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Title: The Two Dianas, Volume 1 (of 3)

Author: Paul Meurice

Dubious author: Alexandre Dumas

Illustrator: E. Van Meyden

Release date: February 6, 2022 [eBook #67337]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Little, Brown, and company, 1894

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


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWO DIANAS, VOLUME 1 (OF 3) ***


THE TWO DIANAS.




BY

ALEXANDRE DUMAS.




IN THREE VOLUMES.


VOL. I.




LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO.

BOSTON, LITTLE, BROWN, & CO.

1894.




INTRODUCTORY NOTE


The claim of Alexandre Dumas to be considered first among historical
romancists, past or present, can hardly be disputed; and his magic pen
finds abundant, rich material for the historical setting of the tale
told in the following pages. The period in which the action of "The Two
Dianas" is supposed to take place, covers the later years of Henri II.
and the brief and melancholy reign of his oldest son, François II., the
ill-fated husband of Mary Stuart, whose later history has caused her
brief occupancy of the throne of France to be lost sight of. This period
saw the germination and early maturity, if not the actual sowing, of the
spirit of the Reformation in France. It was during these years that the
name of John Calvin acquired the celebrity which has never waned, and
that his devoted followers, La Renaudie, Théodore de Bèze, Ambroise
Paré, the famous surgeon, and the immortal Coligny began the crusade
for freedom of worship which was steadily maintained, unchecked by
Tumult of Amboise, or Massacre of St. Bartholomew, until Henri of
Navarre put the crown upon their heroic labors, and gave them respite
for a time with the famous "Edict of Nantes," made more famous still by
its "Revocation" a century later under the auspices of Madame de
Maintenon, at the instigation of her Jesuit allies. Those portions of
the story which introduce us to the councils of the Reformers are none
the less interesting because the characters introduced are actual
historical personages, nor can it fail to add interest to the encounter
between La Renaudie and Pardaillan to know that it really took place,
and that the two men had previously been to each other almost nearer
than brothers. It was but one of innumerable heart-rending incidents,
inseparable from all civil and religious conflicts, but in which those
presided over by the Florentine mother of three Valois kings of France
were prolific beyond belief.

How closely the author has adhered to historical fact for the groundwork
of his tale, will appear by comparing it with one of Balzac's _Études
Philosophiques_, entitled "Sur Catherine de Médicis," the first part of
which covers the same period as "The Two Dianas," and describes many of
the same events; the variations are of the slightest.

The patient forbearance of Catherine de Médicis, under the neglect of
her husband, and the arrogant presumption of Diane de Poitiers, abetted
by the Constable de Montmorency; her swift and speedy vengeance upon
them as soon as she was left a widow with her large brood of possible
kings; her jealous fear of the influence of the Duc de Guise and his
brother the Cardinal de Lorraine, which led her to desire the death of
her eldest son, the unfortunate François, because his queen was the
niece of the powerful and ambitious brothers, and which also led her to
oppose their influence by a combination with two such incongruous
elements as the Constable Montmorency and the Protestant Bourbon princes
of Navarre, remaining all the while the bitterest foe that the reformed
religion ever had,--all these, as described in the following pages, are
strictly in conformity with historical fact So, too, is the story of the
defence of St. Quentin in its main details, and of the siege of Calais,
where the Duc de Guise did receive the terrible wound which caused the
sobriquet of _Le Balafré_ to be applied to him, and was cured by the
skilful hand of Master Ambroise Paré. So of the Tumult of Amboise, and
the painful scenes attending the execution of the victims; and so,
finally, of the scene at the death-bed of François II., the controversy
between the shrinking conservatism of the King's regular medical
advisers, and the daring eclecticism of Paré, proposing to perform the
"new operation" of trepanning. It may, perhaps, be said that the
Chancellor de l'Hôpital is made to appear in too unfavorable a light;
he certainly was something far above the mere bond-slave of Catherine de
Médicis.

Dumas himself tells us what basis of truth there is for the sometimes
amusing, sometimes serious, but always intensely interesting confusion
between Martin-Guerre and his unscrupulous double.

Nowhere, it may be said, in history or romance, is there to be found so
touching a glimpse as this of poor Mary Stuart. Here we see naught save
the lovely and lovable side of the unfortunate queen, without a hint of
the fatal weakness which, as it developed in the stormy later years of
her life, made her marvellous beauty and charm the instruments of her
ruin.

So much for those portions of "The Two Dianas" which rest upon a basis
of fact. History records further that Henri II. was accidentally killed
in friendly jousting by the Comte de Montgommery; but with that history
ends and romance begins. The personage whom Monsieur Dumas presents to
us under that title perhaps never existed; but let the reader be the
judge, after reading of the pure and sacred but unhappy love of Gabriel
de Montgommery and Diane de Castro, if a lovelier gem of fiction was
ever enclosed in an historical setting.




LIST OF CHARACTERS.

Period, 1521-1574.

FRANÇOIS I., King of France.

HENRI II., his successor.

CATHERINE DE MÉDICIS, Queen to Henri II.

THE DAUPHIN, afterwards François II.

HENRI, his brother, afterwards Henri III.

MARY STUART, married to the Dauphin.

MARY, Queen of England.

DUC D'ORLÉANS, afterwards Charles IX.

MARGUERITE DE FRANCE, sister of Henri II.

MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, daughter of Henri II.

PRINCESS ÉLISABETH.

FRANÇOIS, Duc d'Alençon.

DUC DE GUISE, Lieutenant-General of France.

MONSEIGNEUR LE CARDINAL DE LORRAINE, his brother.

DUC D'AUMALE, brother of Duc de Guise.

MARQUIS D'ELBŒUF,}

MARQUIS DE VAUDEMONT,}

                                officers of Duc de Guise.

MONSIEUR DE BIRON,}

MONSIEUR DE THERMES,}

CONSTABLE ANNE DE MONTMORENCY.

FRANÇOIS DE MONTMORENCY, his son.

ANTOINE DE NAVARRE.

LOUIS DE BOURBON, Prince de Condé, his brother.

BARON DE PARDAILLAN, an officer of the king's troops.

DAVID, a Calvinistic minister.

DES AVENELLES, advocate, a traitor to the Calvinists.

BARON CASTELNAU DE CHALOSSES,}

COMTE DE VILLEMANGIS,}

                                condemned Calvinists.

COMTE DE MAZÈRES,}

BARON DE RAUNAY,}

MONSIEUR DE BRAGUELONNE, Lieutenant of Police.

MASTER ARPION, his secretary.

LIGNIÈRES, an agent of police.

ANTOINE DE MOUCHY, otherwise styled Démocharès, Doctor of
  the Sorbonne and Canon of Noyon, Grand Inquisitor of the
  Faith in France.

JEAN PEUQUOY, syndic of the weavers of St. Quentin.

PIERRE PEUQUOY, an armorer.

BABETTE, Pierre Peuquoy's sister.

LORD WENTWORTH, Governor of Calais.

LORD GREY, his brother-in-law, commanding the English archers.

LORD DERBY, an English officer.

SIR EDWARD FLEMING, herald of England.

ANSELME, a fisherman.

ANDRÉ, a page.

SISTER MONIQUE, Superior of the Benedictine convent at St.
  Quentin.

HEINRICH SCHARFENSTEIN,}

PILLETROUSE,}

FRANTZ SCHARFENSTEIN,}

MALEMORT,}                      officers and soldiers in Gabriel's
                                               service.
LACTANCE,}

YVONNET,}

AMBROSIO,}

LANDRY,}

CHESNEL,}                       veterans of the war in Lorraine, entering
                                        the service of Vicomte d'Exmès.
AUBRIOT,}

CONTAMINE,}

BALU,}




ILLUSTRATIONS

PORTRAITS.

Alexandre Dumas


ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS

DRAWN AND ETCHED BY E. VAN MUYDEN.

