome lass like you is well worth a mass.' The
bargain was struck. We now have one Catholic more, and one virgin less."

Anna Bell hid her face, purple with shame.

Without seeming to notice the young girl's confusion, Catherine De
Medici proceeded: "By the virtue of your beautiful eyes Solange has
become a fervent Catholic and one of my most faithful servitors. You
gave me in that instance proof of your complete devotion. For the rest,
it was a sweet sacrifice on your part, my pet; Solange is an
accomplished nobleman, young, handsome, brave and witty. It is not now
about that lover that we have business on hand. I have other plans for
you. I am thinking of marrying you. I wish to make a Princess of you,
and verify the most cherished of your secret wishes--which I have
guessed. Anna Bell, you do not love Solange; you never loved him; and
you nourish in the recesses of your heart a desperate passion for the
young Prince Franz of Gerolstein."

"Good God! Madam. Have pity upon me! Mercy!"

"There is nothing pitiful in the matter. The Prince is made to be loved.
His reputation for bravery, magnificence and gallantry ran ahead of him
to my court, where you saw him last year. He often conversed with you
tête-a-tête. When other women sought to provoke him with their
allurements your face grew somber. Oh, nothing escapes me! Affairs of
state do not absorb me to the point that I can not follow, with the
corner of my eye, the cooings of my maids of honor. It is my mental
relaxation. I love to see beauty in its youth devote itself to the cult
of Venus, and put in practice the saying of Rabelais' Thalamite--'_Do
what you please!_' How often did I not seat myself among you, my dear
girls, to chat about your gallants, your appointments, your
infidelities! What delightful tales did we not tell! How you all led the
poor youngsters by the nose! Truth to say, they returned you tit for
tat, and with usury, to the greater glory of the goddess Aphrodite! And
yet, my pet, although I had trained you a true professional of the Abbey
of Thalamia, with Cupid for your god and Voluptuousness for your patron
saint, you ever remained out of your element among your companions.
Serious and melancholy, you are a sort of nun among my other maids. What
you need is devoted and faithful love; a husband whom you can adore
without remorse; a brood of children to love. That is the reason, my
pet, why I wish to marry you to Franz of Gerolstein."

"It pleases your Majesty to mock me--take pity upon poor Anna."

"No joke! You admit you love the young and handsome German Prince. I can
read in your soul better than you could yourself. I shall tell you what
your thoughts are at this moment: 'Yes, I love Franz of Gerolstein! But
a deep abyss separates us two, and will always separate me from him. He
is in the camp opposed to that of the Queen, my benefactress; he is the
head of a sovereign house; he is ignorant of my passion, and if he did
know, he never could think of wedding me! What am I? A poor girl picked
up from the street. I already have had one gallant. Besides, Catherine
De Medici's maids of honor enjoy a bad, a deservedly bad, reputation.
The satires and the pasquils designate us with the appellation of the
Queen's Flying Squadron. I should be crazy to think of marriage with
Franz of Gerolstein--'"

"Madam, take pity upon me!" broke in Anna Bell, no longer able to
restrain her tears. "Even if what you say is true, even if you read to
the very core of my thoughts--please do not sport with my secret
sorrows."

"My pet, hand me the little casket of sandal wood, ribbed in gold, that
lies upon yonder table. It contains wonderful things."

Anna Bell obeyed. The Queen selected one of the little keys attached to
her girdle and opened the casket. Nothing could be more fascinating to
the eyes than the contents of the chest--embroidered and perfumed
gloves, smelling apples, dainty-looking vermillion confectionery boxes,
filled with sugar plums of all colors, and several vials of gold and
crystal. Catherine De Medici picked out one of these, reclosed the
casket carefully and returned it to Anna Bell. The maid of honor
replaced it upon the table and returned to the Queen. Smiling benignly
and holding up the golden, glistening vial before her victim, the Queen
said: "Do you see this, my pet? This little vial encloses the love of
Franz of Gerolstein."

"What a suspicion!" was the thought that flashed through Anna Bell's
mind and froze her to the floor. But the terror-stricken girl quickly
regained her self-control at that critical moment. "I must not," was the
second thought that flashed through her mind close upon the first, "I
must not allow the Queen to notice that I know her purpose."

"Do you believe, my pet, in the potency of love-philters?"

"This evening," answered the young girl with an effort to control her
emotions, "this very evening Clorinde of Vaucernay was telling us,
madam, that a lady of the court succeeded by means of one of those
enchanted potions in captivating a man who, before then, had a strong
dislike for her."

"You, then, believe in the potency of philters?"

"Certainly, madam," answered Anna Bell anxious not to awaken the Queen's
suspicions; "I must have full confidence in their efficacy, seeing it is
proved by such incontestable facts."

"The merest doubt on the subject is unallowable, my pet; to doubt would
be to shut one's eyes and deny the light of day. Now, my little beauty,
the philter contained in this vial, is put together by Ruggieri, my
alchemist, under the conjunction of marvelously favorable planets. It is
of such virtue that only a few drops, if poured out by a woman who
wishes to be loved by a man, would suffice to turn him permanently
amorous of her. Take this philter, my pet--go and find your Prince
Charming. Let him drink the contents of this vial--and grant him the
gift of an amorous mercy."

Anna Bell no longer suspected, she comprehended the Queen's intentions.
For a moment she was seized with terror and remained silent,
mechanically holding the vial in her hand. The Queen, on her part,
attributing the stupor and silence of Anna Bell to an excess of joy, or,
perhaps, to the apprehension caused her by the thought of the many and
great dangers to overcome in order to approach her Prince, proceeded to
allay her fears:

"Poor dear girl, you are as speechless as if, awakened with a start from
a dream, you find it a reality. You are surely asking yourself what to
do in order to reach Franz? Nothing easier--provided your courage is
abreast of your love."

Controlling her troubled mind, Anna Bell answered with composure: "I
hope, madam, I do not lack courage."

"Listen to me carefully. We are only a few leagues from the enemy's
army. I shall issue orders to Count Neroweg of Plouernel to furnish you
with a safe conduct up to the Huguenot outposts. You shall be carried in
one of my own litters, drawn by two mules. By dawn to-morrow morning you
can not fail to run against some scout or other making the rounds of the
Protestant camp--"

"Great God! madam. I tremble at the bare thought of falling into the
hands of the Huguenots!"

"If your courage fail you, all will run to water. But you may be quite
certain that you run no risk whatever. The Huguenots do not kill
women--especially not such handsome ones as yourself. You will be merely
the prisoner of the miscreants."

"And what am I to do then, madam?"

"You will say to those who will arrest you: 'Messieurs, I am one of the
Queen's maids of honor; I was on my way to join her Majesty; the leader
of my litter struck a wrong road; please take me to Prince Franz of
Gerolstein.' The rest will go of itself. The Huguenots will take you to
the Prince. Like the nobleman that he is, my little beauty, he will keep
you at his lodgings or in his tent, he will yield you the place of honor
at his table--and--in his bed. You will have more than one opportunity
to improve Franz's wine with a few drops of the philter."

The Queen's instructions were interrupted at this point by the entrance
of a page who came to announce that Count Neroweg of Plouernel prayed
for admission to the Queen's presence upon pressing and important
matters. Catherine ordered the page to introduce the Count, and she bade
Anna Bell godspeed, kissing her on the forehead and adding these last
instructions:

"Prepare immediately for your journey, my pet. The Count of Plouernel
will appoint the guide who is to accompany you. One of my equerries will
get a litter ready. I expect to see you again before your departure."

The maid of honor followed the Queen's instructions. Seeing that the
interview with the Count of Plouernel lasted longer than she had
anticipated, Catherine De Medici was prevented from seeing Anna Bell
again, and sent her a note to depart without delay.

Towards one o'clock in the morning the maid of honor mounted in one of
the Queen's litters, left the Abbey of St. Severin.




CHAPTER III.

THE AVENGERS OF ISRAEL.


The sun was rising. Its early rays gilded the crest of a forest about a
league distant from St. Yrieix, a large burg that served as the center
of the Protestant encampment. A chapel, formerly dedicated to St. Hubert
by an inveterate hunter, raised its dilapidated walls on the edge of the
wood, the skirts of which were now guarded by mounted scouts, posted at
long intervals. The chapel had been devastated during the religious
wars. Its belfries, the capitals and the friezes of its portico were
broken; its windows were smashed in; the statue of St. Hubert, the
patron of hunters, lay decapitated in the midst of other debris, along
with that of the seigneur who founded the holy shrine, chosen by him for
his sepulcher. The fragments of his marble image, representing him lying
prone, with hands joined in prayer, hunting horn slung over his
shoulder, his favorite greyhound stretched at his feet--all lay strewn
around the mortuary vault, now gaping wide open and cumbered with ruins.
The interior of the chapel now served as a stable, and also as
guardhouse to a picket squad of the Huguenot army, posted at the spot.
The pickets' horses, ready saddled and bridled, stood drawn up in
double row in one of the low-roofed aisles and on either side of a door
that communicated with the old vestry. For want of forage the beasts
were eating the green leaves of large bunches of branches thrown at
their feet. The riders, either standing, or seated, or stretched out at
full length, wrapped in their cloaks, were not dressed in uniform. Their
offensive and defensive arms, however, dissimilar and worn, were in
usable condition.

This band of Huguenot volunteers took the name of the Avengers of
Israel. Josephin, the Franc-Taupin, named by the Catholics "The
One-Eyed," was their commander. On all occasions the Avengers of Israel
approved themselves animated by an intrepidity that was matchless,
always claiming for themselves the post of greatest danger, and always
found first in battle. The indomitable courage of the Franc-Taupin, his
exceptional skill in guerilla warfare, his pitiless hatred for the
papists, upon whom he swore to avenge the fate of his sister Bridget and
his niece Hena, earned for him the leadership of these resolute men.

On this day, at sunrise, the commander presided at a species of tribunal
consisting of several of his companions in arms, all seated in the midst
of the ruins of the chapel of St. Hubert. The years had whitened the
hair and beard of the Franc-Taupin, without impairing the fiber of his
energy. An old rust-covered steel breastplate over his chest answered
the purpose of corselet; his wide hose of red cloth were half covered by
a pair of high leather boots heavy with dust; at his belt, which also
contained his cartridges, hung a short stick suspended from a piece of
pack-thread, and indented with sixteen notches--each tallying the death
of a priest or monk. The dagger of fine Milan steel, a present from
Odelin, hung on the Franc-Taupin's right side, while at his left he wore
a long sword with an iron hilt. The Franc-Taupin's bronzed and haggard
features, rendered all the more sinister by the large black patch which
covered one eye, were at this moment expressive of sardonic cruelty. He
was sitting in judgment upon a Cordelier, a man of tall and robust
build, who was captured in the early morning prowling in the forest.
Some letters found about his person proved that the tonsured gentleman
was a spy of the royalist army, and one of the Avengers of Israel
recognized him as one of the monks who took part in the carnage of
Mirebeau, where nearly twelve hundred Huguenot prisoners were put to
death with frightful refinements of cruelty. Surrounded by several of
his companions, who, like himself, were seated upon the ruins of the
altar, the Franc-Taupin drew his dagger and was engaged in leisurely
sharpening it upon a stone that he held between his knees, without
looking at the monk who, livid with rage and terror, and standing a few
steps aside with his arms tied behind his back, was uttering
maledictions at the top of his voice:

"Accursed and sacrilegious wretches! You abuse your strength! The hand
of the Lord will fall heavy upon you! Heretical dogs!"

The Franc-Taupin calmly sharpened his dagger. "Good!" he exclaimed. "Be
brave, my reverend! Disgorge your monastic bile! Crack your apostolic
hide! It will not make your fate any worse. Be prepared for the worst,
and you will still be far behind what I have in store for you. We care
nothing for your threats."

"Neither can anything render your fate worse than it will be,
reprobates," howled the Cordelier, "when the whole pack of you, to the
very last one, will be hurled into the pit of everlasting flames!"

"By my sister's death!" the Franc-Taupin answered. "You make a mistake
to mention 'flames.' You remind me of what I never forget--the fate of
my niece, who, poor innocent creature, was plunged twenty-five times
into the burning pyre. Brothers, instruct the tonsured fellow upon our
reasons for enrolling ourselves in the corps of the Avengers of Israel,
and why we are pitiless."

Accordingly, while the Franc-Taupin continued to whet his dagger, one of
the Huguenot soldiers thus addressed the monk:

"Monk, listen! In full peace, after the Edict of Orleans, my house was
invaded during my absence by a band of fanatics. The vicar of the parish
led them. My old and blind father, who remained at home in my house, was
strangled to death. It is to avenge my father that I enrolled myself
with the militia of the Avengers of Israel. Therefore, death to the
papist Church! Death to all the tonsured felons!"

"Marshal Montluc held command in Guyenne," continued a second Huguenot.
"Six soldiers, attached to his ordnance company, lodged at our
farm-house. One day they forced the cellar door, drank themselves drunk,
and violated my brother's wife. Wounded with cutlass cuts in his
endeavor to defend her, he dragged himself bleeding to the headquarters
of Marshal Montluc to demand justice. Montluc ordered him to be hanged!
Monk, I have sworn to avenge my brother! Death to the papists!"

"I also am from Guyenne, like my companion," came from another Huguenot.
"One Sunday, relying upon the Edict of Longjumeau, I attended services
with my mother and sister. A company of Marshal Montluc's swashbucklers,
led by a chaplain, invaded the temple, chased out the women, locked up
the men in the building, and set it on fire. There were sixty-five of us
inside, all without arms. Nine succeeded in making their escape from the
flames. The rest, burned, smothered by the smoke, or crushed under the
falling roof, all perished. The women and young girls were dragged to a
nearby enclosure; they were stripped to the skin; they were then
compelled at the point of pikes to dance naked before the papist
soldiers; and were finally forced to submit to the lechery of their
persecutors. My mother was killed in her endeavor to save my sister from
that crowning outrage; nine months later my sister died in childbed of
the fruit of her rape. Monk, I swore to avenge my sister! I swore to
avenge my mother! Death to the papist seigneurs and nobles!"

"I come from Montaland, near Limoges," a fourth Huguenot proceeded.
"Three months after the new edict, I attended services with my young
son. A band of peasants, led by two Carmelites and one Dominican, rushed
into the temple. My poor boy's head--he was not yet fifteen--was cut
off with a scythe, and stuck upon a pole. Monk, I swore to avenge my
son! Death to the whole monastic vermin!"

"Was it I, perchance, who committed the acts that you are seeking to
avenge?" howled the Cordelier. "Cowardly felons!"

At this the Franc-Taupin interrupted the sharpening of his dagger, cast
a sardonic look at the monk, and cried: "Oh! Oh! This is the seventeenth
time I hear that identical remark--you being the seventeenth tonsured
gentleman whom I sentence. Do you see this little stick? I cut a notch
in it at each reprisal. When I shall have reached twenty-five the bill
will be settled--my sister's daughter was plunged twenty-five times into
the furnace, at the order of the Catholic priests, the agents of the
Pope.

"Monk, it stands written in the Bible: 'Life for life, eye for eye,
tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning,
wound for wound, stripe for stripe.'[66] Well, now, instead of burning
you, as should be done, I purpose to make you a Cardinal."

Saying this the soldier of fortune described with the point of his
dagger a circle around his head. The monk understood the meaning of the
frightful pantomime. The Avengers of Israel threw him down and held him
fast at the foot of the altar. The Franc-Taupin passed his thumb along
the edge of his weapon, and sat down upon his haunches beside the
patient. At that moment one of the riders rushed precipitately into the
chapel, shouting:

"A good prize! A good prize! A maid of honor of Jezebel!"

The arrival of the captive girl suspended the torture of the monk who
remained pinioned at the feet of Josephin. The Franc-Taupin rose, and
cast a look upon the female captive, who was none other than Anna Bell.
The features of the hardened soldier relaxed, a tremor ran over his
frame, he hid his face in his hands and wept. It seemed to him as if he
saw in the young captive Hena, the poor martyr he so deeply mourned! The
otherwise inexorable man remained for a moment steeped in desolate
thoughts, in the midst of the profound silence of the Avengers of
Israel. The maid of honor stood cold with fright. She realized she was
in the power of the terrible One-Eyed man, the ferocity of whom spread
terror among the Catholics.

The Franc-Taupin passed the back of his hand over his burning and hollow
eye, the fierce fire of which seemed kindled into fiercer flame by the
tear that had just bathed it. Turning with severity to Anna Bell he
ordered her to step nearer:

"You are a maid of honor to the Queen?"

With a trembling voice Anna Bell replied: "Yes, monsieur, I belong to
her Majesty the Queen."

"Where do you come from?"

"From Meilleret. Tired with travel, I stopped for rest at the village.
From there I proceeded on my journey to join the Queen.--My guide lost
his way. Your riders stopped my litter.--Have pity upon me and order
that I be taken to Monsieur the Prince of Gerolstein. I think I may
rely upon his courtesy."

"At what hour did you leave Meilleret?"

"About one this morning."

"You lie! It is hardly five o'clock now--you traveled in a litter--it
takes more than eight hours to come from Meilleret to this place on
horseback and riding fast."

"Monsieur, I conjure you, have me taken to the Prince of Gerolstein--it
is the only favor I entreat of your kindness," cried Anna Bell,
trembling and stammering.

Struck by the insistence with which the maid of honor requested to be
taken to Prince Franz of Gerolstein, the Franc-Taupin contemplated her
with mistrust. Suddenly he ordered:

"Search the woman!"

Two Huguenots executed the order, and extracted from Anna Bell's pockets
a purse, a letter and the gold vial. The Franc-Taupin opened the letter,
the seal of which was broken; read it; looked puzzled over a passage in
the missive and remained for a moment thoughtful. But immediately struck
by a sudden inspiration, he darted a fierce glance at the maid of honor,
examined the gold vial in silence, and holding it up to Anna Bell, said:

"Woman, what does that vial contain?"

With a great effort, Anna Bell replied, "I--I--know not."

"Oh, you know not!" cried the Franc-Taupin, breaking out in a sardonic
guffaw. "Miserable creature. You seem to have the audacity of a
criminal."

He stepped slowly towards the young girl, seized her by the arm, and
holding the vial to her lips, cried:

"Drink it on the spot, or I stab you to death!"

Anna Bell, terror-stricken and fainting, dropped upon her knees, crying:
"Mercy! Mercy! I beg of you, mercy! Pity! Mercy!"

"Poisoner!" exclaimed the Franc-Taupin.

The maid of honor crouched still lower upon her knees, hid her face in
her hands, and sobbed aloud. The Huguenots looked at one another
stupefied. Again silence reigned.

"Brothers," said the Franc-Taupin, breaking the silence, "listen to the
letter that you have just taken from this woman's pocket:

     "A courier from my son Charles has arrived from Paris, my pet,
     compelling me to have an immediate conference with the Cardinal. I
     can not see you before your departure. Adieu, and courage. You will
     reach your Prince. I forgot one important recommendation to you.
     The philter must be emptied quickly after the stopper is removed
     from the vial.

"The letter is signed 'C. M.'--Catherine De Medici! Here we have it! The
Queen sends one of her strumpets to poison Franz of Gerolstein!"

Still under the shock of the cowardly assassination of Condé, and of the
recent deaths by poison of the Duke of Deux-Ponts and the Admiral's
brother, the Huguenots broke out into imprecations. The youth and beauty
of the maid of honor only rendered her criminal designs all the more
execrable in their eyes. The moment was critical. Anna Bell made a
superhuman effort--a last endeavor to escape the fate that threatened
her. She rose on her knees and with clasped hands cried:

"Mercy! Listen to me! I shall confess everything!"

"O, Hena," cried the Franc-Taupin with savage exaltation. "Poor martyr!
I shall avenge your death upon this infamous creature--beautiful like
yourself--young like yourself! Throw together outside of the chapel the
branches that our horses have bared of their leaves. The wood is
green--it will burn slowly. We'll tie the poisoner and the monk back to
back upon the pyre the instant I have ordained him a Cardinal."

In chorus the Huguenots shouted: "To the pyre with the monk and the
poisoner!"

Anna Bell's mind began to wander. Livid and shivering she crouched in a
heap upon the ground, her voice choked in her throat, already rigid with
terror, and escaped only in convulsive sobs. The Avengers of Israel
hurried to heap up the bare branches around a tall oak-tree planted
before the portico of the chapel. The Franc-Taupin stepped towards the
Cordelier, who muttered in an agonizing voice, "_Miserere mei,
Domine--miserere!_"

Again the solemnity of ordaining the monk a Cardinal was suddenly
interrupted. The sound of an approaching and numerous cavalcade reached
the Avengers of Israel. A moment later Prince Franz of Gerolstein
appeared at the head of a mounted troop.

The personage who now stepped upon the scene was the grandson of Charles
of Gerolstein, who in 1534 assisted at the council of the Calvinists in
the quarry of Montmartre, together with Christian the printer. The young
Prince was twenty-five years of age. The short visor of his helmet
exposed his features. Their regularity and symmetry were perfect; they
expressed at once benevolence and resolution. Of tall and wiry build,
the young man's heavy black cuirass, worn German fashion, and his thick
armlets, seemed not to weigh upon him. His wide hose, made of scarlet
cloth, were almost overlapped by his long boots of buff leather armed
with silver spurs. A wide belt of white taffeta--the Protestants'
rallying sign--was fastened with a knot on one side.

Immediately upon entering the chapel the Prince addressed the
Franc-Taupin:

"Comrades, I have just learned that your scouts have arrested one of the
Queen's maids of honor--"

Before the Franc-Taupin had time to answer the Prince, Anna Bell jumped
up, ran to Franz, and threw herself at his feet, crying: "For mercy's
sake, monsieur, deign to hear me!"

Franz of Gerolstein recognized the young girl at once. He reached out
his hand to her and made her rise, saying: "I remember to have met you,
mademoiselle, at the French court, last year. Be comforted. There must
be some untoward misunderstanding in regard to you."

Anna Bell in turn seized the Prince's hands and covered them with kisses
and tears. "I am innocent of the horrible crime that they charge me
with!" she cried.

"Prince," broke in the Franc-Taupin, "the woman must die! The wretch is
a poisoner; she is an emissary of Catherine De Medici; and you were
singled out for her victim. We are about to do justice to the case."

"No pity for the prostitutes of the Italian woman! None for her
messengers of death!" cried several Huguenots.

But Franz of Gerolstein interposed, saying: "My friends, I can not
believe in the crime that you charge this young girl with. I knew her at
the court of France. I often spoke with her. Whatever the deplorable
reputation of her companions, she is a happy exception among them."

"Oh! thank you, monsieur," exclaimed Anna Bell in accents of ineffable
gratitude. "Thank you, for testifying so warmly in my favor--"

"Prince, the hypocrite had her mask on when she conversed with you!"
insisted the inexorable Franc-Taupin. "Read this letter from the Queen.
You will learn from it the reason why her maid of honor threw herself
intentionally into the hands of our outposts, and immediately requested
to be taken to your tent. As to this vial," he turned to Anna Bell,
"does it contain poison, yes or no?"

"Monsieur, do not allow appearances to deceive you--if you only knew!"
cried Anna Bell, in distress.

Franz of Gerolstein cast upon the maid of honor a frigid look; then,
turning away his head, he stepped towards the door of the chapel. Anna
Bell rushed after the Prince, fell again at his feet, clasped his knees
and cried: "Monsieur, do not forsake me! In the name of your mother,
deign to listen to me! It is not death I fear--what I fear is your
contempt--I am innocent!"

The accent of truthfulness often touches the most prejudiced of hearts.
Moved, despite himself, Franz of Gerolstein stopped, and looking down
upon the maid of honor with pain and pity, said:

"I grant your prayer--I wish still to doubt the crime that you are
accused of--explain the mystery of your movements." He looked around,
and noticing the vestry door that led from one of the aisles of the
chapel, he added, "Come, mademoiselle, I shall listen to you without
witnesses in yonder private place."

With an effort Anna Bell arose, and with staggering steps she followed
Franz of Gerolstein into the vestry. Arrived there, the maid of honor
collected her thoughts for a moment, and then addressed the young
Huguenot Prince with a trembling voice in these words:

"Monsieur, before God who hears me--here is the truth: Last evening,
shortly before midnight, at the Abbey of St. Severin where the Queen
halted for rest, she summoned me to her, and after reminding me of all
that I owed to her generosity, because," and Anna Bell broke down
weeping, "I am a waif, picked up from the street--out of charity--one of
the Queen's serving-women bought me about ten years ago, as she informed
me, from a Bohemian woman who made me beg before the parvise of Notre
Dame in Paris--"

"How came you to become a maid of honor to Catherine De Medici?"

"The woman who took me in showed me to the Queen, and, to my
misfortune!--to my disgrace!--the Queen interested herself in me!"

"To your misfortune? To your disgrace?"

"Monsieur," answered Anna Bell as if the words were wrung from her
heart, "Alas! although barely beyond girlhood, two years ago, thanks to
the principles and the instructions that I received, and the examples
set to me, my education was perfect and complete, I was found worthy of
forming part of the Queen's 'Flying Squadron'!"

"I understand you! Poor girl!"

"That is not all, monsieur. The day came when I was to prove my
gratitude to the Queen. It happened during the truce in the religious
wars. The Marquis of Solange, although a Protestant, often came to
court. He was to be detached from his cause, monsieur. He had manifested
some inclination towards me. The Queen called me apart. 'The Marquis of
Solange loves you,' she said; 'he will sacrifice his faith to
you--provided you are not cruel towards him.' I yielded to the pressure
from the Queen. I had no consciousness of the indignity of my conduct
until the day when--"

Anna Bell could proceed no further; she seemed to strangle with
confusion, and was purple with shame. Suddenly frightful cries,
proceeding from the interior of the chapel, startled the oppressive
silence in the vestry. The cries were speedily smothered, but again,
ever and anon, and despite the gag that suppressed them, they escaped in
muffled roars of pain. Frightened at these ominous sounds, the maid of
honor precipitately took refuge by the Prince's side, seeming to
implore his protection and muttering amid sobs:

"Monsieur--do you hear those cries--do you hear the man's moans?"

"Oh!" answered Franz of Gerolstein, visibly depressed with grief.
"Forever accursed be they, who, through their ferocity, were the first
to provoke these acts of cruel reprisal!"

The moans that reached the vestry gradually changed into muffled and
convulsive rattles that grew fainter and fainter. Silence prevailed once
more. The expiring monk was ordained Cardinal by the Franc-Taupin.

"I arrived in time, mademoiselle, to rescue you from the vengeance of
those pitiless men," resumed the Prince. "The candor of your words would
denote the falseness of the accusations raised against you. And yet,
this letter from the Queen, this vial, would seem to furnish convincing
testimony against you."

"Last evening," Anna Bell proceeded, "notified by our governess that the
Queen wished to speak to me, I awaited her orders in a dark corridor
that separated my chamber from the Queen's apartments. At the very
moment I was about to open the door I heard your name mentioned,
monsieur. The Queen was speaking about you with Father Lefevre, a priest
of the Society of Jesus, one of the counselors of the King of Spain."

"To what purpose was my name mentioned by the Queen and the Jesuit?"

"It seems that, in their opinion, monsieur, you are a redoubtable
enemy, and the Queen promised Father Lefevre to rid herself of you. One
of her maids of honor was to be commissioned to execute the murder
through poison. The maid of honor chosen was myself. Madam Catherine
selected me for this horrible deed. Frightened at what I had overheard,
an involuntary cry of horror escaped me. Almost immediately I heard
footsteps approach the door of the Queen's apartment. Luckily I had time
to regain my own chamber without being heard or even suspected of having
overheard the Queen's words. Presently she rang for me. The Queen began
by reminding me of her acts of kindness to me, and added she decided to
fulfil the dearest and most secret wishes of my heart. 'Anna Bell,' she
said, 'you no longer love the Marquis of Solange; you have transferred
your affections to the Prince of Gerolstein, whom you saw at court last
year.' Take this vial. It contains a philter that makes one beloved. A
guide will take you to the outposts of the Huguenots; you will fall into
their hands; you will then ask to be taken to the Prince of Gerolstein.
He is a nobleman, he will take pity upon you, he will lodge you in his
tent. Love will inspire you. You will find the opportunity to pour a few
drops of this philter into Franz of Gerolstein's cup--thus you will
reach your Prince'--and these are the words which the Queen repeated to
me in her letter."

"And guessing that the philter was poison, and fearing to awaken the
Queen's suspicions, you feigned readiness to accept the mission of
death? That, I suppose, is the complement of your story?"

"Yes, monsieur. I hoped to warn you to be on guard against the dangers
that threaten you!"

Exhausted by so many emotions, and crushed with shame, the poor girl
dropped down upon one of the benches in the vestry, hid her face in her
hands, and wept convulsively.

The revelation, bearing as it did the stamp of irresistible candor,
awakened in the heart of Franz of Gerolstein a deep interest for the
ill-starred young woman.

"Mademoiselle," he said to her in a firm yet kind tone, "I believe in
your sincerity--I believe your account of your misfortunes."

"Now, monsieur, I can die."

"Dismiss such mournful thoughts--perhaps an unexpected consolation
awaits you. Owing to certain details that you mentioned concerning your
early years, I am almost certain I know your parents. You must have been
born at La Rochelle, and was not your father an armorer?"

"Yes!" cried Anna Bell. "Yes! I remember how the sight of glistening
arms delighted my eyes in my childhood."

"Did you not, at the time you were kidnapped from your family, wear any
collar or other trinket that you may have preserved?"

"I wore around my neck, and have preserved ever since, a little lead
medal. I have it here attached to this chain."

Franz of Gerolstein ran to the door of the vestry and called for
Josephin. The Franc-Taupin approached, stepping slowly, and engaged in
imparting the latest notch to the stick that hung from his cartridge
belt: "Seventeen! There are still eight wanting before we reach
twenty-five! Oh! My bill shall be paid, by my sister's death! My bill
shall be paid!"

Franz of Gerolstein inquired from the Franc-Taupin: "What was the age of
Odelin's child when she was kidnapped!"

With a look of surprise the Franc-Taupin answered: "The poor child was
eight years old. It is now ten years since the dear little girl
disappeared."

"Did she wear anything by which she might be identified?" pursued Franz.

"She wore from her neck," said the Franc-Taupin with a sigh, "a medal of
the Church of the Desert, like all other Protestant children. It was a
medal that I presented to her mother the day of the little creature's
birth."

Franz of Gerolstein held before the Franc-Taupin the medal that Anna
Bell had just given him, and said: "Do you recognize this medal?
Josephin, this young girl was kidnapped from her family ten years
ago--she carried this medal from her neck--"

"Oh!" cried the Franc-Taupin, looking at Anna Bell with renewed
confusion. "She is Odelin's daughter! That accounts for my having been
from the first struck with her resemblance to Hena."

"Do you, monsieur, know my parents?" it was now Anna Bell's turn to ask.
"Pray tell me where I can find them."

But overcome with emotion, the Franc-Taupin said: "But Oh! what a shame
for the family! What a disgrace! A maid of honor to the Queen!"

The Franc-Taupin was quickly drawn from his mixed emotions of sorrow and
joy. More important work was soon to be done. An officer entered the
vestry, bringing orders from Admiral Coligny for the vanguards and
outposts to fall back without delay toward St. Yrieix. Franz of
Gerolstein immediately conveyed the Admiral's orders to the Avengers of
Israel, who crowded behind the officer, and then turned to Anna Bell,
saying:

"Mademoiselle, come; remount your litter. We shall escort you to St.
Yrieix. I shall impart to you on the road tidings concerning your
family--of which I am a member."

"What a revelation to Odelin--and to Antonicq!" the Franc-Taupin thought
to himself, "when they learn within shortly, at St. Yrieix, that this
unfortunate creature--the disgraced and dishonored maid of honor to the
Queen is the daughter of the one and the sister of the other!"

The Avengers of Israel and the squadron of German horsemen, with Franz
of Gerolstein at their head, completed their reconnoisance about the
forest and fell back upon St. Yrieix. The chapel of St. Hubert remained
deserted and wrapped in silence. The morning breeze swung the body of
the monk as it hung limp from a branch of the oak-tree in front of the
portico of the holy place. Horrible to look at were the features of the
corpse. They preserved the impress of the Cordelier's last agonies. The
skin was ripped from the head. It had the appearance of being covered
with a red skull cap.

Abominable reprisals, without a doubt; and yet less abominable than the
crimes of which they record the expiatory vengeance.




CHAPTER IV.

GASPARD OF COLIGNY.


The burg of St. Yrieix stood in the center of the staked-in camp
occupied by the army of Admiral Coligny. An inflexible disciplinarian,
Admiral Coligny maintained rigorous order among his troops. Never was
pillage allowed; never marauding. His soldiers always paid for all that
they demanded from city folks or peasants. He went even further.
Whenever it happened that, scared at the approach of armed forces, the
peasants fled from their villages, the officers, executing the express
orders of Admiral Coligny, left in the houses the price of the
vegetables and forage with which the soldiers provisioned themselves and
their beasts in the absence of the masters of the place. Finally, as a
necessary and terrible example--thieves caught redhanded were inexorably
hanged, and the stolen objects tied to their feet. Finally there never
were seen at the Huguenot camps the swarms of women of ill fame that
ordinarily encumbered the baggage of the Catholic army, and that,
according to the ancient practice, were placed under the supervision of
the "King of the Ribalds."

The habits of the Protestants in the army of Admiral Coligny were
pious, austere and upright. This notwithstanding, the Admiral found it
impossible to impose rigid discipline upon the numerous bands that from
time to time attached themselves to his main forces, usually conducted a
guerilla warfare, and emulated the royalists in rapine and cruelty.

The Admiral, the Princes of Orange, of Nassau and of Gerolstein, the
sons of the Prince of Condé who was assassinated upon orders from the
Duke of Anjou, young Henry of Bearn, besides many other Protestant
chiefs, occupied several houses at St. Yrieix. The ancient priory served
as the Admiral's quarters. Early in the morning, as was his wont,
Admiral Coligny left his lodgings accompanied by his servants, to attend
the prayers held in the Huguenot camp and called the "Prayer of the
Guard." The officers and soldiers of the Admiral's post, together with
those of some neighboring ones, filled on these occasions the courtyard
of the priory, and standing erect, bareheaded, silent, they awaited in
meditation the hour of raising their souls to God. Old soldiers grey of
beard and seamed with scars; young recruits, barely beyond adolescence;
rich noblemen, raised in the spacious halls of castles; field laborers,
as well as artisans from the cities, who rallied to the defense of the
"Church of the Desert"--all animated with an ardent faith, would there
unite upon the level of Evangelical equality. The seigneur, battling
side by side with his vassal for the holy cause of freedom of
conscience, saw in him only a brother. Thus germinated among the
Protestants the tendencies toward fraternity that were later to cause
the distinctions of castes and races, so much prized by royalists, to
vanish. A slight murmur, betokening the affection and respect that he
inspired, greeted the Admiral's arrival. The rude fatigues of many wars
had bent his tall and one-time straight figure. His white hair and
beard, together with the pallor of his noble visage, now profoundly
changed since the death of his brother, who was treacherously poisoned,
imparted to the aspect of the supreme chieftain of the Protestant armies
a venerable and touching expression. Encased from his neck down in armor
of burnished iron, without any ornament whatever, and half concealed
under a flowing cloak of white cloth--the Huguenot color--the Admiral
was bareheaded. Beside him stood the brave Francis of Lanoüe, a young
Breton nobleman. Courage, honor, kindness, were stamped upon his manly
and loyal countenance. A sort of steel arm, artistically forged by
Odelin Lebrenn, with the aid of which Monsieur Lanoüe could guide his
horse, replaced the arm that the daring captain had lost in battle. When
the murmur that greeted the Admiral's arrival subsided, one of the
pastors, Feron by name, who attended the army, uttered in a benign voice
the following short prayer:

"Our trust lies in God, who made the heavens and the earth.

"Our Father and Savior, since it has pleased You, in the midst of the
dangers of war, to preserve us last night and until this day, may it
please You to cause us to employ it wholly in Your service. Oh, heavenly
Father! Our brothers rely upon our vigilance. They rely upon us, their
defenders. Deign by Your grace to help us in faithfully fulfilling our
charge, without negligence, or cowardice. Finally, may it please You, O
Lord of Hosts, to change these calamitous times into happy times where
justice and religion shall reign! Not then shall we any longer be
reduced to the necessity of defending ourselves; then will Your holy
name be glorified more and more the world over! All these things, O
Lord, our Father! O, good God! we beg of You in the name and by the
grace of our Savior Jesus Christ. We pray to You to increase our faith
which we now confess, saying: I believe in God the omnipotent Father,
and in his Son the Redeemer.

"May the blessing of God the Father, the grace and the mercy of our Lord
Jesus Christ remain and dwell forevermore among us in the communion of
the Holy Ghost.

"Amen!"[67]

"Amen!" responded Admiral Coligny devoutly and in a grave voice.

"Amen!" answered the soldiers.

The morning prayer had been said.

While the Admiral was religiously attending morning service in the
courtyard at his headquarters, Dominic, the servant of his household who
was captured shortly before by the royalists, was engaged in executing
the crime plotted by the Duke of Anjou jointly with the captain of his
guards.

Dominic stepped into the chamber of Coligny; he moved about cautiously,
with eyes and ears alert, watching from all sides whether he was either
seen or heard; he approached a table on which, standing beside several
scrolls of paper, was an earthen bowl containing a refreshing drink that
Coligny was in the habit of taking every morning, and which his faithful
equerry Nicholas Mouche always prepared for him. Mouche was at the
moment at prayers with the Admiral, together with the rest of the
household servants. Dominic purposely did not join his comrades that
morning; he figured upon their absence to carry out his nefarious deed.
The poisoner took up the earthen bowl to drop the poison in. For an
instant he hesitated. Brought up in the house of Coligny and ever
treated by his master with paternal kindness, the thoughts of the wretch
for an instant conjured up the past before him. Then cupidity stifled
pity in the assassin's breast. He took out of his pocket a scent-bag
containing some grey powder, shook the contents into the bowl, and
stirred it, in order to mix the poison well with the liquid. Dominic was
placing the bowl back from where he took it when he heard steps
approaching. Quickly and tremblingly he slid away from the table. It was
Odelin Lebrenn, bringing back the Admiral's casque, which was sent to
him to repair, it having been bent in the day before by a ball from a
large arquebus while the Admiral was on a reconnoitering expedition.
Although serving as a volunteer with his son Antonicq in the Protestant
army, Odelin exercised his trade with the help of a portable forge.
Thirty-three years had elapsed since the day when he returned to Paris
with Master Raimbaud. He was now bordering on his forty-eighth year.
His beard and hair were grizzled with grey. His features betokened
frankness and resolution. Odelin had not seen Dominic since his capture
by the Catholics. He now congratulated him heartily upon his escape from
the enemy, but remarking the wretch's pallor, he added:

"What is the matter, my dear Dominic? You look ashy pale."

"I do not know--what--you mean--" stammered Dominic, saying which the
poisoner rushed out precipitately.