A King's Mistress

Mary Stuart and Gabriel




CONTENTS

Chapter

I. A Count's Son and a King's Daughter

II. A Bride who plays with Dolls

III. In Camp

IV. A King's Mistress

V. In the Apartments of the Royal Children

VI. Diane de Castro

VII. How the Constable said his Pater Noster

VIII. A Fortunate Tourney

IX. How One may pass close by his Destiny
without Knowing it

X. An Elegy during the Progress of a Comedy

XI. Peace or War?

XII. A Twofold Knave

XIII. The Acme of Happiness

XIV. Diane de Poitiers

XV. Catherine de Médicis

XVI. Lover or Brother?

XVII. The Horoscope

XVIII. The Last Resort of a Coquette

XIX. How Henri II. began to enjoy his Inheritance
during his Bather's Life

XX. Of the Usefulness of Friends

XXI. Wherein it is shown that Jealousy sometimes
abolished titles even before
the French Revolution

XXII. Describes the Most Convincing Proof
that a Woman can give that a Man
is not her Lover

XXIII. Useless Devotion

XXIV. Shows that Blood-Stains can never be
completely washed out

XXV. An Heroic Ransom

XXVI. Jean Peuquoy the Weaver

XXVII. Gabriel at Work

XXVIII. Wherein Martin-Guerre is not Clever

XXIX. Wherein Martin-Guerre is a Bungler

XXX. The Strategy of War

XXXI. Arnauld du Thill's Memory

XXXII. Theology

XXXIII. Sister Bénie

XXXIV. A Victorious Defeat

XXXV. Arnauld du Thill is still up to his
Little Tricks

XXXVI. Continuation of Master Arnauld du
Thill's Honorable Negotiations

XXXVII. Lord Wentworth

XXXVIII. The Amorous Jailer

XXXIX. The Armorer's House



[Illustration: Alexandre Dumas.]




THE TWO DIANAS




CHAPTER I

A COUNT'S SON AND A KING'S DAUGHTER


It was the 5th of May, 1551. A young man of eighteen years, and a woman
of forty, together leaving a house of unpretentious appearance, walked
side by side through the main street of the village of Montgommery, in
the province of Auge.

The young man was of the fine Norman type, with chestnut hair, blue
eyes, white teeth, and red lips. He had the fresh, velvety complexion
common to men of the North, which sometimes takes away a little manly
strength from their beauty, by making it almost feminine in its quality;
but his figure was superb, both in its proportions and its suppleness,
partaking at once of the character of the oak and the reed. He was
simply but handsomely dressed, in a doublet of rich purple cloth, with
light silk embroidery of the same color. His breeches were of similar
cloth, and trimmed in the same way as the doublet; long black leather
boots, such as pages and varlets wore, extended above his knees; and a
velvet cap, worn slightly on one side and adorned with a white plume,
covered a brow on which could be read indications of a tranquil and
steadfast mind.

His horse, whose rein was passed through his arm, followed him, raising
his head from time to time, snorting and neighing with pleasure in the
fresh air that was blowing.

The woman seemed to belong, if not to the lower orders of society, at
least to a class somewhere between them and the bourgeoisie. Her dress
was simple, but of such exquisite neatness that very quality seemed
to give it elegance. More than once the young man offered her the
support of his arm, but she persistently declined it, as if it would
have been an honor above her condition.

As they walked through the village, and drew near the end of the street
that led to the château, whose ponderous towers were in full sight,
overlooking the humble settlement, it was very noticeable that not only
the young people and the men, but even the gray heads bowed low as the
young man passed, while he responded with a friendly nod of the head.
Each one seemed to recognize a superior and a master in this youth, who,
as we shall soon see, did not know his own identity.

Leaving the village behind them, they followed the road, or rather the
path, which, in its winding course up the slope of the mountain, was
barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. So, after some
objections, and upon the young man's remarking to his companion that as
he was obliged to lead his horse it would be dangerous for her to walk
behind, the good woman was induced to go in advance.

The young man followed her without a word. One could see that his
thoughtful brow was wrinkled beneath the weight of some engrossing
preoccupation.

A fine and lordly château it was toward which our two pilgrims, so
different in age and station, were thus wending their way. Four
centuries and ten generations had hardly sufficed for that mass of rock
to grow from foundation to battlements; and there it stood, itself a
mountain towering above the mountain on which it was built.

Like all the structures of that age, the château of the counts of
Montgommery was absolutely irregular in its formation. Fathers had
bequeathed it to their sons, and each temporary proprietor had added to
this stone colossus according to his fancy or his need. The square
donjon, the principal fortification, had been built under the dukes of
Normandy. Then the fanciful turrets on the battlements and the
ornamented windows had been added to the frowning donjon, multiplying
the chased and sculptured stonework as time went on, as if the years had
been fruitful in this granite vegetation. At last, toward the end of the
reign of Louis XII., and in the early days of François I., a long
gallery with pointed windows had put the last touch to this secular
agglomeration.

From this gallery, and still better from the summit of the donjon, could
be had an extended view over several leagues of the rich, blooming
plains of Normandy. For, as we have already said, the county of
Montgommery was situated in the province of Auge, and its eight or ten
baronies and its hundred and fifty fiefs were dependencies of the
bailiwicks of Argentan, Caen, and Alençon.

At last they reached the great portal of the château.

Think of it! For more than fifteen years this magnificent and formidable
donjon had been without a master. An old intendant still continued to
collect the rents; and there were some of the servants, too, who had
grown old in that solitude, and who continued to look after the
château, whose doors they threw open every day, as if the master was to
be expected at any moment, while they closed them again at evening, as
if his coming were simply postponed till the next day.

The intendant received the two visitors with the same appearance of
friendliness that every one seemed to show to the woman, and the same
deference which all agreed in according to the young man.

"Master Elyot," said the woman, who was in advance, as we have seen, "do
you mind letting us go into the château? I have something to say to
Monsieur Gabriel" (pointing to the young man), "and I can only say it in
the _salon d'honneur_."

"Come in, Dame Aloyse," said Elyot, "and say what you have to say to
young master here, wherever you choose. You know very well that
unhappily there is no one here to interrupt you."

They passed through the _salle des gardes_. Formerly twelve men, raised
upon the estates, used to be on guard without intermission in that
apartment. During fifteen years seven of these men had died, and their
places had not been filled. Five of them were left; and they still lived
there, doing the same duty as in the count's time, and waiting till
their turn to die should come.

They passed through the gallery and entered the _salon d'honneur_.

It was furnished just as it had been the day that the last count had
left it. But this salon, where in former days all the Norman nobility
had used to assemble, as in the salon of a lord paramount, not a soul
had entered for fifteen years, save the servants whose duty it was to
keep it in order, and a faithful dog, the last count's pet, who every
time that he entered the room called for his master mournfully, and at
last had refused to go out one day, and had stretched himself out at the
foot of the dais, where they found him the next morning, dead.

It was not without emotion that Gabriel (such was the name that had been
given to the young man by his companion) entered this salon, with its
memories of other days. However, the impression made upon him by these
gloomy walls, the majestic dais, and the windows cut so deep into the
wall that although it was only ten in the morning, the daylight seemed
to have stopped at the threshold,--the impression, we repeat, was not
strong enough to divert his mind for a single moment from the purpose
which had drawn him thither; and as soon as the door was closed behind
him, he turned to his companion.

"Come, dear Aloyse, my good nurse," said he, "really, although you seem
more moved than I, you have no longer the least excuse for refusing to
tell me what you have promised. Now, Aloyse, you must speak without
fear, and, above all, without delay. Haven't you hesitated long enough,
my dear, kind nurse; and have I not, like an obedient son, waited long
enough h When I asked you what name I had the right to bear, and to what
family I belonged, and who my father was, you replied, 'Gabriel, I will
tell you the whole story on the day that you are eighteen,--the age at
which he who has the right to wear a sword attains his majority.' Now,
to-day, this 5th of May, 1551, I have lived eighteen full years; so I
called upon you this morning to keep your promise, but you replied with
a solemn visage which almost terrified me, 'It is not here in the humble
dwelling of a poor squire's widow that I should make you known to
yourself, but in the château of the counts of Montgommery, and in the
_salon d'honneur_ in that château.' Now we have come up the mountain,
good Aloyse, have crossed the threshold of the noble counts, and here we
are in the _salon d'honneur_; so, speak!"