The hurry of the man's departure, his pallor and flutter, awakened the
armorer's suspicion; but these thoughts were quickly crowded out of his
mind by the sudden appearance of his son Antonicq, who ran in with
flustered face and tears in his eyes, crying:

"Oh, father! Come quick! In heaven's name come to the Prince of
Gerolstein who is just back to camp with uncle Josephin, the
Franc-Taupin."

At this moment, Nicholas Mouche, the Admiral's confidential equerry
entered his master's room. Not seeing the face of either Odelin or his
son, both having their backs turned to the door, he cried out in
surprise and alarm:

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" But instantly recognizing the
armorer and his son, for whom he entertained warm esteem, he added:
"Excuse me, my dear Lebrenn, I did not recognize you at first. Excuse
me. You and your son are really members of the household. Your presence
here need not alarm me for my master's safety."

"I brought back Monsieur Coligny's casque," Odelin explained, "and my
son came after me. I do not yet know the cause of his excitement. See
how flustered his face is! What extraordinary thing has happened, my
boy?"

"My sister--Marguerite--whom we thought lost forever--has been found--"

"Great God!"

"Come, father--the Prince--and my uncle--will tell you all about
it--they will narrate to you the extraordinary affair--"

"What!" exclaimed Nicholas Mouche, looking at Odelin. "Is the poor child
who disappeared so long ago found again! Heaven be praised!"

"Oh, I can not yet believe such a happy thing possible!" said Odelin,
his heart beating between doubt and hope.

"Come, father, you will know all!"

"Adieu!" said the armorer to Nicholas, as he followed his son, no less
wrought up than the young man.

"Poor father!" mused the old equerry as he followed Odelin with his
eyes. "Provided only he is not running after some cruel disappointment!"
Approaching his master's writing table to assure himself that the
Admiral was supplied with ink, Nicholas's eyes fell upon the earthen
bowl. He noticed that it was full to the brim--untouched.

"Monsieur the Admiral has not taken a single mouthful of his chicory
water! Truth to say, in point of taking care of himself, the dear old
hero is as thoughtless as a child! But here he is! He shall not escape a
lecture;" and addressing Coligny, who now returned to his room after
prayers, the equerry said in a tone of familiar reproach that his long
years of service justified: "Well, Monsieur Admiral; what about your
chicory water! The bowl is as full as when I brought it in early this
morning--"

"That is so," answered Coligny with a smile. "The trouble lies with you.
You make the drink so frightfully bitter that I postpone all I can the
hour of gulping it down."

"That is an odd reason, Monsieur Admiral! Is not the bitterness of the
drink the very thing that gives it virtue? Monsieur, you are going to
drink it now--on the spot--and before me!"

"Come, let us compromise--I promise you that the bowl shall be empty
within the next hour. Are the horses saddled and bridled?"

"Yes, monsieur. If we ride out this morning I shall bring along Julien
the Basque and Dominic to take charge of your relay horses. The poor
fellow Dominic, despite the mishap of the day before yesterday, which
might have cost him dear, begged me this morning to choose him as one of
the footmen to accompany you to-day, if there is to be any engagement."

"Dominic is a worthy servant."

"What else should he be? Was he not brought up in your house, monsieur,
and the son of one of your oldest servants, the worthy forester of the
woods of Chatillon?"

"Oh, my dear house of Chatillon, my meadows, my woods, my vines, my
grain fields, my thrifty laborers--am I ever to see you again?" remarked
Coligny with a melancholic sigh. "Oh, the country life! The family
life!" The Admiral remained in silent meditation for a moment, then he
added:

"Leave me alone. I have some writing to do."

The equerry left the room. Monsieur Coligny stepped slowly towards the
table, drew a campstool near, and sat down upon it. With his forehead
resting on his hand he remained long lost in revery, musing to himself:

"Why should this thought have come to me to-day, more than any other
day? I know not. God inspires me. Let us listen to His warnings. At any
rate, it is well to have our accounts clear with heaven. Besides, it is
my duty to answer before God and men the accusations that are preferred
against me. It is my duty to answer the capital and defaming sentence
that has been hurled against me and mine."

Taking a scroll from the table, the Admiral read:

     "As the principal author of and leader in the conspiracy and
     rebellion gotten up against the King and his State, the said Sieur
     of Coligny is sentenced to be hanged and strangled upon the Greve
     Square, and subsequently to be exposed from the gibbet of
     Montfaucon. His goods revert to and are confiscate by the King. His
     children are declared forfeit of their noble rank, infamous, and
     disqualified from holding office or owning any property in the
     kingdom. Fifty thousand gold ecus are promised to whomsoever will
     deliver the said Sieur of Coligny, dead or alive. The children of
     his brother Dandelot are likewise declared infamous."

Coligny flung back upon the table the scroll containing the extract of
the royal decree, registered in the Parliament of Paris on May 27, 1569,
and raising his tearful eyes heavenward, exclaimed in accents of
profound grief:

"My poor and good brother! They killed you treacherously by poison! Your
children are orphans, with none but myself for their support--and now a
price is set upon my own life! To-day, to-morrow, in battle, or
otherwise, God may call me to Him! Oh, let me at least carry with me the
consolation that my own and my brother's orphans will remain entrusted
to worthy hands!"

Coligny remained long absorbed in meditation. He then took a sheet of
paper, a pen, and again concentrating his thoughts, proceeded to write
his testament:[68]

     Of all His creatures, God has created man the most worthy.
     Accordingly, it is man's duty, during his life, to do all he can to
     glorify the Lord, render evidence of his faith, set a good example
     to his fellows, and, to the extent of his powers, leave his
     children in comfort, if it has pleased God to afford him any.

     Although our days are numbered before God, nothing is more
     uncertain than the hour when it will please Him to call us away. We
     must keep ourselves so well prepared that we may not be taken by
     surprise. For this reason I have decided to draw up the present
     writing, in order that those who may remain behind me, may hear my
     intentions and know my wishes.

     In the first place, after invoking the name of God, I make to Him
     a summary confession of my faith, imploring Him that the same may
     serve me at the hour when it shall please Him to call me away,
     because He knows that I make this confession with my heart and
     affection, and in the full sincerity of my soul.

     I believe in what is contained in the Old and the New Testament, as
     being the true word of God, to which and from which nothing may be
     added or taken away, as it orders us. Lastly, I seek in Jesus
     Christ and through Him alone my salvation and the remission of my
     sins, according as He has promised. I subscribe to the confession
     of faith of the Reformed Church in this kingdom. I wish to live and
     die in this faith, judging myself happy, indeed, if I must suffer
     on that account.

     I know I am accused of having attempted against the life of the
     King, of the Queen, and of messeigneurs the King's brothers; I
     protest before God that I never had the wish or the intention of
     doing so. I am also accused of ambition, on account of my having
     taken up arms with the Reformers; I protest that only the interest
     of religion, and the necessity of defending my own life and the
     lives of my family made me take up arms. Upon this head I confess
     that my greatest guilt lies in not having resented the injustices
     and the murders perpetrated upon my brothers. I had to be driven to
     take up arms by the dangers and the plots of which I myself was the
     object. But I also say it before God, I have endeavored by all
     means available to pacify, fearing nothing so much as civil war,
     and foreseeing that the same would carry in its wake the ruin of
     this kingdom, whose preservation I have ever desired. I write this
     because, ignorant of the hour when it will please God to call me
     away, I do not wish to leave my children with the brand of infamy
     and rebellion.

     I have taken up arms, not against the King, but against those whose
     tyranny compelled the Reformers to defend their lives. I knew in my
     heart that they often acted against the wishes of the King,
     according to several letters and instructions that prove the fact.
     I know I must appear before the throne of God and there receive
     judgment. May He condemn me if I lie when I say that my warmest
     desire is to see the King served in all purity, obedient to his
     orders, and that the kingdom of France be preserved. On these
     conditions I would gladly forget all that concerns me
     personally--injuries, insults, outrages, confiscation of my
     estates--provided the glory of God and public tranquility are
     assured. To that end I am determined to occupy myself to my last
     breath. I wish this to be known, in order not to leave a wrong
     impression concerning myself after my death.

     I request and order that my children be always brought up to the
     love and fear of God; that they continue their studies up to the
     age of fifteen, without interruption. I hold those years to be
     better employed in that manner than if they are sent to a court, or
     placed in the suite of some seigneur. Above all do I request their
     tutors never to allow them to keep bad or vicious company. We are
     all too much inclined to evil, by our own nature. I request that my
     children be frequently reminded of this, in order that they may
     know that such is my desire, as I have often expressed it to them
     myself.

     I request that my children be brought up with those of my brother
     Dandelot, as he himself expressed in his testament the wish that
     they should be. That the ones and the others take for their example
     the warm and fraternal friendship that always existed between my
     brother and myself.

     Loving all my children equally, I expect that each will receive as
     my successors that which is accorded to them by the usages of the
     country where my estates are situated (if the confiscation with
     which they are attainted cease). I request that the jewelry
     belonging to my deceased wife be equally divided between my two
     daughters.

     I desire that my eldest son take the name of Chatillon; Gaspard, my
     second son, the name of Dandelot; and Charles, the third, that of
     La Breteche.

     I request Madam Dandelot, my sister-in-law, to keep near her my two
     daughters, so long as she may remain in widowhood. Should she marry
     again, I request Madam La Rochefoucauld, my niece, to take charge
     of them.

     Having learned that they burned down the college founded by me at
     Chatillon, I desire and expect that it be re-built, because it is
     a public good with the aid of which God may be honored and
     glorified.

     I order that my servants and pensioners be paid all that may be due
     to them on the day of my decease, and do grant them, besides, a
     year's wages. In recognition of my great satisfaction with Lagrele,
     the preceptor of my children, for the care he has bestowed upon
     them, I bequeath to him one thousand francs. To Nicholas Mouche and
     his wife Joan, in reward of their good offices to me and my
     deceased wife, I bequeath five hundred francs, and an annual
     stipend of seventeen measures of wheat during their lives, because
     they have so many children.

     When it shall please God to call me away, I desire, if it be
     possible, that my body be taken to my Chatillon home, to be there
     interred beside my wife, without any funeral pomp or other ceremony
     than that of the Reformed religion.

     And in order that the above provisions be carried out, I request
     Monsieur the Count of Chatillon, my brother; Monsieur La
     Rochefoucauld, my nephew; and Messieurs Lanoüe and Saragosse, to be
     the executors of these my last wishes. Above all do I recommend to
     them _the education and instruction of my children_. I consecrate
     them to the service of God, entreating them to cause my children
     always to deport and guide themselves by His holy spirit, and to so
     behave that their actions contribute to His glory, to the public
     welfare, and to the pacification of the kingdom. I pray to God to
     be pleased with the benediction that I bestow upon my children, to
     the end of attracting upon them the blessing of heaven.

     As to myself, offering to the Lord the sacrifice of Jesus Christ in
     the redemption of my sins, I pray to Him that He may receive my
     soul and grant to it the blessed and eternal life that awaits the
     resurrection of the body.

     Finally, I request Messieurs La Rochefoucauld, Saragosse and
     Lanoüe, to be the tutors and guardians of my children.

Coligny was just finishing this testament, every line of which breathed
sincerity, straightforwardness, wisdom, modesty, the tenderest of
domestic virtues, faith in the holiness of his cause, love for France,
and horror of civil war, when Monsieur Lanoüe entered the room with
indignation stamped upon his features. He held an open letter in his
hand, and was about to address Coligny, when the Admiral forestalled
him, saying:

"My friend, I have just written your name at the foot of my testament,
requesting you and Monsieur La Rochefoucauld kindly to accept the office
of guardians to my children, and those of my brother;" and extending his
hand to Lanoüe: "You accept, do you not, this mark of my friendship and
confidence? Brought up under your eyes, my nephews and my children, if
it please God, will be honorable men and women."

"Monsieur," answered Lanoüe with profound emotion, "in heart, at least,
I shall be worthy of the sacred mission that you honor me with."

"May people some day be able to say of my children and nephews: 'They
have the virtues of Lanoüe!' God will then have granted my last prayer.
I entrust this testament to your hands, my friend. Keep it safe."

"It is not sealed, monsieur."

"Both my friends and my enemies are free to read it. What a man says to
God men may hear," replied the Admiral with ancient loftiness. "Here I
am now, settled with myself," the noble soldier proceeded to say; "now
let us consider the military preparations for the day."

"Oh, what a war!" cried Lanoüe. "No, it is war no longer; it is
treachery; it is assassination! I have a letter from Paris. They send
me a copy of a missive to the Duke of Alençon from his brother, in the
Maurevert affair."

"The cowardly assassin of Mouy?"

"Yes, the cowardly assassin Maurevert, who came to our camp with the
mask of friendship, and who, profiting by the darkness of night and the
defenselessness of Mouy asleep, stabbed him to death, and immediately
took flight. Listen, Admiral, listen now to this! This is what Charles
IX, the present King of France, writes to his brother:

     "To my brother the Duke of Alençon.

     "My brother, in reward for the signal service rendered to me by
     Charles of Louvier, Sieur of Maurevert, the bearer of these
     presents, IT BEING HE WHO KILLED MOUY, _in the way that he will
     narrate to you_, I request you, my brother, to bestow upon him the
     collar of my Order, he being chosen and elected by the brothers of
     the said Order a member of the same; and furthermore to see to it
     that he, the said Maurevert, be gratified by the denizens and
     residents of my good city of Paris _with some worthy present_ IN
     KEEPING WITH HIS DESERTS, while I pray God, my brother, that He
     keep you under His holy and worthy protection.

     "Done at Plessis-les-Tours, the 1st day of June, 1569.

     "Your good brother

     "CHARLES."[69]

The Admiral listened stupefied.

"Never," observed Lanoüe after reading the royal schedule, "never yet
was the glorification of assassination carried further than this! Oh,
Monsieur Admiral, you often made the remark--'You, as well as I and so
many others, are attached by heart and principle, if not to the King,
still to the Crown.' But this house of Valois will yet cover itself with
so many crimes that it will inspire hatred for monarchy. Do we not
already see springing up the desire for a federal republic, like the
federated Swiss cantons? The desire already has spread among many men of
honorable purposes, and it gains new supporters every day."

Nicholas Mouche appeared at this moment at the threshold of the door. "I
wager," he said to himself, "that the wholesome drink of chicory water
still lies forgotten." And approaching his master, he added: "Well,
Monsieur Admiral, the hour has elapsed!"

"What hour?" asked Coligny, whose thoughts were absorbed in the painful
reminiscences awakened by Lanoüe's words, "what do you mean?"

"Your morning drink!" answered the trusty equerry; and turning from his
master: "Monsieur Lanoüe, I entreat you; join me in making the Admiral
listen to reason. He knows that his surgeon, Monsieur Ambroise Paré,
strongly recommended to him chicory water when in the field, because the
Admiral often is twelve and fifteen hours at a stretch on horseback,
without once taking off his boots. Well, he refuses to follow the orders
of his physician."

"You hear the complaint of your worthy servant, Monsieur Admiral,"
remarked Lanoüe smiling. "I agree with him; he is right. You should
follow the orders of Master Ambroise Paré."

"Come, come--it shall be as Monsieur Nicholas wishes," said Coligny,
taking the bowl from the table. He looked at the greenish color of the
decoction with visible repugnance, and carried the bowl to his lips.

At that very instant Odelin Lebrenn rushed into the chamber, dashed the
earthen vessel from Coligny's hands and crushed it under his feet,
crying:

"Thank God! I arrived in time!"

Lanoüe, Nicholas Mouche and Coligny were stupefied. Breathless with
excitement and winded from a long and rapid run, Odelin Lebrenn leaned
with one hand against the table. He made a sign that he wished to speak
but could not yet. Finally he stammered out:

"A second later--and Monsieur Coligny would have been poisoned--by the
potion--he was about--to drink!"

"Great God!" cried Lanoüe, growing pale, while Nicholas Mouche trembled
like an aspen leaf as he looked at his master.

"Explain yourself, Monsieur Lebrenn!" commanded the Admiral.

"This morning, when you were away from the room with your servants at
prayer, I came in to bring back your casque. I found Dominic here."

"That is so," said Nicholas Mouche; "he did not go to prayer with the
rest."

"Without being surprised at finding Dominic in his master's room,"
Odelin proceeded, "I noticed, notwithstanding, that he was pale and
confused. Later, God be blessed, I recalled the circumstance that, as I
came in, I saw him quickly step away from the table on which stood the
vessel which, as Nicholas afterwards told me, held the drink you take
every morning, Monsieur Admiral. Into that drink, into that chicory
water, Dominic dropped the poison."

"He!" exclaimed Coligny, horrified. "Impossible! A servant raised under
my own roof since his early childhood!"

"Oh, the wretch!" cried Nicholas Mouche. "This morning, seeing me
prepare the potion, Dominic asked me to let him attend to the matter. I
saw in that only a warning to be careful."

"My God!" put in Lanoüe, who had remained dumb with horror and
indignation. "Providence can allow such crimes, only to inspire the
world with execration for their perpetrators. Can such wickedness be,
Monsieur Lebrenn?"

"Dominic has confessed all. The instigators of the murder are the Duke
of Anjou and the Count of La Riviere, a captain of the Duke's guards.
The temptation of a vast sum decided the assassin to undertake the
deed."

"Oh, Catherine De Medici, your children approve themselves worthy of
you! They emulate the example you have set them!" exclaimed Lanoüe.

"But how did you discover the crime, Monsieur Lebrenn? Tell us."

"What I noticed this morning would have awakened my suspicions on the
spot, were it not for the hurried arrival of my son and the tidings he
brought me. I followed him in a great hurry. As we were passing by the
inn that lies not far from my place and where the horses of Monsieur
Coligny are stabled, I saw Dominic come out, riding bareback. His nag
bore evidence of having been bridled in great haste. Dominic departed at
a gallop. The man's frightened looks and his hurry to get off revived my
first suspicions. I ran after him calling out: 'Hold him!' 'Hold him!'
My uncle, the Franc-Taupin, together with some others of his men,
happened to be in the wretch's way. They jumped at the bridle of his
horse, and held him fast. As I caught up with them I shouted to him
point-blank: 'You poisoned the Admiral!' Surprise, fear and remorse
immediately drew from him a full confession of his crime. 'It is true,'
he answered. 'I repent it. The Duke of Anjou offered me a large sum to
poison my master--I yielded--the poison was handed to me--and I returned
to camp in order to commit the murder.' The instant I heard this, I ran
hither, leaving Dominic in the care of my son."

"Monsieur Lebrenn," said Coligny, grasping Odelin's hands with warmth,
"It is thirty and odd years ago that I met your worthy father at one of
the first councils of the reformers on Montmartre. I was then quite
young, while your father, an artisan employed at the printing
establishment of Robert Estienne already had rendered valiant services
to the cause. It is sweet to me to owe my life to you--to you, his
worthy son."

"The cannon!" suddenly called out Lanoüe, listening to a muffled and
rumbling sound that came from afar, carried into the room by the early
morning breeze, "It is the rumbling sound of approaching cannon wheels.
The detonations succeed each other rapidly."

"Nicholas," said Coligny, without indicating any surprise, "look at my
pocket-watch. It must now be nearly ten o'clock."

"Yes, monsieur," answered the equerry after consulting the watch; "it is
nearly ten."

"La Rochefoucauld has executed my orders punctually. It shall not be
long before we shall see one of his officers arrive. Lanoüe, let us be
ready to jump on horseback." And turning to his equerry: "Order the
horses brought to the door of the priory. Monsieur Lebrenn, I count upon
having your son at my side, as usual in action, to carry my orders."

"Here he is, monsieur," answered Odelin as Antonicq entered. "Where is
the wretch, my son?"

"Father, he repeated his confession, again accusing the Duke of Anjou
and the captain of the Duke's guards with having driven him to the
commission of the crime, which he seemed deeply to repent. The
exasperated soldiers executed instant justice upon the poisoner. They
hanged him. His corpse is now swinging from the branch of an oak."[70]

At this moment a Huguenot officer covered with dust appeared at the
threshold of the door. Monsieur Coligny said to him:

"I was waiting for you. Is the skirmish opened? Are all doing their duty
well?"

"Yes, monsieur. A few companies of the royal army answered our attack,
and have crossed the stream that covered their front."

"Monsieur La Rochefoucauld must have feigned a retreat towards the hill
of Haut Moulin, behind which are massed the twenty cavalry squadrons of
the Prince of Gerolstein. Have all my orders been executed?"

"Yes, monsieur. At the very moment that he despatched me to you,
Monsieur La Rochefoucauld was executing the retreat. The Prince was in
command of his cavalry. All the forces are in line of battle."

"All goes well," observed Coligny to Lanoüe; "I ordered the Prince's
squadrons not to dismask and charge until the royal troops, drawn into
disorder by their pursuit of our men, shall have arrived at the foot of
the hill. We may expect a good result."

"Monsieur La Rochefoucauld also ordered me to make an important
communication to you. From some royalist prisoners we learned this
morning that the Queen and the Cardinal arrived in the camp of the Duke
of Anjou."

Upon hearing of Catherine De Medici's arrival, the Admiral reflected for
an instant, then drew near the table, dashed a few words down on a sheet
of paper and handed it to the officer, saying:

"Monsieur, return at your fastest, and deliver this order to Monsieur La
Rochefoucauld." And addressing Lanoüe as the officer left on the wings
of the wind on his errand: "The presence of the Queen in the royal camp
may suggest to Marshal Tavannes the idea of engaging in a decisive
action. Come, my friend," he added, leaving the chamber, "I wish to
consult with the Princes of Orange and Nassau before taking horse."




CHAPTER V.

FAMILY FLOTSAM.


Almost immediately upon the arrival of Monsieur La Rochefoucauld's aide
at the Admiral's quarters, Odelin Lebrenn and Antonicq hastened to reach
their lodgings, where Anna Bell awaited them. The meeting between father
and daughter was delayed through the discovery of the crime that Coligny
was to be the victim of.

Odelin Lebrenn had set up his armorer's establishment on the ground
floor of a house in St. Yrieix which the inhabitants had abandoned.
Franz of Gerolstein, together with several noblemen of his suite and
their pages, occupied a set of rooms on the floor above, below them
being also the quarters of Odelin, his son and the Franc-Taupin. A straw
couch, large enough to accommodate the three, stood at the rear of the
apartment. Near a wide, open fireplace lay the hammers, the anvil and
the portable forge requisite for the armorer's work. Day was now far
advanced. Since morning Anna Bell had not left the lodging. Seated on a
wooden bench, and her head reclined upon her hands, she expectantly
turned her ears from time to time toward the street. The recent
agonizing bustle of the camp was now followed by solitude and silence.
All the troops, a few companies excepted that were left in charge of
the baggage, had marched out beyond the burg and its entrenchments, in
order to form in battle array about one league from the Admiral's
headquarters, he having prepared for a possible general engagement.

Odelin Lebrenn's first interview with Anna Bell was both tender and
painful. The father found again his daughter, once dearly beloved and
long wept as lost. But he found her soiled with the title of maid of
honor of Catherine De Medici! With distressing frankness the wretched
girl confessed to her father the disorders of her past life. Anna Bell
was just finishing her narrative when the general call to arms
resounded. Antonicq went to his post beside Monsieur Coligny, after
listening to the revelations of his sister; a few minutes later Odelin
also, yielding to the imperious voice of duty, left his weeping
daughter, to join the cavalry squadron in which he served as volunteer.

Left alone, Anna Bell fell a prey to cruel anxieties. Her father, her
brother and Franz of Gerolstein were about to run the dangers of a
battle. The confession wrung from her lips by a terrific necessity
seemed to render all the more profound, all the more grievous the love
of the young girl for the Prince. Now less than ever did she expect her
affection to be returned. Still she experienced a sort of bitter
consolation in the thought that Franz of Gerolstein was no longer
ignorant of her passionate devotion, and that, in order to save him from
poison, she risked her own life. The chaos of distressing thoughts, now
rendered all the more painful by her uneasiness for those whom she
loved, plunged Anna Bell into inexpressible agony. She counted the hours
with increasing anxiety. Toward night the roll of drums and blare of
trumpets resounded from afar. The young girl trembled and listened.
Presently she could distinguish the approaching tramp of horses' hoofs,
and not long thereafter she heard them stop before the lodging. Running
to the door, she opened it in the hope of seeing her brother and father.
Instead, she saw a page in the livery of the Prince of Gerolstein
holding a second horse by the reins.

"Monsieur," asked Anna Bell anxiously of the lad, "what news of the
battle?"

"There was no battle, mademoiselle, only a lively engagement of
outposts. The royalists were worsted," and swallowing a sigh, while
tears appeared in his eyes, he added, "but unfortunately my poor comrade
Wilhelm, one of the Prince of Gerolstein's pages, was killed in the
skirmish. I am leading back his horse."

"And the Prince?" inquired Anna Bell, nervously. "He has not been
wounded?"

"No, mademoiselle. I am riding ahead of monsieur; he is returning with
his squadrons," answered the page, alighting from his horse, and his
sighs and sobs redoubled, while the tears rolled down his cheeks.

At ease on the score of Franz of Gerolstein's life, Anna Bell had some
words of consolation for the afflicted page. "I am sorry for you," she
said; "to lose a friend at your age."

"Oh, mademoiselle. I loved him so dearly--he died so valiantly! An
arquebusier was taking aim at the Prince. Wilhelm threw himself in front
and received the ball in his chest. He dropped, never to rise again."

"Generous lad!" exclaimed Anna Bell, and silently she thought: "To die
for Franz! Under his own eyes. That is a death to be envied!"

"Poor Wilhelm!" continued the page sadly, "his last words were for his
mother. He asked me, if ever I return home again, to carry to her a sash
that she embroidered for him, and which he left at our lodging together
with his gala suit."

The lad's words seemed to have suggested an unexpected line of thought
to Anna Bell, when she suddenly saw Odelin from a distance, returning at
full gallop in the company of other horsemen. She cried: "There is
father! Thank God, he is not wounded. But where is brother?"

Not daring, out of a sense of modesty, to be seen by the strangers who
accompanied her father, Anna Bell stepped back into the room. Odelin led
his horse to a stable where also the horses of Franz of Gerolstein were
kept, and hastened back to join his daughter in the house. The girl ran
to him, kissed his hands respectfully several times, and said:

"Thank heaven, father, you are safe and sound--but brother, dear
Antonicq, did he also come off scathless?"

"You may feel at ease," answered Odelin, embracing his daughter,
"Antonicq is not wounded. Together with other volunteers he is escorting
a number of prisoners to places of safety in the camp. Poor child,
great must have been your anxiety since I left you. Come to your
father's arms!"

"Oh, I counted the hours--the minutes--"

"Let me embrace you again--and yet again," said Odelin with tears in his
eyes, and fondly holding her in his arms. "Oh, divine power of
happiness! It brings with it the balm of forgetfulness of the past! I
have found you again--dear child! In one day, years of sorrow are
blotted out!"

Hardly able to repress her tears, Anna Bell responded unrestrainedly to
Odelin's caresses. His ineffable clemency was not belied.

"Father," she said, "would you have me disarm you while we wait for
Antonicq? Your cuirass must tire you. Let me unbuckle it."

"Thank you, child," the armorer answered, as he stepped to a lanthorn
that hung from the wall, and lighted the same to dispel the shadows that
began to invade the apartment. He then took off his casque, loosened his
belt, and returned to his daughter: "But I shall remain armed. The
Admiral issued orders that the troops rest a few hours, take supper, and
hold themselves ready to march at a minute's notice."

"My God--is there another battle pending?"

"I do not know the projects of Admiral Coligny; all I know--and that is
all that is of importance to me--I know we have a few hours to
ourselves. Sit down there, dear child, so that the light of the lanthorn
may fall upon your face--I wish to behold you at my leisure. This
morning tears darkened my eyes almost continuously."

And after contemplating Anna Bell for a while with tender and silent
curiosity, Odelin resumed:

"Yes, your sweet beauty is such as your charming little girl's face gave
promise of. Oh! how often did I not leave my anvil and drop my hammer to
fondle your blonde head! Your hair has grown darker. In your infancy you
were as blonde as my sister Hena. Many a line in your face recalls hers.
She and I resembled each other. But your beautiful brown and velvety
eyes have remained the same--neither in color nor shape have they
changed. I find the dimple still on your chin, and the two little ones
on your cheeks each time you laughed, they also are still there--and you
were always laughing--my dear, dear child!"

"Oh! how happy those days must have been to me!" murmured the young
girl, as she recalled with bitter sorrow the hours of her innocent
childhood. "I then was near you, father, and near mother--and besides--"

Anna Bell could not finish the sentence. The distressed girl broke down
sobbing.

"Heaven and earth!" cried up the armorer, whose features, shortly before
illumined with happiness, now were overcast with grief. "To think that
you had to beg your bread! My poor child--perhaps beaten by the gypsy
woman who kidnapped you from the loving paternal roof!"

"Father," replied the poor girl with a look of profound grief, "those
days of misery were not my worst days. Oh, that I had always remained a
beggar!"

"I understand your thoughts, unhappy child! Let us drop those sad
recollections!" And stamping the floor furiously Odelin added: "Oh,
infamous Queen! Thou art the monster who debauched my child! A curse
upon thee and thy execrable brood!" After a painful silence, Odelin
proceeded abruptly: "Do! I conjure you! Let us never again return to the
past. Let us endeavor to bury it in everlasting oblivion!"

"Alas, father, even if your clemency were to forget, my conscience will
ever remember. It will every day remind me that I am a disgrace to my
family. Oh, God! My cheeks tingle with shame at the bare thought of
meeting my sister--and mother!"

"Your mother! You know not the depths of a mother's love, indulgence and
compassion. You return to her soiled, but repentant, and your mother
will forgive. Besides, you are not guilty--you are the victim of, not
the accomplice in, your past life. Your heart has remained pure, your
instincts honest and lofty; your tears, your remorse, your apprehensions
prove it to me. No, no! Be not afraid. Your mother and sister will
receive you with joy, with confidence. I am certain henceforth your life
will be ours, pure, modest, industrious! Oh, I know it--it is only that
that causes my heart to bleed, and my pity for you to redouble; you are
never to experience the austere yet sweet joys of a wife--and a
mother!"

Odelin remained for a moment steeped in silent rumination. After a pause
he proceeded:

"It is the severe punishment for a sin that it is allowed to none but
your own family to absolve you of. But your sister's children will be
your own. Your brother also is to marry. Cornelia, his sweetheart, is
worthy of our affection. You will silence the cravings of your own heart
in loving their children as you would have done your own. They will also
love you. You will spend your life near them and us. Come, take a
father's word for it--the domestic hearth is an inexhaustible source of
consolation for the sorrowful--an inexhaustible source of sweet joys and
healthy pleasures."

These warm and affectionate words moved Anna Bell so profoundly that,
dropping down upon her knees before her father, she covered his hands
and face with kisses and tears; and raising her eyes up to him, and
contemplating him with a kind of respectful admiration, "Oh, father!"
she exclaimed, "living image of God! Your goodness and compassion are
like only unto His!"

"Because you suffer, my poor child," replied Odelin, his eyes moist with
tears. And raising his daughter from the floor and placing her beside
him, he put his arm around her and covered her with renewed caresses.

"It is because you are to suffer still more--it is because you love--it
is because you are bound to love--and without hope!" the armorer
proceeded with solemnity. "Only this once, and never again shall I
mention this painful love. If I, your father, touch upon such a subject
with you, the reason is that it is impossible for me to blame the
choice of your heart. Franz of Gerolstein, by the strength of his
character, the generosity of his sentiments, the loftiness of his whole
life, deserves to be loved passionately. Alas, but for that unhappy
past, your love needed not be hopeless. Only a few hours ago, speaking
about you at a halt made by our troops, Franz of Gerolstein remarked to
me: 'Oh, that honor, the only barrier I may never leap, should separate
me forever from your daughter!' It was not a hollow consolation the
Prince was offering me. I know Franz's contempt for distinctions of
rank. Moreover we are of the same blood, our family comes from one
stock; but that fatal past--that is the unbridgeable abyss that
separates us forever from the Prince. That is why you inspire me with so
much pity. Yes, you are all the more endeared to me because you suffer,
and by reason of your future sufferings, poor dear child, so guiltless
of the sins you have committed!" added Odelin with renewed tenderness.
"But be brave, be brave, my child! Your hopeless love is at least
honorable and pure; you can nourish it without shame, in the secret
recesses of your heart. I shall say not another word upon that
ill-starred passion. When you are back among us and, although surrounded
by our affection, I shall see you at times lost in revery, sad, and
moist of eye, believe me, poor distressed soul, your father will
sympathize with your grief; each tear you drop will fall upon my heart."

Odelin was uttering these last words when his son hurried into the
apartment, looking sad and even bewildered. Anna Bell jumped up to meet
the young man, saying: "Thank God, brother, I see you back safe and
sound!"

Such was the preoccupation of Antonicq that, without answering his
sister, without taking notice of her, and even gently pushing her aside,
he approached his father, and taking him apart to the other end of the
room, spoke to him in a low and excited voice. Painfully affected at
seeing herself pushed out of the way by her brother, who seemed to have
neither a word nor a look for her in response to the gladness that she
expressed at his safe return from battle, the young girl imagined
herself despised by him.

"Alas!" thought the maid of honor, "my brother will not forgive my past
life; only a father's heart is capable of indulgence. Great God! If my
sister, my mother, were also to receive me with such disdain--perchance
aversion! I would rather die than expose myself to such treatment!"

Antonicq continued to speak with his father in a low voice. Suddenly
Odelin seemed to shudder, and hid his face in his hands. Profound
silence ensued. Anna Bell, more and more the prey of the shyness and
mistrust that conscious guilt inspires in a repentant soul, imagined
herself the subject of the mysterious conversation between her father
and brother. Odelin's features, lowering and angry, betokened disgust
and indignation. The words escaped him: "And yet, despite such revolting
horrors, I am bound to him by a sacred bond! Oh, a curse upon the day
that brought us together again! A curse upon the fatal discovery! But
once I shall have fulfilled that last duty, may heaven ever after
deliver me of his hated presence! Listen," added the armorer, and again
lowering his voice, he spoke to his son with intense earnestness,
closing with the statement: "Such is my plan!"

The conversation was again renewed in undertones between father and son.
Anna Bell had caught only fragments of her father's remarks. She was
convinced they spoke of her--and yet, only a minute before, Odelin was
so lovingly indulgent towards his erring daughter. In vain did the young
girl seek to fathom the cause of so sudden a change. What could the
fatal discovery be that Antonicq had just imparted to his father, and
seemed suddenly to incite his indignation and anger? Did she not lay her
past life bare to her father in all sincerity of heart? What could she
be accused of that she had not voluntarily confessed? A prey to profound
anxiety, the young girl's heart sank within her; her limbs trembled as
she saw her father hurriedly take up his sword and casque, and make
ready to leave with Antonicq.

The young man stepped to the couch of straw and pulled out of it a long,
wide cloak of a brown material with a scarlet hood attached, such as was
common among the Rochelois,[71] and helped his father to wrap himself in
it over his armor; Odelin then put on his casque, threw the hood over
it, and, without either look or word to his daughter, who, trembling and
with frightened eyes followed his movements, went out, followed by his
son.

Long did Anna Bell weep. When her tears ran dry, the young girl turned
her face to the future with sinister resolution. She considered herself
an object of disgust and aversion to her brother and father. Forsaken by
them, an unbridgeable abyss--honor--separated her forever from Franz of
Gerolstein. Nothing was left but to die. Suddenly a flash of joy
lightened her eyes, red with recent tears. She rose, stood erect, and
looking about said: "Yes, to die. But to die under Franz's eyes--to die
for him, like the young page killed this very day by throwing himself in
the path of the bullet that was to fell his master. The army is to
return to battle. The clothes, the horse of the page who was killed
to-day are all here!"

As these thoughts seethed in her mind, Anna Bell's eyes fell upon some
sheets of paper, a pen and ink in a broken cup lying on the mantlepiece.
The girl took them down with a sigh:

"Oh, father! Oh, brother! Despite your contempt and aversion, my last
thoughts will be of you!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Hervé Lebrenn, the incestuous wretch who raised a matricidal hand
against his mother, Fra Hervé, the Cordelier, as he was called in the
royal army, deserved but too well the reputation for a fiery preacher
and leader of implacable sectarians. His sermons, lighted by a savage
style of eloquence, and coupled to acts of ferocity in battle, inspired
the Catholics with fanatic admiration. Wounded and made a prisoner in
the course of the engagement of that day, he was taken pinioned to St.
Yrieix and locked up in a dark cellar. The cellar door opened. The light
of a lanthorn partially dispelled the gloom of the subterranean cell.
Seated on the ground with his shoulders against the wall, Fra Hervé saw
a man enter, wrapped in a brown mantle, the scarlet hood of which, being
wholly thrown over his head, concealed the face of the nocturnal
visitor. The visitor was Odelin Lebrenn. He closed the door behind him,
placed the lanthorn on the floor, and almost convulsed with wracking
emotions, silently contemplated his brother, who had not yet recognized
him. Odelin saw him now for the first time since the day when, still a
lad returning from Italy with Master Raimbaud, the armorer, he
involuntarily witnessed the torture and death of his sister Hena and
Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. Hervé also attended the solemnity of his
sister's execution, in the company of Fra Girard, his evil genius.

Odelin Lebrenn looked with mute horror upon his imprisoned brother. The
lanthorn, placed upon the floor, threw upward a bright light streaked
with hard, black shadows upon the cadaverous, ascetic and haggard
features of Hervé. His large, bald forehead, yellow and dirty, was tied
in a blood-stained bandage. The blood had flowed down from his wound,
dried up on one of his protruding cheek bones, and coagulated in the
hairs of his thick and matted beard. His brown and threadbare coat,
patched up in a score of places, was held around his waist by a cord
from which hung a chaplet of arquebus balls with a small crucifix of
lead. Rusty iron spurs were fastened with leather straps to his muddy
feet, shod in sandals. Fra Hervé, unable to distinguish his brother's
face, shadowed as it was by the hood of the mantle, turned his head
slowly towards the visitor, and kneeling down with an expression of
gloomy disdain, said in a hollow voice:

"Is it death? I am ready!"

The Cordelier thereupon bowed down his large bald head, and raising his
fettered hands towards the roof of the cellar muttered in a low voice
the funeral invocation of the dying. Odelin threw back his hood, took up
the lanthorn, and held it so as to throw a clear light upon his face.

"Brother!" he called out to the monk in a voice that betrayed his
profound emotion. "I am Odelin Lebrenn!"

Without rising from his knees, Fra Hervé threw himself back, and
examined for a moment the face of Odelin. At length he recognized him,
and, a sudden flash of hatred illumining his hollow eyes and an infernal
smile curling his livid lips, he cried:

"God has sent you! I shall spit out the truth into the face of the
apostate! Oh, that your father were also here!"

"Respect his memory--our father is dead!"

"Did he die impenitent?"

"He died in his faith!"

"He died damned!" replied Fra Hervé with a savage guffaw. "Everlastingly
damned! The corruptor of my youth! The heretical leper! The sink of
pestilence! Damned along with his wife! It was Thy will, Oh, God! In Thy
wrath Thou didst so decree it. The flames of hell will be doubly hot to
them! Forever and ever will they be face to face with the spectacle of
their daughter, damned through their acts, and damned like themselves,
writhing in the midst of everlasting fires!"