"Sit down, Gabriel, for you will allow me to call you by that name once
more."

The young man took her hands with a most affectionate movement.

"Sit down," she repeated, "not on that chair, nor on that sofa."

"But where do you want me to sit, then, dear nurse?" interrupted the
young man.

"Under this dais," said Aloyse, with an accent of deep solemnity.

The young man complied.

Aloyse nodded her head.

"Now, listen to me," said she.

"But do you be seated too," said Gabriel

"Will you permit me?"

"Are you laughing at me, nurse?"

The good woman took her place on the steps of the dais, at the feet of
the young man, who was all attention, and devoured her with a gaze full
of kindliness and curiosity.

"Gabriel," said the nurse, when she had at last made up her mind to
speak, "you were scarcely six years old when you lost your father and I
lost my husband. You had been my foster-child, for your mother died in
giving birth to you. From that day, I, your mother's foster-sister,
loved you as if you were my own child. The widow devoted her life to the
orphan. As she had given you her breast, she gave you her heart too; and
you will do me this justice, will you not, Gabriel, that in your belief,
my thoughts, when you have been away from me, have never failed to be
with you and watching over you?"

"Dear Aloyse," said the young man, "many real mothers would have done
less than you have. I swear it; and not one, I swear again, could have
done more."

"Every one, in fact, was as eager to serve you as I, who had been the
first to show my zeal." continued the nurse. "Dom Jamet de Croisic, the
worthy chaplain of this very château, and whom the Lord called to
himself three months since, instructed you very carefully in letters and
science, and according to what he said, you had nothing to learn from
any one in the matter of reading and writing and knowledge of history,
especially of the great families of France. Enguerrand Lorien, the
intimate friend of my dead-and-gone husband, Perrot Travigny, and the
old squire of our neighbors, the counts of Vimoutiers, taught you the
science of arms, the management of the lance and sword, horsemanship,
and in fact all the knightly accomplishments; and then the fêtes and
tournaments which were held at Alençon at the time of the marriage and
coronation of our Lord King Henri II., gave you an opportunity to prove,
two years since, that you have taken advantage of Enguerrand's
instructions. I, poor know nothing, could only love you and teach you to
worship God. That is all that I have tried to do. The Holy Virgin has
been my guide, and here you are to-day, at eighteen, a pious Christian
man, a learned gentleman, and an accomplished knight; and I hope that
with God's help, you will not fail to show yourself worthy of your
ancestors, MONSIEUR GABRIEL, SEIGNEUR DE LORGES, COMTE DE MONTGOMMERY."

Gabriel involuntarily rose to his feet, as he cried,--

"Comte de Montgommery! I!" Then he went on, with a proud smile on his
lips,--

"Oh, well, I hoped so, and I almost suspected it; in fact, Aloyse, in
the days of my boyish dreams I said as much to my little Diane. But what
are you doing to my feet, Aloyse, pray? Rise, and come to my arms, thou
saintly creature! Don't you choose to acknowledge me as your child any
more now that I am heir of the Montgommerys? Heir of the Montgommerys!"
he repeated, as if in spite of himself, trembling with pride as he
embraced the good old soul. "Heir of the Montgommerys! And I bear one of
the oldest and most honorable names of France! Yes; Dom Jamet has taught
me the history of my ancestors, reign by reign, and generation by
generation. Of my ancestors! Embrace me again, Aloyse! I wonder what
Diane will say to all this. Saint Godegrand, Bishop of Chartres, and
Sainte Opportune, his sister, who lived in Charlemagne's day, were of
our family. Roger de Montgommery commanded an army under William the
Conqueror. Guillaume de Montgommery made a crusade at his own expense.
We have been allied more than once to the royal families of Scotland and
France; and the noblest lords of London and the most illustrious
noblemen of Paris will call me cousin. My father, too--"

The young man stopped short, as if he had been struck; but he soon
continued:--

"But, alas! for all this, Aloyse, I am alone in the world. This great
lord is nothing but a poor orphan, and the descendant of so many royal
ancestors has no father. My poor father! I can only weep just now,
Aloyse. And my mother, too,--both dead! Oh, do tell me of them, so that
I may know what they were like now that I know that I am their son!
Come, begin with my father. How did he die? Tell me all about it."

Aloyse remained dumb. Gabriel looked at her in amazement.

"I ask you to tell me, nurse," he said again, "how my father died."

"Monseigneur, God alone can tell you!" said she. "One day Jacques de
Montgommery left the hotel where he was then living, in the Rue des
Jardins St. Paul in Paris. He never came back to it. His friends and his
cousins sought for him, but to no purpose. He had disappeared,
Monseigneur! King François I. ordered an inquiry, which came to nothing.
His enemies, if he fell a victim to treachery, were either very cunning
or very powerful. You have no father, Monseigneur; and yet the tomb of
Jacques de Montgommery is missing in the chapel of your château, for he
has never been found, living or dead!"

"That is because it was not his son who sought him!" cried Gabriel. "Ah,
nurse, why have you kept quiet so long? Did you hide the secret of my
birth from me because it would have been my duty either to save my
father or to avenge him?"

"No; but because it was my duty to save yourself, Monseigneur. Listen!
Do you know what the last words were that were uttered by my husband,
brave Perrot Travigny, who had a religious devotion to your family?
'Wife,' said he, a few minutes before he breathed his last, 'don't even
wait till I am buried; just close my eyes, and then leave Paris with the
child as fast as ever you can. You will go to Montgommery; not to the
château, but to the house which belongs to us, thanks to Monseigneur's
bounty!

"'There do you bring up the descendant of our masters with no
affectation of mystery, but without display. The good people of our
country will respect him, and will not betray him. But, above all
things, hide his origin from himself, or he will show himself and be his
own destruction. Let him know only that he is of gentle birth, and that
will be enough to satisfy his dignity and your own conscience. Then,
when years shall have brought him discretion and gravity, as his blood
will make him brave and true,--when he is about eighteen, for
instance,--tell him his name and his descent, Aloyse. Then he can judge
for himself of his duty and his ability. But until then be very careful;
for formidable enmities and invincible hatred will be on his track if he
should be discovered, and those who have stricken and brought down the
eagle will not spare the eaglet.' He said those words and died,
Monseigneur; and I, in obedience to his commands, took you, poor orphan
of six years, who had hardly seen your father, and I brought you with me
to this village. The count's disappearance was already known here; and
it was suspected that implacable foes were threatening any one who bore
his name. You were seen and acknowledged without hesitation in the
village, but by tacit agreement not a soul asked me a question or
expressed any surprise at my silence. A short time after, my only son,
your foster-brother, my poor Robert, was carried off by a fever. God
seemed to will that I should have no excuse for not devoting myself
entirely to you. May God's will be done! Everybody made a pretence of
believing that it was my son that lived, and yet they all treated you
with the deepest respect and a touching obedience. That was because you
already strikingly resembled your father, both in face and in heart. The
lion-like instinct showed itself in you: and it was easy to see that you
were born to be a master and a leader of men. The children of the
neighborhood soon got into the habit of forming themselves into a little
company under your command. In all their games you marched at their
head, and not one of them would have dared to refuse you his respect.
You became a young king of the province; and it was the province which
brought you up, and which has looked on in admiration to see you daily
growing in pride and beauty. The quit-rent of the finest fruits, and the
tithe of the harvest, were brought regularly to the house without my
having to ask for anything. The finest horse in the pastures was always
kept for you. Dom Jamet, Enguerrand, and all the varlets and retainers
at the château offered you their services as naturally due to you; and
you accepted them as your right. There was nothing about you that was
not gallant and brave and large-hearted. In your slightest actions you
showed to what race you belonged. They still tell by the village
firesides in the evening how you once traded off my two cows for a
falcon with one of the pages. But all these instincts and impulses only
betrayed you to those who were to be trusted, and you remained hidden
and unknown to the evil-disposed. The great excitement aroused by the
wars in Italy, Spain, and Flanders against the Emperor Charles V. helped
not a little, thank God! to protect you; and you have at last arrived
safe and sound at that age when Perrot told me that I might trust to
your good sense and your discretion. But you, who are ordinarily so
sober and so cautious, behold! your first words are all for a rash
outburst, vengeance, and exposure."