"Do not take upon your lips the names of our sister, the poor martyr, or
of our mother, you wretched fanatic, author of all their sufferings!"

"'Our' mother! 'Our' father! 'Our' sister!" echoed back the monk, with
an outburst of sardonic laughter. "Look at the renegate! He dares invoke
bonds that are snapped, and are abhorred! Man--I have no father but the
vicar of Christ! No mother but the Church! No brothers but faithful
Catholics. Outside of that holy family--holy, thrice holy!--I see only
savage beasts, bent in their demoniacal rage upon tearing into shreds
the sacred body of my holy mother! And I kill them! I throttle them! I
immolate them to God, the avenger! Oh, how I grieve to think that you
did not fall, like the likes of you, under my heavy iron crucifix, which
the Holy Father blessed! What more beautiful holocaust could I offer to
the implacable anger of the Lord, than to say to Him as Abraham did on
the mountain: 'Lord! May the vapor of this blood rise to your nostrils.
This blood is twofold expiatory! It is my blood, it is the blood of my
family!'"

"Blood! Always blood!" echoed Odelin, shivering with disgust and horror.
"Hervé, blood has intoxicated you. Like so many other priests, you are
the prey of a savage frenzy. A bloodthirsty dementia has dethroned your
reason. I have for you the pity that a furious madman inspires. After a
desperate resistance you fell into the power of a corps of Protestant
horsemen. My son was among them; he identified you by the mournful
celebrity that surrounds your name. His companions were of a mind to
kill you on the spot. He obtained from them a postponement of your
execution under the pretext that your death would be more exemplary
before the assembled ranks of our soldiers. My son's views prevailed.
You were taken to this place, to this cellar belonging to the priory
occupied by Admiral Coligny, who, thanks to God, escaped this day being
poisoned, escaped the latest abominable crime planned against him. You
were taken to this cell. My son just notified me of your capture and of
his desire to save you. I share his wishes--seeing that, unfortunately,
we are both children of one father. But for that I would have left you
to your fate. Your religion commands you to kill me; mine commands me to
save you. I shall untie your hands; you shall throw this mantle over
your shoulders and lower the hood over your head. My son is the only
watchman. He offered to the sentinel placed on guard over you to take
his place. The offer was accepted. We shall leave this cell together.
The Rochelois mantle will conceal your frock and remove suspicion. You
will follow me. I am known to all the people and soldiers whom we may
meet in crossing the courtyard of the Admiral's house. I hope to secure
your flight with the aid of this disguise. That duty, a sacred one to
me, I fulfil in the name of our parents who are no more--in the name of
those cherished beings who loved us so dearly."

"Oh, God, the Avenger!" exclaimed Hervé with savage exaltation. "Ever
does Thy anger strike Thy enemies with blindness! Themselves they break
the chains of their immolators! Themselves they deliver themselves
defenseless into the hands of their implacable enemies!"

And stretching out his fettered hands to his brother, the monk added:

"Oh, thou vile instrument of the King of Kings! Free these hands from
their bonds! There is still work for them to do in cropping the bloody
field of heresy! There are still supporters of Satan for these hands to
exterminate!"

Calm and sad, Odelin loosed the fetters from Fra Hervé's hands. Hardly
did the monk regain the free use of his arms than, darting a tiger's
look at his brother, he took two steps back, seized the heavy string of
leaden balls that hung from his girdle, swung it like a sling, and,
before his liberator, who stood stupefied at the brusque assault, had
time to protect himself, smote him several times on the head with the
heavy chaplet. Although considerably deadened by Odelin's casque, the
violent blows staggered the armorer. For a moment he seemed to reel on
his feet, but instantly recovering himself, he drew his sword at the
very moment that Fra Hervé returned to the charge. Odelin parried the
blows, and, cutting with a back-stroke the string that held the balls,
caused them to slip off and roll down at the feet of the monk. Odelin
immediately threw his sword aside, but carried away with rage and
indignation, he dashed upon his brother, seized him by the throat, threw
him to the ground and pinned him down with his knees upon his chest. In
this struggle, Fra Hervé, weakened by his wound, had the disadvantage.
He furiously bit Odelin's hand. The pain drew a piercing cry from
Odelin. The noise was heard by Antonicq, who stood on guard at the
outside of the door. The young man rushed in and saw his father at close
quarters with the monk, who, in his rage, kept his teeth in Odelin's
flesh and sought, after having penetrated to the bone, to crush his
brother's thumb between his teeth. Exasperated at the sight, Antonicq
picked up his father's sword and dealing with the handle of the weapon a
crushing blow upon Fra Hervé's cheek, knocked in several of his teeth
and compelled him to release his prey. Odelin rose. Panting with fury
and exhausted by the violence of the struggle, the Cordelier sank upon
his knees; tore off the bandage from his head, thereby leaving a deep,
gaping wound exposed; and trembling with silent, savage rage, sought to
staunch the blood that poured in streams out of his mouth.

"My son, look at that monk," observed Odelin to Antonicq with a broken
voice. "There was a time when that man was full of tenderness and
respect for my father and mother. He cherished my sister and me. Brought
up like myself in the practice of justice, and gifted with exceptional
intelligence, he was the joy, the pride, the hope of our family. Look at
him now; shudder; there you see him the handiwork of the infamous clergy
of the papacy!"

"Oh, it is horrible!" exclaimed Antonicq, hiding his face in his hands.
And, suddenly startled by the sound of a distant tumult that reached the
depth of the cell across the profound silence of the night, the young
man listened for a moment and said: "Father, do you hear that noise? The
troops are on the march. The cavalry is moving."

"Yes," answered Odelin, listening in turn. "The Admiral must have
decided to surprise the royalist army before daybreak. The forces will
be shortly on the march. You remain on guard at the door of the cellar.
This prisoner is the object of so much hatred that they are likely to
come for him any moment, to put him to death before we deliver battle.
His cell will be found empty. You will answer that the man was my
brother and that I wished him to escape punishment. Before mounting your
horse, come for me at my lodging. We left your poor sister there. Our
sudden departure must have seemed strange to her, and may have caused
her anxiety. In my confusion I never thought of giving her a word of
comfort. Let us make haste."

And throwing his Rochelois cloak to Fra Hervé, Odelin continued:

"If you care to escape death, put that cloak on and come. Towards you,
and despite yourself, I shall act as a brother."

"And I will pursue you with revengeful hatred, apostate!" answered the
monk with implacable resentment, rising to his feet and donning the
cloak. "The Lord delivers me through your hand. He has His purpose. I
shall be the exterminator of your heretical kin! March--lead my way
out--save me! God orders it--obey!"

Thanks to the disguise of Fra Hervé, who was wrapped in a Rochelois
cloak like a large number of Protestant volunteers, Odelin succeeded in
aiding him to escape from the grounds of the priory where he was a
prisoner. The two thereupon crossed the streets of St. Yrieix, these
being crowded with soldiers hastening in silence to their several posts.
Intending to surprise the enemy in the morning by a forced night march,
the Admiral ordered the assembly of the forces to be done without beat
of drum. Odelin and Fra Hervé saw not far from them the Franc-Taupin and
the Avengers of Israel as they crossed the road on their way to the
prison of the Cordelier whom they were to execute. A few minutes later,
led by his brother to the furthest end of the camp, Fra Hervé vanished
in the dark, taking long strides, and hurling threats of vengeance and
anathema at his liberator.

Odelin hastened to return to his own lodging in order to comfort his
daughter and embrace her before going to battle. Anna Bell had vanished.
The room was empty. There was a letter left by her upon the armorer's
anvil.




CHAPTER VI.

THE BATTLE OF ROCHE-LA-BELLE.


The Protestant army, about twenty-five thousand strong, marched out of
St. Yrieix in profound silence at about one o'clock in the morning. The
black and sinuous line of battalions and squadrons was hardly
distinguishable from the surrounding darkness of the night, lighted only
by the scintillations of the stars. The column followed the winding of
the whitish road which was lost to sight in the distant horizon in the
direction towards Roche-la-Belle, the royalist encampment. The measured
step of the foot soldiers, the sonorous tramp of the cavalry, the
clinking of the armors, the jolting and rumbling of artillery
wheels--all these noises merged into one muffled and solemn sound.
Scouts, alert with eye and ear, and pistol in hand, preceded the
vanguard. At the head of the vanguard rode Admiral Coligny, with two
young men, one on either side--Henry of Bearn, the son of the brave Joan
of Albert, Queen of Navarre, and Condé, a son of the Prince of Condé,
whom Montesquiou assassinated. Other Protestant leaders, among them
Lanoüe and Saragosse, followed in the Admiral's suite. On that morning
the Admiral rode a superb silver-grey Turkish horse that was wounded
under him at Jarnac, and which he preferred to all other mounts. A light
iron mail covered the neck, chest and crupper of the spirited steed.
Coligny himself wore his habitual armor of polished iron devoid of
ornament. His strong high boots reached up as far as his cuisses. His
floating white and wire-sleeved cloak allowed his cuirass to be seen.
His old battle sword hung from his belt. The butts of his long pistols
peeped from under his saddle-bow. He rode bowed down by years, sorrows
and the trials of so many campaigns. His venerable head seemed to bend
under the weight of his casque. He guided his horse with his left hand.
His right, gloved, reclined upon his cuisse. Suddenly he straightened up
in the saddle, reined in his horse, and said in a grave voice:

"Halt, messieurs!"

The order was repeated from rank to rank back to the rearmost of the
rear guard. One of the volunteers, who served as aide-de-camp to the
Admiral, rode forward at a gallop to carry to the scouts the order to
stop. An almost imperceptible shimmer began to whiten the horizon and
announced the approach of dawn. A tepid breeze rose from the west, and
became strong enough to chase the few clouds before it. These grew
denser; at first they veiled the stars; soon they seemed to invade the
whole firmament. Coligny attentively examined the aspect of the skies,
communicated his opinion to his escort, and said to his lieutenants:

"A west wind, rising at dawn, generally presages a rainy day. Messieurs,
we shall have to push the attack in lively style before the rain comes
down upon us, otherwise the fire of our infantry will be almost
useless."

And addressing Lanoüe:

"My friend, the chiefs of divisions have my orders; let them be drawn up
for battle."

Lanoüe and several other officers rode off to execute the instructions
of the Admiral. At this spot the road crossed a vast plateau more than a
league wide, upon which the Protestant army deployed its lines and took
up its positions. Coligny had Lanoüe and John of Soubise for his
lieutenants. Prince Louis of Nassau commanded the right wing; La
Rochefoucauld the center, with Henry of Bearn, Condé, the Prince of
Orange, Wolfgang of Mansfeld and the Prince of Gerolstein under his
orders; finally, the left was in charge of Saragosse. Colonels Piles and
Baudine covered the right wing with their regiments; Colonels Rouvray
and Pouilly the left. The lancers and the artillery were distributed
along the two wings, while a strong cavalry force, consisting of twenty
squadrons, held itself in reserve, ready to ride into action supported
by several regiments of infantry.

In the measure that the light of dawn rendered the distant horizon more
distinct, the belfry of the church of Roche-la-Belle, the fortified town
occupied by the royalists, and lying about half a league away, could be
discerned from the highest point of the plateau where the Protestant
forces were deploying their lines. A black line along the dawn that
dimly lighted the horizon marked the royalist entrenchments.

Soon as the army was drawn up in battle formation, Coligny said to
Antonicq, one of the volunteers who served as aide-de-camp:

"Monsieur Lebrenn, convey to Colonel Plouernel my orders to push forward
with his regiment and six companies of auxiliaries. Recommend to him
above all to execute his march in the profoundest silence possible,
without either beat of drums or blare of trumpets. The enemy must be
taken by surprise. The colonel is to seize the lake road, which is
strongly defended. When that post is carried, return and notify me."

Antonicq left at a gallop for the extreme right wing, the post of
Colonel Plouernel, the younger brother of Count Neroweg of Plouernel,
who commanded the escort of Queen Catherine De Medici the day of her
arrival at the Abbey of St. Severin. The religious feuds threw the two
brothers into opposite camps--a not infrequent occurrence in those
unhappy days. In the course of the civil wars, the colonel, like so many
other Protestants, sought refuge in the city of La Rochelle. Odelin
thanks to the family archives left to him by his father Christian, knew
that the printer had met and was greatly gratified by the courtesy of
Colonel Plouernel on the occasion of one of the first councils held by
the reformers in the quarry of Montmartre, when he was known as the
Knight of Plouernel. One day, at La Rochelle, Odelin saw the knight, who
had become a colonel in the Huguenot army, enter his smithy. He came to
purchase arms, and noticing on the shield of the shop the name of
Lebrenn, inquired from the armorer whether any relationship existed
between him and the artisan once employed in the printing establishment
of Robert Estienne. Odelin answered that he was a son of the artisan,
and, agreeably impressed by the cordiality with which the colonel spoke
of his father, entered into friendly relations with the nobleman,
finding a singular charm in an acquaintance with one of the descendants
of that old Frankish family whose path the sons of Joel had so often
crossed, arms in hand, across the ages. In short, prizing more and more
the noble character, the generous heart and the artless manners of
Colonel Plouernel, a man free from all taint of family haughtiness and
imbued, as much as any, with the democratic principles of the
Reformation, Odelin informed the scion of the ancient house of Plouernel
of the accidental circumstance concerning the hereditary feud between
the two families both before and since the conquest of Clovis, and
communicated to him the passages of the domestic chronicles touching
upon those historic facts. By little and little an intimate friendship
sprang up between Odelin and Colonel Plouernel. The latter, having
married during one of the truces of the civil war a young lady of
Vannes, from whom he had two little boys, was forced to seek refuge in
La Rochelle with them and his wife when at last war broke out anew. He
hired a few vacant rooms from Odelin, being anxious to leave Madam
Plouernel with a family the virtues of which he appreciated. For
Antonicq, Odelin's son, he felt an almost paternal affection, there
being many years' difference between their ages. Being, thanks to his
bravery, his reputation, his military talents, and his experience in
the field, greatly esteemed among the Protestants, Colonel Plouernel
commanded in this campaign a regiment composed almost exclusively of
Bretons. His soldiers, however, although brave and zealous, were, like
all other volunteers, unfortunately prone to disregard discipline;
being, moreover, but ill broken to the pursuit of arms, they often
failed to appreciate the authority of skilful and prudent tactics,
preferring to listen to their own blind intrepidity. The Breton
regiment, together with the company of auxiliaries, numbered about three
thousand men. They stood drawn up for battle at the furthest extremity
of the right wing, when Antonicq, the carrier of the Admiral's orders,
arrived at a gallop before their front ranks. Some, being field
laborers, wore the ancient loose Gallic blouse, with hose fastened
around the waist by a belt, and woolen bonnets on their heads; others,
being either artisans or bourgeois from the cities, wore wide hose,
jackets laced in front in the Burgundian style, or brigandines, or coats
of mail or other defensive equipments, according to their several
tastes. The men's headgear also offered a varied aspect: casques,
morions, bassinets, slouch hats, bonnets ribbed with two iron hoops.
Neither were the offensive arms more uniform--lances, pikes, halberds,
antique swords, cross-bows, iron maces, cutlasses, hunting arquebuses,
field arquebuses, and pistols all being visible. Several wood-cutters
and their helpers were armed with hatchets, and some had scythes with
the edge turned out. The only uniform, or article common to all, was a
belt or shoulder sash of white material. These men, although presenting
a rather unmilitary appearance, displayed spirit and ardor. More than
once did it happen that the fury of their onslaught overthrew the best
royal troops, both infantry and cavalry, despite the latter's long
military training and discipline.

Armed like a German rider, with black casque, black cuirass and white
cloak, Colonel Plouernel bestrode a powerful Breton bay mare,
caparisoned in scarlet. When Antonicq approached him he was in
conversation with several officers of his regiment. Among these was the
Pastor Feron, a man gifted with exceptional energy, and of austere and
resolute mien. Often did he, like so many other ministers of the
Reformed religion, march to battle at the head of a troop, singing
psalms like the old bards of Gaul who marched in advance of the warriors
singing their heroic chants. More than once wounded, the clergyman Feron
inspired the Protestants with as much confidence as veneration. Antonicq
transmitted the orders of Admiral Coligny to Colonel Plouernel. The
latter immediately faced his troops and said to the captains who
surrounded him:

"The Admiral does us the honor of entrusting to us the lead in the
attack. We shall prove ourselves worthy of the distinction. We are to
take the royal army by surprise. It will soon be day, but the slope of
this hill, along the foot of which runs the road that we are to follow,
will hide us from the enemy's pickets. We shall be able to reach the
edge of the lake without being seen. Foreseeing the attack with which we
are charged, I have just commissioned the Franc-Taupin to proceed with
a picked body of determined men of his own corps and sound for a ford
across the lake. Return to your companies. Order the drummers and
trumpeters to remain quiet, and all your men to observe scrupulous
silence."

"Brothers," remonstrated Pastor Feron with elation, "why conceal our
approach from the Philistines? Does not the Lord lead the children of
Israel? Let us place our reliance on Him only, and the proud towers of
Zion will crumble before the breath of the Eternal. Let us march to the
attack, not like timid and slinking thieves, but openly, bravely, like
true soldiers of God! It was under the open sky that David vanquished
Goliath!"

"Yes, yes. No underhanded tactics!" cried several officers. "Let us
march straight upon the enemy, singing praises to the Lord. He is with
us. We shall vanquish."

"My friends," said Colonel Plouernel, "follow my advice. Let us proceed
with caution. The royal army is much our superior in numbers. We must
make up with tactics for our inferiority. Let us arrive noiselessly
before the vanguard of the enemy, you will not then lack for opportunity
to prove your valor. Place yourselves at the head of your companies, and
forward at the double quick, only in the profoundest silence."

The authority enjoyed by Colonel Plouernel, the wisdom of his orders,
the confidence of the volunteers in his bravery and military skill once
more carried the day over the seething impatience of his captains,
although Pastor Feron looked displeased with a manoeuvre in which he
imagined he saw a weakness and dissimulation unworthy of the children of
Israel. The officers took their posts, and the column advanced in
silence, with its right covered by the ridge of a long hill that
completely masked it on the side of the enemy's entrenchment. The road
that the column followed crossed a wide field covered with wild roses,
their petals heavy with the dew of night, and spreading an aromatic odor
far and wide. Colonel Plouernel inhaled with delight the early morning
fragrance, and addressing Antonicq, who rode beside him, said:

"Oh, my boy! This sweet perfume, these wild smells, remind me of the
moors of Brittany. I draw them in with full lungs."

"Brittany! It is the dream of my life! When I was still a boy my father
took us to Vannes, on a pilgrimage to the sacred stones of Karnak. They
rise not far from the spot where stood the cradle of our family at the
time of Julius Caesar. I being then too young to understand it, my
father only gave me a short account of our family history. Since then I
have read it from beginning to end. I now have but one uppermost desire,
and my father shares it. It is, should God put an end to these
disastrous wars, to leave La Rochelle and settle down in Vannes. We may
be able to purchase a patch of land on the seashore, near the stones of
Karnak."

"Those sacred stones, the surviving witnesses of the voluntary sacrifice
of your ancestress Hena, the virgin of the isle of Sen--that old
Armorica, the independence of which your ancestor Vortigern defended so
valiantly against the son of Charlemagne!"

"You may judge, colonel, what memories are awakened within us by that
single word--Brittany."

"Well, my boy, it occurred to me quite recently that your and your
father's wishes may easily be realized."

"How?"

"By virtue of his primogeniture, my brother is the sole owner of the
vast hereditary domains belonging to our family in Auvergne and in
Brittany. But the father of my dear wife Jocelyne, a good and honest
Breton who resides in Brittany, owns an estate that lies not far from
Karnak, along the seashore. Judging from what your father has told me of
your family traditions, the estate is bound to consist, partly at least,
of the fields once owned by your ancestor Joel the brenn of the tribe of
Karnak. Now, then, if God should grant us peace again, nothing would be
easier for me than to obtain from my wife's father either the sale or
lease of a portion of those fields, and you could then settle down there
with your family."

"Oh, colonel! I should be pleased to owe to you the happiness of living
in Brittany, near the cradle of my family, together with father and
mother, and my sisters, and Cornelia my sweetheart, who will then be my
wife!"

"And yet, strange to say, my boy, your ancestors and mine have hated and
fought each other across the ages. I must admit the fact--the law of
nature justified the terrible reprisals of the conquered upon their
conquerors, in those days of frightful oppression. It required the rude
school of the religious wars to join in one common belief the children
of Joel the Gaul and of Neroweg the Frank, as your father puts it. That
first step in Evangelical fraternity marks an immense progress. Thus
will traditional hatreds cool down little by little, and race
antagonisms will be wiped out, as they have been wiped out between our
two families, once such bitter enemies--"

"And now," Antonicq completed the sentence, "united by the bonds of firm
friendship. May the same be kept ever green among our descendants."

"It is my fervent hope, my dear Antonicq. I am bringing up my children
in that feeling. More than once have I cited to them incidents from your
family legends, to the end that their young minds may be penetrated with
the sense that the rights, the privileges, the titles of which the
nobility boasts so loudly, and which it guards so jealously, have for
their principle or origin the abominable acts of violence that conquest
brings in its train."

During the conversation between Colonel Plouernel and Antonicq the
regiment pursued its march under shelter of the ridge that it skirted.
The further end of the ridge sloped gradually down to the level of the
field, watered by the lake and the stream which protected the front of
the royal camp. The attacking column, which, obedient to the orders of
the Admiral, marched in silence, was expected to reach the open before
sunrise, and thus be able to open the assault unexpectedly upon the
strongly entrenched outposts, that were planted on the lake road. The
execution of the plan was frustrated by the martial impatience of the
volunteers, whom Pastor Feron in his exaltation drove to a fever heat of
excitement with his blind faith in the irresistible power of the arm of
Israel. The Huguenots were still half an hour's march from the enemy
when the pastor, who marched ahead of the silent drummers, suddenly
intoned in a ringing voice the psalm well known to the Protestants:

    "The Eternal looks down from above,
    Night and day from out the skies,
    On all men bestowing love,
    And nothing escapes His eyes.

    "From His throne august,
    The holy King and just
    Sees below distinctly,
    Of man the distant race,
    Through th' abyss of space
    Sees it all distinctly.

    "Nor camps nor yet gendarmes,
    Nor all the strong alarms
    Can ever save a king!
    Nor iron nor courage
    Are of a good usage,
    Oh, Lord, without Thy aid.

    "Yes, God His wings doth spread,
    On us His grace doth shed.
    And ever mounteth guard
    O'er those who Him esteem.
    None other worthy deem
    But only Him regard."

No sooner had the pastor struck up the psalm with its biblical poetry,
than each couplet was repeated in chorus by the Huguenots. Nothing could
be more solemn than that choir of three thousand male and sonorous
voices, rising from the silent plain, and seeming to salute with a
martial hymn the first rays of that day of battle. Nevertheless, sadly
inopportune, the canticle announced to the enemy the approach of the
Protestants. Driven to despair by the infraction of the Admiral's
orders, Colonel Plouernel sought at first to restore silence by
addressing himself to the foremost companies. Vain hope; vain
entreaties. The soldiers wrought themselves up with their own voice.

"Oh, this lack of discipline will ever be fatal to us!" observed Colonel
Plouernel to Antonicq. "Thus have we almost always either endangered the
success of a battle, or even lost the day that otherwise would
positively have been ours! But the error is committed. The enemy is
informed of our proximity. Let it at least be announced resolutely!"

And addressing the drummers:

"Boys, beat the double-quick!"

The drums immediately resounded without however drowning the voices of
the Protestants--an imposing military orchestra. The column hastened its
steps. After half an hour's rapid march its front ranks debouched into
the open field. Piercing a heavy bank of clouds, the first rays of the
sun crimsoned the face of a wide lake into which emptied a stream that
itself was fed by a number of streamlets which descended from an
elevated plateau, dominated by the burg of Roche-la-Belle. The lake and
main stream were hemmed in on the side of the royal entrenchments, and
constituted the enemy's first line of defense. A thick chestnut forest
rose to the left of the lake. The lake road ran at right angles, and was
fortified by an earthwork, furnished with embrasures, and these armed
with falconets. This light artillery could sweep the whole length of the
water-courses, which had to be crossed in order to attack a palisaded
ground, which, crenelated with loop-holes for the use of arquebusiers,
completed the defenses of the Catholic army. Finally, a number of heavy
guns, mounted upon a high embankment, could also play upon the
water-course. A cross-fire thus rendered the crossing doubly dangerous.
This particular peril would have been almost wholly escaped had the
Admiral's orders been obeyed. Had the attacking column arrived
noiselessly at break of day and taken the royalists by surprise when
still rolled in slumbers, and before they could hurry to their light and
heavy guns and form their ranks, the Huguenots could have crossed the
stream and, soon supported by their whole army corps, could have led a
powerful attack upon the enemy's position. It happened otherwise. The
reverberations of the hymn sung by the Huguenots sounded the reveille to
the enemy, and frustrated the Admiral's plans. From all sides the drums
of the Catholics were sounding the call to arms when the first company
of the Protestants debouched upon the plain. Colonel Plouernel ordered a
halt, alighted from his horse, gathered his captains around him and, in
order to avoid further mishaps said to them:

"We can no longer hope to take the enemy by surprise. I shall now
communicate to you my new plan of attack."

Hardly had Colonel Plouernel uttered these words when they heard a
lively rattle of arquebus fire from the lake road. He turned his eyes in
that direction, unable at first to conjecture against whom the fire
could be directed, seeing that he and his forces were beyond the reach
of the shot. Immediately, however, the ricochetting of the balls over
the surface of the lake attracted the colonel's attention, and he soon
perceived here and there, at a considerable distance from one another,
several casqued heads just above the surface of the water, and ever and
anon diving below with the view of escaping the fire of the
arquebusiers.

"It is the Franc-Taupin and his Avengers of Israel. They have been
sounding for a ford across the lake and the stream!" exclaimed the
colonel in high glee. "Their information will be of great use to us."
But immediately he cried out: "Oh! one of the brave men has been
struck!"

Indeed, one of the Avengers of Israel, who, following the example of the
Franc-Taupin, and in order not to offer his full body to the aim of the
enemy, crouched lower and lower in the measure that, as he drew nearer
to the reed-covered edge of the lake, the water grew shallower--one of
the Avengers of Israel was struck by a bullet full in the head. He
straightened up with a convulsive movement, threw his arms in the air,
reeled, and then dropped, immediately disappearing under the water,
whose surface at the spot reddened with his blood. The Franc-Taupin,
together with his other companions, continued to drag themselves up
through the reeds as far as the shore of the lake. Once there, the balls
could not reach them. They picked up their arms and munitions, which
they had left close to the bank, put on their cross-belts, and walked
towards the group of officers whom they saw at a distance, standing near
the last undulation of the ridge that still masked their column.
Antonicq, who had alighted from his horse together with Colonel
Plouernel, ran to meet the Franc-Taupin and threw his arms around the
brave old soldier, saying: "Heaven be thanked, you have had a narrow
escape from death!"

"Good morning, my boy!" answered Josephin. "But quit your
embracings--you will get wet; I am streaming water. In my young days I
played the mole, now in my old age I play the crawfish--so cease
embracing me. Besides, I am angry with you and your father--it was due
to you two that the scoundrel Hervé escaped death. We found his prison
empty last night. Who but you winked at the demon's escape? I did not
know that you were placed on guard over him."

"Uncle, the bonds of blood--"

"By my sister's death! Did he respect the bonds of blood!"

And stepping towards Colonel Plouernel, he said:

"Colonel, this is the result of our explorations: We arrived here before
dawn; we left our horses at the ruined farm-house that you see yonder;
we then took to the water. The royalists were not on the watch. The lake
is fordable by cavalry from the point where the reeds run obliquely
into the water. The stream is fordable in all parts by infantry. The
water is not more than four feet deep at its deepest, and the bottom is
hard. If you wish to flank the entrenchment on the lake road, you will
have to ride up about three thousand feet on the side of the chestnut
wood. There you will find, running into the marsh, a long and wide
jetty. Ten men can walk abreast on it. It abutts on a palisaded
earthwork that can be easily taken. It is the weak side of the enemy's
defenses. You may rely upon the accuracy of these facts, colonel. I made
the reconnoissance myself."

"I know you are reliable, Josephin," answered Colonel Plouernel. "The
information you bring me confirms me in the plan of attack that I have
projected."

And stepping back to the group of officers whom Pastor Feron had just
joined, the colonel said:

"Gentlemen, the following is my plan--we would incur a useless loss of
men were we to make a front attack upon the lake road fortifications,
and the palisaded fort. The enemy is up. The stream that we would have
to wade is swept from right and left by a cross artillery fire. We will
divide our forces into three corps. The first, which I shall command,
will attempt to cross the stream, however perilous the feat, to the end
of attracting the enemy's fire upon us, while our second corps, masked
by the chestnut grove, shall march up to the jetty of the swamp in order
to take the road fortifications on the flank. Finally, our third corps
will move upon that other entrenchment which you see yonder where the
stream crosses. The attack being thus made upon three points at once,
the bulk of the army that comes close behind us will support our action.
The engagement will be hot. Let us spare the blood of our men all we
can. Courage and prudence."

"Still prudence! Still hesitation! notwithstanding the Lord fights for
our rights!" exclaimed Pastor Feron with burning enthusiasm. "We but
puff up the pride of the Philistines by not daring to attack them in
front! Pusillanimity! Lack of faith in God!"

"To divide our forces instead of overwhelming the enemy by concentrating
them upon one point?" put in one of the principal officers. "Did you
consider that, Colonel Plouernel?"

The exasperated colonel cried: "Rely upon my mature experience--to make
a front attack, and in mass, upon the enemy's position is as foolhardy
an enterprise as it is fraught with danger."

"Intrepidity is the strength of the children of Israel!" cried the
pastor in a louder voice. "United the children of Israel are invincible!
Let us all march! Side by side! Like brothers, forward! High our heads
and without fear! The finger of God points us the way!"

"Yes, yes! Let us attack in mass and with fury!" echoed most of the
officers. "Forward all! Holding close together, nothing can resist us!
God is with us!"

Alas, once again, as happened so often before in our wars, and to the
greater misfortune of our arms, blind foolhardiness, inexperience, lack
of discipline, and an exaggerated faith in the triumph of the cause,
prevailed over the wise counsels of an officer who had grown grey in
harness, and whose military science matched his bravery. First the
captains, soon the soldiers also, successively informed from rank to
rank upon the subject of the deliberation, and wrought up by the burning
words of the pastor, objected to a division of the forces, deeming that
such a move would weaken them; and, above all, fearing to seem to waver
in sight of the foe, they demanded aloud to be led in mass against the
enemy. Colonel Plouernel, who had a long experience with Breton
volunteers, and was too well acquainted with their proverbial
stubbornness, abandoned all thought of winning them over to his views.
Seeing the men elated to the point of delirious heroism, he calmly said
to the officers:

"Is it your wish? Well, let us march! Drummers, beat to the charge!
Forward, at the enemy! Battle, all along the line!"

Colonel Plouernel then drew his sword, clasped Antonicq's hand, and
said:

"My friend, we are marching to slaughter. If you escape the carnage that
I foresee, take my last adieus to my wife and little boys, and also to
your worthy father."

"These brave fellows are crazy! We shall be mowed down," observed the
Franc-Taupin in turn to Antonicq. "I would die without first having done
my twenty-five Catholic priests to death! The devil still owes me seven
of them. Be firm, my boy. Let us not be separated from each other. We
shall then at least both have the same stream for our tomb. To think of
it! I who in my young days loved wine so well, now to die in water!"

The column set itself in motion in a compact mass, at a quick pace, and
with drums beating at its head. Before the drummers marched Pastor
Feron, who again intoned a psalm that was speedily taken up in chorus by
the Protestants in the midst of a veritable hailstorm of balls and
bullets:

    "God ever was both my life and my light!
      Death, I defy thee! What have I to fear?
    God's my support with His infinite might!
      Have I not from Him my title quite clear?

    "When the malignants did fire on me,
      When they expected to tear out my heart,
    Have I not seen them all thrown down by Thee,
      Scattered, and smitten, and struck by Thy dart?

    "Come, let a whole camp surround me on all sides,
      Never my heart will be shaken with fright!
    Close by my side, Oh! the Lord ever strides,
      Need I to fear of a foe any blight?"

The battle raged with fury. Colonel Plouernel's apprehensions were
realized. Despite prodigies of intrepidity, his column, as it waded
through the stream in serried and compact ranks, was received in front
and from the two flanks by a terrific cross-fire of arquebuses and
artillery. Three-fourths of the volunteers fell under the torrent of
lead, even before reaching the middle of the stream. Wondering at the
length of this vanguard attack, the successful execution of which he
considered certain by entrusting it to Colonel Plouernel. Admiral
Coligny suddenly saw Antonicq Lebrenn riding back at top speed with his
thigh pierced by a bullet. Informed by Antonicq of the reason of the
disastrous result of the encounter, the Admiral promptly ordered
Colonels Bueil and Piles to proceed at their swiftest with their
respective regiments to the jetty, and take the road entrenchment from
the flank. Soubise, La Rochefoucauld and Saragosse received and, with
their wonted skill, executed another set of orders. Within shortly
battle was engaged all along the line, changing the aspect of the
conflict. The Huguenots' artillery responded to and silenced the fire
from the opposite side. Attacked in front, from the right and the left,
the royalists were dislodged from their entrenchments near the lake.
They retired behind the palisaded ground, from which they kept up a
murderous fire. But the palisade was broken through. First the infantry,
then the cavalry of the Protestants rushed through the breaches. A
stubborn melee ensued, and was at its height when the muffled rumbling
of distant thunder, immediately followed by heavy rain-drops from the
blackening sky overhead, announced the approach of the storm that
Coligny had that morning predicted.[72]

       *       *       *       *       *

I, Antonicq Lebrenn, who write this account, am overcome with grief in
completing it. Its close revives sad memories.

After I informed Admiral Coligny of the check sustained by the column of
Colonel Plouernel, the kindhearted old man insisted that his own surgeon
dress my wound. Though painful, the wound did not prevent me from
keeping in the saddle. After being attended by the surgeon, I hastened
back to the thick of the battle. A large body of cavalry, commanded by
Marshal Tavannes, with the Duke of Anjou, brother of Charles IX, and
young Henry of Guise at his side, covered the right wing of the royalist
camp. Against that armed body of heavy and light troopers Admiral
Coligny hurled twenty squadrons of horsemen under the command of Prince
Franz of Gerolstein. It was at that moment that I rejoined the battle.
The thunder claps, now succeeding one another with increasing frequency
and vehemence, drowned the roar of the artillery. The storm was soon to
break out in all its fury. The Protestant cavalry was advancing at a
gallop three ranks deep upon the Catholic horsemen. Sword in hand, Franz
of Gerolstein led, a few paces in advance of his troopers. The Prince
was accompanied by his knights and pages. Among the latter was Anna
Bell. The dashing sight soon disappeared from before my eyes in the
cloud of pistol smoke, and the dust raised by the horses, as the two
opposing masses of riders met each other, pistol in hand and exchanged
fire. Suddenly I heard my father's voice calling to me:

"God sends you, my son! Come and fight by my side."

"Father," I said to him drawing up my horse beside his own, he being on
the right wing of our army and at the end of a line composed of
Rochelois volunteer horsemen who followed upon the heels of the charging
contingent of the Prince of Gerolstein, "did you have time to see my
sister again after you left me last night?"

"Alas, no; but I found a letter that she left behind, and--"

My father could proceed no further. Two regiments of mounted
arquebusiers under the command of Count Neroweg of Plouernel, the
colonel's brother, made a charge upon us with the object of isolating us
from the German troopers. The manoeuvre succeeded. The impetuosity of
the charge threw our ranks into disorder. The enemy broke through them.
We could no longer fight in line. A general melee ensued. It was a
combat of man to man. Despite the disorder I managed to remain at my
father's side. Fate drove us, him and me, face to face with Count
Neroweg of Plouernel, at whose side rode his son Odet, a lad of sixteen
years, and a great favorite with the Duke of Anjou. I heard the Count
cry to him:

"Courage, my boy! Strike hard, and kill as many of the enemy as you can!
Prove yourself worthy of the house of Neroweg!"

Almost immediately thereupon I saw the Count rise in his stirrups. His
sword was on the point of striking my father when the latter crushed the
shoulder of Neroweg with a pistol shot fired at close range. The Count
dropped his sword and uttered a piercing cry. His son raised his light
arquebus and took aim at my father, just then engaged in replacing his
pistol in its holster. Instantly, driven by two digs of my spurs, my
horse bounded forward, striking the steed of Odet of Plouernel breast
against breast; at the very moment that Odet discharged his arquebus
upon my father, I struck the lad so furious a blow with my saber that
his casque and skull were cleaved in two. Odet stretched out his arms,
and dropped backward bleeding upon the crupper of his horse. In the
meantime, my own steed, wounded in the loins by a severe cut, collapsed.
In falling, the heavy animal rolled over me, pressing with its full
weight upon my wounded thigh. Pain deprived me of the strength to
extricate myself. Several combatants trampled me under foot. My corselet
was torn open under the iron hoofs of the horses. My morion was knocked
in and flattened; pressed by its walls my skull felt as if cramped by a
vise. My eyes began to swim; I was about to faint, but a frightful
vision so stirred my soul at that moment that I seemed to revive. The
melee left in its wake upon the field of carnage the dead, the dying,
and the wounded among whom I lay. The spectacle I saw took place not far
from my right. A few paces from me, my father, unhorsed by the arquebus
of young Odet of Plouernel, raised himself livid, and sank again in a
sitting posture, carrying his hands to his cuirass which a bullet had
perforated. That same instant the diabolical cry smote my ears:

"Kill all! Kill all!"

And then, in the midst of the roll of thunder overhead, and across the
surrounding sheen of lightning flashes, there appeared before my
eyes--Fra Hervé, mounted upon a small black horse with long flowing
mane, clad in his brown frock rolled up to his knees, and exposing his
fleshless legs, naked like his feet which were strapped in spurred
sandals wherewith he kicked his horse's flank and urged it onward. A
fresh bandage covered his recent wound and girded his hairless skull.
His hollow eyes sparkled with savage fury. Armed with a long cutlass
that dripped blood he continued to cry:

"Kill all! Kill all!"

The monk led to carnage a band of gallows-birds, the scum and refuse of
the Catholic army, whose duty it was to despatch the wounded with iron
maces, axes and knives. Hervé recognized his brother Odelin, who, with
one hand upon his wound and the other on the ground, was essaying to
rise to his feet. An expression of satanic hatred lighted the face of
the Cordelier. He jumped down from his horse, and emitted a roar of
ferocious triumph. My father gave himself up for lost. Nevertheless he
made an attempt to soften the heart of his executioner, saying:

"Hervé, brother! I have a wife and children. Last night I saved your
life!"

"Lord!" cried the priest, gasping for breath and raising his fiery eyes
and blood-stained cutlass to the thundering and lightning-lighted heaven
above. "God of Vengeance! God of the Catholics! Receive as a holocaust
the blood of Cain!"

And Fra Hervé precipitated himself upon his brother, threw him down,
squatted upon his chest, seized his hair with one hand and with the
other brandished the cutlass. Odelin uttered a cry of horror, closed his
eyes and offered his throat. The fratricide was accomplished. Fra Hervé
rose bespattered with his brother's blood, kicked the corpse with his
foot, and jumped back upon his horse yelling:

"Kill all! Slaughter all the wounded!"

My senses, until then held in suspense by the very terror of the
frightful spectacle, now abandoned me. I completely lost consciousness.
The carnage continued.

When I recovered from my swoon, I was lying on the straw in our smithy
and lodging at St. Yrieix. The Franc-Taupin and Colonel Plouernel sat
beside my couch. From them I learned the issue of the battle of
Roche-la-Belle. It was disastrous to the royalists; they were roundly
routed. The violent thunder storm, followed by a deluge of rain, did not
allow Admiral Coligny to pursue the retreating Catholic army. The
victorious Protestants re-entered St. Yrieix. The Franc-Taupin and his
Avengers of Israel, happening to pass by the spot where I lay motionless
under my horse, not far from my father's corpse, with his throat cut by
Fra Hervé, recognized me and laid me upon a wagon used for transporting
the munitions of the artillery. The field of battle was ours. With the
help of his companions, the Franc-Taupin piously dug a grave in which
they buried my father.

Later I learned from the Prince of Gerolstein the sad fate that overtook
my sister, and I also found the letter which she wrote to my father. The
unfortunate girl, imagining herself despised and forsaken by us,
decided, she wrote, to die, and bade us her heartrending adieus.
Desirous that my father and his co-religionists be apprized of the dark
and bloody schemes of Catherine De Medici, Anna Bell reported in her
letter the secret conversation which the Queen had with Father Lefevre
on the subject of the reformers--a conversation that she overheard at
the Abbey of St. Severin. After having thus attested her attachment to
us to the very end, she obtained the consent of the Prince's page she
had spoken with, to don the clothes and ride the horse of the lad who
was killed at the skirmish of that morning. She looked forward to
meeting death beside Franz of Gerolstein. Alas! Her wish was realized.
She joined the Prince. As much surprised as alarmed at the girl's
purpose, he vainly entreated her to withdraw until after the shock
between the two mounted forces. Neither Anna Bell nor Franz of
Gerolstein was wounded at the first encounter. But shortly after, as the
German horsemen were re-crossing the stream in pursuit of the enemy's
cavalry, my sister was struck in the breast by a stray bullet from the
fleeing enemy, and fell from her horse into the river, where she was
drowned, without Franz, who was carried along by the impetus of his
troopers' charge, being able to return in time to save her.

Finally, informed by my account concerning the double encounter of his
brother, Count Neroweg, and Odet his son, with my father and myself,
Colonel Plouernel learned later that both had perished in the fight,
leaving him the head of the house, and sole heir of its vast domains.

Victorious at Roche-la-Belle, the Protestants were destined to suffer a
serious defeat in September of the same year. The royal and Protestant
armies met in Poitou, near the town of Montcontour. Coligny, much the
inferior in numbers, manoeuvred his forces with his customary skill, and
entrenched himself behind the River Dive. Sheltered by that almost
impregnable position, he wished to wait for the reinforcements promised
by Montgomery, who was in almost complete possession of Gascony. But, as
had happened so many times before, to the misfortune of the cause, and
despite all his firmness, Coligny saw himself constrained to yield to
the headlong impatience of his army, the greater part of which consisted
of volunteers. The campaign had lasted a long time. Captains and
soldiers had left their families, their property, their farms, their
fields and their homes to fly to the defense of their religion. They
were anxious to return to their hearths. Accordingly, hoping by means of
a victory to be able once more to impose peace upon Charles IX and
reconquer the free exercise of their religion, they were loud in their
demand for battle. Coligny yielded. On September 3, 1569, he delivered
battle to an army almost twice the size of his own. Despite the
prodigies of bravery displayed by the Huguenots, and although the
royalists sustained heavy losses, victory remained with the Catholics.
Nevertheless, after Montcontour, as after Jarnac, so far from allowing
himself to be disheartened by a reverse that he had foreseen and that he
had vainly sought to avoid, Coligny executed so threatening a retreat
that the Catholic army dared not pursue him. On the very night after the
defeat, the Protestant chieftains, assembled at Parthenay, despatched
couriers to Scotland, Germany and Switzerland appealing to their
co-religionists for support; collected the shattered fragments of their
armies; threw strong garrisons into Niort, St. Jean-d'Angely, Saintes
and La Rochelle; crossed the Charente; marched into Gascony to join
Montgomery, who was the master of that province; and Coligny renewed
hostilities with success, choosing as the basis of his operations the
Rivers Tarn and Garonne. Armed bands of intrepid Protestants harassed
and tired out the royal forces. Charles IX and his mother took the
Huguenots for annihilated after the defeats of Jarnac and Montcontour.
It was otherwise. The defeated men reappeared more determined, more
numerous, more zealous in the defense of their rights. Catherine De
Medici, more and more convinced that peace, and not war, offered the
sole means to put an end to the Huguenots, turned her thoughts more
resolutely than ever before to the execution of the infernal project
that Francis of Guise conceived at the time of the triumvirate, and
which she confided to the Jesuit Lefevre. She caused overtures to be
made to Coligny looking to a new treaty of peace. The royal advances
were met. The Admiral, together with several other Protestant chiefs,
deputed as the plenipotentiaries of the Huguenots, held long conferences
with the envoys of Charles IX, and finally, on August 10, 1570, a new
edict, the most favorable yet granted to the Protestants, was signed at
St. Germain.

The document provided in substance:

     The memory of all past events is blotted out by both parties.
     Freedom of conscience is implicitly granted throughout the kingdom.
     None is henceforth to be constrained to commit any act forbidden by
     his conscience in religious matters. No distinction exists between
     Catholics and Protestants in the matter of admission to the
     colleges, Universities, hospitals, asylums, or any other
     institution of learning or of public charity. None shall be
     prosecuted for past actions. Coligny and all other Protestant
     chiefs are declared good and loyal subjects. Protestants are
     qualified to hold all royal, seigniorial or municipal offices. All
     decrees rendered against the Huguenots shall be stricken from the
     judicial records. Finally, and in order to guarantee the execution
     of the said edict, Charles IX places, as pledges for the term of
     two years, the cities of La Rochelle, Cognac, Montauban, and La
     Charite, in the hands of the Princes of Navarre, of Condé and of
     twenty other Protestant Princes, the said towns to be places of
     _refuge_ for all those who might not yet venture to return to their
     own homes.[73]

Alas! those who, in the language of the edict, _might not yet venture to
return to their own homes_, despite the peace being signed, promulgated
and sworn to, justly suspected some new trap concealed under the lying
peace. Antonicq Lebrenn did not take his leave of Admiral Coligny and
Monsieur Lanoüe until after the close of the war. They were informed by
him of the revelations contained in Anna Bell's letter to her father
Odelin, the letter wherein the maid of honor of Catherine De Medici
reported the conversation which she overheard between the infamous Queen
and the Jesuit Lefevre, in the course of which the Queen disclosed to
the Jesuit her project of lulling the suspicions of the Huguenots with
the false appearance of a peace, to the end of taking them by surprise,
unarmed and confiding, and exterminating them on one day throughout the
kingdom. The project seemed so monstrous to Coligny that he looked upon
it as only a chimera of delirious wickedness, and held it for
impracticable, if only on the ground of there not being murderers enough
to execute the butchery.

The Admiral deceived himself. There never is a lack of murderers in the
Catholic party. These rise by the thousand at the voice of the Roman
priests. All priests are potential murderers with a patent from their
faith.




CHAPTER VII.

"CONTRE-UN."[74]


Towards the end of the month of August in the year 1572, the Lebrenn
family was gathered one evening in the large hall that served for
storeroom to the arms turned out by the establishment of Antonicq
Lebrenn, who continued his father's trade at La Rochelle. The room had
the appearance of an arsenal. On the shelves along the walls lay arms of
all sorts in profusion--swords, daggers, sabers, cutlasses, pikes,
halberds, battle maces and axes; further off, long and short-barreled
arquebuses, pistols and some firearms of a novel fashion. These were
light and easy to handle, an invention of the celebrated Gaspard of
Milan, who gave them the name of "muskets;" finally, there was a large
display of casques, morions, cuirasses, corselets, brigandines, armlets,
shields and bucklers, some of the latter made of iron, others of wood
inlaid with sheets of steel. The workshop, with its furnaces, anvils and
other utensils, was situated behind the storeroom, where, on this day
the Lebrenn family, six in number, were congregated--Marcienne, Odelin's
widow; Antonicq, her son; Theresa, his sister, married three years
before to Louis Rennepont, the nephew of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr;
Josephin, the Franc-Taupin; Captain Mirant, Marcienne's brother; his
daughter Cornelia, the betrothed of Antonicq; and finally John Barbot, a
boilermaker, the widower of Jacqueline Barbot, who was the god-mother of
Anna Bell, and who died two years previously. In the assemblage were
also the two artisans of the establishment, Bois-Guillaume and Roland,
besides a fifteen-year-old apprentice whom they nicknamed "Serpentin."

Although it was the hour for rest, these different personages were not
idle. Marcienne, Odelin's widow, spun at her wheel. Clad in black, she
had made up her mind to remain in mourning for the rest of her life in
memory of the tragic deaths of her husband and her daughter, Anna Bell.
The widow's pronounced features, the cast of her face at once serious,
firm and kind, preserved the primitive type of the women of the
_Santones_, a race which, according to what historians tell us,
preserved itself pure from times immemorial, almost without admixture
with foreign strains since the olden days of Gaul. Theresa, Marcienne's
eldest daughter, was busy sewing, and from time to time cast a glance of
maternal solicitude upon her child, who lay asleep in a cradle that off
and on she rocked with her foot. Theresa expected with increasing
anxiety the return of her husband, Louis Rennepont, who, several weeks
before, left for Paris, whither he was deputed by the Rochelois, owing
to the vague yet increasing apprehensions entertained by the
Protestants, due to the circumstance that Coligny, together with almost
all the Protestant leaders, was drawn to Paris on the occasion of the
marriage of Henry of Bearn to the King's sister Marguerite. Theresa's
headgear was the time-honored and common one of the women of the
region--a high, white and pointed coif, adjusted to the coil of her
tresses. Her robe, made of grey bolting-cloth, was slashed with a red
front-piece, that partly covered her white and starched chemisette. From
the belt of her apron hung two long silver chains, at the lower end of
which were attached her penknife, scissors, a pin-cushion, some keys,
and other utensils inseparable from a good housekeeper. Near Theresa
Rennepont and behind her, Cornelia Mirant, her cousin, the betrothed of
Antonicq, was ironing some household linen. The face of Cornelia also
preserved in all their purity the characteristics of a Santone woman of
the heroic days of Gaul. A luxurious head of light chestnut hair with a
golden glint, twisted into strands and wound into a thick-topknot on her
head; a white and ruddy skin; a small forehead; light eyebrows of a
shade less brilliant than her hair and penciled in an almost straight
line above her orange-brown, flashing and resolute eyes; a straight
nose, prolonged in almost a straight line from the forehead, as seen in
the lofty statues of antiquity; a pair of fleshy and cherry-red lips; a
pronounced chin;--these features imparted to Cornelia's face a
strikingly lofty stamp. The girl's tall stature, her flexible neck, her
well rounded shoulders, her white and strong arms, the gentle contour of
her bosom, recalled the noble proportions of the Greek Pallas Athene.
With this virile appearance, Cornelia united the sportiveness, and the
sweet and coy charms of a maid. Dressed Rochelois fashion like her
cousin, Theresa, she had, in order to be at greater ease, rolled up the
sleeves of her robe, and the strong muscles of her arms, which were
white as marble, rose and fell with every impression of the hot iron
upon the linen that she was smoothing. Ever and anon, however, the iron
remained inactive for a moment. At such moments Cornelia raised her head
to listen more attentively to the reading with which Antonicq was
entertaining the assembled family; and her eyes would then bend upon
him, not with any furtive tenderness, but, on the contrary, endeavoring
to meet his own gaze with the serene confidence of a betrothed bride.
Cornelia's father, Captain Mirant, one of the most intrepid seamen of La
Rochelle, a man still in the full strength of his years, was engaged at
sketching some defenses that he deemed requisite to the safety of the
port. Near the captain sat his chum, John Barbot, the boilermaker of the
isle of Rhe. His wife, Anna Bell's god-mother, had died of grief. She
never could pardon herself for the loss of her god-child; after long
years of weeping over what she deemed her own negligence, the poor woman
sank into her grave. Not wishing to sit idly by, John Barbot was
furbishing a steel corselet with as much care as he would have done one
of the magnificent copper basins with artistic relievos, or one of his
tinplated iron sheets, which, set up in his boilermaker's shop, shone
with the glitter of gold or silver. A man of exceptional courage, above
all of great self-possession in the hour of danger, Barbot had taken
part in the late religious wars. Among other scars he wore one
inflicted by a saber cut, dealt so furiously that, after cropping the
boilermaker's left ear, it plowed through his cheek and carried away the
tip of his nose. Despite the mutilation, John Barbot's face preserved an
expression of unalterable good nature. The Franc-Taupin polished the
barrel of an arquebus just taken, tarnished and defaced, from the forge.
The old leader of the Avengers of Israel, the man to whom circumstances
had imparted an implacable ferocity towards papists, still always
carried, hanging from a string fastened to the buttonhole of his coat,
the little piece of wood on which, by means of notches, he kept tally of
the Catholic priests whom he killed in reprisal for the death of his
sister and the torture of Hena. The notches had now reached the number
of twenty-four. The implacable avenger was seated on the other side of
the cradle of Theresa's child, and shared the mother's duties of lightly
rocking it. Whenever the child woke up, the Franc-Taupin would drop the
barrel of the arquebus on his knees and smile to the baby--at least as
hard as the Franc-Taupin could smile. He lived on a small pension
granted to him by the municipality of La Rochelle, in reward for the
long years of service that he rendered in the capacity of sergeant of
the city archers. Josephin transferred to Antonicq, to Antonicq's sister
and to their mother the devoted attachment of which he gave so many
signal proofs to Christian Lebrenn and his wife Bridget, to their
daughter Hena and their son Odelin. Finally, the two artisans employed
in the shop, Bois-Guillaume and Roland, as well as Serpentin the
apprentice, occupied themselves with something or other connected with
their trade, more for the sake of keeping their hands busy than for
actual work, while they listened to Antonicq, who was reading aloud.

Antonicq read the _Contre-Un_, a work written by Estienne of La
Boetie,[75] who died about nine years before. Never yet did reason,
human dignity, the sense of justice, the holy love for freedom, the
whole-souled horror for tyranny, speak a language more eloquent and more
warm from the heart than the language spoken in that immortal book. It
was a cry of execration, an anathema against oppression. The avenging
cry, leaping from the indignant soul of a great citizen, caused all
noble hearts to vibrate responsively. Those pages, every word of which
breathes ardent conviction, steeled the faith of all the honorable
people, who finally at the end of their patience with the monstrous
crimes that royalty, the accomplice or tool of the Church of Rome, was
still soiled with in this century, were seriously considering, the same
as the Low Countries were doing, the advisability of following the
example of the Swiss cantons, which federated themselves in a Republic.
The work of Estienne of La Boetie, by calling upon all the oppressed to
resistance _Against-One_ who oppresses them, laid bare to them, with
terse and pitiless logic, the despicable causes of their _Voluntary
Servitude_, the original title of that admirable work.

Antonicq Lebrenn continued to read the _Contre-Un_ amid the profound
silence maintained by the assembled family:

     "There are three species of tyrants, I speak of wicked princes: The
     first have the kingdom by popular election; the second by force of
     arms; the third by inheritance. Those who acquired it by the right
     of war deport themselves as on conquered territory; those who are
     born kings are usually no better; nourished in the blood of
     tyranny, they take in the tyrant's nature with their milk, and look
     upon their people as hereditary serfs. He, to whom the people
     conferred the State, should (it would seem) be more endurable, and
     so would he be, I hold, if, seeing himself raised above all others
     and flattered by the undefinable thing called grandeur, he did not
     generally bend his energies to preserve the power that the people
     loaned him, and to transmit the same to his own children.

     "Accordingly, to speak truthfully, I do perceive that there is some
     difference between these different tyrants. But if one is to
     choose, the difference ceases. The act of reigning remains
     virtually the same--the elective ones govern as if they had bulls
     to tame; the conquering ones look upon their people as their prey;
     hereditary kings see in their subjects natural slaves.

     "Speaking intelligently, it is a great misfortune to be subject to
     a master of whom one can never be certain that he will be good,
     seeing he ever has it in his power to be bad whenever it should so
     please him. I do not mean at this point to debate the question, to
     wit, Whether Republics are better than monarchy? If I wished to
     consider that question, I should first wish to know, What rank
     monarchy is to take among Republics, or if monarchy can at all rank
     with Republics, considering the difficulty of believing that there
     could be anything public in a government where _all belongs to
     one_?

     "I wish I could understand how it happens that so many citizens, so
     many men, so many cities, so many nations often endure only a
     tyrant, who has no power except that given to him; who has no power
     to harm them but because of their own power to endure him! What! A
     million men, miserably held in subjection, their necks under the
     yoke, not compelled by force, but enchanted and charmed by the word
     ONE, neither the power of whom they need fear, seeing he stands
     alone; nor the qualities of whom they should love, seeing that, as
     to them, he is inhuman and savage! Such is the weakness among us,
     men!

     "Oh, good God! What can that be? What name shall we call the thing
     by? What peculiar calamity is it? or what vice? or, rather, what
     calamitous vice? To see a vast number, not obey, but serve! Not
     governed, but tyrannized! With neither property, nor parents, nor
     children, nor yet their own lives that they may call their own!
     Suffer plunderings, pillagings, cruelties, not at the hands of an
     army, not at the hands of a camp of barbarians, against which one
     would shed his blood and risk his life--but endure all that from
     ONLY ONE! Not from a Hercules, or a Sampson, but from a single
     mannikin, generally the most cowardly, the most effeminate of the
     nation, at that! Not accustomed to the powder of battles, but even
     hardly to the dust of tourneys! Can we give to that the name of
     cowardice? Are we to say that those who remain in subjection are
     poltroons? That two, that three, that four should fail to defend
     themselves against ONE, that would be singular enough, yet
     possible; in which case we could justly say it is
     faint-heartedness. But when a hundred, when a thousand endure
     everything from ONLY ONE, can it then be said that they do not
     want, that they dare not lay hands upon him, and that it is not a
     case of cowardice, but rather of disdain and contempt? If so, what
     monstrous vice is this that deserves not the title of cowardice,
     that finds no name villainous enough to designate it by, that
     nature disowns having brought forth, and that the tongue of men
     refuses to name?"

The eloquent malediction of the blindness of subjugated peoples drew a
unanimous cry of admiration from the Lebrenn family. Antonicq
interrupted his reading for a moment.

"Oh, the book is right!" gravely observed Odelin's widow. "What
monstrous vice can that be that bends under the yoke of ONLY ONE? It is
not cowardice! The most cowardly, when they see they are a thousand
against one, will not be afraid to attack him. That book is right. What
may be the name of the nameless vice?"

Antonicq proceeded:

     "It is the people who subjugate themselves; who cut their own
     throats; who, having the choice between being subject or free,
     leave their freedom for a yoke; who give their consent to their own
     ruin, or rather purchase the same. If the recovery of their freedom
     would have to cost something, it is not I who would press them to
     the act, although that which man should hold dearest is the
     recovery of his natural rights, or, to be accurate, from beast to
     return to man's estate.

     "But no! I do not demand such boldness from the people. What! If,
     in order to have its liberty, the people need but to will it, can
     there be a nation on earth to consider the price too dear, being
     able to regain the boon by wishing? Who would hesitate to recover a
     boon that should be redeemed with the price of his blood, a boon,
     which if lost, all honorable men must esteem life a burden and
     death a relief?

     "But no! The more do tyrants pillage, the more do they exact, the
     more do they ruin, the more do they destroy,--all the more are they
     paid to do it, all the more are they served, and all the more do
     they fortify themselves.

     "And yet, if nothing were to be allowed to them, if no obedience
     were to be yielded to them, and that without combat, without
     striking a blow, they would remain naked, undone, and would cease
     to be anything--like roots, that, lacking nourishment, become a
     dry, dead branch."

"Right!" put in the Franc-Taupin. "Again that book is right. There are
donkey-men and lion-men. Say to a donkey: 'Roar, jump, bite your enemy!'
He will not listen. Say to the brute: 'Donkey you are, donkey you will
be, remain donkey. One does not even expect of you that you rise to the
Caesarian heroism of a kick! No, you peaceful beast! All that we ask is
that you remain quiet, motionless, stubborn, and do not go to the mill!
Aye, my donkey friends, what could the millers do, and their helpers,
if, despite all their cudgels, the millions of donkeys, having passed
the word along the line, refused point blank to march? Will the millers
and their helpers shower blows upon you? Perhaps, but are you spared any
blows when you do march? Beaten whether you march or stand still, you
might as well stand still and ruin the miller.' Yes," added the
Franc-Taupin, his face assuming a sad expression; "but how was this
unhappy people even to conceive the bare thought of such an inert
resistance? Have the monks not monked their brains from the cradle to
the grave: 'Go, thou beast of burden, lick the hand that smites
you--bless the burden that crushes your limbs, and galls your spine to
the quick--thy salvation hereafter is to be bought by the torments you
endure on earth--to the monks belong thy broad back--they straddle it in
order to lead you to paradise!' And," proceeded the Franc-Taupin, more
and more incensed, "should anyone attempt to wrest the besotted wretches
from the grip of the monkery, why, then, quick, and quicker than
quick!--the jail, the cutlass, the pyre, and torture! Thus came my
sister Bridget to die in prison, and her daughter to be burned alive,
and Christian to die of grief, and Odelin, his son, to have his throat
cut by his own brother, Fra Hervé, the Cordelier! That is the long and
short of it!"

These words, which recalled so many painful losses to the memory of the
Lebrenn family, were followed by a mournful silence. Tears rolled down
the cheeks of Marcienne, Odelin's widow; her wheel stopped whirring; her
head dropped upon her breast and she muttered:

"My mourning will be like my sorrow, eternal! Oh, my children, there are
two places that will ever remain vacant at our hearth--your father's and
your sister's. The poor girl doubted our indulgence and our love for
her!"

"Oh, Catherine De Medici! Infamous Queen! Mother of execrable sons! Will
the hour of vengeance ever sound!" exclaimed Captain Mirant. "Even the
perversest of people shudder at the crimes of the crowned monsters!
Their acts are endured, and yet a breath could throw them down! Oh, well
may we ask in the language of La Boetie's book: 'What is the nameless
vice that causes millions of people to submit voluntarily to a power
that is abhorred?'"

"We Huguenots, at least, showed our teeth to the monsters," put in
Barbot the boilermaker. "Nevertheless, to talk shop, I must confess our
mistake. It was our duty to throw into the furnace and melt once for all
that old royal boiler in which for a thousand and odd years the Kings
have been boiling Jacques Bonhomme, and serving him up in all manner of
sauces for their repasts. Once that boiler is melted, the devil's
kitchen would be done for!"

"Yes, indeed, comrade," replied Captain Mirant, "we made that mistake,
and yet we were the most daring among the oppressed! And we made the
mistake notwithstanding we were repeatedly imposed upon and betrayed by
treacherous edicts. May it please God that this last edict do not fare
like the previous ones, and that Louis Rennepont may speedily bring us
tidings from Paris to dispel our apprehensions!"

"Brother," observed Marcienne, "I can not but mistrust the pledges of
Charles IX and his mother. Alas, I can not forget the revelations made
in the letter to her father by my poor daughter before she leaped
voluntarily to death at the battle of Roche-la-Belle. Catherine and her
sons are well capable of scheming the massacre that she confided to the
Jesuit Lefevre. At the same time we must not forget that Admiral
Coligny, so prudent, so wise, so experienced a man, in short, better
qualified than anyone else to appreciate the situation, seeing he is in
close touch with the court, reposes full confidence in the peace. Did
he not give us positive proof of his sense of security by inducing the
Protestants to restore to the King, before the date fixed by the edict,
the fortified towns of asylum that were placed in their power?"

"Oh, sister, sister!" interjected Captain Mirant. "I shall ever
congratulate myself upon having been on the Board of Aldermen among
those who most decidedly opposed the relinquishing of La Rochelle! Thank
God, this fortified place remains to us. Here at least we may feel safe.
I very much fear the loyalty of the Admiral may not be a match for the
duplicity of the Italian woman."

"I must say that I am increasingly impatient for my husband's return
home," observed Theresa. "He will have had an interview with Admiral
Coligny; he will have expressed to him the fears and misgivings of the
Rochelois. At least we shall know for certain whether we are to feel
safe or not."

"Do you call that living?" cried Captain Mirant. "Why should we,
honorable people, be kept ever in suspense as though we were criminals!
Mistrust ever sits in our hearts! Our ears ever are on the watch, our
hands on our swords! Whence come these mortal alarms? The reason is
that, despite our old municipal franchises, despite the ramparts of our
town, we are, after all, the subjects of the King, instead of belonging
to ourselves, like the Swiss cantons, that are freely federated in a
Republic! Oh, liberty! liberty! Shall our eyes ever see your reign among
us?"

"Yes!" answered Antonicq. "Yes! We would see that beautiful reign if the
admirable sentiments of La Boetie could be made to penetrate the souls
of our people! But listen, I shall read on:

     "Oh, liberty! So great, so sweet a boon, that, once lost misfortune
     follows inevitably, and even the enjoyments that may remain behind
     wholly lose their taste and flavor, being tainted with servitude!
     Liberty is not desired by men for no other reason, it seems to me,
     than that, if they were to desire it, they would have it! One would
     think they refuse the priceless conquest only because it is so
     easily won! The beasts (may God help me!) where men are too deaf to
     hear, scream in their ears--_Long live Freedom!_ Many animals die
     the moment they are captured. Fishes lose their lives with their
     element: they die unable to survive their natural franchise! If
     animals recognized rank in their midst they would turn liberty
     into--_nobility!_ From the largest to the smallest, when caught,
     they offer so emphatic a resistance with nails, horns, feet, or
     beaks that they sufficiently declare how highly they prize what
     they are losing. When caught, they give us so many manifest tokens
     of how thoroughly they realize their misfortune that, if they
     continue to live, it is rather to mourn over their lost freedom
     than to accommodate themselves to servitude.

     "Poor, miserable people! Poor senseless beings! Oh, ye nations
     stubbornly addicted to your own evil! Blind to your weal! You allow
     yourselves to be carried away, to be ravished of the best that you
     have, of the prime of your revenue; your fields to be pillaged;
     your homes to be robbed; your paternal furniture and heirlooms to
     be taken for spoils! Your life is such that you may say nothing is
     your own. Would it be that wise unless you are tolerant of the
     thief who plunders you, and the accomplice of the murderer who
     slays you? Are you not traitors to yourselves? You sow your fields
     for him to gorge himself! You furnish your houses in order to
     furnish matter for his burglaries! You bring up your daughters that
     there may be food for his debauches! You bring up your sons that
     he may lead them to slaughter and turn them into the instruments of
     his greed and the executors of his revenges. You stint your bodies
     that he may revel in the delights you are deprived of, and wallow
     in lecherous and vile pursuits!

     "True enough, physicians advise not to lay hands upon wounds that
     are incurable. Perhaps I act not wisely in seeking to give advice
     to the people in this matter. They have long lost consciousness;
     they are no longer aware of their ailment; the disease is mortal!"

"The reproach is severe, and, I think, unmerited," objected Odelin's
widow. "Did not Estienne of La Boetie himself, who died only nine years
ago, see the Protestants thrice run to arms in the defense of their
faith?"

"Sister," asked Captain Mirant, "did the whole people run to arms? Alas,
no! The majority, the masses--blind, ignorant, wretched, and dominated
by the monks--have they not ever risen at the command of their clerical
misleaders, and fallen with fanatical rage upon what they call the
'heretics'? Even among ourselves, is it not a small majority that
realizes the truth of what Christian your husband's father used to say,
when he warned the Protestants that neither religious nor any other
freedom could ever be permanently secured so long as royalty, the
hereditary accomplice of the Church, was left standing? Do not the
majority of Protestants, even Admiral Coligny himself, entertain respect
and love, if not for Kings, at least for the monarchy? Do they not seek
to place that institution beyond the reach of the religious wars?
Sister, Boetie's book tells the truth: The masses of the people,
degraded, brutified, besotted and kept in ignorance by hereditary
serfdom no longer feel the gall of servitude. Does it, therefore, follow
the disease is incurable, and fatal? No! No! In that respect I look to
better things than does La Boetie. History, in accord therein with the
chronicles of your husband's family, proves that a slow and mysterious
progress is taking its course across the ages. Serfs replaced slaves;
vassals replaced serfs; some day, vassalage also will disappear as did
slavery and serfdom! The religious wars of our century are another step
toward ultimate freedom. The revolt against the throne will closely
follow the revolt against the Church. But, alas! how many years are yet
to elapse before the arrival of the day foretold by Victoria the
Great--as narrated in your family history!"[76]

"Oh, the genius of tyranny is so resourceful in infernal plans to
protect its empire!" exclaimed Antonicq. "Do you remember, uncle, how
surprised you and I were at the account, given us by some travelers who
returned from Paris, of the infinite number of public
festivities--tourneys, tilts, processions--gotten up to keep the people
amused?"

"Yes, and we listened to their report as to a fairy tale," interjected
Cornelia. "We wondered how the people could feel so giddyheaded in
Paris; how they could crowd to festivities given upon places that were
still dyed red with the blood of martyrs, and still warm with the ashes
of pyres!"

"Cornelia," replied Antonicq, proud of the noble words of his bride,
"tyrants rule less, perhaps, through force that terrorizes than through
corruption that depraves. Listen to these profound and awful words of La
Boetie upon this very subject:

     "No better insight can be got into the craftiness of tyrants to
     brutify their subjects than from the measure that Cyrus adopted
     towards the Lydians after he took possession of Sardis, the
     principal city of Lydia, and reduced to his mercy Croesus, the rich
     King, and carried him off a prisoner of war. Cyrus was notified
     that the people of Sardis rose in rebellion. He speedily reduced
     them to order, but unwilling to put so beautiful a place to the
     sack, and also to be himself put to the trouble of garrisoning the
     city with a large force in order to keep it safe, he hit upon a
     master scheme to make sure of his conquest. He set up in Sardis a
     large number of public houses for debauchery, and issued a decree
     commanding the people to frequent these brothels. That garrison
     answered his purpose so well that never after did he have to draw
     the sword against the Lydians.

     "Indeed, no bird is more easily caught with bird-lime, no fish is
     more securely hooked with an appetizing bait, than the masses of
     the people are lured to servitude by the tickle of the smallest
     feather, which, as the saying goes, is passed over their lips.
     Theaters, games, farces, spectacles, gladiators, strange beasts,
     medals, pictures and other trifles were, to the peoples of
     antiquity, the charms of servitude, the price of their freedom, the
     instruments of tyranny.

     "These lures kept the people under the yoke. Thus, mentally
     unnerved, they found the pastimes pleasant, they were amused by the
     idle spectacles that were paraded before their eyes, and they were
     habituated to obedience as fully, but not as usefully to
     themselves, as little children, who, in order to gladden their eyes
     with the brilliant pictures of illuminated books insensibly learn
     to read.

     "The tyrant Romans furthermore resorted to the plan of feasting
     the populace, which can be led by nothing so readily as by the
     pleasures of the mouth. The cleverest of them all would not have
     dropped his bowl of soup to recover the liberty of the Republic of
     Plato. The tyrants made bountiful donations of wheat, of wine and
     corn. Whereupon the cry went up lustily--_Long live the King!_ The
     dullards did not realize they were receiving but a small portion of
     what belonged to them, and that even the portion which they
     received the tyrant would not have it to give, but for his first
     having taken it away from themselves."

"_The cleverest of them all would not have dropped his bowl of soup to
recover the Republic_," repeated Captain Mirant. "The fact is
shockingly, distressfully true! Men become animals when they sacrifice
everything to perverse instincts and vulgar appetites. Nevertheless, a
curse upon all tyrants! It is they who incite these very appetites, in
order to rule the heart through the stomach, and the mind through the
eyes, by attracting the peoples to tourneys, tilts and such other
pageants, amusements that are but disgraceful badges of servitude, and
must be paid for by the fruit of the labor of the slaves themselves!"

"Go to, poor Jacques Bonhomme!" added the Franc-Taupin. "Fill up your
paunch, but bend your back! Pay for the gala! Gnaw at the bones cast to
you, and cry 'Thanks!' Oh, if only you knew! If only you wanted to! With
one shake of your shoulders, both the tyrants and their cohorts would be
thrown to the ground!"

"No! No!" interjected Antonicq. "Do not imagine that our tyrants
Catherine De Medici and Charles IX are defended mainly by the
arquebusiers of their bodyguards, their light mounted horse and their
footmen in arms! Not at all! Just listen to this passage from La
Boetie's book:

     "I shall now touch upon a point that is the secret spring of the
     sway, the support and the foundation of tyranny. He who imagines
     that the halberdiers of the guard constitute the safety and the
     bulwark of tyrants is, I hold, greatly in error. No; it is not arms
     that defend a tyrant. At first blush the point may not be granted,
     nevertheless it is true. It is only four or five men among his
     accomplices who uphold a tyrant and who keep the country in
     servitude to him. It has ever been only five or six who have a
     tyrant's ear, and are invited by him to be the accomplices of his
     cruelties, the sharers in his amusements, the go-betweens in his
     debaucheries, the co-partners in his plunder, these five or six
     hundred have, in turn, under them five or six who are to them what
     they themselves are to the tyrant--and these five or six hundred
     have, in turn, under them five or six thousand thieves among whom
     they have caused the government of the provinces and the
     administration of the funds to be distributed, in order that they
     may cater to the avarice and the cruelty of the tyrant, in order
     that they may promptly execute his orders, and be ready to do so
     much mischief that they can hold their places only under the shadow
     of his authority, nor be able to escape the just punishment of
     their offences but through him. Wide and long is the train that
     follows these latter ones. Whoever cares to amuse himself in
     tracing the threads of this woof will see that, not the six
     thousand only, but hundreds of thousands, aye millions depend
     through that cord upon the tyrant, who, with the aid of the same,
     can (as Jupiter boasts in Homer) pull over to himself all the gods
     by pulling at the chain."

"Well put! Never before has the centralized power of royalty, that
fearful engine of tyranny, been more lucidly laid bare!" cried Captain
Mirant. "I am more and more convinced--the federation of the provinces,
each independent as to itself, but mutually united by the common bond of
their common interests, like the Republic of the Swiss cantons, is the
sole guarantee of freedom. COMMUNE AND FEDERATION!"

"Now," said Antonicq, "do not fail to admire the penetration with which
Estienne of La Boetie traces back the secret punishment that is visited
upon tyrants, and the awful consequences of tyranny itself. He says:

     "From the moment a King has declared himself a tyrant, then, not
     merely a swarm of thieves and skip-jacks, but all those who are
     moved by ardent ambition, or overpowering greed, gather around him,
     and assist him in order to have a share in the booty, and to be,
     under the great tyrant, petty tyrants themselves. Thus it happens
     with highwaymen and pirates. One set holds the roads, the other
     rifles the travelers; one set lies in ambush, the other is on the
     watch; one set massacres, the other plunders.

     "Hence it comes that the tyrant is never loved, and never loves.
     Friendship is a sacred gift, a holy boon! It never exists but among
     honorable people, it never arises but through mutual esteem. It is
     preserved, not so much through gifts as by upright conduct. That
     which makes one friend feel sure of another is the knowledge he has
     of the other's integrity. The security he holds from his friend is
     the latter's good character, his faith, his constancy. No
     friendship can exist where cruelty, disloyalty and injustice hold
     sway. When malignant people meet, they meet to plot, not for
     companionship! They do not mutually aid if they mutually fear one
     another. They are not friends, they are accomplices in crime and
     felony.

     "This is the reason why, as the saying goes, there is honor among
     thieves at the distribution of the booty. They supplement one
     another, and they are unwilling, by falling out, to reduce their
     strength.

     "In that begins the punishment of tyrants. When they die, their
     execrated name is blackened by the ink of a thousand pens, their
     reputation is torn to shreds; even their bones, pilloried by
     posterity, chastise them for their wicked lives. Let us then learn
     to be upright; let us raise our eyes to heaven; let us implore it
     to bestow upon us the love of virtue. As to me, meseems nothing is
     so contrary to God as tyranny, and that He reserves for tyrants
     some special chastisement."

"Oh, my children!" exclaimed Odelin's widow, "that book which breathes
such hatred for tyranny and such generous indignation towards cowards
that one must doubt divine justice if he can lightly submit to
iniquity;--that book, every page of which bears the imprint of the love
of virtue and the execration of evil;--that book should be placed in the
hands of every lad about to enter manhood. It would be a wholesome and
strong nourishment to their souls. From it they would gather a horror
for that cowardly and blind voluntary servitude, and then all, in the
name of justice, of human dignity, of right, and of honesty, would rise
_Against-One_, the title of those sublime pages, and they would proclaim
everywhere--Commune and Federation!"

"But, aunt," timidly suggested Cornelia, "should not that book be also
for girls who reach maturity? They become wives and mothers. Should not
they also be nourished in the love of justice and in the abhorrence of
tyranny, to the end that they may bring up their children to virile
principles, regain for woman equal rights with man, and share both the
self-denial and the dangers of their husbands when the hour of battle
and of sacrifice shall have come?"

Cornelia looked so beautiful as she gave utterance to these patriotic
sentiments that all the members of the Lebrenn family turned their eyes
admiringly toward the young girl.

"Oh, my brave one!" exclaimed Antonicq, rising and taking Cornelia's
hands in his own with a transport of love. "How proud I am of your love!
What generous duties does it not impose upon me! Well, it is to be
to-morrow--the happy day for you and me--the day when we are to be
joined in wedlock!"

Hardly had Antonicq finished his sentence when the tramp of a horse's
hoofs was heard in the street. It stopped at the armorer's door. Theresa
Rennepont rose with a start, and ran to the door crying: "My husband!"




CHAPTER VIII.

ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S NIGHT.


The presentiment of the young wife did not deceive her. The door opened
and Theresa fell into the arms of Louis Rennepont.

The joy of the Lebrenn family over the return of one of its members from
a distant journey dominated at first all other feelings and thoughts.
Immediately after the first outpourings of affection the same question
escaped at once from all lips:

"What tidings from Paris, and about Admiral Coligny?"

Alas! it was only then that the members of the Lebrenn family noticed
the profound alteration of Louis Rennepont's appearance, and his wife,
who had been scrutinizing the young man's face with eager and uneasy
curiosity, suddenly cried:

"Great God! Louis, your hair has turned grey!"