"Vengeance, yes; but exposure, no! Do you suppose, Aloyse, that my
father's enemies are still living?"

"I don't know, Monseigneur; but it would be much safer to assume that
some of them are. And suppose that you make your appearance at court,
still unknown, but with your well-known name, which will attract
universal attention to you,--brave but without experience, strong in
your worthy ambition and in the justice of your case, but without
friends or allies, or even any personal repute,--and what, pray, will
happen then? Those who hate you will see you come, while you will not
see them; they will attack you, and you will not know where the blow
comes from, and not only will your father not be revenged, but you
yourself, Monseigneur, will be destroyed."

"And that, Aloyse, is just the reason why I am so sorry that I have had
no time to make friends for myself and win a little bit of renown. Ah,
if I had been warned two years since, for instance! But never mind! It
is only a little delay, and I will soon make up for lost time. And
indeed for other reasons I am very glad that I have been at Montgommery
these last two years; but I must be off so much the quicker now. I will
go to Paris, Aloyse; and without concealing the fact that I am a
Montgommery, I need not say that I am the son of Comte Jacques. Fiefs
and titles are no less plentiful in our family than in the royal house
of France, and our branches are sufficiently numerous in England and
France for an unimportant scion to fail of recognition. I can take the
name of Comte d'Exmès, Aloyse, and that will neither conceal nor reveal
my identity. Then I shall find--whom shall I find at court? Thanks to
Enguerrand, I am equally conversant with men and affairs. Shall I pay my
addresses to the Constable de Montmorency, the hard-hearted mumbler of
pater-nosters? No; and I quite agree with the face you made, Aloyse. To
the Maréchal de Saint-André, then? He is neither young nor
enterprising enough. Would not François de Guise be preferable? Yes; he
is the man for me. Montmédy, St. Dizier, and Bologne have already shown
what stuff he is made of. It is to him that I will go; and under his
banners I will win my spurs. In the shadow of his name I will conquer a
name for myself."

"Will Monseigneur allow me to remind him that the honest and faithful
Elyot has had time to put by a handsome sum for the heir of his former
masters. You may maintain a royal establishment, Monseigneur; and the
young men, who are your tenants, and whom you have drilled in playing at
war, are in duty bound and will be only too glad to follow you to battle
in good earnest. It is your right to call them about you, as you well
know, Monseigneur."

"And we will use this right, never fear, Aloyse; we will use it."

"Is Monseigneur really willing to receive all his domestics and
retainers, and the tenants of all his fiefs and baronies, who are
consumed with the desire to pay their respects to him?"

"Not yet, please, good Aloyse; but tell Martin-Guerre to saddle a horse
and be ready to go with me. I must, first of all, take a ride about the
neighborhood."

"Are you going in the direction of Vimoutiers?" said good Aloyse,
smiling mischievously.

"Perhaps so. Don't I owe old Enguerrand a visit and my thanks?"

"And with Enguerrand's congratulations, Monseigneur will not find it at
all amiss to receive those of a certain fair damsel called Diane. Am I
not right?"

"But," said Gabriel, laughing, "that same fair damsel has been my wife
and I her husband these three years; since I was fifteen, that is to
say, and she nine."

Aloyse lost herself in thought.

"Monseigneur," said she, "if I did not know how sober-minded and open
you are, notwithstanding your extreme youth, and that your every emotion
is a serious and profound one, I should keep back the words which I am
going to venture to say to you. But what is a joking matter to others is
often a matter of serious importance to you. Remember, Monseigneur, that
no one knows whose daughter Diane is. One day, the wife of Enguerrand,
who had gone to Fontainebleau at that time, with his master, Comte de
Vimoutiers, found, as she was going into her house, a child in a cradle
at her door, and a heavy purse of gold on her table. In the purse was a
considerable sum of money, half of an engraved ring, and a paper on
which was this one word, 'Diane.' Berthe, Enguerrand's wife, had no
child of her own, and she welcomed joyfully these other maternal duties
which were asked at her hands. But on her return to Vimoutiers she died,
just as my husband died, to whom your father intrusted you, Monseigneur;
and as it was a woman who brought up the male orphan, so it was a man to
whose care the female child fell. But Enguerrand and I, both intrusted
with a like task, have exchanged our duties? and I have tried to make of
Diane a good, pious woman, while Enguerrand has brought you up to be
clever and wise. Naturally you have known Diane, and naturally, too, you
have become attached to her. But you are the Comte de Montgommery, as
can be proved by authentic documents and by public repute, while no one
has yet appeared to lay claim to Diane, by producing the other half of
the golden ring. Take care, Monseigneur! I know well that Diane is now a
mere child of scarcely twelve years, but she will grow, and will be
exceedingly beautiful; and with such a nature as yours, I say again,
everything is apt to be serious. Take care! It may be that she will
always remain what she is now,--a foundling; and you are too great a
nobleman to marry her, and too true a gentleman to lead her astray."

"But, nurse, when I am going away, to leave you, and to leave Diane--"
said Gabriel, thoughtfully.

"That is all right, then. Forgive your old Aloyse for her uneasy
foreboding; and if you choose, go and see that sweet and lovely child
whom you call your little wife. But don't forget that you are being
impatiently awaited here. You will soon be back, will you not, Monsieur
le Comte?"

"Very soon; and kiss me again, Aloyse. Call me your child always, and
accept my thanks a thousand times, dear old nurse."

"A thousand blessings on thee, my child and my lord!"

Master Martin-Guerre was waiting for Gabriel at the gate, and they both
mounted, and left the château.




CHAPTER II

A BRIDE WHO PLAYS WITH DOLLS


Gabriel took a by-path well-known to him, so as to go more quickly; and
yet he let his horse slacken his pace, so that it seemed almost as if he
were allowing the handsome beast to adapt his gait to his own train of
thought. Emotions of very different sorts succeeded one another in the
young man's mind, by turns passionate and gloomy, haughty and subdued.
When he remembered that he was the Comte de Montgommery, his eyes
sparkled, and he drove his spurs into his horse as if drunken with the
breeze which fanned his temples; and then he would say to himself, "My
father has been murdered, and his death is not avenged!" and his rein
would drop listlessly from his hand. But all at once he would reflect
that he was going into the world to fight, to make a name for himself,
formidable and dreaded, and to pay all his debts of honor and of blood;
and he would start off at a mad gallop as if he were really on his way
to fame at that moment, until the thought came to him that he would be
obliged to leave his little Diane, so blithe and pretty, when he would
relapse into gloom again, and would gradually slacken his pace to a
walk; as if he could thus delay the cruel moment of separation. "But,"
thought he, "I will come back again, after I have found my father's
enemies and Diane's relatives;" and Gabriel, spurring his steed on
fiercely once more, flew as swiftly as his own hopes. His destination
was at hand; and surely in that young heart thirsting for happiness, joy
had driven away gloom.

Looking over the hedge which enclosed old Enguerrand's orchard, Gabriel
spied Diane's white dress among the trees. To tie his horse to a
willow-tree and leap the hedge at a bound was the work of but a moment;
glowing with pride and triumph, he fell at the young girl's feet.