Indeed, when Louis Rennepont left La Rochelle towards the end of the
previous month, not a thread of silver whitened his raven locks. Now
they were streaked with broad bands of grey! He seemed to have aged ten
years. Such a change must have been produced by some terrible and sudden
emotion. Theresa's exclamation was followed by a mournful silence. All
eyes were fixed upon Louis Rennepont with increasing anxiety. He
answered his wife with a trembling voice:

"Yes, Theresa; yes, my friends; my hair turned grey in one night--the
night before St. Bartholomew's day--the night of the 23d of this month
of August, of this year, 1572!"

And still shuddering with terror, his chest convulsed with repressed
sobs, the young man hid his face in his hands and muttered: "My God! My
God!"

Presently the young man recovered sufficient composure to proceed.

"Do you all remember," he said, solemnly addressing the stupefied
members of his family, "the infernal scheme of Catherine De Medici that
our poor Anna Bell overheard during the Queen's conversation with
Loyola's disciple Lefevre at the Abbey of St. Severin?"

"Great God!" cried Antonicq. "The scheme of massacring all the
Protestants, disarmed by the peace?"

"The massacre, begun in Paris under my own eyes, during the night before
St. Bartholomew," answered Louis Rennepont with an effort, "that
massacre is proceeding at this very hour in almost all the large cities
of France!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Captain Mirant. "In sight of such a stupendous crime
one's head is seized with vertigo--one is not certain of himself--one
asks himself whether he is awake, or dreams."

"By my sister's death! We are not dreaming!" ejaculated the
Franc-Taupin. "Friends, if we look down at a stream running under our
feet, it often happens that, for a moment, our head turns. That is what
we are now experiencing. We see at our feet a torrent flowing, a torrent
of blood--the blood of our brothers!"

"A curse upon my head," thundered the boilermaker Barbot, raising his
clenched fist to the ceiling, "if the blood of the Catholics does not
run, if not in torrents, at least drop by drop, before La Rochelle! Let
them come and attack us!"

"They will come," put in Captain Mirant. "They are surely on the march
now! Our ramparts shall be our grave! God be thanked, we shall not be
slaughtered like cattle in the shambles! We shall die like men!"

Cornelia, pale and motionless like a statue of sorrow, her arms crossed
over her palpitating bosom, and her face bathed in tears, remained in
mute consternation until this moment. The girl now took two steps
towards her betrothed and said to him in a trembling voice:

"Antonicq, to-morrow we were to be married--people in mourning do not
marry. From this instant I wear mourning for our brothers, massacred on
St. Bartholomew's night! A woman owes obedience to her husband,
according to our laws--iniquitous, degrading laws! I wish to remain free
until after the war."

"Cornelia, the hour of sacrifices has sounded," answered Antonicq with a
trembling voice; "my courage shall vie with yours."

"We have paid our tribute to human weakness," observed Odelin's widow,
smothering a sob; "let us now bravely face the magnitude of the disaster
that has smitten our cause. Louis, we listen to your account of St.
Bartholomew's night."

"When a few weeks ago I left for Paris, I concluded I would, in passing
through Poitiers, Angers and Orleans, visit several of our pastors in
order to ascertain whether they also shared our apprehensions. Some I
found completely set at ease by the loyal execution of the last edict,
above all by the certainty of the marriage of Henry of Bearn with the
sister of Charles IX. They looked upon this as a pledge of the good
intentions of the King, and of the end of the religious conflicts. Other
pastors, on the contrary, felt vaguely uneasy. Being convinced that Joan
of Albert was poisoned by Catherine De Medici, they saw with no little
apprehension what they considered the heedless confidence that Admiral
Coligny placed in the court. But in short, the vast majority of our
brothers felt perfectly at ease.

"Immediately upon my arrival at Paris I proceeded to Bethisy Street, the
residence of Admiral Coligny. I expressed to him the fears that agitated
the Rochelois concerning his life, so precious to our cause, and their
mistrust of Charles IX and his mother. The Admiral's answer was: 'The
only thing that keeps me back at court is the almost positive prospect
of Flanders and the Low Countries rising against the bloodthirsty
tyranny of Philip II. Only the support of France could insure the
success of the revolt. If those rich industrial provinces secede from
Spain, they will be the promised land to our brothers. These will find
there a refuge, not as to-day, behind the ramparts of a very few cities
of safety, but either in the Walloon provinces, which will have become
French territory under solid guarantees for their freedom, or in the Low
Countries, which will be federated upon a republican plan, in imitation
of the Swiss cantons, under the protectorate of the Prince of Nassau. By
family tradition, and on principle, I am attached to the monarchic form
of government. But I am well aware that many of our brothers, you of La
Rochelle among them, shocked at the crimes of the reigning house, are
strongly inclined towards a republic. To these, the federation of the
Low Countries, should the same be established, will offer a form of
government to their taste.' 'But, Admiral,' I replied, 'suppose our
suspicions prove true, and the help that the King and his mother have so
long been holding out the prospect of proves to be but a lure to hide
some new trap?' 'I do not think so,' rejoined Admiral Coligny, 'although
it may be. One must be ready for anything from Catherine De Medici and
her son.' 'But,' I cried, 'Admiral, how can you, despite such doubts
entertained by yourself, remain here at court, among your mortal
enemies! Do you take no precautions to protect yourself against a
possible, if not probable, act of treachery?' 'My friend,' was the
Admiral's reply given in a grave and melancholy tone, 'for long years I
have conducted that sort of war which, above all others, is the most
frightful and atrocious--civil war. It inspires me with insurmountable
horror. An uprising in Flanders and the Low Countries offers me the
means of putting an end to the shedding of French blood and of securing
a new and safe country to our brothers. It will be one way or the
other--either the King's promises are sincere, or they are not. If they
are I would consider it a crime to wreck through impatience or mistrust
the success of a plan that promises so favorable a future to the
Protestants.' 'And if the King should not be sincere,' I inquired, 'if
his promises have no object other than to gain time to the end of
insuring the success of some new and frightful treachery?' 'In that
event, my friend, I shall be the victim of the treachery,' calmly
answered Coligny. 'Is it my life they are after? I have long since
offered it up as a sacrifice to God. Moreover, only day before
yesterday, I declared to the King that, after the suppression of the
revolt at Mons, as a consequence of which Lanoüe, my best friend, fell a
prisoner into the hands of the Spaniards, France should no longer
hesitate to give her support to the insurrection of the Low Countries
against Philip II.' 'And what did the King say to that? Did he give you
any guarantee of his honest intentions?' 'The King,' Coligny answered
me, 'said this to me: "_My good father, here are the nuptials of my
sister Margot approaching; grant me only a week longer of pleasures and
enjoyment, after which, I swear to you, by the word of a King, you and
your friends will all be satisfied with me._"'"

At this passage Louis Rennepont interrupted his narrative and cried with
a shudder:

"Would you believe it, my friends, Charles IX addressed these ambiguous
and perfidious words to Coligny on the 13th of August--and on the night
of the 23rd the massacre of our brothers took place!"

"Oh, these Kings!" exclaimed Marcienne, raising her eyes to heaven.
"These Kings! The sweat of our brows no longer suffices to slake their
thirst. They are glutted with that--they now joke preparatorily to
murder!"

"By my sister's death!" shouted the Franc-Taupin, furiously. "The
Admiral must have been smitten with blindness. Acquainted as he was from
a long and bitter experience with that tyrant whelp, that tiger cub, how
is it he did not take warning from the double sense that the King's
words carried! What imprudence!"

"Alas, far from it!" said Louis Rennepont. "In answer to the remarks I
made to him, calling his attention to the suspiciousness of the King's
words, a suspiciousness rendered all the more glaring by reason of the
tyrant's character, the Admiral merely replied: 'If they are after my
life, would they not long ago have killed me, in the course of these six
months that I have been at court?' 'But monsieur,' I observed, 'it is
not your life only that is threatened; they probably aim also at the
lives of all our Protestant leaders. Our enemies rely upon your example,
upon your presence at court, and upon the festivities of the marriage of
Henry of Bearn, to attract our principal men to Paris--then to strike
them all down at the giving of a signal, and to massacre the rest of our
brothers all over France. Do you forget the scheme that Catherine De
Medici talked over with the Jesuit Lefevre?' 'No, no, my friend,' he
replied serenely, 'my heart and my judgment refuse to believe such a
monstrous plan possible; it exceeds the bounds of human wickedness. The
most reckless tyrants, whose names have caused the earth to grow pale,
never dreamed of anything even remotely approaching such a horrible
crime--it would be nameless!"

"That crime now has a name--it is called 'St. Bartholomew's Night'!"
said Cornelia with a shudder. "What will be the name of the vengeance?"

"Mayhap the vengeance will be called the 'Siege of La Rochelle'!"
answered Captain Mirant, the girl's father. "Our walls are strong, and
resolute are our hearts."

"The war will be a bloody one!" interjected Master Barbot the
boilermaker.

Louis Rennepont proceeded with his narrative: "I left Admiral Coligny,
unable to awaken his suspicions. He went to his Chatillon home, spent
two days in that retreat so beloved of him, and returned to Paris on the
17th of August, the eve of the marriage of Henry of Bearn and Princess
Marguerite. The union of a Protestant Prince with a Catholic Princess,
in which so many of us saw the end of the religious struggles, drew to
Paris almost all the Protestant leaders. I shall mention, among those
whom I visited, Monsieur La Rochefoucauld, Monsieur La Force, and brave
Colonel Piles. Apprehending no treason, they all shared the expectations
of Coligny with respect to the revolt in the Low Countries. The feeling
of safety that prevailed among my brothers gained upon me also. The
marriage of Henry of Bearn and Princess Marguerite took place on the
18th of this month. From that day to the 21st there was a perpetual
round of splendid festivities and general merrymaking at court and in
the city. I took up my lodgings at the sign of the Swan, on St.
Thomas-of-the-Louvre Street, not far from the residence of Monsieur
Coligny. The inn-keeper was of our people. On the 22d he came to my room
at about nine in the morning and said to me with surprise not unmixed
with alarm: 'Something strange is going on. I just learned that the
provosts of each quarter of the city are going from house to house
inquiring about the religion of the tenants, and noting down the
Huguenots. The reason given is that a general census of the population
is wanted. Subsequently,' the inn-keeper proceeded to say, 'the regiment
of the Arquebusiers of the Guard entered Paris. Finally, I learn that
last night a large number of arms, especially cutlasses and daggers,
were transported to the City Hall. I received this information from my
niece. She is a Catholic and a chamber maid of the Duchess of Nevers.
The taking of a list of the Huguenots in town, the arrival of a whole
regiment of Arquebusiers of the Guard, and finally the conveying of such
large stores of arms to the City Hall, seem to me to foreshadow some
plot against the Protestants. I wish you would notify the Admiral of
these occurrences.' The inn-keeper's advice seemed wise to me. I
hastened to Bethisy Street and knocked at the Admiral's house. He was
not home. As was his habit, he had departed early in the morning to the
Louvre. His old equerry Nicholas Mouche, to whom I imparted some of my
information, seemed not a little startled. We agreed to proceed to the
entrance of the palace and wait for the Admiral. We were passing by the
cloister of St. Germain-L'Auxerois, where several houses were in the
course of construction, when we caught sight of Coligny returning on
foot and followed by two of his serving men. He was reading a letter,
and walked slowly. We hastened our steps to meet him. Suddenly we were
blinded by the flash of a firearm, fired from the ground floor window of
one of the houses contiguous to the cloister. Nicholas Mouche rushed to
his master, screaming: 'Help! The Admiral is assassinated! Help! Help!'"

A cry of horror leaped from the lips of all the members of the Lebrenn
family, who followed breathlessly the report of Louis Rennepont. Captain
Mirant exclaimed:

"Murder and treason! To kill that great man in such a way! Vengeance!
Vengeance!"

"No," put in Louis Rennepont with a painful effort. "Monsieur Coligny,
killed by a bullet, would at least have met a soldier's death. I
followed close upon the heels of Nicholas Mouche and reached him at the
moment when Coligny, pale but calm, pointed to the window from which the
shot was fired, and said: 'The shot came from there.' The arquebus was
loaded with two balls. One carried off the Admiral's left thumb, while
the other lodged in his arm near the elbow. Weakened by the loss of
blood, that ran profusely, Coligny said to Nicholas Mouche: 'If I leaned
upon your arm I could walk to my house--proceed!' In fact, he walked
home. Several Protestant officers happened to be not far behind. Upon
learning of the crime that was committed, they forced their way into
the house where the would-be assassin had lain in ambush. They were
informed that he fled through a rear door, where a saddled horse, held
by a page in the Guise livery, stood waiting for him. Their searches
proved vain. No trace of the assassin could they find."

"The Guises! Always the Guisards, either directly guilty, or the
accomplices of assassins!" exclaimed Odelin's widow with a shudder.
"With how much blood have not those Lorrainian Princes reddened their
hands since the butcheries of Vassy! But did Monsieur Coligny's wound
prove fatal?"

"No, unfortunately for the Admiral--because the very next day--" Louis
Rennepont broke off suddenly. "Do you want to know, mother, whether the
Guises were accomplices in the attempted murder upon the Admiral? Yes,
they had their hands in that fresh misdeed, at the instigation of the
Queen-mother. And here a plot begins to unroll itself, the deep villainy
of which would seem incredible if Catherine De Medici and her son were
not known. Presently I shall tell you from whom I have my information;
it is reliable. In line with the conversation which she had with the
Jesuit Lefevre, and which Anna Bell overheard, Catherine De Medici hated
and feared the Guises no less than she did the Admiral. Her scheme was
to cause the Admiral to be assassinated by the Guises; then to rid
herself of them through the Protestants; and finally to rid herself of
the Protestants by the King's soldiers. Does such an infernal
combination seem impracticable to you? Well, it came near succeeding.
This was the plot: The Guises continued to slander the Admiral by
accusing him of having suborned Poltrot who killed Francis of Guise at
the siege of Orleans; the old family hatred burned as implacable as
ever. On the day after the marriage of Henry of Bearn, the Queen and her
son Charles IX said with much unction to Henry of Guise that, in order
to preserve the confidence of the Huguenots and the Admiral, it was
necessary to seem to give him a pledge of reconciliation, to request of
him that the flames of hatred, so long burning in the breasts of the two
families, be extinguished, and to offer him the hand of friendship. All
the more reassured by the cordial advance, the Admiral was expected to
be thrown still more off his guard, and his assassination was considered
all the more certain! The Queen offered for the deed a man after her own
and the King's heart--Maurevert, surnamed the 'King's Killer,' since his
assassination of brave Mouy, a crime for which the felon received the
collar of the Order of St. Michael. The Queen's advice was relished.
Young Guise gave his hand to the old Admiral, and two days later
Monsieur Coligny, on his return from the Louvre, received a load of
arquebus shot from--Maurevert!"

Louis Rennepont stopped for a moment, and then proceeded amid the
profound silence of the family:

"By wounding, instead of killing Coligny, the 'King's Killer' ruined the
project of the Queen and her son. They had counted upon the murder of
the Admiral to incite a great tumult in Paris; their agents were to
scatter among the mob the information that the heinous murder was the
work of the Guisards; the exasperated Huguenots were expected to run to
arms and avenge Coligny's death with the massacre of the whole Guise
family and their partisans; that done, the royal troops were in turn to
overwhelm the Protestants, on the pretext of being guilty of a flagrant
breach of the edict of pacification. The last massacre was to extend
from Paris all over France, under the guise of a vindication of the
outraged edict of pacification. Machiavelli could not have plotted
better. The arquebus shot of Maurevert would have rid Charles IX at once
of Coligny, the Guises and the Protestants. The 'King's Killer' having
missed fire, another course had to be pursued, and, above all, the
reformers had to be convinced that Maurevert's attempt was merely an act
of individual vengeance. Accordingly Charles IX hastened to the
Admiral's residence. The tiger-cub wept. He called the old Admiral his
'good father.' He promised, 'upon the word of a King, however high the
station of the would-be murderers, they should not escape just
punishment.' I was an eye-witness of those tears and royal
protestations; many of our brothers, myself among them, remained near
the bed where Coligny lay while awaiting the surgeon. We were present at
that interview with Charles IX--"

"Then you saw him, Louis, that tiger with the face of a man?" asked
Cornelia with a curiosity born of disgust and horror. "How does the
monster look?"

"Pale and atrabilious of face, with dull, glassy eyes, and a sleepy
look, as if the fervent Catholic and crowned murderer were ever
dreaming of crime," answered Louis Rennepont. "Now watch the sanguinary
craftiness of that pupil of Machiavelli's, to whom neither pledge nor
oath is aught but a more effective form of perfidy. Would you believe
it, that after having expressed sympathy for the wounds of his 'good
father,' and after having pledged his royal word to secure justice, the
first words of Charles IX were: 'I shall forthwith issue orders to close
the gates of Paris, so that none shall leave the city; the murderer will
not be able to flee. Moreover, I authorize, or rather I strongly urge
the Protestant seigneurs, to whom I have offered the hospitality of the
Louvre during the nuptial festivals of my sister Margot, to summon their
friends near them for safeguard.'"

"I perceive the trick of the tiger," broke in Captain Mirant. "By
closing the gates of Paris he prevented the escape of the Huguenots whom
he had consigned to death!"

"No doubt," added Master Barbot the boilermaker, "the same as by
inducing the Protestant seigneurs, who were lodged at the Louvre, to
summon their friends to them, Charles IX only aimed at having them more
ready at hand for his butchers!"

"The issue proved that such were the secret designs of the King,"
replied Louis Rennepont. "But haste was urgent. If tidings of the
attempted murder of the Admiral reached the provinces, the Huguenots
would be put on their guard. The Queen assembled her council that very
night, and presided at its meeting. These were the members at the
council: The King Charles IX; his brother, the Duke of Anjou; the
Bastard of Angouleme; the Duke of Nevers; Birago and Gondi, the Queen's
messengers of evil. It was decided that the butchery should start at
early dawn. The provosts of the merchants, all exemplary Catholics, had,
under pretext of taking a general census, drawn up full lists of all the
Huguenots in the city. Their places of residence being thus accurately
indicated, the assassins would know exactly where to go. The next
question that came up was whether Henry of Bearn also was to be killed.
Catherine De Medici and her son, the King, were strongly in favor, and
urged the necessity of the murder. The other councillors, however, more
scrupulous than their monarchs, objected that the whole world would be
shocked at the assassination of a Prince whose throat was cut, so to
say, under the very eyes of the mother and brother of his wife.
Moreover, the young Prince was lightheaded, unsteady of purpose, they
thought, and without any rooted religious belief. It would be easy, they
concluded, either by means of promises or threats to cause him to abjure
the Reformed religion. The death of the Prince of Condé was also long
discussed. Twice the decision was in favor. But his brother-in-law, the
Duke of Nevers, saved him by guaranteeing the Prince's abjuration. For
the rest, the lad, only the rallying ground of the Huguenots and without
personal valor, inspired but little fear, especially if compared with
Coligny. Towards one o'clock in the morning, the young Duke of Guise was
summoned to the Louvre and introduced to the council. The principal
leadership of the carnage was offered to and accepted by him. A strange
thing happened. At the last moment, Charles IX was assailed by some
slight qualms of conscience at the thought of the murder of the Admiral,
the old man whom that very morning he had addressed with the title of
'my good father.' But the King's hesitance was short-lived. His last
words were: 'By the death of God! Seeing you think the Admiral should be
killed, I will it, too; but I demand that all the Huguenots be killed,
all, to the last one, that there may not be one left alive to reproach
me with the Admiral's death'!"

"Oh, just God!" exclaimed Odelin's widow, raising her hands to heaven.
"Since you consented to the unheard-of deed, Oh, God of Vengeance, You
must have reserved some frightful punishment for him! Oh, You gave Your
consent to that palace plot! to that nocturnal council! There Charles
IX, armed with sovereign power, and certain of the ferocious obedience
of his soldiers and his minions, like an assassin in ambush in the edge
of a forest, laid in the dark the infamous, bloody and cowardly trap
into which, when they awoke, so many of our brothers, who went to sleep
confiding in the law, in their right and in the oath of that Prince,
fell to their death! How many times did he not swear in the presence of
God and man to respect the edict of peace! Yes, You allowed those
horrors, O, God of Vengeance, to the end that this Frankish royalty and
the Roman Church, its eternal accomplice, soon may fall under the
general execration that the massacre of St. Bartholomew will arouse!
Death to Kings! Death to their infamous accomplices, the nobles and
priests!"

The Lebrenn family joined with hearts and lips in the widow's
imprecations. When the excitement again subsided Louis Rennepont
proceeded:

"Before retiring that night to my inn, I walked through a large number
of streets. At least in appearance they were quiet. I met many of our
brothers. Alarmed at the attempted murder of the Admiral, several had
tried to leave Paris. They found the gates rigorously closed by orders
of Charles IX. Back at night in my inn, I did not find the keeper, upon
whom I relied for further information. Broken with fatigue and agitated
by vague fears, I threw myself in my clothes upon my bed and fell
asleep. At about three in the morning I was awakened by my inn-keeper.
He was trembling with terror. 'The death of all the Protestants of Paris
is decreed,' he whispered to me; 'the massacre is to begin at daybreak.
My niece, the chambermaid of the Duchess of Nevers, overheard some words
about the plot; she hastened to warn me. I have notified all our
brothers who are lodged here. They have all fled. Your only chance to
escape the carnage is to join the first gang of the cut-throats whom you
may run across; you must pretend to be of them; you may in that way be
able to reach some place of safety. For a sign among themselves they
have a white paper cross attached to their hats, and a white shirt
sleeve slipped like an armlet over the sleeve of their coats. Their
password is: "God and the King!" Flee! Flee! May the Lord protect you!
Thanks to my niece I have a safe retreat in the palace of Nevers.' While
the inn-keeper was giving me these last directions, there came through
my window, which I had left open on that hot and sultry night of August,
the measured tintinnabulation of the large bell in the tower of the
palace. The sound seemed to leap strangely from the depths of the
silence in which the city was shrouded. 'It is the signal for the
massacre!' cried my inn-keeper, leaving the room precipitately and
whispering his last warnings to me: 'Flee! You have not a minute to
spare; my house is marked! It will be instantly assaulted by the
butchers!'"

"Great God!" cried Theresa, Louis Rennepont's young wife, pressing her
child distractedly to her breast, and unable to hold back her tears. And
addressing her husband: "You are here, near us, safe and sound, poor
friend! and yet I shiver. I weep at the thought of the cruel agonies
that you must have undergone. Did you follow the inn-keeper's advice,
and assume the signs of the Catholics?"

"It was my only safety. I cut a cross of white paper and stuck it in my
hat; I cut off a shirt sleeve and thrust my right arm through it; I then
sallied out into the street. It was still silent and deserted. But the
funeral knell from all the Paris churches had by that time joined the
clangor of the tower bell, which then was ringing at its loudest.
Windows were thrown open. Little by little lights appeared in them."

"Malediction upon the people of Paris!" cried Odelin's widow. "It seems
most of them were accomplices in the butchery!"

"Alas, yes, mother! To their eternal shame, the fact must be admitted;
the people of Paris were the accomplices of Charles IX, and our
butchers! The people and a considerable portion of the bourgeoisie,
being drugged by the fanaticism of the monks, did take part in the
massacre. Some, yielding to the fear of being suspected, obeyed the
orders of the provosts, and placed lights at their windows at the sound
of the first strokes of the bells that they heard. My first thought was
to run to the residence of the Admiral and notify him of the projected
butchery. As I entered Bethisy Street I saw men emerging from several
houses; all carried white crosses in their hats and their arms in shirt
sleeves. They brandished pikes, swords and cutlasses, and cried: 'God
and the King! Kill! Kill all the Huguenots!' They then gathered into
groups, drew themselves up before certain doors that bore the mark of a
cross in white chalk, beat upon and broke them down, and rushed in
yelling: 'Kill! Kill the Huguenots!'

"I was rushing towards the residence of the Admiral when I saw a
battalion of Arquebusiers of the Guard turn into Bethisy Street. The
troop was headed by the young Duke Henry of Guise, accompanied by his
uncle Aumale and the Bastard of Angouleme, brother of Charles IX. All
three were clad in war armor. Pages carrying lighted torches preceded
them. Among the soldiers were interspersed a large number of Catholic
cut-throats, recognizable by the signs which I also wore. I mixed with
them. The crowd arrived before Coligny's residence. The soldiers knocked
at the main door with the butts of their arquebuses. It was instantly
opened. Despite the prompt obedience shown, all the serving-men of
Coligny found in the corridor and the yard were promptly done to death.
The Guises and the Bastard of Angouleme, surrounded by their pages,
remained outside in front of the facade of the house at the foot of the
porch, the stairs of which led to the vestibule. Duke Henry of Guise
made a sign; instantly his equerry Besmes, followed by Captains
Cosseins, Cardillac, Altain and Petrucci, rushed forward with a
detachment of soldiers and dashed up the stairs to the first floor, on
which the Admiral's room was. I realized the Admiral was lost, and
remained unobserved below among the Catholics, where the details of the
murder were soon reported. Awakened by the outcry of his servants, and
the tumult on the street, the Admiral guessed the fate that awaited him.
His faithful Nicholas Mouche and Pastor Merlin were with him. They had
watched all night at his bedside. 'Our hour has come; let us commend our
souls to God!' said Coligny, with which words he rose from his bed,
threw a morning gown over his shoulders and knelt down. The minister and
his old servant knelt down beside him. The three began to pray. The door
was broken in. Besmes, the equerry of Henry of Guise, was the first to
enter, sword in hand, leading in his captains. He walked straight to
Coligny, who, having finished his prayer was rising from the floor
serene and dignified. 'Is it you who are the Admiral?' shouted Besmes;
'Well, you shall die!' 'The will of God be done! Young man, you shorten
my life only a few days,' answered Coligny. These were that great man's
last words. Besmes seized him by the throat with one hand, and with the
other thrust his sword through him. The old man sank on his knees.
Captain Cardillac threw him down, and opened his throat with one slash
of his dagger. The other officers despatched Merlin and Nicholas Mouche.

"I had remained below. There I witnessed an even more execrable scene.
Only a minute or two after the murderers had rushed upstairs, the Duke
of Guise stepped closer to the facade of the house and called out
impatiently in a ringing voice: 'Well, Besmes! Is it done?' Thereupon a
casement was thrown open on the first floor; the equerry appeared at the
window holding his bloody sword in his hand, and answered: 'Yes,
monseigneur! It is done! He is dead!' 'Then throw the corpse down to us
that we may see it!' commanded Henry of Guise. Besmes vanished, and
reappeared dragging, with the aid of Captain Cosseins, the corpse of
Admiral Coligny; the two raised it--meseems I still behold the grey head
of the venerable old man, pale and limp, as the body was pushed out of
the window, with his lifeless arms swinging in space. Besmes and the
captain made a final effort; the corpse was precipitated upon the
pavement, where it rolled down at the feet of the Duke of Guise. Coligny
was clad only in the morning gown that he had hurriedly put on. Thus
half-naked and still warm he was hurled out of the window. The venerable
head rebounded upon the cobblestones and reddened them with blood. The
victim had fallen on his face. The Duke of Guise stooped down, and,
aided by the Bastard of Angouleme, turned the corpse over on its back,
wiped with his sash the blood that covered the Admiral's august visage,
contemplated it for a moment with ferocious glee, and then kicked the
white head with the tip of his boot, crying: 'At last! Dead at
last--thoroughly dead!' The Duke then turned to his henchmen: 'Comrades,
let us proceed with our work! The Pope wills it! the King so orders it!'
Almost fainting with sickening horror and unable to move, I witnessed
this cannibal scene--it was only the prelude for another and still more
horrifying one. The Dukes of Guise and of Aumale and the Bastard of
Angouleme departed with their soldiers from Monsieur Coligny's
courtyard. Almost immediately the same was invaded by a band of men,
women and children in rags. They were a troop hideous to look upon, as
they brandished their sticks, butcher knives and iron bars, under the
leadership of a Cordelier monk who held a jagged cutlass in one hand and
a crucifix in the other, yelling at the top of his voice: 'God and the
King!' The howlings of the mob kept time to the monk's yells. Two men
with hang-dog looks carried torches before the monk. The moment that he
recognized the corpse of our martyr, the Cordelier emitted a screech of
infernal glee, threw himself upon the lifeless body of the Admiral,
squatted down upon its chest, sawed at the neck with his cutlass,
severed the head from the trunk, seized it by its grey locks, and held
it up to the mob, crying in a resonant, though cracked voice: 'This is
the share of the Holy Father! I shall send him Coligny's head to
Rome!'[77]--That monk," added Louis Rennepont in a tremulous voice, and
answering a cry of execration that leaped from the hearts of his
listeners, "that monk, O shame and O misfortune!--that monk was the
assassin of Odelin! Oh, may God have pity upon us!"

"Fra Hervé!" exclaimed all the members of the Lebrenn family in chorus.
A silence of terror and horror reigned in the armorer's hall.

"I wish to come quickly to an end with these monstrosities," proceeded
Louis Rennepont, catching his voice. "After the tiger come the jackals,
after the ferocious beasts the unclean ones. Hardly had Fra Hervé
severed the Admiral's head from his trunk, amid the hideous acclamations
of the ragged crew, when they fell upon the corpse. Its feet and hands
were cut off. The entrails were torn out of the abdomen and were
struggled for by the human jackals. The sacrilegious mutilations seemed
to go beyond the boundaries of the horrible, and yet the limit was not
reached. Women, veritable furies, pounced upon the bleeding limbs,
and--but I dare say no more before mother, or before Cornelia, nor
before you, my wife. The stentorian voice of Fra Hervé finally silenced
the tumult and quelled the anthropophagous orgie. 'Brothers!' he cried,
'to the Pope I shall send the head of this Huguenot carrion, but let us
carry the stripped carcass to the gibbet of Montfaucon! It is there
that should be exposed the remains of the villain who has infested
France with his heresy, and lacerated the bosom of our holy mother the
Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church!' 'To Montfaucon with the Huguenot
carrion!' howled the ferocious band. A procession was improvised. Fra
Hervé sheathed his cutlass, planted the Admiral's head on the point of a
pike, and raised the trophy in one hand. In the other he waved aloft his
crucifix, and, lighted by his two torch-bearers, headed the procession.
The now shapeless remnants of the corpse were tied to a rope, a team of
cut-throats harnessed to it, and the bloody lump was dragged through the
gutters. The procession marched to the cry of 'To Montfaucon with the
Huguenot carrion! God and the King!' At that moment, and despite the
terror that held me rooted to the ground, my inn-keeper's last
suggestions occurred to me. Montfaucon was situated outside of the walls
of Paris. No doubt some city gate would be opened to the Cordelier's
band. I joined it, in the hope of escaping from Paris. We left the
courtyard of Monsieur Coligny's house. It was now broad day. Before
proceeding to Montfaucon, Fra Hervé wished to exhibit his bloody trophy
to the eyes of Charles IX and his mother. We directed our course to the
Louvre. Other scenes of carnage were taking place there. The Protestant
seigneurs and officers who came in the suite of the Princes of Bearn and
Condé to participate in the wedding festivities of the King's sister,
were lodged at the palace. Relying upon the royal hospitality, they were
taken by surprise while asleep, dragged half naked to the courtyard,
and there either brained or stabbed to death. Among others whom I
recognized at a distance were Morge, Pardillan, St. Martin, besides the
brave veterans Piles, Baudine and Puy-Vaud. They struggled in their
shirts against the soldiers who beat them down with their halberds, and
then stripped the corpses of their last shreds of clothing. The
moanings, the imprecations of the victims, the streams of steaming blood
through which we tramped, and that often reached our ankles, made my
head reel. The butchers laid the corpses out in rows in front of the
facade of the Louvre. The bodies were yet warm; many a bloody limb still
seemed to palpitate; the corpses lay stripped naked, upon their backs. I
counted over four hundred. Suddenly there appeared Catherine De Medici
accompanied by her maids of honor and other ladies of the court. She
mounted a terrace from which a full sight of the carnage could be had.
They came--"

Louis Rennepont stopped short. He hid his face in his hands. "Alas! I
have to inform you of something still more horrible than anything I have
yet said! The furies who profaned the corpse of Coligny were beings,
who, depraved by misery and ignorance, and besotted by a brutish
paganism, yielded obedience to fanatic promptings. But Catherine De
Medici and the women of her suite were brought up in the splendors of
court life, and yet they came to mock and insult the bodies of the dead.
And would you believe it--" but again Louis Rennepont found it
impossible to proceed. "No!" he cried; "I shall not soil your ears with
the nameless infamies of those worse than harpies.[78] While Catherine
De Medici, her maids of honor and a bevy of court ladies were amusing
themselves on the terrace, Fra Hervé, still carrying Coligny's head on
the point of the pike, addressed to the Queen a few words that I did not
hear, my attention being at that moment diverted by the appearance of
Charles IX at the balcony of one of the windows of the Louvre. The King
held a long arquebus in his hand; a page carried another of identical
shape and stood behind his master ready to pass it over to him. Suddenly
I saw the King lower the arm, take aim, blow upon the fuse on the cock,
approach it to the pan--and the shot departed. Charles IX raised his
arquebus, looked into the distance, and started to laugh--pleased as a
hunter who has brought down his game. The monster with a human face was
firing upon the Huguenots who were fleeing from the butchery in the St.
Germain quarter, and were attempting to escape death by swimming across
the Seine.

"After haranguing Catherine De Medici, Fra Hervé resumed his march to
Montfaucon at the head of his band, dragging behind them the now
shapeless remains of the Admiral. I had to cross Paris almost from one
end to the other in the wake of Fra Hervé's procession. In the course of
the march my eyes encountered fresh horrors. We ran across Marshal
Tavannes, the commander of the royal army at the battle of
Roche-la-Belle. At the head of a regiment of the guards he was urging
his men and the mobs to massacre, shouting to them: 'Kill! Bleed them!
Bleed them! A bleeding is good in August as well as in May!' And his men
did the bleeding. They bled so well that the gutters ran no longer water
but blood. The smoldering hatreds of neighbors against neighbors were
now given a loose to, under the pretext of religious fervor. Among a
thousand atrocities that I witnessed on that frightful day, I shall
mention but one, because it exceeds any other that I have yet mentioned.
When I first arrived in Paris, and despite the apprehensions that were
uppermost on my mind, I often went to the lectures of the illustrious
scientist Remus. The man's renown, he being one of the most celebrated
professors at the University, besides enjoying the reputation of a
foremost philanthropist of these days, attracted me. I found students,
grown-up men and even greyheads crowding around his chair. Well, holding
close to Fra Hervé's band, I passed by the house of Remus, which the
cut-throats had invaded. A large concourse of people blocked our way,
and interrupted our march for awhile. The mob clamored aloud for the
life of the celebrated scientist. The most frantic in their cries for
the murder were a bunch of pupils, between fourteen and fifteen years of
age, whom two monks--a Carmelite and a Dominican--had in lead. The
assassins finally pushed Remus, half naked, out of his house. The
unhappy man, already wounded in many places, and blinded by the blood
that streamed down his face, staggered like a drunken man, and held his
hands before him. I see him yet--he falls to the ground, they despatch
him, and thereupon the pupils, boys yet, throw themselves upon the
corpse of the scientist, rip his bowels open, tear out the steaming
entrails, turn the body around, raise the bloody shirt that barely
covered it, and thrash the corpse with its own intestines amid roars of
laughter, while they shout: 'Remus has whipped enough of us, it is now
our turn to whip him.'

"Fra Hervé's band again resumed its march. It arrived at one of the city
gates that leads to the gibbet of Montfaucon. As I had hoped, the gate
was thrown open before the Cordelier. I slackened my pace, fell to the
rear of the procession, and, at the first practicable turn on the road,
I jumped aside and blotted myself out of sight in a wheat field. The
tall stalks concealed me completely. I waited till Fra Hervé's band was
a safe distance away. I crept to the road that encircles the ramparts
and towards sunset I arrived, worn out with fatigue, at an inn where I
spent the night, giving myself out for a good Catholic. Early in the
morning I started for Etampes. They had just finished the carnage when I
arrived! It was still going on in Orleans when I passed that city. At
Blois, at Angers, at Poitiers--the same massacres of our brothers. Thus,
after long years of hypocrisy and craftiness, the pact of the
triumvirate inspired by Francis of Guise, the butcher of Vassy, was
finally carried out. Oh, my friends! Not for nothing did Catherine De
Medici say to the Jesuit Lefevre: 'Induce the Holy Father and Philip II
to be patient; let us lull the reformers with a false sense of safety; I
shall hatch the bloody egg that the Guise laid--on one day, at the same
hour, the Huguenots will be exterminated in France.' The Italian woman
kept her promise. The shell of the egg, nursed in her bosom, has broken,
and the extermination has leaped out full armed."

Odelin's widow rose to her feet pale and stately. She raised one of her
venerable hands to heaven, and with a gesture of malediction she uttered
these words, solemnly, amidst the profound silence of her family:

"Be they eternally accursed of God and man, who, from this day or in the
centuries to come, do not repudiate the Church of Rome, that infamous
Church, the only Church that has ever given birth to such misdeeds!"

"By my sister's death!" cried the Franc-Taupin. "Shall the voice of
Estienne of La Boetie be hearkened to at last? Shall we at last see
_all_ leagued _against one?_ the oppressed, the artisans, the plebs,
finally annihilate the oppressor and crush royalty?"

Hardly had the Franc-Taupin finished speaking when James Henry, the
Mayor of La Rochelle, entered precipitately, and addressing Louis
Rennepont, said: "My friend, the few words dropped by you to some of the
people whom you met on your arrival, have flown from mouth to mouth and
thrown the city into a state of alarm! Is it true that Monsieur Coligny
has been assassinated?"

"Monsieur Coligny has been assassinated! All the Protestant leaders are
murdered!" answered Louis Rennepont. "All the Protestants of Paris were
massacred on St. Bartholomew's night! At Etampes, at Orleans, at Blois,
at Tours, at Poitiers, the work of extermination is still in progress.
It was expected to steep in blood the rest of France as well. It is a
fact!"

"To arms! And may the Lord protect us!" shouted James Henry vigorously.
"Let us make ready for a desperate defense. La Rochelle is now the only
safe city left to the Huguenots. Charles IX will not be long in laying
siege to us. I shall order the belfry to ring. The City Council shall be
in session within an hour. It shall proclaim La Rochelle in a state of
danger. To arms! War to the knife against the King and his Catholics,
against the assassins of our brothers! To arms!"




CHAPTER IX.

THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE.


For the first time in their lives did Charles IX, his mother and her
priests discover that there was a limit to endurance. The crime so long
elaborated, so skilfully planned, and carried out with incredible
audacity, so far from annihilating the Reformation gave it fresh life,
steeled its nerves, and rendered it unconquerable. Hardly had two months
elapsed since the massacres of St. Bartholomew, when, not Huguenots
only, but a considerable portion of the Catholic party itself, in open
revolt at the cruel excesses of the court, the fanaticism of the papacy
and the subjection of France to the exactions of Philip II, took up
arms, and made common cause with the Huguenots in order to bring about
the triumph not only of the religious but of a political reformation
also. The new adversaries of Charles IX and his mother took the name of
the "Politicals." Alarmed at the renewed and more threatening attitude
of the now so unexpectedly reinforced Huguenots, the King endeavored
once more to beguile them with false promises. He doubled and twisted,
sought to deal and compromise. It was too late. A fourth religious war
broke out. Several provinces federated together upon a republican plan.
La Rochelle became the fortified center of the Protestants. Against that
city Charles IX concentrated and directed all his forces in the course
of the last month of the year 1572--less than six months after St.
Bartholomew's night.

La Rochelle, situated at the further extremity of a wide and safe bay,
presented the aspect of an elongated trapezium, the wide side of which
was about three thousand feet in length, while the narrow one was only
twelve hundred feet, and faced the sea. The city extended from
north-east to southwest, and stretched between the salt marshes of
Rompsai, Maubec and Tasdon, on the east, and those of the New Gate, on
the west. These marshes, then partly dried or turned into meadows, were
intersected by a large number of canals the locks of which enabled the
land to be readily inundated, and presented an impassable barrier to any
hostile force. The entrance of the port was at the Center of the sea
frontage, and at the further end of the bay. It was defended by the two
large towers of Chaine and St. Nicholas, both built of brick, equipped
with cannon, and also used for powder magazines. To the right and left
of the two towers, and leaving between them the narrow port entrance,
extended a wall made of cut stone which at high tide was washed by the
waves. The wall reached, to the east, the St. Nicholas Gate, and, to the
west, the Lantern Gate, at the summit of which was a beacon to guide the
sailors by night. From that side the city was unapproachable by an armed
force except along a narrow tongue of land which joined the suburb of
Tasdon with the St. Nicholas Gate. Furthermore, besides the water-filled
fosse, Scipio Vergano, a skilful Italian engineer, employed by us, the
Rochelois, had raised an additional protection to this gate by a sort of
double counter-guard made of earth, and flanking the entrance of the
port. The eastern front which extended from the St. Nicholas Gate to the
Congues Gate, was along its whole extent but a poor wall, flanked by two
round towers. It was one of the weak sides of our city. The western
front ran in a straight line from the Lantern Tower to the bastion that
we called the Bastion of the Evangelium. This portion of the
fortifications consisted of a wall flanked by a large number of small
and closely built towers, with occasional terraces. In the middle of
this long line of defenses, which the large number of canals rendered
almost unapproachable, Scipio Vergano cut the New Gate, flanked with a
solid bastion. Finally the north front extended from the Bastion of the
Evangelium to the Congues Gate, a distance of nearly two thousand five
hundred feet. The left extremity of that vast and very vulnerable front
was defended by the Bastion of the Evangelium, which was itself
protected by a terrace of earth. In the center and the highest spot of
the line rose the demi-bastion of the Old Fountain. True enough, it
commanded the whole plain, but both the slightness of its projection and
the insufficiency of its flanks unfitted it for real purposes of
defense. This bastion covered the ramparts but imperfectly.

Such, Oh, sons of Joel, was the aspect of the fortifications of La
Rochelle, the bulwark of the Reformation and of freedom, the holy city
against which Charles IX was about to hurl his Catholic hordes and the
most powerful army ever commanded by his generals.

I, Antonicq Lebrenn, kept a sort of diary of the siege of La Rochelle,
and of the defense made by its inhabitants, among whom our own family
combated gloriously.

       *       *       *       *       *

SEPTEMBER 1, 1572.--Informed of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and
foreseeing that the Huguenots would once more take up arms, the
Rochelois placed their city in a state of defense. James Henry, the
Mayor, took an accurate census of the inhabitants. The serviceable part
was divided into eight companies, exclusive of the Colonel, the name
given to the ninth, in which the Mayor and aldermen, all anxious to
share the perils of the other citizens, are enrolled. The respective
captains elected over these bodies are: James David, Louis Gargouillaud,
Peter Portier, John Colin, Charles Chalemont, Marie Mari, Mathurin the
elder, and Bonneaud. These are all made members of the Council of the
Commune. The aldermen and other Councilmen who command no company, are
charged with inspecting the posts, and shall be on guard, day and night,
in the ranks of the Colonel. Besides these, six other companies are
formed of volunteer foot-soldiers, each a hundred and twenty men strong.
The chiefs of these are: Dessarts, Montalembert, La Riviere, De Lys,
Bretin, called the Norman, and Virolet. All these captains, men well
known for their bravery, took a glorious part in the last civil wars.
The magistrates are engaged in increasing the food supply of the city,
so long as the sea is still open to them. Captain Mirant, the father of
Cornelia, my betrothed, is charged with the command of a foraging
flotilla. He is to go for wheat to the coast of Brittany, and for
ammunitions to England. The daring sailor will know how to elude the
royalist corsairs, or to give them battle. Cornelia is to accompany her
father on the voyage, and will combat like a true Gallic woman. We bade
each other good-bye this morning.

SEPTEMBER 5, 1572.--Yesterday there arrived at La Rochelle Colonel
Plouernel, who is now head and heir of that powerful house by the death
of Count Neroweg of Plouernel and his son Viscount Odet, both killed at
the battle of Roche-la-Belle in the encounter with my father and myself.
The colonel left his wife and children with his father-in-law at the
manor of Mezlean, situated near the sacred stones of Karnak--a fief
which includes among its dependencies a house, a large garden and
several fields that once belonged to our ancestor Joel before the
conquest of Gaul by Julius Caesar.

SEPTEMBER 9, 1572.--During the last few days a large number of fugitives
who escaped the massacre of St. Bartholomew arrived at La Rochelle.
There are to-day in our city fifty noblemen of the neighborhood,
together with their families, besides sixty ministers of the Reformed
religion. Over fifteen hundred soldiers, who deserted the royal army
with arms and baggage, have come over to us.

OCTOBER 30, 1572.--Mayor James Henry and the City Council, who are
charged with watching over the safety of the city, display marvelous
activity. A military council has been established with Colonel Plouernel
and my uncle the Franc-Taupin as members. My uncle is an expert in
matters appertaining to siege work, and especially in mining and
counter-mining. The military council is strengthening the
fortifications, and throwing up fresh ones. New batteries have been set
up at all the weak points that might invite an attack between the
Congues Gate and the Bastion of the Evangelium. A redoubt is being
raised on Notre Dame Church, and upon one of its remaining towers two
large cannons, capable of sweeping the surrounding fields far and wide,
are being raised and mounted. Other engines of bombardment are mounted
upon the platforms of all the belfries that are strong enough to support
the weight and shock of artillery. The towers of Aix, of St. Catherine,
of Verdiere and of Crique are all armed in this way. Noticing that
certain portions of the moat between the Congues Gate and the Evangelium
Bastion are poorly flanked, the Franc-Taupin proposed the construction
of what he calls _taupinieres_, that is, casemates, the protected
embrasures of which are on a level with the ground, and can open an
almost subterranean, and therefore destructive fire upon the enemy. The
casemates are being constructed. Men, women and children labor at the
fortifications with inexpressible enthusiasm.

NOVEMBER 3, 1572.--A heroic decision was taken yesterday. It recalls the
decision that our ancestors Albinik the sailor and his wife Meroë saw
put into execution when the Bretons, to the end of famishing the army
of Julius Caesar, reduced to ashes their rich and fertile fields,
turning the same into a desert that extended from Nantes to Vannes![79]
Yesterday, by order of the Mayor of La Rochelle, all the houses of the
suburb of St. Eloi, and of the quarters of Salines, Volliers and Patere,
were torn down or burned by their owners. No place is to be left to the
enemy under shelter of which they can approach the city, and render the
investment more dangerous to us.

NOVEMBER 8, 1572.--Monsieur Biron has received considerable
reinforcements and advance supplies of siege material with which to
invest our city. He set up his camp before the city with headquarters at
St. André. Colonel Strozzi, one of the ablest officers of the Catholic
army, occupies Puy-Liboreau; Colonel St. Martin occupies Gord with
twelve hundred men under him; Colonel Goas is encamped at Rompsai with
six companies of artillery; and Monsieur Du Guast, a minion of the Duke
of Anjou, the brother of King Charles IX, is at Aytre with two regiments
of veterans. We prepared for these dispositions of the enemy. The
inhabitants of Aytre left only ruins for Du Guast to house in.

DECEMBER 8, 1572.--The enemy's army is steadily receiving
reinforcements, and extending its lines. The land blockade is
tightening. Every day there are bloody skirmishes between us and the
royalists. They lose heavily at this game. Relying upon their numbers,
they venture far into the network of our defenses. These are cut up by
moats and protected by walls, where, amid the labyrinth of hardly
distinguishable paths across the salt marshes, we find many available
places to hide in ambush, and our arquebusiers easily decimate the
Catholics. When, surprised, they seek to pursue us, they are swallowed
up in the depths of the turf-pits the surface of which is covered by a
greenish weed that they have not learned to distinguish from the grass
of the prairie. It has so far been a war of ambuscades, similar to the
patriotic resistance that the Armoricans offered on their moors, their
marshes and their forests, against the soldiers of the son of
Charlemagne, in the days of our ancestor Vortigern.[80]

DECEMBER 13, 1572.--Yesterday was fought a stubborn encounter at the
Font suburb where, led from rich springs, there pours into a reservoir
the water that an aqueduct takes into the city. The Catholics took
possession of the place for the purpose of turning off the water and
depriving La Rochelle of it. They succeeded. My uncle, the Franc-Taupin,
and his friend Barbot, the boilermaker of the isle of Rhe, proposed to
enter the aqueduct, which had been allowed to run dry, and in that way
to arrive under the camp of the enemy's troops at Font, and then blow
them up with a mine. Unfortunately their proposition was not favored. An
open attack was preferred. It cost us many men, and Font remained in the
hands of the Catholics. The canals have been cut. But the village
fountains and wells furnish us with enough water.

JANUARY 7, 1573.--In order still more to tighten the land blockade, the
enemy has erected two forts at the entrance of the bay, on the roadstead
in front of the inside port, thereby compelling our vessels to run the
gauntlet of those batteries in order to reach the city.

JANUARY 12, 1573.--Our friend Master Barbot, the boilermaker, achieved
day before yesterday a deed, unmatched, I think, in the annals of
military exploits. Not far from the counterscarp of the Evangelium
Bastion, stands a mill which we call Brande, and where Captain Normand
placed a small advanced day guard. At night they returned to the city,
leaving at the mill their arms and only one sentinel. Evening before
last, Colonel Strozzi, profiting by the moonlight, marched at the head
of a strong detachment, supported by two light pieces of artillery, to
the attack of the mill, where Master Barbot was alone on guard. Barbot
decided to remain firmly at his post, which he did, discharging one
after the other upon the assailants the arquebuses which were left
loaded on the gunrack of the post. Our friend made simultaneously a
great noise, counterfeiting a variety of voices, with the view of
causing the enemy to believe that the mill was strongly defended. On
hearing the rattle of the arquebus shots, Captain Normand ran to the
parapet of the bastion, and shouted to Master Barbot to hold out and
that reinforcements were hurrying to his support! The road was
circuitous and therefore rather long. As a consequence, before our men
could reach the bastion of the mill, which lay on the other side of the
moat, and despite all his intrepidity, Master Barbot found himself on
the point of yielding. His ammunition had run out. He parleyed, and
demanded quarter for himself and his pretended garrison. Colonel Strozzi
granted quarter to our friend, who, stepping out, revealed the fact that
his garrison consisted of himself alone. Furious at the discovery,
Strozzi was about to hang Master Barbot, when Captain Normand's men
arrived at the double quick, routed the royalists and snatched our
intrepid boilermaker from their clutches.

JANUARY 15, 1573.--God be blessed! My mother, my sister Theresa
Rennepont, Cornelia, my betrothed, and several other brave Rochelois
women had a narrow escape last night. The brigantines of Captain Mirant,
charged with the duty of provisioning La Rochelle with munitions of war
and grain, frequently set sail for the shores of Brittany or for Dover,
and re-entered our port with their cargoes of supplies. To the end of
blocking these excursions, or rendering them too perilous to be
frequently attempted, the royalists brought from the port of Brouage the
hull of a large dismantled vessel. They filled the same with sand, and
sank it at the entrance of the bay that leads to our port. The water in
that spot being shallow, the sunken hull was thus turned into a species
of half-submerged pontoon, and was mounted with a number of artillery
pieces which, jointly with those on the redoubts raised by the enemy on
the opposite sides of the bay, could cross their fires upon any of our
ships that either left or entered the roadstead. Yesterday the City
Council decided that during the night, at low tide, the vessel, left dry
upon the sand banks by the outflowing sea, was to be set on fire. The
audacious stroke--audacious because those who were commissioned to
execute it had to leave the city by the Two Mills Gate, and were forced
to heap up the combustibles around the hull under the fire of the
soldiers on guard--the audacious expedition did not otherwise require
military skill. It only required stout hearts; it devolved upon the
Rochelois women, at their unanimous and pressing demand. "The blood and
lives of the men, already numerically inferior to the besiegers,
should," said they, "be preserved for battle." The brave women
assembled, about three hundred strong, together with a goodly number of
children of about twelve years who insisted upon accompanying their
mothers. The troop consisted of bourgeois women, noble ladies, female
servants, and wives of artisans, fishermen and merchants. Among these,
and foremost among them--I mention it proudly--were my mother, my sister
Theresa, and Cornelia Mirant, recently returned from one of her father's
foraging expeditions to Brittany. At about three in the morning they
started from the city, carrying bundles of dry kindling wood and
packages of hay. A strong wind was blowing. Deep darkness favored their
march under the guidance of a fisherman's wife who bore the nickname of
the _Bombarde_, by reason of her having extinguished one of the enemy's
projectiles. Due to her often dragging for oysters and clams, which
abounded on our coasts, the Bombarde was acquainted with the safe
passages between the rocks and the quicksands that strewed the bay. She
led the Rochelois women through the darkness. The following is
Cornelia's own and thrilling account of the affair:

"Thanks to the darkness, the whistling wind, and our silent footsteps,
we approached within an arquebus shot of the vessel's hull without being
noticed by the royalists. Your mother, marching among the front ranks
between Theresa and myself, and often, like ourselves, sinking up to her
knees in water or mud, steadfastly refused to be relieved of the weight
of the bundle of kindlings that she carried. We were a short distance
from the vessel, the lights of which guided us from afar through the
mist, when the soldier on watch took alarm, and called out: 'Who goes
there!' 'Fire! Fire' answered your mother. It was the signal agreed
upon. We covered on a run the short distance that separated us from the
hull, and rapidly heaped up along its flanks the kindling wood and straw
that we brought with us. The soldier fired upon us at haphazard in the
dark, and called his companions to arms. They hastened upon the bridge
with the cannoniers, but unable to take aim upon us at so short a
distance, and from above down, they left the cannons alone and sent us
through the darkness a shower of arquebus shots that struck several of
us. The bullets whistled. One of them carried off my bonnet. Your
mother, sister and myself were close together, but we could not see one
another on account of the darkness. 'Cornelia, are you wounded?' they
asked. 'No! and you?' 'We neither!' answered your mother; and again she
called out: 'Firm, my daughters! Fire!' Thereupon she and the Bombarde,
who had just lighted a link dipped in sulphur set fire to the first
bundles of wood and straw. Their example was followed simultaneously at
a score of different places, despite fresh arquebus discharges from the
royalists. In a minute thick clouds of smoke enveloped the hull. The
flaming combustibles cast their reflection upon the puddles of water on
the sandbanks, and beyond them upon the two towers of the port. We could
see as clearly as by day. The royalists, however, blinded with the smoke
which the wind blew upon them, together with wide sheets of flame, could
no longer see to fire upon us. Thus protected, we threw three relays of
combustibles upon the flames along the flanks of the accursed hull,
which was so saturated with salt water and coated with ooze that,
despite the heat, it could only be made to sweat by the flames. When our
combustibles were exhausted, we were compelled, in order to effect a
safe retreat, to profit by the last clouds of smoke that, concealing us
from the enemy's eyes, prevented them from aiming upon us. We returned
to the city carrying the dead bodies of five of our troop. Among these
was Marie Caron, the worthy wife of our neighbor the mercer. She was
shot stone dead by a bullet in the left temple. Her son, a lad of
thirteen, had his arm broken. We also helped back a number of women and
girls of our band who were more or less seriously wounded. There were
fifteen of these. Our only sorrow was to have failed in carrying our
enterprise to a successful end."[81]

Such, sons of Joel, was the intrepidity and courage of the Rochelois
women during the siege of the city. Do they not approve themselves
worthy daughters of the Gallic women of the old heroic times?

FEBRUARY 12, 1573.--The brother of Charles IX, the Duke of Anjou,
arrived yesterday at the royal camp to assume the supreme command of the
army. He is accompanied by his two cousins, Henry of Bearn and Condé.
The two apostates, after seeing their co-religionists and best friends
slaughtered under their very eyes on St. Bartholomew's night, gave the
kiss of peace and forgetfulness to Charles IX, and now follow his army
to the siege of La Rochelle. These degenerate sons of Joan of Albert,
and of Condé have come to battle beside the butchers of their families.
Among the other seigneurs and captains in the suite of the Duke of Anjou
are the Duke of Montpensier, the Dauphin Prince of Auvergne, the Dukes
of Guise and Aumale, the Dukes of Longueville and Bouillon, the Marquis
of Mayenne, the Duke of Nevers, Anthony and Claude of Bauffremont, René
of Voyer, Viscount of Paulmy, the Duke of Uzes, the Bastard of
Angouleme, Marshal Cossé, the Count of Retz, and many other illustrious
seigneurs. Among the most noted captains is old Marshal Montluc, a tiger
with a human face. The presence of the experienced general, with whom
age has not softened his proverbial ferocity, sufficiently announces
that, if La Rochelle should fall into the power of the enemy, we shall
be put to the sword, to the very last one of us.

FEBRUARY 14, 1573.--The brave Francis of Lanoüe joined us at La
Rochelle, thanks to a curious agreement with Charles IX. The revolt of
the Low Countries, so ardently wished for by Coligny, miscarried through
the treachery of the French court, whose anxiety to please the Pope and
Philip II was so thoroughly attested by the massacres of St.
Bartholomew's night, that all expectation of seeing it give serious
support to a republican insurrection in one of the provinces of the
Spanish monarchy had to be abandoned. Lanoüe, deceived by the same hopes
that deceived the Admiral, whom the lying promises of Catherine De
Medici and her son had kept in Paris, went to Mons in order to concert
measures with the chiefs of the proposed uprising; made an unsuccessful
effort to call the people to arms; was taken prisoner, and thus escaped
St. Bartholomew's night by the merest accident. Every day more alarmed
at the indomitable attitude of the Huguenots, and aware of the influence
Lanoüe enjoyed among them, Charles IX demanded his liberation at the
hands of Philip II, obtained it, summoned the Huguenot leader to the
Louvre, and said to him: "I place confidence in your word. Go to La
Rochelle. Induce the Protestants to surrender and submit. Should they
refuse, I want you to promise me that you will return, and surrender
yourself to me at discretion." "I consent," was Lanoüe's answer; "I
shall go to La Rochelle. Should it appear to me, in all conscience, that
the resistance of the Huguenots is hopeless, I shall do all in my power
to induce them to capitulate. But should it appear to me that the
chances are favorable to them, I shall induce them to persevere, shall
tender them my services. If they decline my offer I shall return and
surrender myself to you." Such is the confidence that an upright man
inspires even in hardened criminals, that Charles IX accepted Lanoüe's
word. Lanoüe sent ahead a courier to the Mayor of La Rochelle to inform
him of his compact with the King and request admittance to the city. The
City Council assembled. Some of the members severely condemned Lanoüe
for lowering himself to the point of dealing with Charles IX; others, a
considerable majority, realized the value of Lanoüe's assistance, and
favored the acceptance of his services. He was introduced into the city.
His patriotic words brought all dissidents over to his side. He
inspected the defensive works of the place, and being convinced that it
could repel the royalist attack, was invested with the supreme command
of the troops, under the surveillance of the aldermen.

FEBRUARY 23, 1573.--The presence of Lanoüe among us already bears
magnificent fruit. He introduces discipline among our troops. No longer
are the murderous skirmishes tolerated in which so many of our men ran
foolhardily to death. He curbs the ardor of the hotheads; drills the
volunteers in the handling of their arms and in the precision of
military evolutions, and he substitutes the tactics of prudence for the
rashness of blind bravery and unthinking enthusiasm that have been the
bane of the Protestant arms.

MARCH 27, 1573.--Faithful to his word, Lanoüe yesterday left La Rochelle
and returned to the camp of Charles IX where he surrendered himself a
prisoner. From the moment that he took command, our sallies caused
great damage to the enemy, but also cost us dearly. We were not able to
repair our losses, seeing that our communications by land are cut off,
while the enemy is constantly receiving strong reinforcements. We now
number only 4,500 men able to carry arms. The enemy, on the other hand,
has to-day 28,000 men in line, and sixty cannon. The siege is conducted
with consummate skill by Scipio Vergano, the identical engineer who
fortified La Rochelle. The traitor knows the strong and the weak points
of the place. Accordingly he has concentrated all the attacking forces
of the Catholics upon the Bastion of the Evangelium. Their batteries
keep up an incessant fire upon that side of our city. Finally we begin
to lack for munitions of war. The works raised by the enemy at the mouth
of the bay render difficult the entrance of the ships upon which we
depend for provisions. Both powder and grain are running low. Captain
Mirant's flotilla sailed to England for munitions of war, and to
Brittany for food. The vessels are daily expected. If unfavorable winds
should delay their return, or if they fail to run the gauntlet of the
enemy's outer harbor fortifications, a fearful dirth will soon set in.
Having considered the grave difficulties of our situation, Lanoüe was of
the opinion that we could not long resist the pressure of forces five or
six times stronger than our own. He endeavored to induce the City
Council to parliamentarize with the Duke of Anjou, with the end in view
of obtaining an honorable capitulation and favorable terms of peace,
adding that he, Lanoüe had pledged his word as a man to encourage and
aid the Rochelois to resistance so long as he believed resistance to be
effective; but that, so soon as he considered resistance futile, he
would urge the besieged to capitulate, promising, should his advice not
be accepted, to surrender himself a prisoner to the King. After a solemn
session, under the presidency of Mayor James Henry, who, worn out and
almost dying with fatigue and in consequence of his wounds, but steeled
by his republican energy, administered his office, the City Council
declared by a large majority that the Rochelois would resist the
Catholics to the death. Lanoüe thereupon left the city.

Oh, sons of Joel! Fail not to admire the resolute posture of the Mayor,
aldermen and heads of the civic military forces of La Rochelle! Those
generous citizens did not take up arms out of ambition, or cupidity, as
was the case with the majority of the captains in the army of Charles
IX--faithless mercenaries; swordsmen, who sell their skins and kill as a
trade by which to live; fighters by profession; men to whom war, for
whatever cause, whether just or otherwise, holy or unhallowed, is a
lucrative pursuit. No; the Rochelois fought in defense of their freedom,
their rights, their hearths. Only the consciousness that the struggle is
in behalf of the most sacred of causes can beget prodigies of heroism.
All honor to those brave men! Shame and execration upon professional men
of war.

       *       *       *       *       *

The above fragments on the siege of La Rochelle, written by me, Antonicq
Lebrenn, take us down to the middle of the month of May, 1573, when the
following events occurred.




CHAPTER X.

THE LAMBKINS' DANCE.


The City Hall of La Rochelle, an edifice that was almost wholly re-built
nearly a century ago, in the year 1486, is one of the most beautiful
monuments that patriotism and the love for one's city can boast.
Catholic faith has raised up as high as the clouds the spired cathedrals
where the priests, Oh, Christ! exalt the assassination of the Huguenots,
and preach the extermination of heretics. The cult of the communal
franchises has reared City Halls, the cradles of our liberties, the
civic sanctuaries, where, upon the banner of the commune, oath is taken
to die for freedom--as did the communiers, at whose side our ancestor
Fergan the Quarryman fought in the days of Louis the Lusty.[82] The
municipal monument that we, Rochelois, are so justly proud of, consists
of a vast central building, flanked by two pavilions with pointed roofs.
Its principal facade--ornamented with twenty-seven lofty arches, the
triple entablature of which disappears under garlands of leaves and
fruits chiseled in the stone--is surmounted by a crenelated terrace
festooned with thick wreaths of acanthus leaves. From the top of each of
the two pavilions a belfry of marvelous architectural beauty pierces
the air. The one to the left presents to the wondering eye the sight of
a gilt iron cage, that is no less admirably constructed than its dome,
carved on the outside as delicately as a piece of lace-work, and held up
by three stone figures of colossal stature. One must renounce the task
of describing the profusion of crockets that jut out from the walls, and
represent sphinxes and chimeras executed with boldness and grace. One
must renounce the task of describing the stone festoons that embellish
the edifice from its base to its pinnacles, or the infinite wreaths of
fruit or flowers that clamber up the ogive moldings, doors and windows,
that weave their lintels together, wind themselves around the pillars
and columns, and finally crown the capitals. The aspect is that of a
mass of verdure--flowers and leaves in bud and full bloom--suddenly
petrified by some magic power. This imperfect description can only
impart a partial idea of the material beauty of the City Hall of La
Rochelle. But the edifice had, if the word may be used, a soul, a
breath, a voice! It was the daring soul, the powerful breath, the
patriotic voice of the Commune that seemed to animate the mass of stone
of which the antique edifice was built. There, especially since the war,
and as life centers in the heart, centered the pulsations of the city.
All energy started there and rushed back thither. It was there that the
sovereign power of the urban republic, represented by the Mayor and
aldermen whom the citizens elected, had its seat.[83] Assembled night
and day at the City Hall in sufficient number to meet all emergencies,
the valiant ediles never left the hall of the council but to mount the
ramparts, or join in sallies against the enemy's redoubts. Not
infrequently theirs was also the task of calming, controlling or even
suppressing popular tumults, engendered by the sufferings of these days.
Such was the complex and arduous task reserved for Morrisson, the
successor of James Henry, who died in consequence of his wounds and
overexertion. Glorify the Commune, sons of Joel, and its heroic
defenders.

Well, on that day, towards the middle of May, 1573, a tumultuous mob,
made up exclusively of women and children--the able-bodied men were on
the ramparts, or taking a few hours' rest--invaded the square of the
City Hall of La Rochelle, crying with the heartrending fury that hunger
inspires: "Bread!" "Bread!" No less haggard, no less pinched with hunger
than their children, a considerable number of these women, having
combatted beside the men of La Rochelle in repelling the royalist
attacks, had heads bandaged in blood-stained handkerchiefs, or carried
their arms in slings. Several children, of ten or twelve years of age,
also bore the marks of wounds received in battle whither they
accompanied their mothers. The mob, embittered and exhausted by the
trials and all manner of privations that resulted from the long siege,
saw with terror the approach of famine. Since the day before the baker
shops had been closed for want of flour. The supply of food was nearly
exhausted. The wretched crowd clamored aloud for bread; they also
clamored for Morrisson, the new Mayor, and head of the commune.

Morrisson appeared at the portico of the City Hall and stepped towards
the mob. He was at once beloved, feared and respected. Still at the age
of vigorous manhood, he wore an iron corselet and arm-pieces, while a
heavy sword hung from his side. He jumped upon one of the stone
balustrades placed at either side of the door, motioned for silence, and
addressed the crowd in a sonorous, firm and yet paternal voice:

"My children! The Council is in session. I have no time to lose in
speechmaking. Delegate to me one from among you. Let her inform me what
it is that you want. I shall answer."

The Bombarde, acclaimed with one voice as the delegate of her
companions, pushed her way forward and approached the Mayor: "Mayor, we
are hungry, and want bread! The bakers have neither corn nor flour. The
butchers' stalls are closed. Two days ago only a few handfuls of beans
and peas were distributed. Since then nothing more has come. Before the
siege most of us lived off our fisheries, and we asked help from nobody.
To-day every fisherman's boat that ventures out of port is sunk under
the cannon balls of the royalist redoubts. What are we to do? We cannot
remain without food; we are hungry; we want bread for our children and
ourselves!"

"Yes!" echoed the Rochelois women with loud cries. "Bread! Bread!
Morrisson, we must have bread!"

After this explosion of outcries and complaints, silence was restored,
and the Mayor resumed in a moved voice:

"Poor dear women! You want bread, and how do you expect me to give you
any? There is not a single grain of wheat in the city granary. But we
are hourly expecting Captain Mirant's brigantines. They bring from
England a cargo of powder, and from Brittany a cargo of wheat. They are
anchored only eight leagues from here, near the coast, at the port of
Redon. They cannot, in the absence of a favorable wind, run into La
Rochelle. The chances are a hundred to one that the adverse wind, which
has been blowing all these days, will change. It may change almost at
any moment. It may be changing now. If it does, the city will again be
supplied for several months. For the present, there is left to us a
precious resource, so far neglected--the clams and oysters. We must turn
our hands to that. You understand me?"

"Mayor! Do you know that it is now as dangerous to go out for clams as
to march upon a battery?" answered the Bombarde. "To go out for clams is
to run into the jaws of death!"

"I know it--and if the brigantines of Captain Mirant do not run into
port to-day, my wife and two daughters will go out with you to-night, at
one in the morning, when the tide will be low, and dig for clams," was
Morrisson's stoic reply.

"It will be done! Count upon us, Mayor!" replied the Bombarde. "If the
brigantines of Captain Mirant do not arrive before night, we shall put
up with hunger until night--and then we shall go out and dig for clams.
Those of us who will be killed on the banks will no longer need
anything. That is agreed upon, in God's name!"

As the Bombarde was uttering these last words, the detonations of
several discharges of artillery that shattered the window panes in the
City Hall announced the enemy was about to renew the cannonade which it
had suspended in the morning. Almost at the same instant the sonorous
sound of clarion blasts was heard drawing nearer and nearer, and
presently a large number of women of all conditions, marching at the
heels of a pastor on a white horse, ahead of which marched the
clarion-blower, turned into Caille Square.

"To the ramparts, my sisters! To the ramparts!" shouted the pastor with
martial exaltation. "The Lord of Hosts will steel your arms! Your
husbands, your fathers, your brothers and your sons are battling for the
triumph of liberty. Come to their help! To the ramparts! To the
ramparts! The enemy is about to storm the Bastion of the Evangelium!
Long live the Commune!"

"To the ramparts, my brave women! And to-night, after clams on the
banks, as perilous an expedition as battle itself!" cried Morrisson,
while the Bombarde and her companions, joining the other crowd of
Rochelois women, repeated in chorus the following psalm, led by the
pastor:

    "O, Lord do guide these feeble women,
    With souls ablaze, inflamed as strong men!
    Break our foes like Oreb!
    Break them like proud Zeeb!
    Throw down those wicked kings and princes,
    Who in their fury, and their ire,
    Laugh at our tears and distress dire,
    Who devastate our glad provinces!
    Who are as a torrent wildly boiling,
    A tempest, wildly rushing, rolling,
    A hurricane, impetuous driven,
    The tops of haughty mountains lashes,
    A hellish flame that turns to ashes,
    The rooks by lightning struck and riven!

    "May, Oh, Lord! the storm of Thy wrath
    Strew Thy foes away from our path!
    May, Oh, Lord! Thy thunders and fire,
    Smite Thy foes! Oh, smite with Thy ire!"

The Bastion of the Evangelium, upon which the enemy had long been
concentrating all their forces, formed a sharply protruding angle. Its
flanks were not sufficiently protected by other works of defense.
Accordingly, by directing against the left flank of the bastion the fire
of their principal batteries, the enemy had opened a breach in the
rampart by the repeated pounding of their shots. At the place where the
breach was effected, the upper part of the earthworks, to a width of
about fifty feet, crumbled down into the moat, filling it up so fully as
to render an assault practicable. Thanks to this mass of debris which
answered the purpose of a bridge, the assailants could cross the fosse
on a run, could scale the last steps of the last wall already laid in
ruins, and could enter the city, provided they could bear down the
defenders who stood in the breach. From the top of the bastion the eye
swept the plain far and wide. A cannon-shot off, the long line of the
enemy's trenches could be seen, stretching from the suburb of St. Eloi
on the edge of the salt marshes, to the suburb of Colombier. That line
bounded the field from end to end; it intercepted the roads to Limoges
and Nantes at the crossings of which the batteries were erected which
broke a breach through the bastion. The whole stretch between the
trenches of the besiegers and the fortifications of the city--one time
covered with trees and houses--now lay bare, exposed, devastated, and
deeply furrowed by the projectiles. Beyond the desert waste, lay the
enemy's entrenchments--earthworks strengthened with gabions and trunks
of trees, and here and there crenelated with the embrasures for their
batteries. Behind that line of earthworks, the tops of the officers'
tents, surmounted with bannerets and floating pennants, could be seen.
Finally, on the extreme horizon rose the undulating and woody hills. The
breach once made, the Catholics suspended their fire in order to open it
again shortly before marching to the assault. It was in answer to the
thunder of the cannonade, which announced an imminent and decisive
attack, that the old pastor crossed the square of the City Hall at the
head of his bevy of Rochelois women, recruited the Bombarde and her
companions, and wended his course to the Bastion of the Evangelium. At
that place about one-half of the defenders of La Rochelle were gathered,
ready for a stubborn conflict. The other troops, distributed in other
places, were to be on the alert to repel other attacks. The Council of
defense foresaw that the enemy, while hurling one column against the
breach, would undoubtedly attempt a simultaneous assault upon other
places; consequently women were commissioned to close up the breach as
best they might with logs of wood and other material. Colonel Plouernel,
upon whom the defense of the bastion that day devolved, and Captain
Gargouillaud, in charge of the artillery, gave their last orders. The
bourgeois cannoniers were pointing their pieces in advance upon the open
and absolutely exposed ground which the royalists had to cross when they
sallied from their trenches in order to reach the opposite side of the
fosse where the breach was effected. The breach was wide; nevertheless,
before they could reach the parapet, the besiegers would have to clamber
over a heap of debris ten or eleven feet high, on the top of which a
redoubtable engine of defense was mounted, and placed in charge of the
women of La Rochelle. This engine of war, an invention of Master Barbot
the boilermaker, received the name of the _censer_. It consisted of a
huge copper basin, holding a ton, suspended from iron chains at the end
of a long beam that revolved upon an axis, and was so adjusted to a post
firmly set in the ground, that by means of a slight motion imparted to
the beam, the huge caldron would empty upon the heads of the assailants
the deadly fluid that it was filled with, to wit, a mixture of boiling
tar, sulphur and oil. A number of Rochelois women, Theresa Rennepont and
Cornelia my betrothed among them, were busy either keeping up the fire
under the copper basin, or pouring into it the oil, tar and sulphur from
little kegs that lay near at hand. With her sleeves rolled back above
her elbows, and leaving her strong white arms exposed, Cornelia stirred
the steaming mixture with an iron rod supplied with a wooden handle.
Master Barbot--his head covered with an iron morion, his chest protected
with a brigandine, and his cutlass and dagger by his side--leaned upon
the barrel of his arquebus and smiled complacently upon his invention.
From time to time he would address the women and girls at work.

"Courage, my brave girl!" he said to Cornelia. "Mix up the oil well with
the tar and sulphur. Make the mixture thick, soft, and toothsome, like
those omelettes made of eggs, flour and cheese that you are so skilled
in dishing up, and which your good father and myself relish so much! But
the devil take those dainty thoughts! In these days of dearth one may
deem himself happy if he but have a handful of beans. By the way of
famine and of your father--the heavy clouds that are rising yonder in
the south almost always announce a change of wind. Mayhap we shall see
this very day the brigantines of Captain Mirant, loaded with wheat and
powder, sailing before the wind into port, every inch of sail spread to
the breeze, and successfully running the gauntlet of the royalist guns.
Long live the Commune!"

"May God hear you, Master Barbot! I would then embrace my father this
very day, and the threatened famine would be at end," answered Cornelia
without interrupting her work of stirring the mixture, into which
Theresa Rennepont just emptied a bucketful of sulphur--on account of
which Master Barbot called out to her:

"No more sulphur, my dear Theresa. The tar and oil must predominate in
the infernal broth. The sulphur is thrown in only to improve the taste
by pleasing the eye with the pretty bluish flame, that gambols on the
surface of the incandescent fluid. Now, my little girls, turn the beam
just a little to one side in order to remove the basin from the fire
without cooling off the broth. We shall swing it back over the fire the
instant the Catholics run to the assault--then we shall dish up the
broth to them, hot and nice."

While these Rochelois women were thus engaged in preparing the censer,
others rolled enormous blocks of stone--the debris of the bastion that
was shattered by the enemy's cannonade--and placed them in such
positions over the breach that a child's finger could hurl them down
upon the assaulting column. Others rolled barrels of sand, which after
having served for protection to the arquebusiers on the ramparts, were
likewise to be rolled down the steep declivity which the enemy had to
climb. Finally, a large number of women were busy preparing stretchers
for the wounded. These women worked under the direction of Marcienne,
Odelin's widow. Theresa and Cornelia, left for a moment at leisure from
their work on the censer, came over to the widow, and were presently
joined by Louis Rennepont and Antonicq.

"Mother," said Antonicq, tenderly addressing Marcienne, "when I left the
house this morning at dawn you were asleep; I could not tell you
good-bye--embrace me!"

Marcienne understood what her son meant. A murderous assault was about
to be engaged. Perhaps they were not to meet again alive. She took
Antonicq in her arms, and pressing him to her breast she said in a moved
yet firm voice: "Blessings upon you, my son, who never caused me any
grief! If, like your father, you should die in battle against the
papists, you will have acted like an upright man to the very end. Should
I succumb, you will carry with you my last blessing. And you also,
Cornelia," added Marcienne, "I bless you, my child. I shall die happy in
the knowledge that Antonicq found in you a heart worthy of his own in
virtue and bravery. You have been the best of daughters to your
parents--you will likewise be a tender wife to your husband."

Odelin's widow was giving expression to these sentiments when Louis
Rennepont, after exchanging in a low voice a few words with his wife
Theresa, words such as the solemnity of the occasion prompted, cried out
aloud: "Look yonder! there, under us--among the debris of the breach--is
not that the Franc-Taupin? Your uncle seems to be emerging from
underground. He must be preparing some trick of his trade."

"It is he, indeed!" exclaimed Antonicq, no less surprised than his
brother-in-law. "And there is my apprentice Serpentin also--who is
following the Franc-Taupin out of the hole."

These words drew the attention of Cornelia, Theresa and Odelin's widow.
They looked down the steep slope formed by the ruins of that portion of
the bastion that the enemy had demolished. The Franc-Taupin had emerged
from a narrow and deep excavation, dug under the ruins. A lad of
thirteen or fourteen years followed him. They covered up the opening
that had given them egress. After doing so, Serpentin, the apprentice of
the armorer Antonicq, went down upon his knees, and moving backward on
all fours, uncoiled, under the directions of the Franc-Taupin, a long
thin fuse, the other end of which was deep down the excavation which
they had just covered. Still moving towards the parapet, Serpentin
continued to uncoil the fuse, and, upon orders from the Franc-Taupin,
stopped at about twenty paces from the wall and sat down on a stone.

"Halloa, uncle!" cried Antonicq, leaning over the edge of one of the
embrasures. "Here we are; come and join us."