But Diane was weeping.

"What is it, my dear little wife," said Gabriel; "and whence this bitter
sorrow? Has Enguerrand been scolding us because of a torn dress, or
because we made a slip in saying our prayers; or has our pet bullfinch
flown away? Tell me, Diane dear. See, your faithful knight has come to
comfort you."

"Alas! Gabriel, you cannot be my knight any more," said Diane; "and that
is just why I am sad and am crying."

Gabriel supposed that Diane had learned from Enguerrand her
play-fellow's name, and that perhaps she wished to test him. He
replied,--

"What has happened, pray, Diane, lucky or unlucky, that can ever make me
give up the dear title which you have allowed me to assume, and which I
am so proud and happy to bear? See, here I am at your knees."

But Diane did not seem to understand; and she wept more bitterly than
before, as she hid her face on Gabriel's breast, and sobbed,--

"Oh, Gabriel, Gabriel! We must not see each other any more."

"And who is to prevent us?" he rejoined quickly.

She raised her lovely fair head and her eyes swimming with tears; then
with a little pout, altogether sober and solemn, she replied, sighing
profoundly,--

"Duty."

Her sweet face assumed an expression that was so despairing and so
comical at the same time that Gabriel, fascinated, and entering, as he
supposed, fully into her thoughts, could not forbear a laugh; and taking
the child's fair face in his hands, he kissed it over and over again;
but she nervously drew away from him.

"No, my friend," said she, "no more of these little chats of ours. _Mon
Dieu! mon Dieu_! they are forbidden us now."

"What stories has Enguerrand been telling her?" said Gabriel to himself,
persisting in his error; and he added aloud, "Don't you love me any
longer, then, dear Diane?"

"I! not love you any longer!" cried Diane. "How can you think and say
such things, Gabriel? Are you not the friend of my childhood, and my
brother for my whole life? Have you not always been as kind and loving
as a mother to me? When I laughed, and when I wept, whom was I sure to
find at my side, to share my joy or my sorrow? You, Gabriel! Who carried
me when I was tired? Who helped me to learn my lessons? Who took the
blame for my mistakes, and insisted on sharing my punishment when he
couldn't succeed in having it all himself? You again! Who invented a
thousand games for me? Who made sweet nosegays for me in the meadows?
Who hunted out goldfinches' nests for me in the woods? You, always you!
I have found you always, in every place and at all times, so kind and
generous and devoted to me, Gabriel. I shall never forget you, Gabriel;
and while my heart lives, you will live in my heart. I should have liked
to give you my life and my soul, and I have never dreamed of happiness
except when I have dreamed of you. But all this, alas! doesn't keep us
from being obliged to part, never to see each other again, no doubt."

"And why not? Is it to punish you for mischievously letting your dog
Phylax into the poultry-yard?" asked Gabriel.

"Ah, no, for something very different, believe me!"

"Well, what is it, then?"

She rose, and as she stood with her arms hanging by her side, and her
head cast down, she said,--

"Because I am somebody else's wife."

Gabriel did not joke any more, and a vague dread pierced his heart; he
replied with a trembling voice,--

"What do you mean by that, Diane?"

"I am no longer Diane," was the reply, "but Madame la Duchesse de
Castro, since my husband's name is Horace Farnèse, Duc de Castro."

And the child could not help smiling a little through her tears as she
said it. "My husband" indeed, and she a child of twelve! Oh, it was
magnificent: "Madame la Duchesse!" But she speedily became sad again
when she saw Gabriel's suffering.

The young man was standing before her, pale, and with a frightened look
in his eyes.

"Is this a joke? Is it a dream?" said he.

"No, my poor friend, it is a sad truth," replied Diane. "Didn't you
meet Enguerrand on the way? He started for Montgommery half an hour
since."

"I came by the short cut. But go on and finish your story."

"Why is it, Gabriel, that you have been four days without coming here?
Such a thing never happened before, and it made us unhappy, don't you
see? Night before last I had very hard work to go to sleep. I hadn't
seen you for two days, and was very uneasy, and I made Enguerrand
promise that if you didn't come the next day we should go to Montgommery
the day after that. And then, as if we had had a presentiment,
Enguerrand and I fell to talking of the future, and then of the past,
and of my relatives, who seemed, alas! to have forgotten me. It is a
wretched tale that I have to tell you, and I should have been happier
perhaps if they had really forgotten me. All this serious talk had
naturally made me a little sad, and had wearied me; and I was, as I
said, a long while going to sleep, and that is why I awoke rather later
than usual yesterday morning. I dressed myself in a great hurry, told my
beads, and was just ready to go downstairs when I heard a great
commotion under my window before the house door. There were magnificent
cavaliers there, Gabriel, attended by squires, pages, and varlets, and
behind the cavalcade was a gilded carriage, quite dazzling in its
splendor. As I was looking curiously at this retinue, and marvelling
that it should have stopped at our modest dwelling, Antoine came and
knocked at my door, and gave me a message from Enguerrand that I should
come down at once. I don't know why I was afraid to go, but I had to
obey, and I obeyed. When I went into the great hall, it was filled with
these superb seigneurs whom I had seen from my window. I then fell to
blushing and trembling, more alarmed than ever; you can understand that,
Gabriel, can't you?"

"Yes," said Gabriel, bitterly. "But go on, for the thing is becoming
decidedly interesting."

"As I entered," continued Diane, "one of the most elaborately dressed of
the gentlemen came to me, and offering me his gloved hand, led me up to
another gentleman no less richly adorned than he, to whom he said,
bowing low,--

"'Monseigneur le Duc de Castro, I have the honor to present to you your
wife. 'Madame,' he added, turning to me, 'Monsieur Horace Farnèse, Duc
de Castro, your husband.'

"The duke saluted me with a smile. But I, in my confusion and grief,
threw myself into Enguerrand's arms, as I spied him standing in a
corner.

"'Enguerrand! Enguerrand! this is not my husband, this prince; I have no
husband but Gabriel. Enguerrand, tell these gentlemen so, I beg you.'

"The one who had presented me to the duke knitted his brows.

"'What is all this fol-de-rol?' he said to Enguerrand sternly.

"'Nothing, Monseigneur; mere childishness,' said Enguerrand, pale as a
ghost. And he said to me in an undertone, 'Are you mad, Diane? What do
you mean by being so rebellious?--refusing thus to obey your relatives,
who have found you out, and come to claim you!'

"'Where are these relatives of mine?' said I, aloud. 'It is to them that
I must speak.'

"'We come in their name, Mademoiselle,' replied the frowning gentleman.
'I am their representative. If you don't believe what I say, here is the
order signed by Henri II., our Lord the King; read it.'

"He handed me a parchment sealed with a red seal, and I read at the top
of the page, 'We, Henri, by the grace of God;' and at the foot the royal
signature, 'Henri.' I was blinded and stunned and overwhelmed. I was
dizzy and delirious. All that crowd of people with their eyes on me! And
even Enguerrand abandoning me! The thought of my relatives! The name of
the king! All this was too much for my poor little head. And you were
not there, Gabriel!"

"But it seems as if my presence could have been of no use to you," was
Gabriel's reply.

"Oh, yes, Gabriel, if you had been there, I would have continued to
resist; while, as you were not there, when the gentleman who seemed to
be managing the whole thing said to me, 'Come, there has been delay
enough. Madame de Leviston, I leave Madame de Castro in your hands; we
shall expect you presently in the chapel,' his tone was so sharp and
imperious, and seemed to allow so little remonstrance, that I let myself
be led away. Gabriel, forgive me; I was worn out and bewildered, and I
hadn't an idea in my head."

"Go on! that is very easily understood," said Gabriel, with a bitter
smile.