Hearing his nephew's voice, the Franc-Taupin raised his head, made him a
sign to wait, and after giving Serpentin some further directions, the
aged soldier clambered over the ruins with remarkable agility for a man
of his years, and walked over to where Antonicq stood waiting for him.

"Where do you come from, uncle?"

"Well, my boy, what do you expect of me? A _taupin_ I was in my young
days, and now in my old days I relapse into my old trade. I come from
underground, through a shaft that I dug through the ruins with the aid
of Serpentin, about a hundred paces from here. There I laid a mine,
right in the middle of the breach where the good Catholics will soon be
running to the assault. The moment I see them there I shall lovingly set
the fuse on fire--and, triple petard! the St. Bartholomew lambkins will
leap up in the air yelling and spitting fire like five hundred devils,
their heads down, their legs skyward. The dance will end with a shower
of shattered limbs."

"Well schemed, my old mole!" said Master Barbot. "Fire below, fire
above, like the beautiful sheets that I hammer on the anvil. The burning
lava of my censer will blaze over the skulls of the royalists, your fuse
will blaze under the soles of their feet, and hurl the miscreants into
the air capering, turning somersaults, whirling, cavorting, and--" but
suddenly breaking off, Master Barbot let himself down upon the ground,
and joining the word to the deed, called out:

"Down upon your faces, everybody! Look out for the bullets!"

Master Barbot's advice was quickly followed. Everybody near him threw
himself down flat at the very moment that a volley of bullets whistled
overhead or struck the parapet, some ricocheting and upturning gabions
and logs of wood, others plowing their way through the debris where the
imperturbable Serpentin was seated near the fuse that led down to the
mine. Despite the danger, the brave lad did not budge from his post. A
lucky accident willed it that none of the besieged was wounded by this
first salvo of artillery. Master Barbot, the first one to rise to his
feet, cast his eyes upon the enemy's batteries, which were still partly
wrapped in the clouds of smoke from the first discharge, perceived the
first ranks of the assaulting column sallying from its trenches, and
instantly gave the signal:

"Everyone to his post! The enemy is advancing!"

"To arms! Rochelois, to arms!"

Master Barbot's call, was answered by a long roll of drums, ordered by
Colonel Plouernel. His strong and penetrating voice rose above the din,
and his words were heard:

"Soldiers, to the ramparts! Cannoniers, to your pieces! Fire, all along
the line!"

"May God guard you, mother, sister, Cornelia!" said Antonicq.

"May God guard you, my wife!" said Louis Rennepont.

"So long, comrade Barbot!" cried the Franc-Taupin, pulling a tinder box
from his pocket and sliding down the slope of the breach to rejoin
Serpentin. "I shall get myself ready to make the limbs of those St.
Bartholomew lambkins scamper through the air."

"And you, my brave girls, to the censer!" cried Master Barbot to the
Rochelois women. "Replace the caldron over the fire, and, when you hear
me give the order: 'Serve it hot!' turn it and empty it over the heads
of the assailants. You others, hold your levers ready near those stones
and hogsheads of sand. When you hear me say: 'Roll!' push hard and let
it all come down upon them."

Suddenly, fresh but more distant and redoubling detonations of artillery
in the direction of the Congues Gate announced the enemy's intention of
making a diversion by attempting two simultaneous attacks upon the city.
The pastor arrived at that moment upon the ramparts at the head of his
troop of women whom the Bombarde and her companions had joined. Some
reinforced the women charged with rolling the stones upon the
assailants; others organized themselves to transport the wounded;
finally a third set, armed with cutlasses, pikes and axes, made ready to
resist the assailants at close quarters. At the head of these the
Bombarde brandished a harpoon.

His best marksmen had been placed by Colonel Plouernel in the
underground casemates, thereby forming, on the other side of the
circumvallation, a second line of defense, the loop-holes of which,
bearing a strong resemblance to the airholes of a cavern, allowed a
murderous fire to be directed upon the enemy. Finally, the companies of
arquebusiers were massed upon the breach, which was defended by
heaped-up beams and gabions that the Rochelois women assisted in
bringing together. A solemn silence reigned among the besieged during
the short interval of time that the royalists occupied in rushing
through the distance that separated them from the outer edge of our
moat. All of us felt that the fate of La Rochelle depended upon the
issue of the assault.

Old Marshal Montluc was in chief command of the Catholics. Monsieur Du
Guast, at the head of six battalions of veteran Swiss troops, led the
column, with Marshal Montluc in the center, and in the rear Colonel
Strozzi, one of the best officers of the Catholic army. His task was to
reinforce and sustain the attack in case the first companies wavered, or
were repulsed. These troops advanced in good order, drums beating,
trumpets blaring, colors flying, and captained by the flower of the
nobility--the Dukes of Guise and Aumale, the Bastard of Angouleme, Henry
of Bearn, who was now the King's brother-in-law, and Henry of Condé. The
two renegates now were in arms against our cause. Finally, there were
also Mayenne, Biron, Cosseins, D'O, Chateau-Vieux, and innumerable other
noble captains, all crowding near the King's brother, the Duke of Anjou,
who marched in the center at the side of Marshal Montluc. The moment
that the front ranks of the vanguard reached the thither side of the
fosse, Alderman Gargouillaud considered the enemy to be within reach of
his cannoniers, and gave the order for a plunging and ricocheting fire.
The effect of the salvo was deadly. The thunder-struck vanguard wavered
and recoiled. The Rochelois gained time to reload their pieces. A second
discharge, fully as deadly as the first, mowed down as many as before,
and increased the indecision of the assailants. Old Marshal Montluc,
Biron and Cosseins revived the shaken courage of their troops, held
them, and forced them back. The dash was made. Leaving the dead and
wounded behind, the column crossed the moat; it answered with its
arquebuses those of the besieged as it pushed up the slope of the
breach, receiving the cross fire from the casemates upon both its
flanks, while, from the companies ranged upon the ramparts, its front
was met with a hailstorm of bullets. Despite severe losses, the
royalists steadily climbed up the slope of the breach. The Franc-Taupin
and his aide, who until that instant lay flat upon their faces behind a
heap of debris, suddenly rose and ran towards the circumvallation as
fast as their legs could carry them. They had fired the fuse. Hardly
were they at a safe distance, when the mine took fire under the feet of
the enemy. A frightful explosion threw up a spout of earth, dust and
rocks, interspersed with jets of fire, fulgent like lightning through
thick clouds of smoke. The smoke slowly dissipated. The slope of the
breach reappeared to view. It was torn up and cut through by a deep and
wide cleft, the sides of which were strewn with the dismembered bodies
of the dead and dying. The soldiers of the vanguard who escaped the
disaster were seized with terror, turned upon their heels, rushed back
upon their center, trampled it down, threw it into a panic, and spread
consternation, crying that the passage of the breach was mined under the
feet of the besiegers. The ranks were broken; confusion reigned, the
rout commenced. The Rochelois cannoniers now worked their pieces in
quick succession, and plowed wide gaps into the compact mass of the
fleeing invaders, while the Franc-Taupin, standing beside one of the
embrasures and calmly crossing his hands behind his back, remarked to
Master Barbot:

"Well, comrade, there they are--heads, arms, trunks, legs. They have
danced the saraband to the tune of my mine. I have given a ball to the
Catholics, to the defenders of the throne and the altar!"

"Ha! Ha!" replied the boilermaker. "The St. Bartholomew lambkins are
going back faster than they came. Should they come back again I shall
dish up to them my steaming basin in order to comfort the lacerated
feelings of those cut-throats whom the Pope has blessed."

The royalist soldiers could not be rallied by their officers until they
were beyond the reach of our guns. They were then re-formed into a new
column. The most daring of their captains placed themselves resolutely
at their head in order to lead them back to the assault. Preceding this
phalanx of intrepid men by several paces, a Cordelier monk, holding a
crucifix in one hand and a cutlass in the other, rushed forward to be
the first to storm the breach, shouting in a piercing voice the ominous
slogan of St. Bartholomew's night: "God and the King!" The monk's
example and the enthusiasm of the captains carried the assailants away.
They forgot their recent panic, and turned about face to renew the
struggle, shouting in chorus "God and the King!" In vain did the fire of
the besieged make havoc among them. They closed ranks; they rushed
forward at the double quick; they ran up the slope of the breach; they
even passed beyond the chasm produced by the late mine explosion. At
that moment Master Barbot called out to the Rochelois women in charge of
the censer: "Quick! Quick! my daughters! Pour it down hot upon the
Catholic vermin! Anoint the devout papists with our holy and consecrated
oil!"

And immediately turning to the other set of women charged with rolling
stones down upon the enemy's heads, "To work, my brave women!" shouted
the boilermaker. "Crush the infamous pack to dust! Exterminate the brood
of Satan!"

Instantly a flood of incandescent oil, bitumen and sulphur poured down
like a wide sheet of flame upon the front ranks of the besiegers. They
recoiled, trampled down the ranks behind them, and emitted hideous cries
of anguish. Every drop of the molten liquid bored a hole through the
flesh to the bone. At the same moment enormous blocks of stone and
masses of sand rolled, rapid and irresistible, down the slope of the
breach, overthrowing, breaking, crushing, smashing whatever stood in
their way. Joined to this murderous defense was the frightfully
effective fire of our arquebusiers, who shot unerringly, at close range,
themselves safe, upon a foe in disorder. And yet, however decimated and
broken, the royalists stuck to the assault until they finally reached
the circumvallation. The exchange of arquebus shots then ceased and a
furious hand-to-hand struggle ensued with swords, cutlasses and pikes.
No quarter was given. The conflict was pitiless. The Rochelois women,
among them Cornelia, armed with the iron rod of the censer, and the
Bombarde, brandishing her harpoon, vied with the men in deeds of daring.
These Rochelois women were everywhere among the male combatants, and cut
a wide swath with their weapons, wielded by their white yet nervy arms,
after the fashion of the Gallic women who made a front to the legions of
Caesar. Twice did Colonel Plouernel, Captain Normand, Alderman
Gargouillaud, Master Barbot, Antonicq Lebrenn, Louis Rennepont and their
fellow defenders drive the Catholics back beyond the breach; twice did
the Catholics, superior in numbers, drive the Rochelois back to the
terrace of the rampart. Thus did the battle fluctuate, when Mayor
Morrisson came to the aid of the Protestants with a fresh troop of
citizens. The timely reinforcement changed the face of the struggle. For
a third time rolled back beyond the breach, the assailants were
precipitated into the pits or whipped down the slope. Their rout then
became complete, wild, disordered. Our arquebusiers, whose fire had
stopped during the hand-to-hand conflict, now took aim again, and
decimated the fleeing, while our artillery mowed them down. This time
the royalist rout was complete--final. Those of them who escaped the
carnage, made haste to place themselves behind the shelter of their own
lines.

Victory to the Rochelois! Oh, sons of Joel, victory! Long live the
Commune!




CHAPTER XI.

CAPTURE OF CORNELIA.


The victory of the Rochelois was a bloody one, and dearly did we pay for
it. We numbered over eleven hundred of our people killed or disabled,
men and women. Cornelia Mirant received a wound upon the neck; the
Bombarde perished in the breach. Marcienne, Odelin's widow, was struck
by a bullet and killed near the rampart as she was bringing aid to a
wounded soldier; Antonicq's arm was run through by a pike; Colonel
Plouernel was carried to his house in a nearly dying condition with two
arquebus shots in his chest. Louis Rennepont, his wife Theresa, Master
Barbot, the Franc-Taupin and Serpentin, his assistant in mining, came
safe and sound out of the engagement. The Rochelois gathered in the dead
and wounded. The Lebrenn family carried to their house the corpse of
Odelin's widow. A sad funeral march! But, alas, in these distressful
times the exigencies of the public weal have precedence over the holiest
of sorrows. One enjoys leisure to weep over his dead only after having
avenged them. The triumph of a day does not remove the apprehensions for
the morrow. The royalist assault, so valiantly repelled by the people of
La Rochelle, might be renewed the very next day, due to the large
reserve forces of the Catholic army, only a small portion of which took
part in the attack upon the Bastion of the Evangelium. The City Council
urged all the remaining able-bodied citizens to proceed without delay to
repair the breach, seeing that the moon, then at her full, would light
them at their work during the whole night. Fresh defenses were to be
immediately raised upon the side of the assaulted bastion. Then, also,
famine was staring the city in the face. Precautions were needed against
that emergency. Captain Mirant's ships, which were to revictual the city
and replenish its magazines of war, still failed to be descried at sea,
notwithstanding a strong wind rose from the southwest towards sunset.
The last bags of beans were distributed among the combatants, whose
exhaustion demanded immediate attention after the day's conflict. The
supply barely sufficed to allay the pangs of hunger. Consequently, in
order to insure food for the next day, the women and children were
summoned by the aldermen to be at the Two Mills Gate by one o'clock in
the morning, the hour of low tide, and favorable for the digging of
clams. The gathering of these mollusks offered a precious resource to
the besieged, but it was as perilous as battle itself. The Bayhead
redoubt, raised by the royalists at the extremity of the tongue of land
that ran deep into the offing, could sweep with its cannon the beach on
which the clams were to be dug. Towards one in the morning the City Hall
bell rang the summons. Upon hearing the agreed-upon signal, the
Rochelois women of all conditions issued forth with those of their
children who were considered strong enough to join the expedition. Each
was equipped with a basket. They met at the Two Mills Gate where they
found the wife and two daughters of Morrisson the Mayor. They set the
example of public spirit. Accordingly, while the male population of La
Rochelle was busily engaged in repairing the breach, the women and
children sallied forth from the city in search of provisions for all.
Although smarting from her wound, and despite the protests of Antonicq,
Cornelia Mirant determined to share with Theresa Rennepont the risks of
the nocturnal expedition after clams. She joined the troop of women and
children.

About four or five hundred Rochelois women issued forth from the Two
Mills Gate, situated near the Lantern Tower, in search of clams to feed
the population. They were soon upon the beach. Bounded on the right by a
ledge of rocks, the beach extended to the left as far as the roadstead
in front of the inner port of La Rochelle, a roadstead narrowed towards
its entrance by two tongues of land, each of which was armed with a
hostile redoubt. The Bayhead redoubt could at once cover with its fire
the narrow entrance of the bay, and sweep the full length and breadth of
the beach upon which the Rochelois women now scattered and were actively
engaged in picking up at the foot of the rocks, aided by the light of
the moon, the mollusks that they came in search of. At the start the
Bayhead redoubt gave them no trouble, although the enemy's attention
must undoubtedly have been attracted by the large number of white
head-covers and scarlet skirts, the time-honored costume of the
Rochelois women. Already the baskets were handsomely filling with
clams--the "celestial manna" as Mayor Morrisson called them--when
suddenly a bright flash of light threw its reflection upon the small
puddles of water on the beach, a detonation was heard, and a light cloud
of smoke rose above the redoubt. A shiver ran over the clam-digging
Rochelois women, and profound silence took the place of their previous
chatter.

"The royalists have seen us!" said Theresa Rennepont to Cornelia. "They
have begun firing upon us."

"No!" cried Cornelia with mixed joy and alarm as she looked in the
direction of the battery. "The enemy is firing upon my father's
brigantines! There they are! There they are, at last! God be praised! If
they enter port, La Rochelle is saved from famine! Do you see them,
Theresa? Do you see, yonder, their white sails glistening in the
moonlight? The ships are drawing near. They come laden with victory to
us!"

And the young maid, moved with a joy that overcame her alarm, raised her
beautiful face to heaven, and in a voice quivering with enthusiasm
exclaimed: "Oh, Lord! Guard my father's life! Grant victory to the
sacred cause of freedom!"

All thought of the clams was instantly dropped. The women pressed close
to the water's edge; with eyes fixed upon the ships, they awaited
anxiously the issue of the combat upon which depended the victualing of
their city. It was a solemn moment; an imposing spectacle. The further
extremities of the two tongues of land that enclosed the outer bay and
left but a narrow entrance to the port, threw their black profiles upon
the waves, silvered by the moon. The four brigantines were sailing in
single file before the wind with a full spread of canvas, towards the
dangerous passage which they had to enter under the cross fire of the
enemy's redoubts. A rapid and frightful cannonade followed upon the
first shot which had startled the women. Already the first one of the
four vessels had entered the passage, when, despite the firmness of her
nature, Cornelia emitted a cry of distress and said in consternation to
Theresa:

"Look, the mast of the forward brigantine is down! It must have been
struck by a ball! Good God, my father is lost if he should be on that
vessel--dismantled--unable to move--exposed to the fire of the enemy!"

"All is lost! Alas, all is lost!"

"The brigantines are returning to the open sea!"

"Captain Mirant flees without giving battle! without answering the
enemy's fire! without giving back a single shot!"

"Come, let us return to our clams--henceforth the only resource of La
Rochelle! Let us continue picking up clams!"

"No! My father is not fleeing from battle," answered Cornelia. "By
sailing back he means to tow the dismantled ship out of harm's way. No,
Captain Mirant is not fleeing from battle! Do you not see that his
vessels are now lying to? They are not sailing away!"

The words of Cornelia, who was long familiar with nautical manoeuvres,
thanks to the many voyages she made on board her father's vessels,
revived the hopes of the Rochelois women. Their eyes returned with
renewed anxiety to the entrance of the port. But, alas, as they did so,
none perceived that soldiers of the royal army were coming out of the
Bayhead redoubt, and, screened by the shadows cast by the rocks that
were strewn to the right of the beach, were silently creeping nearer
behind the massive blocks.

"What did I tell you?" Cornelia proceeded to explain. "The brigantines
are sailing back again into the passage. The forward one, with the
dismantled vessel in tow, is opening fire upon the royalist redoubt. No!
Captain Mirant's cannons have not lost their speech!"

And so it was. The brigantine that had the dismantled vessel in tow
sailed intrepidly into the passage, returning the enemy's fire from both
broadsides. The enemy's redoubts, especially the Bayhead, being the
better equipped, replied to the brigantine. Suddenly, however, a cry of
terror escaped from all breasts. The brigantine that led was enveloped
in a thick smoke which here and there was reddened by the ruddy glow of
flames.

The agony of the women of La Rochelle redoubled. Their attention, held
captive by the spectacle in the bay, prevented their noticing the
Catholic soldiers, who, in increasing numbers, were approaching, hidden
behind the last rocks of the ledge. Suddenly the echoes around the rocks
repeated, like the reverberations of thunder, the roar of a tremendous
explosion. The dismantled vessel, which carried a full load of powder,
was blown into the air after being set on fire, not by the enemy, but
by Captain Mirant himself; and, as it blew up, it partly dismantled the
Bayhead redoubt. The manoeuvre was successful. Not only was the redoubt
crippled, but a large number of the soldiers and cannoniers who manned
it perished under the ruins of their own batteries. So soon as the
intrepid mariner saw one of his vessels disabled from proceeding on its
voyage, he had taken her in tow; veered about with the end in view of
withdrawing his flotilla from the enemy's fire long enough to enable him
to perfect his newly conceived strategy; heaped inflammable materials
upon the disabled ship; left the powder in her hold; transferred the
sailors to his own bottom; veered again; sailed under full canvas before
the wind straight into the passage; and leading in tow the floating
incendiary machine which he had just improvised, set it on fire, and cut
the cable just before arriving in front of the redoubt, convinced, by
his intimate acquaintance with the currents along the coast, that they
would drive ashore and against the redoubt the floating firebrand loaded
with powder, which, when exploding, would shake the royalist battery to
pieces. It happened as Captain Mirant calculated. Once the redoubt was
in ruins, Captain Mirant had nothing to fear except from the inferior
battery raised on the opposite tongue of land. The bold mariner now
proceeded on his course followed by his remaining vessels, deliberately
answering the inoffensive shots from the opposite side. Finally, with
only the perforation of some of their sails, and a few bullets lodged in
their sides, the three vessels steered straight towards the entrance of
the interior port of La Rochelle, which they were to save from famine,
and re-supply with munitions of war.

"God be praised! The city is saved! May my father have come off safe and
sound from the combat!" cried Cornelia, while the other Rochelois women
loudly acclaimed with shouts of joy and hope the brilliant triumph of
the captain.

The last of the three brigantines had just entered the port when the
rattle of arquebus shots resounded from behind the rocks which bordered
the beach to the right of where the Rochelois women were assembled. It
rained bullets. Women and children, mortally wounded, dropped dead
around Theresa and Cornelia. The unexpected attack of the royalist
soldiers in ambush threw the unfortunate women into a panic. They had
come wholly unarmed, bent upon gathering clams along the beach, and not
looking for danger except from the batteries of Bayhead. It happened
that a part of that garrison consisted of troops of the guard of the
Duke of Anjou, under the command of the Marquis of Montbar, one of the
Prince's favorites, and the most noted debauchee of the whole royalist
army. So soon as he perceived the Rochelois women spread along the
beach, the Marquis set his soldiers in motion, ordered them to slide out
of the redoubt, and to creep noiselessly, under cover of the rocks and
of the shadows that they projected, with the object in view of
massacring a large number of the heroic women, whose intrepidity the
royalists had more than once tasted to their sorrow, and of seizing
several of them for the orgies of the Duke of Anjou's tent. Accordingly,
after unmasking his ambuscade by the first round of arquebus shots, the
Marquis of Montbar rushed with his soldiers upon the startled and
panic-stricken women, crying: "Kill all the old ones! Take the
handsomest and youngest prisoners! God's blood! You can easily
distinguish the pretty girls from the old and ugly! The moon is bright!"

The scene that followed was frightful to behold. Many of the "old" ones
were ruthlessly butchered, as ordered by the Catholic captain. Others,
having escaped the fire of the arquebuses and the ensuing carnage,
finding themselves unarmed, and unable to resist the soldiers, sought
safety in flight in the direction of the Two Mills Gate. Still others
stood their ground and defended themselves with the energy of despair
against the guards who sought to seize them. Among the latter was
Cornelia, who, in the turmoil, was separated from Theresa Rennepont as
both sought to reach the city. The Marquis of Montbar, happening to be
near where Cornelia was struggling in the hands of several soldiers, and
struck by the beauty of the girl, called out to his men: "Take care you
do not hurt her--keep her alive! God's blood, she is a royal morsel! I
reserve her for Monseigneur the Duke of Anjou."

Cornelia, whose wound was re-opened in her struggle with the soldiers,
felt herself losing strength and consciousness through loss of blood.
She fell in a faint at the feet of Montbar. By his orders two of his
guards raised her by her feet and shoulders, and carried her away like
a corpse. Several other Rochelois women, who were likewise carried off
captive to the Bayhead redoubt, now lying in ruins through Captain
Mirant's manoeuvre, were that night victims of the brutality of both
captains and soldiers. Finally many others succeeded in reaching the Two
Mills Gate at the moment that a company of Protestants, attracted by the
sound of arquebus shots, sallied from the city and were hastening to the
beach. Alas, it was too late! Already the inrushing tide was submerging
the dead and the dying victims of the royalist ambush. Already the water
reached the foot of the rocks and intercepted the progress of the
Rochelois. They could not pursue the enemy who, among other prisoners,
carried away the inanimate body of Captain Mirant's daughter at the very
hour that the daring mariner weighed anchor in the port of La Rochelle
amidst the acclamations of the inhabitants.




CHAPTER XII.

THE DUKE OF ANJOU.


The headquarters of the royal army were at the suburb of Font, now in
ruins. The Duke of Anjou, brother of King Charles IX, occupied at Font,
in the center of the royal encampment, a house that went by the name of
the "Reservoir," since within its yard lay the reservoir into which the
waters were gathered that the now destroyed aqueduct conducted into La
Rochelle. The Prince's headquarters, although wrecked by the war, were
repaired, and made fit for the royal guest, thanks to the industry of
his valets, who upholstered and equipped the ruins with a mass of
tapestries and furniture which the pack-mules carried in the wake of the
army. The Prince's oratory, where, either in sacrilegious derision, or
perhaps yielding to a mixture of fanaticism and lewdness, he both
performed his orisons and indulged his debaucheries, was tapestried in
violet velvet, garlanded with fringes that were gathered up by gold and
silver tassels. Daylight never penetrated the voluptuous retreat, which
only a vermillion chandelier illumined with its candles of perfumed wax.
On one side of the apartment stood a prayer-stool surmounted with an
ivory crucifix; on the opposite side was a thickly cushioned lounge. A
Turkish carpet covered the floor. A velvet portiere, closed at this
moment, communicated with an inside room.

It was about eight in the evening. Cornelia Mirant, captured on the
beach of La Rochelle the night before by the Marquis of Montbar, had
just been introduced by him into the oratory of the Duke of Anjou. A
feverish agitation imparted an unwonted glow to the countenance of the
young girl. Her eyes glistened; her beauty was particularly radiant; a
certain coquetish touch was noticeable in the arrangement of her hair;
her Rochelois clothing, torn to shreds during the previous night's
encounter, had been changed for a robe of poppy-red brocade. A broad
embroidered scarf supported and concealed her right hand. The wound she
received the day before on the neck had been dressed with care by one of
the Duke's own surgeons. Monsieur Montbar--a youth barely twenty years
of age, but whose delicate features were prematurely blighted by
incontinence--had exchanged his war armor for the apparel of the court.
His hair was artistically curled. From his ears hung a pair of earrings
encrusted with precious stones; jet black frills hung down from his
wrists and encased his hands; a short mantle was thrown over his
shoulders; tight-fitting hose and a toque garnished with a brooch of
rubies completed his dainty outfit. The Marquis had just brought
Cornelia into the oratory, and was saying to her: "My pretty saucebox,
you are now in the oratory of the Prince of Anjou, brother of our
well-beloved King Charles IX."

"One feels as if in a palace of fairies!" answered Cornelia looking
around with feigned and childish wonderment. "Oh, what splendid
tapestries! What gorgeous ornaments! It seems I must be dreaming,
monseigneur! Can it be possible that the Prince, so great a Prince,
deigns to cast his eyes upon so poor a girl as I?"

"Come, my pretty lassy, do not cast down your eyes. Be sincere--you
shall ever after feel the glory of having been, if but for one day, the
mistress of the King of France's brother. But what are you thinking
about?"

"Monseigneur, all this that is happening to me seems a dream. No! You
are making sport of a poor girl. Monseigneur the Duke of Anjou does not
think of me."

"You will see him in a minute, I assure you; he is just now in
conference with Fra Hervé, his confessor." And turning towards the still
closed portiere, he proceeded: "I hear the curtains drawn back, and
steps in the neighboring room--it is monseigneur."

Hardly had the Marquis pronounced these last words when the drapery was
raised, giving passage to the Duke of Anjou. The Prince was then
twenty-eight years of age; overindulgence had weakened his gait, and
imparted to his effeminate physiognomy a wily aspect, and a suggestion
of cruelty and hypocrisy to his smile; added to this, excessive
ornamentation rendered his appearance trivial and even sinister.
Monsieur Montbar took a few steps towards the Duke, whispered in his ear
and pointed to Cornelia. The girl thrilled with suppressed emotion; her
right hand, hidden in the wide folds of her scarf, seemed to twitch
convulsively and involuntarily to rise to her bosom. She contemplated
the Prince with mixed horror and curiosity. Her eyes glistened, but she
quickly lowered them before the libidinous glance of the Prince, who,
while speaking with the Marquis, regarded her covetously. He said to his
favorite: "You are right, my pet; her beauty gives promise of great
delight; leave us alone; I may call you in again."

The Marquis of Montbar withdrew. Left alone with Cornelia, the Duke of
Anjou stepped to the lounge, stretched himself out upon it nonchalantly
with his head resting on the cushion, pulled a gold comfit-holder from
his pocket, took a pastille out of it, masticated it, and after a few
minutes of silent revery said to the Rochelois:

"Approach, my pretty girl!"

Cornelia raised her eyes heavenward. Her countenance became inspired. A
slight pallor overcast it. Her glistening eyes grew moist. Distress was
stamped on her features as she muttered to herself: "Adieu, father!
Adieu, Antonicq! The hour of self-sacrifice has sounded for me!"

Surprised at the immobility of Cornelia, whose face he could not see
distinctly, the Duke of Anjou sat up and repeated impatiently:
"Approach! You seem to be deaf, as well as mute. I told you to approach.
By God's death, hurry up! Come and lie down beside me!"

Cornelia, without the Prince's noticing her motions, disengaged her arm
from the folds of the scarf, and stepped deliberately towards the lounge
on which he had again stretched himself out. Again he motioned her to
approach, saying: "Come here, I tell you. I would fear to damn myself
forever by contact with such a satanic heretic as you, but for Fra
Hervé's promise to give me absolution after our amorous encounter."

And rising from his soft lounge, the Prince opened his arms to Cornelia.
The girl approached; she bowed down; then, quick as thought she seized
the Duke by the hair with her left hand, at the same time drawing out of
the folds of her scarf her right hand armed with a short sharp steel
dagger with which she struck the Prince several blows in the region of
the heart, crying: "Die, butcher of my brothers! Die, cowardly assassin
of women and children!"

The Duke of Anjou wore under his jacket a coat of mail of steel so close
meshed and well tempered that Cornelia's dagger broke under the blows
that she dealt, while the frightened Prince called out for help,
gasping: "Murder! She assassinates me! Murder!"

At the Prince's cries and the noise of the struggle between them the
Marquis of Montbar, together with several domestics of the royal
household, hurried into the oratory, from the contiguous room where they
always stood in waiting; they flung themselves upon Cornelia and seized
her by the wrists, while the Prince, freed from the grasp of the brave
maid, ran livid and demented to his prayer-stool, where he threw himself
down upon his knees, and, with lips white with terror, shivering in
every part of his body, and with his teeth clattering in his head, he
stammered: "Almighty God, thanks be to Thee! Thou hast protected Thy
unworthy servitor!" And bending low, till his forehead touched the
ground, the terrified libertine smote his chest exclaiming: "_Mea culpa!
mea culpa! mea maxima culpa!_"[84]

While the Duke of Anjou was thus giving thanks to his God for having
escaped the dagger of the young Protestant girl, she, held firmly by the
seigneurs and retainers who heaped upon her insults and threats of
death, stood erect with proud front, defied them with steady eyes, and
preserved a disdainful silence. Holding himself responsible for the
conduct of the Huguenot girl, whom he had taken to his master's bed, the
Marquis of Montbar drew his sword and was about to run her through, when
the Prince, rising from his prayer-stool cried out: "Do not kill her, my
pet! Oh, no, she must not die so soon!"

The favorite re-sheathed his sword. The Duke of Anjou, now pale with
rage, staggered to his lounge and sat down. He wiped the perspiration
from his forehead, cast a look of implacable hatred upon Cornelia, and
after regarding her in silence for a moment, said: "Well, my pretty
lass--so you meant to assassinate me!"

"Yes--because you are the worthy son of Catherine De Medici, the worthy
brother of Charles IX; because you suborned an assassin to poison
Coligny!"

The Duke of Anjou remained unmoved, and remarked with a cruel smile:
"You are a resolute girl, resolute in word and deed. I came near
learning as much at my cost! What is your name?"

"Cornelia Mirant."

"What! You are the daughter of the mariner who last night almost threw
into utter ruins our Bayhead redoubt? You are the daughter of the
devilish Huguenot who has just revictualed La Rochelle?"

The Cordelier Fra Hervé had just raised the portiere and was about to
step into the oratory, when he heard the young girl declare her name to
be Cornelia Mirant. The monk immediately stopped. Half-hidden by the
tapestry, he remained on the threshold of the room and listened to the
rest of the dialogue between the Huguenot girl and the Prince.

"You must be a girl of honorable habits. How came you to yield so
readily to the propositions of the Marquis?"

"In the hope of being able to strike you dead with the dagger that I
found in the tent of your officer," boldly answered Cornelia.

"A new Judith, you seem to see in me a modern Holofernes! Everything
about you breathes courage, honor, chastity. By God! I am becoming
interested in you. You have wished my death--well, I wish that you live.
So brave a girl should not die."

"What, monseigneur! Shall this wretch escape punishment!" cried the
Marquis of Montbar, while Cornelia thought to herself with a shudder: "I
dread the clemency of the son of Catherine De Medici more than I do his
ire."

"Yes, my pet," answered the Duke of Anjou to his minion; "to-day I am in
a merciful mood. I shall practice the evangelical morality of Jesus our
Savior; I shall return good for evil! I wish well to this haughty
republican girl, worthy of the days of Sparta and Rome! I wish the brave
girl so well that--here is my sentence: Pinion the virgin's arms firmly;
have her watched carefully in order that she may not do away with
herself; and then throw her to the common soldiers of the camp. By God's
death! The gay fellows will have a dainty repast! Take away from my
sight the immaculate virgin, who will not be a virgin much longer!"

"Oh! Mercy! Mercy! Death sooner! The most horrible death! Mercy!"
stammered Cornelia, aroused from her stupor; and dropping upon her knees
at the feet of the Duke of Anjou, she raised to him her hands in
supplication, and implored in heartrending accents: "Martyrdom! For
mercy's sake, martyrdom!"

The Prince turned to his favorites: "Let the pretty heretic be taken to
the garrison on the spot--on the spot, my pets. We shall follow and
witness the sport of our soldiers."

Already was Cornelia being dragged away when Fra Hervé suddenly
interposed. The courtiers bowed low before the confessor of the Duke of
Anjou.

"My son," said the Cordelier, stepping straight towards the Prince,
"revoke the order you have given. The heretic should not be thrown to
the soldiers."

"Father," broke in the Duke of Anjou with exasperation, "are you aware
the girl tried to assassinate me?"

"I know it all--both the attempted crime and its failure. You shall
revoke your order."

"God's blood! Reverend Father, seeing you know it all, I declare,
notwithstanding my profound respect for you, that I insist upon my
revenge. My orders shall be executed."

"My son, you are but a child," answered Fra Hervé in a tone of
disdainful superiority; and leaning towards the Prince the monk
whispered in his ear, while Cornelia, now recognizing Fra Hervé,
shuddered from head to foot.

"I dreaded the clemency of the Prince--the monk's mercy terrifies me.
Oh, Lord God, my only hope lies in You!"

"As God lives, my reverend Father, you are right! I am but a child!"
cried the Duke of Anjou, beaming with infernal joy after listening to
the confidential remarks whispered to him by the monk. He then again
addressed his favorites: "Take the heretic girl to the reverend Father's
cell. But, good Father, keep a watchful eye upon her. Her life is now as
precious to you as to me."

Cornelia was led away upon the steps of the fratricidal monk.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE BILL IS PAID.


Fra Hervé lived in the house of the Reservoir of the Font suburb in a
sort of cellar that was vaulted, somber and damp as a cave, and which
one time served as the direct communication to the aqueduct by means of
a stone staircase, closed from above by a trap door. The monk's gloomy
lodging was reached through a corridor that opened into one of the rooms
situated on the ground floor, and, since the siege, transformed into a
hall reserved for the officers of the Duke of Anjou.

The interior of Fra Hervé's retreat revealed the austerity of the man's
cenobitic habits. A wooden box, filled with ashes and resembling a
coffin, served him for bed. A stool stood before a rough hewn table on
which were an hour-glass, a breviary, a skull and an iron lamp. The
latter cast a pale light over the cave, in a corner of which a heavy
trap door masked the now disused stone staircase, the entrance to which
had been walled from within by the royalists, in order to prevent a
surprise from that quarter, seeing the water was turned off.

Taken to the gloomy cell, Cornelia found herself alone with the monk.
She was aware there was no hope of escape or of mercy for her. The cell
had no issue other than the corridor that connected with the hall of the
Prince's officers of the guard, which was constantly crowded with the
Prince's retinue. Fra Hervé's face was emaciated. His forehead, over
which a few locks of grey hair tumbled in disorder, was bony and
lustrous as the skull upon his table. Except for the somber luster of
his hollow eyes, one would at first sight take the scarred and fleshless
head of the monk for that of a corpse. He was seated on the stool.
Cornelia, standing before him, shuddered with horror. She found herself
alone with the monster who, at the battle of Roche-la-Belle, cut the
throat of Odelin, the father of Antonicq, her betrothed. Fra Hervé
remained meditative for a moment, and then addressed the young girl in a
hollow voice:

"You are aware of the fate that Monseigneur the Duke of Anjou reserved
for you in punishment for your attempted murder? You were to be thrown
to the soldiers of the garrison--"

"I am in your power--what do you want of me?" interrupted Cornelia.

"The salvation of your soul."

"My soul belongs to God. I have lived and I shall die in my faith, and
in execration for the Catholic church."

"This is but another evidence of the impiousness of the Lebrenn family,
a family of reprobates, of accursed people, to whom this poor creature
was soon to be joined by even closer bonds than those that already join
her to them!"

"What! You know--?"

"A Rochelois prisoner informed me that you were the betrothed of
Antonicq, the son of him who was my brother."

"Monk, I shall not invoke to you the bonds of family--you have reddened
your hands with your brother's blood. I shall not invoke your pity--you
are pitiless. But, seeing that no heretics have been burnt for quite a
while, I hope you will consent to cause me to be condemned to the pyre
for a hardened heretic. I abhor the Pope, his Church and his priests! I
abhor them as I do Kings. I execrate all monks, and the whole tonsured
fraternity."

Cornelia calculated upon exasperating the Cordelier to fury, and thus to
wrest from him the order to be taken to immediate execution--her only
refuge from the threats of the Duke of Anjou. But the unfortunate girl
deceived herself. Fra Hervé listened to her impassively, and resumed:

"You are cunning. You aspire to martyrdom because death will protect you
from the outrage that you fear. I am not your dupe. There will be no
pyre for you!"

"Woe is me!" murmured the young girl, seeing her last hope dashed. "Woe
is me! I am lost!"

"You are saved--if you will!" Fra Hervé proceeded to say.

"What do I hear?" cried Cornelia perceiving a new glimmer of hope. "What
must I do? Speak!"

"Publicly abjure your heresy! Renounce Satan and your father! Humbly
implore our holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church to receive you into
her bosom at her mercy and discretion. The soilure, now upon you, being
washed off, you shall take the eternal vows and shall bury in the shadow
of the cloister the criminal life you have led in the past. Choose:
either immediate abjuration, or--to the soldiers. These pious Catholics
will slake their amorousness upon you."

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Cornelia, seized with terror, and her
head reeling. "Am I awake? Am I dreaming? Can a man, a priest, outrage a
woman's modesty to such an extent? A curse upon you, wretch!"

"What audacity! 'Outrage' a 'woman'!" put in Fra Hervé with a wild and
diabolical guffaw. "Is there such a thing as a heretic being a
'_woman_'? No! A heretic is a female, like the she-wolf in the jungle.
Is there such a thing as outrage with a she-wolf?"

"Mercy!" stammered Cornelia in despair. "Have mercy upon me!"

"No mercy!" answered Fra Hervé sententiously. "You shall enter a
cloister, or--you shall be given over to the lust of the soldiers. It
shall be so! And now, keep your eyes upon this hour-glass," added the
monk, pointing to the instrument for marking time that stood near the
dead man's skull. "Should you, when the water is run down, not have
decided instantly to abjure and to depart this very night to a convent,
you shall be delivered to the Catholic soldiers!"

And the monk, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand,
remained silent as he looked with fixed eyes at the running of the water
from the upper into the lower bulb of the clepsydra, while fondling his
heavy chaplet with the hand that remained free.