"They took me to my chamber," Diane resumed. "There, this Madame de
Leviston, with the help of two or three women, took a fine dress of
white silk from a great chest. Then, in spite of my shrinking, they
undressed me and dressed me again. I scarcely dared to take a step in
such fine clothes. Then they put pearls in my ears, and a string of
pearls about my neck; my tears fell fast upon the pearls. But these
ladies no doubt only laughed at my embarrassment, and at my grief too,
perhaps. In half an hour I was ready, and they were so kind as to say
that I was charming thus arrayed. I think it was true, Gabriel; but I
cried away all the same. I at last convinced myself that I was going
through a dazzling but dreadful dream. I stepped without any exertion of
my own, and went back and forth like a machine. Meanwhile the horses
were stamping at the door, and squires, pages, and varlets were standing
in attendance. We descended the stairs. Again the gaze of the whole
assemblage seemed to go right through me. The gentleman with the harsh
voice offered me his hand again, and led me to a litter all of satin and
gold, where I was to take my seat on cushions almost as beautiful as my
dress. The Duc de Castro rode by the side of my litter, and so the
procession slowly ascended to the chapel of the Château de Vimoutiers.
The priest was already at the altar. I don't know what words were said
over me or to me; but I felt suddenly, in the midst of this strange
dream, that the duke placed a ring on my finger. Then, after twenty
minutes or twenty years, I didn't know which, a fresher air seemed to
be blowing on my face. We were leaving the chapel; they called me
'Madame la Duchesse.' I was married! Do you hear that, Gabriel? I was
married!"

Gabriel replied only with a wild burst of laughter.

"Just think, Gabriel," continued Diane, "I was so entirely beside myself
that it was not until just as I was going into the house again that it
occurred to me for the first time, having recovered myself a little, to
look at the husband whom all these strangers had come to force upon me.
Until then I had not looked at him, Gabriel, although I had seen him.
Oh, my poor dear Gabriel, he isn't half as handsome as you are! He is
only moderately tall, and for all his fine clothes he looked much less
distinguished than you in your plain brown doublet. And then he had an
expression as impertinent and overbearing as yours is sweet and refined.
Add to this hair and a long beard of a bright red. I have been
sacrificed, Gabriel. After he had talked a while with the man who had
passed himself off as the king's representative, the duke approached me
and took my hand.

"'Madame la Duchesse,' said he, with a very cunning smile, 'I beg you
will pardon the stern necessity which compels me to leave you so soon.
But you may or may not know that we are in the midst of a war with
Spain, and my men-at-arms demand my presence immediately. I hope to have
the pleasure of seeing you again soon at court, where you will go to
take up your abode near his Majesty the King, after this week. I trust
you will deign to accept some trifling presents which I will leave here
for you. _Au revoir_, Madame. Continue to be light-hearted and
fascinating, as befits your age, and amuse yourself, and play with all
your heart, while I am fighting.'

"With these words he kissed me familiarly on the forehead, and his long
beard pricked me: it is not soft like yours, Gabriel. And then all these
fine gentlemen and ladies saluted me, and away they went, Gabriel, one
by one, leaving me at last alone with my father Enguerrand. He didn't
understand this transaction much better than I. They had given him the
parchment to read, wherein the king commanded me, so far as he could
make it out, to marry the Duc de Castro. The gentleman who represented
his Majesty was the Comte d'Humières; Enguerrand recognized him from
having seen him formerly with Monsieur de Vimoutiers. All that
Enguerrand knew more than I, was the melancholy fact that this Madame de
Leviston, who had superintended my toilette, and who lives at Caen,
would come one of these days to take me to court with her, and that I
must be always ready. There is the whole of my strange and mournful
story, Gabriel. Ah, no, I forgot. When I went back into my chamber I
found a great box, and what do you suppose was in it? You could never
guess. A superb doll, with a complete outfit of linen and three
dresses,--white silk, red damask, and green brocade,--all for the use of
the doll. I was beside myself with rage, Gabriel, to think that these
were my husband's presents! The idea of treating me like a little girl!
The red dress is most becoming, to the doll, because her complexion is
painted so naturally. The little shoes are lovely, too; but the whole
affair is shameful, for it seems to me that I am no longer a child."

"Yes! you are a child, Diane," replied Gabriel, whose anger had
insensibly changed to sadness; "nothing but a child! I have no grudge
against you for being only twelve years old, for that would be unfair
and absurd. But I see that I have done wrong to allow myself to feel so
earnest and deep a sentiment for such a young and fickle creature; for
my grief has taught me how dearly I loved you, Diane. I repeat that I
wish you no ill, but if you had been stronger, and had mustered up
sufficient force to resist such an unjust command, if you had only known
how to obtain a little delay, Diane, we might have been very happy
together, since you have found your relatives, and they seem to be of
noble birth. I, too, Diane, have come to tell you a great secret which
was not revealed to me till this very day. But what's the use now? It is
too late. Your weakness has broken the thread of my destiny, which I
thought I held in my hand at last. Can I ever fasten the ends together
again? I foresee that my whole life will be filled with thoughts of you,
Diane, and that my youthful love will always hold the first place in my
heart. But you, Diane, in the lustre of the court, and in the continual
whirl and excitement of parties and festival-making, will soon lose
sight of him who has loved you so dearly in the time of your obscurity."

"Never!" cried Diane. "And see, Gabriel, now that you are on the spot,
and can encourage and help me, do you want me to refuse to go when they
come after me, and to say no to all their prayers and entreaties and
commands, so that I may always stay with you?"

"Thank you, dear Diane, but don't you see that henceforth, in the sight
of God and man, you belong to another? We must do our duty and abide our
fate. We must, as the Duc de Castro said, go each to his place,--you to
the dissipations of the court, and I to the battlefield. I only pray God
that I may see you again some day!"

"Yes, Gabriel, I shall see you again, and I shall always love you!"
cried poor Diane, throwing herself, sobbing, into her friend's arms.

But just at this moment Enguerrand appeared in a path close by, with
Madame de Leviston at his heels.

"Here she is, Madame," said he, pointing to Diane. "Ah! is that you,
Gabriel?" said he, as he saw the young count. "I was just on my way to
Montgommery to see you when I met Madame de Leviston's carriage, and had
to retrace my steps."

"Yes, Madame," said Madame de Leviston, addressing Diane, "the king has
written to my husband that he is in haste to see you, and so I have
anticipated the date of our departure. If you please, we will set out in
an hour. Your preparations will not require much time, I fancy, will
they?"

Diane looked at Gabriel.

"Courage!" said he, gravely.

"I am very happy to say," resumed Madame de Leviston, "that your good
foster-father can and will go to Paris with us, and will overtake us
to-morrow at Alençon, if agreeable to you."

"If it is agreeable to me!" cried Diane. "No one has yet named my
relatives to me, but I shall always call Enguerrand Father."

And she held out her hand to Enguerrand, who covered it with kisses, so
that she might have an opportunity to steal another glance undercover of
her tears at Gabriel, who stood there thoughtful and sad, but none the
less resigned and determined.

"Come, Madame," said Madame de Leviston, who was vexed a little perhaps
by these leave-takings and delays, "remember that you must be at Caen
before night."

Diane, almost suffocated with her sobs, rushed off without more ado to
her chamber after signing to Gabriel to wait for her. Enguerrand and
Madame de Leviston followed her, and Gabriel waited.

After an hour or so, during which the luggage that Diane was to carry
with her was stowed away in the carriage, Diane appeared, all ready for
the journey. She asked Madame de Leviston, who followed her about like a
shadow, to allow her to take one last turn around the garden, where she
had spent twelve years in careless, happy play. Gabriel and Enguerrand
walked behind her while she made this visit to her old haunts. Diane
stopped before a bush of white roses which Gabriel and she had planted
the year before. She picked two roses, one of which she fastened in her
dress, while she breathed a kiss upon the other and gave it to Gabriel.
The young man felt that she slipped a paper in his hand at the same
time, and he put it hastily into his doublet.

When Diane had said adieu to all the paths and all the groves and all
the flowers, she had to make up her mind to take her departure. When she
reached the carriage which was to take her away, she shook hands with
each of the servants, and with the good folks from the village, who knew
and loved her every one. She had not strength to say a word, poor child;
she only gave each of them a kind nod of the head. Then she embraced
Enguerrand, and Gabriel last of all, with no signs of being embarrassed
by Madame de Leviston's presence. In her friend's embrace she found her
voice a moment, and when he said, "Adieu! adieu!" she replied, "No, _au
revoir_!"

Then she entered the carriage that was waiting, and childhood, after
all, seemed not quite to have lost its hold on her, for Gabriel heard
her ask Madame de Leviston, with the little pout which became her so
well,--

"Have they put my big doll up there somewhere?"

Away went the carriage at a gallop.

Gabriel opened the paper Diane had handed him; in it he found a lock of
the fair yellow hair that he used to like so to kiss.

A month later, Gabriel, having arrived in Paris, presented himself to
Duc François de Guise, at the Hôtel de Guise, under the name of
Vicomte d'Exmès.




CHAPTER III

IN CAMP


"Yes, gentlemen," said the Duc de Guise, as he entered his tent, to the
noblemen who were in attendance upon him; "yes, to-day, this 24th of
April, 1557, in the evening, after having entered Neapolitan territory
on the 15th, and taken Campli in four days, we are laying siege to
Civitella. On the 1st of May, having made ourselves masters of
Civitella, we will sit down before Aquila. On the 10th of May we shall
be at Arpino, and on the 20th at Capua, where we will not be caught
napping, as Hannibal was. On the 1st of June, gentlemen, I hope to show
you Naples, please God."

"And how about the Pope, my dear brother?" said the Duc d'Aumale. "His
Holiness, who was so very free with his promises of assisting us with
the papal troops, has abandoned us so far to our own resources, so it
seems to me; and our army is hardly strong enough to take such risks in
a hostile country."

"Paul IV.," said François, "is too deeply interested in the success of
our forces to leave us without assistance. What a beautifully clear,
bright night it is, gentlemen! Biron, do you know whether the partisans,
of whose expected rising in the Abruzzi the Caraffas told us, have begun
to make any stir yet?"

"They don't budge, Monseigneur; I have late news that can be depended
on."

"Well, our musketry will wake them up," said the Duc de Guise. "Monsieur
le Marquis d'Elbœuf," he resumed, "have you heard aught from the
convoys of provisions and ammunition which we should have met at Ascoli,
and which surely ought to come up to us here, I should say?"

"Yes, I have heard from them, Monseigneur, but at Rome; and since then,
alas--"

"Merely a little delay," the Duc de Guise broke in,--"surely it is
nothing but a little delay; and after all, we are not altogether
unprovided. The taking of Campli helped out our commissariat somewhat;
and if I should enter the tent of any one of you gentlemen an hour from
now, I'll warrant I should find a first-rate supper on the board, and
seated at table with you some disconsolate widow or pretty orphan from
Campli, whom you make it your duty to console. Nothing could be better,
gentlemen. Besides, it is the bounden duty of the conqueror, and is what
makes victory so sweet, is it not? Well, I will keep you no longer now
from your pleasures. To-morrow, at daybreak, I will send for you to
concert the means of cutting into this sugar-loaf of Civitella; till
then, gentlemen, a good appetite, and good-night."

The duke smilingly escorted his generals to the door of his tent; but
when the curtain which formed the door had fallen behind the last of
them, and François de Guise was left alone, his manly features at once
assumed a careworn expression, and seating himself at a table and
leaning his head on his hands, he said beneath his breath with much
anxiety,--

"Can it be that I should have done better to renounce all personal
ambition, to content myself with being simply Henri II.'s general, and
to limit my achievements to the recovery of Milan and the liberation of
Sienna? Here am I in this kingdom of Naples of which in my dreams I have
heard myself called the king; but I am without allies, and shall soon be
without provisions; and all my officers, with my brother at their head,
with not an energetic, capable mind among them, are already beginning to
be disheartened, and to lose their courage, I can see plainly."

At this moment the duke heard a step behind him. He turned quickly, with
an angry greeting on his lips for the bold intruder; but when he saw who
it was, instead of reproving him, he held out his hand to him.

"You are not the man, Vicomte d'Exmès, are you," said he, "you are not
the man, my dear Gabriel, ever to think twice about going on with an
undertaking, because bread is scarce and the enemy plenty?--you, who
were the last to go out of Metz, and the first to enter Valenza and
Campli. But have you come to tell me anything new, my friend?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, a courier has arrived from France," Gabriel replied.
"He is, I think, the bearer of letters from your illustrious brother,
Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine. Shall I have him brought before
you?"

"No, but let him hand you the despatches that he has, Viscount, and do
you bring them to me yourself, please."

Gabriel bowed, left the tent, and came back almost immediately, bringing
a letter sealed with the arms of the house of Lorraine.

The six years that had passed since our story opened had scarcely
changed our old friend Gabriel, except that his features had taken on a
more manly and determined expression. He would at once have been picked
out as a man who had put his own worth to the proof and knew it well.
But he had always the same calm and serious brow, the same true and open
look, and, let us say at once, the same heart full of the hopes and
illusions of youth; and well it might be so, for he was only twenty-four
even now.

The Duc de Guise was thirty-seven; and although his was a noble and
generous nature, his mind had already returned from many places where
Gabriel's had never yet been; and more than one disappointed ambition,
more than one burnt-out passion, more than one fruitless contest, had
sunk his eye deep in his head, and worn the hair from his temples. Yet
he none the less understood and loved the chivalrous and devoted
character of Gabriel; and an irresistible attraction drew the man of
years and experience toward the trustful youth.

He took his brother's letter from Gabriel's hands, and said to him
before opening it,--

"Listen, Vicomte d'Exmès: my secretary, Hervé de Thelen, whom you
knew, died under the walls of Valenza; my brother D'Aumale is only a
soldier, gallant but without ability; I need a right arm, Gabriel, a
confidential friend and assistant. Now, since you came to me at my hotel
at Paris, some five or six years since, I should say, I have become
convinced that you have a mind above the ordinary, and better still, a
faithful heart. I know nothing of you but your name,--and there never
lived a Montgommery who wasn't brave; but you came to me without a word
of recommendation from any one, and notwithstanding, I was attracted by
you at once! I took you with me to the defence of Metz; and if that
defence is to furnish one of the fairest pages of my life's story, if
after sixty-five days of assault we succeeded in driving from before the
walls of Metz an army of a hundred thousand men and a general who was
called Charles V., I must remember that your gallantry, conspicuous at
every turn, and your keen mind, always on the watch, had no
inconsiderable share in that glorious result. The following year you
were still with me when I won the battle of Renty; and if that ass
Montmorency, well christened the--but I must not insult my foe, I must
rather praise my friend and my brave companion,--Gabriel, Vicomte
d'Exmès, the worthy relative of the worthy Montgommerys. I must say to
you, Gabriel, that on every occasion, and more than ever since we came
into Italy, I have found your assistance, your advice, and your
affection of advantage to me, and have absolutely only one fault to find
with you, and that is being too reserved and discreet with your general.
Yes, I am sure that there is, somewhere or other in your life, a
sentiment or a thought that you are hiding from me, Gabriel. But what of
that? Some day you will confide it to me, and the important thing is to
know that there is something for you to do. _Pardieu_! I also have
something to do,--I, Gabriel; and if you say the word, we will join our
fortunes, and you will help me, and I you. When I have an important and
difficult undertaking to intrust to another, I will call upon you. When
a powerful patron becomes essential to the furtherance of your plans, I
will be on hand. Is it a bargain?"

"Oh, Monseigneur," Gabriel replied, "I am yours, body and soul! What I
desired, first of all, was to be able to trust in myself and induce
others to trust in me. Now I have succeeded in acquiring a little
self-confidence, and you condescend to have some regard for me; so I
have succeeded in my ambition up to the present time. But that a
different ambition may hereafter summon me to fresh exertions, I do not
deny; and when that time comes, Monseigneur,--since you have been kind
enough to allow me to take such a step,--I will surely have recourse to
you, just as you may count upon me in life or in death."