"What am I to do?" the Protestant girl asked herself. "What am I to do
in this extremity? Almighty God, have mercy upon me!"

"One-half of the water has run down!" observed Fra Hervé in his
sepulchral voice. "Decide! There is still time!"

At the lugubrious announcement Cornelia's mind began to wander; still,
one lucid thought rose clear above the growing vertigo that obsessed the
young girl's thoughts--the thought of putting an end to her life. Her
bewildered eyes sought to penetrate here and there the dark recesses of
the cell, which the dim light of the lamp threw heavily into the shade.
They sought mechanically for some article that she might use as a weapon
with which to inflict death upon herself. Suddenly Cornelia's eyes
bulged out in amazement. She held her breath and remained petrified,
thinking herself the sport of a vision. Fra Hervé, because of his eyes
being fixed upon the hour-glass and his back turned to the trap door
that masked the stone stairs leading to the aqueduct, could not take in
what was happening. But Cornelia saw the trap door rise noiselessly,
inexplicably; presently, in the measure that it rose, the two hands and
then the two arms that raised it heaved in sight; simultaneously there
appeared the top of an iron casque, and an instant later the face under
the casque--and Cornelia recognized Antonicq--her betrothed, Antonicq
Lebrenn!

"The water will run out before you have time to say an _Ave_," warned
the Cordelier in a hollow voice, without removing his eyes from the
clepsydra, and he added: "Heretic! Heretic! Make haste! Abjure your
idolatry! If not you shall be thrown to the soldiers, you shall be given
to the good Catholics of the whole army!"

The imminence of the danger and the prospect of safety restored the
young girl's presence of mind. The instant her eyes discovered her
betrothed she became silent, motionless, watchful. The last threats of
the monk reached Antonicq's ears at the moment when he had completely
raised the trap door, and wrung from him despite himself an exclamation
of fury. Fra Hervé turned sharply around and bounded from his seat in
bewilderment at the sight of the young man leaping into the room from
underground. Cornelia, in full control of herself, and remembering that
the monk's cell was separated from the hall of the officers of the guard
by a short corridor of only about twenty paces, ran back to the door
that opened on the corridor intending to close it, and bolt it from
within. Fra Hervé divined the young girl's purpose, and, meaning to
prevent it, precipitated himself upon her. That instant Antonicq reached
his betrothed, disengaged her from the clutches of the monk, seized him
by the shoulders and flung him back violently. Free once more, Cornelia
quickly carried out her purpose. She closed the door gently, and bolted
and barred it from within, thus shielding herself and Antonicq behind a
barrier that the officers of the Duke of Anjou would consume
considerable time before they could succeed in breaking down. At the
very moment that Cornelia closed the door Fra Hervé sounded the alarm
in a sufficiently penetrating voice to be heard in the hall of the
guards:

"Help! Treason! To arms! Help! The Huguenots!"

But instantly the Cordelier's voice expired upon his lips. A vigorous
hand seized him by the throat, the blade of a dagger shone in the air
and twice plunged into the fratricide's breast. He fell over backward,
bathed in his own blood, straightened himself for an instant, foamed at
the mouth, and breathed his last;--and a muffled voice cried
"_Twenty-five_--the bill is paid. Now I can die in peace. My sister and
her daughter are avenged! The ransom of the crime is paid in full."

The Franc-Taupin had emerged from under ground after Antonicq, and
preceded Captain Mirant, who rushed to his daughter's embrace while the
Franc-Taupin stabbed the fratricidal monk to death.

"Let us flee!" said Cornelia to her father and her betrothed, after
responding to their demonstrations of tenderness. "The monk's cries
reached the hall of the guards at the head of the corridor. I hear them
coming. Do you hear those steps? The sound of those approaching voices?"

"We have nothing to fear. Your presence of mind, my dear girl, has
insured our safe retreat. They will find it no easy task to enter the
cell. The door is thick, the bolt solid," remarked the Franc-Taupin,
examining and fastening more tightly the bolt with imperturbable
calmness. "Cornelia, Antonicq, and you, Captain Mirant, descend to the
aqueduct quickly, and wait for me just this side of the mine that I
planted in the underground passage, and near which Master Barbot and
the sailors are waiting for our signal."

Turning to Serpentin, the apprentice, who also came in after Captain
Mirant the Franc-Taupin said:

"Come here, my gay fellow--bring me the little machine and implements.
We shall serve up a peppery broth to the royalists."

Cornelia, her father and Antonicq hastened to descend the stairs of the
underground passage that the trap door masked. Hardly had they
disappeared, leaving the Franc-Taupin and the apprentice behind in Fra
Hervé's cell, when they heard violent knocks given at the door, and a
confused noise of voices calling out:

"Fra Hervé! Fra Hervé!"

The Marquis of Montbar was heard saying: "A minute ago he cried: 'Help!
Treason!' He now makes no answer. The witch may have strangled the
reverend Father!"

And the voices outside continued to cry tumultuously: "Fra Hervé! Fra
Hervé! We can not get in! The door is bolted from within. The devil take
it! Open to us, Fra Hervé! We come to help you!"

"Quick! Bring levers and an axe--or, better yet, let us break in the
door!" the voice of the Marquis of Montbar was again heard to say. "Run
for a company of my soldiers! We shall wait here. Hurry up!"

"Oh! Oh!" observed the Franc-Taupin, after silently listening to the
observations from the other side of the door, to which he had glued his
ears. "The royalists are inviting themselves in large numbers to the
banquet that I am preparing for them! And why not? When there is broth
for five guests, there is enough for ten, if the housekeeper is
economical. Just wait, my friends! My broth is cooking! It is so
toothsome that a single spoonful will do the work for twenty or thirty
persons."

"Master Josephin, here are the implements and the little machine," said
Serpentin in a low voice, as he drew out of a bag that he brought
suspended from his shoulders and handed over to the Franc-Taupin a heavy
iron box about one foot long and six inches high and wide. The box,
filled full with powder, was pierced in the center by a narrow slit
through which a sulphured fuse was inserted. The Franc-Taupin took in
his hands the redoubtable petard, examined the structure of the door
minutely, and after a moment's reflection inserted the iron box with no
little difficulty under the lower hinge. The Franc-Taupin then rose, and
patting the apprentice upon the cheek said to him in a low voice:

"Tell me, my lad, why do I place the little machine so tightly between
the floor and the hinge?"

Serpentin reflected for a moment, scratched his ear, and then reeled off
his answer after the fashion of a boy who recites his lesson:

"Master, you place the little machine in that way in order that, when it
blows up, it may tear up the door along with the hinge; the torn up
hinge will tear up the masonry in which it is fastened; the torn up
masonry will tear up a part of the wall; and the torn up wall will bring
down the ceiling. As a result of all this the debris will roll down
upon the St. Bartholomew lambkins, whose flesh will have been scratched
by the flying fragments of the little machine which will have been
hurled in all directions, and will have whistled and ricocheted like
artillery balls."

"Wise--wise answer, my lad," observed the Franc-Taupin pinching the
apprentice's ear with a satisfied look. "Continue to profit by my
lessons in this manner, and you will become an accomplished miner, and
you then will be able to contribute handsomely towards the scattering
into fragments of a goodly number of papists and royalists. Now, off
with you, hurry down the stone steps, and wait for me at the bottom."

Serpentin obeyed. The Franc-Taupin knelt down at the threshold of the
door, took from his belt a horn of powder and spilt along the floor a
sufficient quantity to quite cover up the fuse. Thereupon, retreating on
his knees, he laid down a long train of powder. The train skirted Fra
Hervé's corpse and ended at the opening of the trap door, down which he
descended. Josephin stopped on the stair so that only his head appeared
above the level of the flooring. Listening in the direction of the door,
behind which he could hear a confused noise of voices, he said to
himself: "The Catholic vermin is swarming behind the door, but I still
have time to cut my _twenty-fifth_ notch."

He took the little stick which he habitually carried hung on a string
from a buttonhole of his jacket, pulled out his dagger, and cutting into
the wood, the aged soldier said:

"Hena, my sister's daughter, was plunged twenty-five times into the
flames by the priests of the Church of Rome. I have just put to death
my twenty-fifth Roman Catholic and Apostolic priest!"

As he murmured these words to himself, Josephin contemplated the corpse
of Fra Hervé, stretched out upon his back in a pool of blood, with
stiffened arms, clenched fists and half bent knees. The light from the
lamp shed its pale luster upon the monk's face upon which the agony of
death was still stamped. The jaws were close set; foam oozed out at the
lips; the corpse's glassy and fixed eyes still seemed to preserve their
threatening aspect from the depth of their cavities.

"Oh!" exclaimed the Franc-Taupin with a terrible sigh, "How many times,
alas! how very many times, seated at the hearth of my poor sister, when
the unfortunate being who lies there dead and still foaming at his mouth
with rage was a little boy, how often I took him and his younger brother
Odelin upon my knees! caressed their little blonde heads! kissed their
plump cheeks! Joining in their infantine amusements, I entertained them,
I gladdened them with my Franc-Taupin songs! In those days Hervé
equalled his brother in the gentleness of his character and the kindness
of his heart. The two were the joy, the pride, the hope of my sister and
of Christian! But one day a monk, a demon, Fra Girard, took possession
of the mind of unhappy Hervé, dominated it, led it astray, corrupted it,
and debased it forever! Oh! priests of Rome! priests of Rome! A curse
upon you! Alas! out of the sweet boy, whom I loved so dearly, you made a
bloodthirsty fanatic, a wrathful madman, a fratricide--and it became my
duty to smite him with my dagger--him--him--my own sister's child!"

The Franc-Taupin was drawn from his revery by the ringing sound of blows
struck with maces and the butts of arquebuses against the door from
without, and splintering its woodwork, while, rising above the tumult,
the voice of the Marquis of Montbar was heard crying: "To work! Strike
hard! Harder still! Break in the door!"

"Well! The hour has come for the St. Bartholomew lambkins to dance in
the air!" said the Franc-Taupin. Without hurrying, without losing his
calmness, he pulled from his pocket a tinder box, a wick and a flint and
steel. Striking upon the flint with the iron, he hummed between his
teeth the old song that the memories of Odelin's and Hervé's infancy had
recalled to his mind:

    "A Franc-Taupin had an ash-tree bow,
    All eaten with worms, and all knotted its cord;
    His arrow was made out of paper, and plumed,
    And tipped at the end with a capon's spur.
    _Derideron, vignette on vignon! Derideron!_"

During the song of the old soldier, who calmly continued to strike at
the flint, the blows aimed at the door redoubled in violence. Presently
it was heard to crack, yield, break, and one of its fragments fell
inside the apartment. Immediately thereupon Josephin applied the lighted
wick to the train of powder and vanished underground letting down the
heavy trap door over his head. The train of powder took fire, shot along
its course as rapid as a flash of lightning, and reached the fuse of
the petard, which exploded with a great crash at the very moment when
the door, finally broken through, offered a passage to the Marquis of
Montbar, closely followed by his henchmen. Like himself, they were blown
up, mutilated or killed by the fragments of the iron box which flew into
pieces. The masonry of the door, being torn down by the explosion,
ripped the rest of the wall after it, bringing down the ceiling which
fell in a heap upon the heads of the royalists.

Cornelia, Antonicq, Master Barbot, Captain Mirant and six resolute
mariners who accompanied him but whose help was not needed, were soon
joined at the bottom of the aqueduct by the apprentice and the
Franc-Taupin. Josephin forthwith blew up the mine that he had laid at
that place in order completely to obstruct the passage of the royalists
in case they attempted to pursue the fugitives. The whole party soon
arrived safe and sound at La Rochelle, where they met Louis Rennepont
and his wife, a prey to mortal anxiety upon the issue of the enterprise,
which had that morning been planned, upon Theresa's bringing back from
the beach the news of Cornelia's capture and reservation for the Duke of
Anjou.

       *       *       *       *       *

The bloody defeat, sustained by the royalists at the assault of the
Bastion of the Evangelium, was the presage of the raising of the siege
of La Rochelle. After two other stubbornly contested encounters, at
which the royalist forces were again repulsed, the Duke of Anjou
commissioned several seigneurs as parliamentarians to the Rochelois
with propositions of peace. The majority of the City Council took the
stand that the Huguenots refused to lay down arms until a new royal
edict consecrated their rights and their liberty. The minority of the
City Council, aware of the worthlessness of all royal edicts, favored
breaking with royalty for all time. The view of the majority prevailed.
Commissioners were appointed by both sides, to agree upon the bases of a
new edict. The Catholic commissioners were the Seigneur of La Vauguyon,
René of Villequier, Francis of La Baume, the Count of Suze, the Seigneur
of Malicorne, Marshal Montluc, Armand of Gontaut-Biron, and the Count of
Retz. The Rochelois commissioners were two bourgeois, Morrisson the
Mayor, and Captain Gargouillaud. The reformers stoutly maintained their
position, and stipulated for the same, not in the name of their own city
only, but in the name of all the reformers of the Protestant Republican
Union. These stipulations were subsequently rejected by the Union, so
soon as they became known, upon the just ground of the rest of the
Union's not having been consulted, and of its declining to recognize the
royal authority. Thus, thanks to their bold insurrection and their
heroic resistance the Rochelois imposed upon Charles IX the new edict of
July 15, 1573. This edict consecrated and extended all the rights
previously conquered by the reformers. A clause in this edict, which was
a crushing document to the Catholic party, provided: "That all armed
insurrections which took place AFTER THE NIGHT OF AUGUST 23, 1572, are
amnestied." Thus Charles IX was made to admit that the reformers had
justly drawn the sword to avenge the crime of St. Bartholomew's night!

Thus the siege of La Rochelle was disgracefully raised by the Catholic
army. This expedition cost the King immense sums of money, and he lost
in the course of the several assaults upon the city, and also from
sickness, about twenty-two thousand men. Among the seigneurs and
captains killed during the siege were the Duke of Aumale, Clermont,
Tallard, Cosseins, Du Guast, etc., besides over three hundred subaltern
officers.

Thus you see, Oh, sons of Joel! the glorious issue to the Rochelois of
the siege of their city once more consecrates this truth, so often
inscribed in the annals of our plebeian family: "Never falter! Let us
struggle, let us battle without flagging. It is fatedly decreed that,
only and ever through force, arms in hand, through INSURRECTION, we can
conquer our freedom and our rights, which are ever denied to us, ignored
and violated by our eternal foes--ROYALTY AND THE CHURCH OF ROME."




EPILOGUE.


On this day, the 29th of September, 1609, I, Antonicq Lebrenn, now in my
sixty-first year, close, on our farm of Karnak, this legend of our
family, which is the continuation of the narrative written and
bequeathed to us by my grandfather Christian the printer and friend of
Robert Estienne.

Immediately upon the raising of the siege of La Rochelle I married
Cornelia Mirant. Shortly after I put into execution a project that I had
long been fondly nursing--that of moving to Brittany and establishing
myself in the neighborhood of the cradle of my family. Before leaving La
Rochelle, Colonel Plouernel, who recovered from his wounds sustained in
the siege, renewed his offer of leasing out to me a farm belonging to
the seigniorial estate of Mezlean, a patrimony of his wife's father, and
known as the Karnak farm by reason of its being in the close
neighborhood of the druid stones that bear that name. These stones are
still extant, ranged in wide avenues, as they stood in the days of
Julius Caesar, when our ancestress Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen,
offered herself to the gods as a holocaust, in the hope of causing them
to render the arms of the Gauls victorious in their impending struggle
for independence. I accepted Colonel Plouernel's offer, an offer that
also pleased Cornelia and her father, who, as he continued almost
constantly to travel by water between La Rochelle and Vannes, a port
located near Karnak, foresaw, as happened in fact, that he would spend
near us all the time that he did not spend aboard ship. I sold my
armorer's shop. Leaving my sister Theresa and her husband Louis
Rennepont at La Rochelle, where the latter practiced the profession of
law, and taking with us my uncle the Franc-Taupin, who promised to
himself the pleasure of rocking our children on his knees and singing to
them his Franc-Taupin songs, as he had done to my father Odelin, my
ill-starred aunt Hena, and my uncle Hervé of sad memory, we departed
from La Rochelle and settled down on our farm of Karnak on October 20 of
the year 1573.

My sister Theresa and her husband Louis Rennepont still reside in the
old Protestant city. Every year they come to see us. Thanks to the
numerous trips that his profession compelled him to make to Paris, my
brother-in-law came in contact with several Huguenots who were well
informed on current events. His conversations with them, together with
extracts from several books that were published concerning leading
public men and important occurrences, furnished him with copious
materials which he left with me. These materials enable me here to make
a summary sketch of the leading events since the siege of La Rochelle
was raised:

The edict of pacification of La Rochelle was not wholly satisfactory to
the Huguenots of the other provinces. The example of the Low Countries,
then in successful revolt against the monarchic-clerical power of Spain,
and organized upon the republican pattern, inspired their brothers in
France to renewed efforts. The "Politicals" gained new recruits every
day. The Prince of Condé, ashamed of his act of desertion, fled the
court and issued a manifesto from Strasburg repudiating his abjuration.
Measures were in train to renew the war, and to overthrow Charles IX,
when his death gave a new turn to affairs.

The monster expired in 1574, barely twenty-four years of age and haunted
by his bloody deeds. "Oh! nurse, nurse!" he would cry in agonies of
terror; "Oh! nurse, how much blood--it is St. Bartholomew's blood! Oh!
how many murders--how many victims struggling to escape under the sword.
I see them--Oh! what wicked councillors I had! Oh, God! Oh, God! have
mercy upon me!"[85]

Charles IX was followed by his brother the Duke of Anjou, who, in the
meantime, had been elected King of Poland. Apprized by his mother of his
brother's decease, he fled his Polish kingdom, and mounted the French
throne under the name of Henry III. True to his family traditions, Henry
III sought at first to violate the Edict of La Rochelle. Finding this
act of treachery unfeasible, he vacillated between extreme reaction and
progress. This course earned for him the suspicion of the Catholic
clergy and he was assassinated by a Dominican monk, James Clement, in
1589.

War again broke out, with Henry of Bearn now at the head of the
Huguenots, to whom he returned during the reign of Henry III. Henry of
Bearn now claimed the crown by inheritance as Henry IV, besieged Paris,
and was finally crowned, but not until he once more abjured
Protestantism. His reign was benign and favorable to the Reformation. In
1598 the Edict of Nantes was signed, granting the Huguenots absolute
freedom of conscience. The policy of Henry IV enraged the priesthood,
and he also fell a victim to the assassin's knife. The assassin's name
was Francis Ravaillac. "Nine days after the death of Henry IV, on
Tuesday, May 23, 1610, an altercation took place between Monsieur
Leomenie and Father Cotton in full council. Leomenie said to the Jesuit
that it was he _and his Society of Jesus that murdered the King_. On
that same day, Ravaillac, being interrogated by the commission, answered
_in accordance with the maxims of the Jesuits Mariana, Becanus and
others, whose writings recommend the killing of a tyrant_."

The death of Henry IV conjured away the danger that Rome, the Empire and
Spain saw themselves threatened with--the Christian Republic and the
perpetual peace of Europe. The fresh murder, also committed at the
instigation of the disciples of Loyola, had fatal consequences. But
sooner or later Right triumphs over Wrong, Justice over Iniquity.
Therefore, Oh, sons of Joel! no faltering. Some day the Universal
Republic will unfurl the red banner of freedom, and will break the yoke
both of the Roman Church and of this royalty that has oppressed Gaul
for so many centuries.

As to our own family, Cornelia Mirant with whom I have now been married
thirty-seven years, gave me after twenty years of our wedded life, a son
whom I have named Stephan. We have lived on our farm near the sacred
stones of Karnak, and not far from Craigh, the high hill upon which,
according to our family traditions, stood the house of our ancestor Joel
in the days of Julius Caesar. My uncle the Franc-Taupin remained with us
to the end of his long and eventful life. He died on the 12th of
November, 1589.

My brother-in-law Louis Rennepont continues to exercise his profession
at La Rochelle. The youngest of his sons, Marius Rennepont, embraced the
career of merchant mariner and sailed away, when still very young, on
board a merchant vessel commanded by one of Captain Mirant's friends.
Captain Mirant died in 1593. That same year we lost our old friend
Master Barbot, the boilermaker of the isle of Rhe.

I preserved amicable relations to the end with Colonel Plouernel, since
the battle of Roche-la-Belle the head of his house. Shortly before his
death we visited upon his invitation the old Castle of Plouernel, where
our ancestor Den-Brao the mason was buried alive together with other
serfs in the donjon constructed by themselves, and out of which Fergan
the Quarryman, Den-Brao's son, rescued his own child, a poor boy whose
blood was to assist the incantations of Azenor the Pale, the mistress of
Neroweg VI. Nothing is left to-day of that feudal edifice but imposing
ruins. Its place is now taken by a magnificent castle built in the style
of the Renaissance, and raised at the foot of the mountain. Colonel
Plouernel's son remained faithful to the Reformed religion, but, after
his death, his son abjured Protestantism and took up his residence at
the court of Louis XIII, the successor of Henry IV, with whom he became
a favorite. The new head of the family never returned to his own castle,
which, together with the vast domains attached to it, is ruled by the
bailiffs of the seigniories of Plouernel and Mezlean.

Once, on the occasion of a trip to the port of Vannes, I met a traveler
just arrived from Germany, who informed me of the death of Prince
Charles of Gerolstein, a descendant of one of the branches of our
plebeian family whose ancestor was Gaëlo, one of the companions of old
Rolf, the chief of the Northman pirates. Prince Charles left a son
behind, heir of his principality, who remains faithful to the Reformed
religion.

Our life has run peaceful and happy at this place. We cultivate our
fields, and they satisfy our wants. My son Stephan, now sixteen years of
age, helps me in my field labors. He is of a kind, timid and diffident
disposition, although born of so intrepid a mother as Cornelia. He will,
I hope, live peacefully here, unless the civil discords, which already
begin to threaten the minority of Louis XIII, should extend into
Brittany.

I shall here close this narrative which my grandfather Christian the
printer began under the reign of Francis I. I shall join it to the
archives and relics of our family together with the pocket Bible printed
by my grandfather, and which his daughter Hena, baptized in religion
Sister St. Frances-in-the-Tomb, held in her hands before she was plunged
twenty-five times into the flames on the 21st of January, 1535, under
the eyes of King Francis I, to the greater glory of the Roman Catholic
and Apostolic Church.


THE END.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Tire-Laines means literally Wool-Pluckers.

[2] Tire-Soies: literally Silk-Pluckers.

[3] Mauvais-Garçons; literally Bad Boys.

[4]

    From the bowels of the earth I have cried up to thee, O, Lord;
    O, Lord, give ear unto my voice.
    May thy ears be ready to listen
    To the voice of my supplications.


[5] This whole sermon la a reproduction from the records of the time.
See Merle d'Aubigné, _History of the Reformation in the XVI Century_,
vol. 1. p. 332. (Pp. 86, 87, edition H. W. Hagemann Publishing Co., New
York, 1894.)

[6] We consider it our duty to cite literally the monstrous fact against
which the heart rises in revolt, and reason feels indignant:

"Sub commissariis insuper ac praedicatoribus veniarum imponere ut si
quis, per impossibile. _Dei genetricem_, semper virginem violasset, quod
eundem indulgentiarum vigore absolvere posset luce clarius
est...."--(l'ositiones fratris J. Tezelil, quibus defendit indulgentias
contra Lutherum. Theses 99, 100 and 101). Cited by Merle d'Aubigné,
_History of the Reformation in the XVI Century_, p. 86, edition H. W.
Hagemann Publishing Co., New York, 1894.

[7] Merle d'Aubigné. _History of the Reformation in the XVI Century_,
vol. I, pp. 328, 329. (P. 88, edition H. W. Hagemann Publishing Co., New
York, 1894.)

[8] The seat of the University of Paris.

[9] For these horrible calumnies spread by the clergy against the
Reformation, see De Thou, vol. I, book II, p. 97.

[10] In Spanish, as well as French, "woman" and "wife" are the same
word. Loyola punned upon the word.

[11] For a thrilling account of one of these invasions, see "The Iron
Arrow Head," the tenth of this series.

[12] "Executio ad alios pertinet."--Bellarmin, vol. I, chap. VII, p.
147.

[13] Mariana, _De Rege, vol. I_, chap. VI, p. 60.

[14] "'Alas', the monk explained, ' ... men have arrived at such a pitch
of corruption now-a-days, that unable to make them come to us, we must
e'en go to them, otherwise they would cast us off altogether; ... our
casuists have taken under consideration the vices to which people of
various conditions are most addicted, with a view of laying down maxims
which ... are so gentle that he must be a very impracticable subject
indeed who is not pleased with them.'"--Blaise Pascal, _Letters to a
Provincial_, Letter VI, pp. 219, 220, edition Houghton, Osgood & Co.,
Boston, 1880.

[15] _Practice According to the School of the Society of Jesus (Praxis
ex Societatis Jesu Schola)._ The passage reads: "Si habitum dimmittat ut
furetur occulte, vel fornicetur."--Treatise 6, example 7, number 103.
Also in Diana: "Ut eat incognitus ad lupanar."--Cited by Blaise Pascal,
_Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VI, p. 215, edition Houghton, Osgood &
Co., Boston, 1880.

[16] Father Gaspar Hurtado, _On the Subject of Sins (De Sub. Pecc._),
diff. 9; Diana, p. 5; treatise 14, r. 99.--Cited by Blaise Pascal,
_Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VII, p. 234, edition Houghton, Osgood
& Co., Boston, 1880.

[17] Father Anthony Escobar of Mendoza, _Exposition of Uncontroverted
Opinions in Moral Theology_, treatise 7, example 4, no. 223.--Cited by
Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VI, p. 226, edition Houghton,
Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[18] Father Etienne Bauny, _Summary of Sins_ (1633), sixth edition, pp.
213, 214.--Cited by Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VI, p.
226, edition Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[19] "Non ut malum pro malo reddat, sed ut conservet honorem." are the
words of Reginaldus, in _Practice According to the School of the Society
of Jesus_, book 21, no. 62, p. 260. Also Lessius, _Concerning Justice
(De Justitia)_, book 2, chap. 9, division 12, no. 79.--Cited by Pascal,
_Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VII, pp. 233, 234, edition Houghton,
Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[20] Sanchez, _Moral Theology_, book 2, chap. 39, no. 7.--Cited by
Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VII, p. 237, edition Houghton,
Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[21] Molina, vol. 1, treatise 2, division 88, no. 6. Also Escobar,
_Moral Theology_, treatise 6, example 6, no. 48.--Cited by Pascal,
_Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VIII, pp. 249, 250, edition Houghton,
Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[22] Father Bauny, _Summary of Sins_, chap. 14.--Cited by Pascal,
_Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VIII, p. 252, edition Houghton, Osgood
& Co., Boston, 1880.

[23] "Media benevolentia."--Escobar, _Moral Theology_, treatise 3,
example 5, no. 4.33,34.--Cited by Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_,
Letter VIII, p. 253, edition Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[24] Lessius, confirmed by Escobar, treatise 3, example 2, no.
163.--Cited by Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VIII, pp. 254,
255, edition Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[25] Lessius, book 2, chap. 14, division 8; approved and endorsed by
Escobar: "Quamvis mulier illicite acquirat, licite tamen retinet
acquisita." treatise 1, example 8, no. 59.--Cited by Pascal, _Letters to
a Provincial_, Letter VIII, pp. 257, 258, edition Houghton, Osgood &
Co., Boston, 1880.

[26] Lessius, book 2, chap. 14, division 8. Also Escobar, treatise 1,
example 9, no. 9.--Cited by Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_, Letter
VIII, p. 256, edition Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[27] Vasquez, _Treatise upon Alms_, chap. 4. So, also, Diana.--Cited by
Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VI, p. 214, edition Houghton,
Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[28] Escobar, treatise 3, example 1, no. 23; treatise 5, example 5, no.
53.--Cited by Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_, Letter VIII, p. 258,
edition Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[29] Sanchez, part 2, book 3, chap. 6, no. 13; Filiutius, treatise 25,
chap. 11, nos. 331, 328.--Cited by Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_,
Letter IX, pp. 276, 277, edition Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[30] Father Bauny, _Summary of Sins_, p. 148.--Cited by Pascal, _Letters
to a Provincial_, Letter IX, p. 279, edition Houghton, Osgood & Co.,
Boston, 1880.

[31] Escobar, chapter on thieving, treatise 1, example 9, no. 13.--Cited
by Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_, Letter IX, p. 281, edition
Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[32] "Ob naturalem fastus inclinationem"--Escobar, treatise 1, example
8, no. 5.--Cited by Pascal, _Letters to a Provincial_, Letter IX, pp.
279, 280, edition Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston, 1880.

[33] Father Bauny, _Summary of Sins_, p. 165.--Alluded to by Pascal,
_Letters to a Provincial_, Letter IX, p. 279, edition Houghton, Osgood &
Co., Boston, 1880.

[34] To the greater glory of God.

[35] Confession of Faith of the English Reformers.--Theodore de Beze,
_Ecclesiastical Annals_, vol. 1, pp. 109-118.

[36] This charming passage is to be found in _The Book of Master Bernard
Palissy_; quoted in the _Protestant Review_, vol. I, p. 23.

[37] Form adopted by the Consistory

[38] Protestant marriage service, according to the Psalms of David;
translated into French by Clement Marot, Geneva.

[39] _History of the Town of Paris_, by Dom Felibien, of the
congregation of St. Maur; Paris, 1725, vol. V, p. 343. Also given in the
_Registers of the Town Hall of Paris_, and the _Registers of the
Parliaments_, folios 507-686.

[40] Dom Felibien, _History of the Town of Paris_, vol. V, pp. 343-347;
_French Ceremonial_, pp. 940 and following; _Registers of the Town Hall
of Paris_, etc.

[41] De Thou, _History of France_, book I, p. 271.

[42] These monstrosities seem to exceed the boundaries of the possible.
Let us quote literally the text of the historians:

"On the evening of the same day (January 21, 1535) the six culprits were
taken to the parvise of Notre Dame, where the fires were prepared to
burn them. Above the pyres rose a sort of scaffolding on which the
patients were tied fast. The fire was then lighted under them, and the
executioners, GENTLY slacking the rope of the lever, allowed the
miscreants to dip down to the level of the flames, in order that they be
caused to feel the sharpest smart; they were then raised up again, kept
hanging ablaze in midair, and, after having been several times put
through that painful torment, they were dropped into the flames where
they expired." (_History of France_ by Father Daniel of the Society of
Jesus, vol. IV, page 41, Paris, 1751.)

"On the said day (January 21, 1535) in the presence of the King, the
Queen and all the court, and after the aforesaid remonstrances, the six
heretics were brought forward to make the _amende honorable_ before the
church of Notre Dame of Paris, and immediately after they were burned
alive." (_Acts and Deeds of the Kings of France and England_, by Jean
Bouchet. Poitiers, 1557, in-folio, pp. 271-272.)

"In order to purge their sin, the said heretics were burned to death on
the said day (January 21, 1535) at several places, as the King passed
by, while in vain the poor sufferers cried and implored him for mercy."
(_History of the State of Religion_, by Jean Sleidan. 1557, vol. IX, p.
137). (Quotations from Catholic works.)

[43] _Exhortation of the King of France against the Heretics_, Jean
Bouchet, Poitiers, 1557, in-folio, p. 272.

[44] On the subject of this decree, which was later forcibly annulled,
see _Extracts of the Registers of the Parliament of Paris_, LXXVI, folio
113, collated and extracted by M. Taillandier.--Cited in the
introduction to the _History of the Printing Press in Paris, Memoirs of
the Society of Antiquaries_, vol. XII.

[45] It was no infrequent occurrence to cause the tongues of heretics to
be cut out, in order to prevent them from confessing aloud the
Evangelical doctrine as they marched to the stake.--See the following
citation, from Theodore of Beze.

[46] "Among those burnt at Paris that day, January 21, 1535, were: John
Dubourg, a merchant-draper of Paris, living in St. Denis Street, at the
sign of the Black Horse; Etienne Laforge, of Tournay, but long an
inhabitant of Paris, a man very rich and very charitable; a
schoolmistress named Mary La Catelle; and Anthony Poille, an architect
formerly of Meaux, and blessed of God in that he carried off the palm
among the martyrs, for having been the most cruelly treated. He had his
tongue cut out, as more fully it is set forth in the book of the
martyrs."--_Ecclesiastical Chronicles_, Theodore of Beze, vol. I, p. 1.

[47] "Jacques Bonhomme," literally Goodman Jack, or Jack Drudge.

[48] Contribution in forced labor.

[49] Latin: "Let us pray."

[50] Brantoine, _Illustrious Women_, vol. IX, p. 171.

[51] _Register Journal of L'Etoile_, p. 28.

[52] The queen's words are historical. The book was _Marvelous
Discourses on Catherine De Medici_, by Robert Estienne, Geneva, 1565.

[53] _Register Journal of L'Etoile_, p. 30.

[54] That was the familiar appellation at court of Princess Marguerite,
the daughter of Catherine of Medici and Henry II, so famous for her
excesses. She married Henry IV, who later divorced her.

[55] De Thou, _History of France_, book LXXIV, p. 240.

[56] _Register Journal of L'Etoile_, supplement, p. 57.

[57] _Register Journal of L'Etoile_, supplement, p. 198.

[58] _Register Journal of L'Etoile_, p. 234. It is impossible to cite in
full this all too true satire on the abominable morals of the court of
France in the sixteenth century.

[59] _Register Journal of L'Etoile_, supplement, pp. 236, 239.

[60] _Register Journal of L'Etoile_, supplement, p. 239.

[61] "Driven thereto by the Cardinal of Lorraine, who blamed the conduct
of the Duke of Anjou, the Queen came to the army in person in order to
enlighten herself upon the mistake of not having engaged battle before
the enemy's forces had effected a junction, that is, after the death of
the Duke of Deux-Ponts, who was poisoned by some wine presented to him
by a wine merchant of Avallon. Her Majesty wished to take the field with
Marshal Tavannes."--_Memoirs of Gaspard of Sault, Seigneur of Tavannes._
pp. 322-323.

[62] Letters of Pius V. March 23-April 13, 1569, at Catena--_Life Of
Pius_ V, p. 85.

[63] De Thou, _History of France_, LXXXV, p. 129.

[64] Machiavelli, _The Prince_, chap. 18.

[65] _Journal and Memoirs of Francis of Lorraine_, Duke of Aumale and of
Guise, containing the affairs of France and the negotiations with
Scotland, Italy and Germany, pp. 664-665.

[66] Exodus 21, 23-25.

[67] Morning prayer of the guard, 1569.--_Protestant Review_, vol. I, p.
105.

[68] The document, here reproduced, is the literal testament of Admiral
Coligny, taken from the original manuscripts of the National Library,
Collection of Puy, vol. LXXXI. This document, of so great a historic
value, was first published in full in 1852 by the Historical Society of
French Protestants, vol. I. p. 263. That which, in our estimation,
imparts a double interest to the testament, is the circumstance that it
was written by the Admiral during the war (June, 1569) after the battle
of Jarnac and before the battle of Montcontour.

[69] _Register Journal of L'Etoile_, p. 217. The original of this
monstrous letter was deposited among the manuscripts of the National
Library of France by decree of the Convention, the 11th, Ventose, year
II of the Republic. The immortal Constitutionals wished thus to nail
royalty once more to the pillory of history.

[70] "While the admiral was in camp, Dominic, one of his chamber valets,
convicted of having tried to poison his master, was hanged.... Having
been captured by La Riviere, captain of the guard of the Duke of Anjou,
he was overwhelmed with promises; he was made to expect everything, if
he would poison his master. Dominic yielded, received money and a
poisonous powder, and returned to the camp of Monsieur Coligny."--De
Thou, _History of France_, vol. V, p. 626-627. See the same historian on
the poisoning of the Duke of Deux-Ponts, of Dandolet, and others.

[71] Inhabitants of the fortified city of La Rochelle.

[72] For the details of this battle, see De Thou, vol. V. p. 500;
_Memoires of Gaspard of Sault_, Seigneur of Tavannes, vol. I, p. 323 and
following. _Memoires of Francis of Lanoüe_, vol. I, p. 623, and
following.

[73] _Memories of the State of France under Charles IX_, vol. 1, pp.
5-12.

[74] "Contre-Un" (Against-One) is the title at a book written in the
sixteenth century by Estienne of La Boetie against monarchy.

[75] La Boétie is to-day known mainly through the friendship that united
him to Montaigne, and which inspired the latter to write one of his most
charming passages.

La Boétie was born in Sarlat, November 1, 1530; he died in Germignat,
near Bordeaux, August 18, 1563. He left several works, all of which are
to-day almost unknown. Unquestionably the most curious of his
productions is the one mentioned by Montaigne in these terms:

"My power of handling not being such that I dare to offer as a fine
piece richly painted and set off according to art, I have therefore
thought best to borrow one of Estienne of La Boetie, and such a one as
will honor and adorn all the rest of my work: namely, a discourse that
he called _Voluntary Servitude_, which others have since further
baptized the _Contre-Un_, a piece written in his younger years, by way
of essay, in honor of liberty against tyranny, and which has since been
in the hands of several men of great learning and judgment, not without
singular and merited commendation, for it is finely written and as full
as anything can possibly be."--Montaigne, Essays, Book I, chap. 27.

[76] An allusion to the Vision of Victoria, depicted in "The Casque's
Lark," the fifth of this series.

[77] It is certain that Admiral Coligny's head departed for Rome;
whether it ever arrived there is not known. Mandelot, the Governor of
Lyons, acknowledged receipt of a letter from Charles IX ordering the
nobleman "_to arrest the carrier of the head, and to take the same away
from him_."--Extracts from the correspondence of Mandelot, published by
M. Paulin, Paris, 1845, p. 119.

[78] Out of respect for our female readers we dare not here quote the
_Register Journal of L'Etoile_, page 81, where is found _in extenso_ the
conversation, marked by a savage obscenity, between the Queen and the
court ladies who accompanied her. The conversation is confirmed by all
contemporaneous historians.

[79] See "The Brass Bell," number two in this series.

[80] See "The Carlovingian Coins," the ninth of this series.

[81] See, on the siege of La Rochelle, the daring manoeuvres of Captain
Mirant; the combat sustained by Barbot the boilermaker, single-handed
against two companies; the firing of the stranded ship _L'Ensensoir_ by
the Rochelois women, and their heroism in the combats in which they took
part, _History of La Rochelle and of the Country of Aunis_, by Arcère
1756, 2 vols. in quarto. I refer my readers to that excellent work in
order that those who would wish to certify the facts may see that all
the episodes herein narrated concerning the siege of La Rochelle are
strictly historic.

[82] As thrillingly recounted in "The Pilgrim's Shell," the twelfth work
of this series.

[83] As an instance of the proud and noble bearing of the staunch
republicans in this Council, the story is told that when it was found
that in the passport issued by the Duke of Anjou the Rochelois were
designated as "rebels," they refused to accept it, and Anjou was forced
to send another passport.--_History of La Rochelle_, by Arcere, p. 417.

[84] "I am guilty, I am guilty, I am very guilty."

[85] _Register Journal of L'Etoile_, p. 34.