"Well said, _per Bacco_! as these drunken dogs of cardinals say. And do
you be quite easy in your mind, Gabriel, for François de Lorraine, Duc
de Guise, will spare no warmth to serve you in love or in hatred; for
one or the other of these passions is at work in us, is it not, my
master?"

"Both, perhaps, Monseigneur."

"Ah! so? And when your heart is so full, how can you resist letting it
overflow into the heart of a friend?"

"Alas, Monseigneur, because I scarcely know whom I love, and have no
idea at all whom I hate!"

"Indeed! Just suppose, then, Gabriel, since your enemies are to be mine
henceforth,--just suppose that old rake Montmorency should happen
to be among them!"

"It may very well be so, Monseigneur; and if my suspicions have any
foundation--But we must not bother about my affairs at this crisis; it
is with you and your far-reaching plans that we have to do. How can I be
of service to you, Monseigneur?"

"In the first place, read me this letter from my brother, the Cardinal
de Lorraine, Gabriel."

Gabriel broke the seal and unfolded the letter, and after having cast a
glance at it, handed it back to the duke, saying, as he did so,--

"Pardon, Monseigneur, but this letter is written in peculiar characters,
and I cannot read it."

"Ah!" said the duke, "was it Jean Panquet's courier who brought it,
then? It must be a confidential communication, I see,--a grated letter,
so to speak. Wait a moment, Gabriel!"

He opened a casket of chased iron and took from it a paper with pieces
cut out at regular intervals, which he laid carefully upon the
cardinal's letter. "There," said he, handing it to Gabriel, "read it
now!"

Gabriel seemed to have some hesitation about doing as he was bid; but
François took his hand and pressed it, and said again, with a look of
perfect confidence and good faith, "Come, read it; there's a good
fellow!"

So the Vicomte d'Exmès read as follows:--


"Monsieur, my most honored and illustrious brother (ah, when shall I be
able to call you by that one little word of four letters,--_Sire_!)--"


Gabriel stopped again; and the duke said, smiling,--

"You are astonished, Gabriel, and no wonder; but I trust that you have
no suspicions of me. The Duc de Guise is not another Constable de
Bourbon, my friend; and may God keep Henri's crown on his head, and
grant him long life! But is there no other throne in the world save the
throne of France? Since chance has placed me on an absolutely
confidential footing with you, Gabriel, I do not wish to hide anything
from you; but I am anxious to make known to you all my plans, and all my
dreams, which are not, I think, such as could spring from a commonplace
soul."

The duke rose and strode up and down the tent.

"Our family, which is allied to so many royal houses, may well, in my
mind, Gabriel, aspire to any height of greatness. But the mere
aspiration is nothing; attainment is my ambition. Our sister is Queen of
Scotland; our niece, Mary Stuart, is betrothed to the Dauphin François;
our grand-nephew, the Duc de Lorraine, is the chosen son-in-law of the
king. And that is not all: in addition, we claim to represent the second
house of Anjou, from which we are descended in the female line. Thence
we derive our claims or rights--it's all the same thing--to Provence and
Naples. Let us be content with Naples for the moment. Would not that
crown look better on a Frenchman's head than on a Spaniard's? Now, what
was my purpose in coming to Italy? To seize that crown. We are in
alliance with the Duc de Ferrara, and closely bound to the Pope's
nephews, the Caraffas. Paul IV. is an old man, and my brother, the
Cardinal de Lorraine, will succeed him. The throne of Naples is
tottering, and I will mount it; and that is why, _mon Dieu_! I left
Sienna and the Milanais behind me to pounce upon the Abruzzi. It was a
glorious dream; but I fear greatly that it will never be more than a
dream. For just consider, Gabriel, that I had less than twelve thousand
men when I crossed the Alps! The Duc de Ferrara had promised me seven
thousand; but he kept them on his own territory. Paul and the Caraffas
had boasted how they would stir up a powerful faction in my interest in
the kingdom of Naples, and agreed to furnish me with troops and money
and supplies; but they have not sent me a man or a wagon or a sou. My
officers are beginning to draw back, and my troops are murmuring. But it
makes no difference; I will go on to the bitter end. I will not leave
this promised land which my foot is now upon except at the last gasp;
and if I do leave it, I will return! I will return!"

The duke stamped on the ground as if to take possession of it; his eyes
shone; and he was noble and beautiful to look upon.

"Monseigneur," cried Gabriel, "how proud am I that I may be allowed to
be your companion, to have such a trifling part as I may in such a
glorious ambition!"

"And now," the duke said, smiling, "that I have given you the key to my
brother's letter twice over, I fancy that you will be able to read and
understand it So go on with it, while I listen."

"'Sire!' That is where I left off," said Gabriel.


"I have to inform you of two items of bad tidings and one of good. The
good news is that the nuptials of our niece, Mary Stuart, are finally
fixed for the 20th of next month, and are to be celebrated in due form
at Paris on that day. One of the other pieces of news, of an evil tenor,
comes from England. Philip II. of Spain has landed there, and is urging
every day upon Queen Mary Tudor, his wife, who is passionately devoted
to him, a declaration of war against France. No one has any doubt that
he will succeed, although his wishes are directly opposed to the
interest and the desire of the English people. There is talk already of
an army to be assembled on the frontiers of the Low Countries, under the
command of Philibert Emmanuel of Savoy. In that event, my dearest
brother, we are suffering so from scarcity of troops here at home that
Henri will be forced to recall you from Italy, so that our plans in that
direction will at least have to be postponed. And consider, François,
how much better it would be to delay their execution for a while than to
compromise them; let there be no headstrong recklessness. It will be in
vain for our sister, the Queen Regent of Scotland, to threaten to break
with England, for you may believe that Mary of England, altogether
infatuated with her young husband, will pay no attention to it; so take
your measures accordingly."


"By Heaven!" broke in the Duc de Guise, bringing his fist down violently
on the table, "you say only too well, my brother; and it takes a sly fox
to smell the hounds. Yes, Mary the prude will surely allow herself to be
led astray by her lawful husband; and no, of course I cannot openly
disobey the king when he calls upon me to send his soldiers to him at so
serious a crisis; and I would rather hold my hand from all the kingdoms
on earth. Well, then, one obstacle the more in the way of this accursed
expedition; for I leave it to you to say if it is not accursed, Gabriel,
in spite of the Holy Father's blessing! Come, Gabriel, tell me frankly,
for my ear alone, you do look upon it as hopeless, don't you?"

"I should not like, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "to have you class me
with those who easily lose their courage; and yet, since you ask my
opinion in all sincerity--"

"Enough, Gabriel! I understand you and agree with you. I foresee that it
is not at this time that we are fated to accomplish together the great
things that we were planning just now; but I swear to you that this is
only a postponement, and to strike a blow at Philip II. in any part of
his dominions will always be equivalent to attacking him here at Naples.
But go on, Gabriel, for if I remember aright we have other evil tidings
still to hear."

Gabriel resumed his reading.


"The other troublesome affair that I have to tell you of will be of no
less serious moment, because it concerns our family's private matters;
but there is no doubt still time to avert it, and so I make haste to
give you notice of it. It is necessary that you should know that since
your departure Monsieur le Connétable de Montmorency has shown, and
quite naturally, the same ugly and bitter spirit toward us, and has
never ceased to be envious of us, and to fume and swear, as has always
been his custom whenever the king showed any favor to our family. The
approaching celebration of our dear niece Mary's nuptials with the
dauphin is not calculated to put him in a good humor. The balance which
it is to the king's interest to preserve between the two houses of Guise
and Montmorency is depressed considerably in our favor by this event;
and the old constable is making a terrible clamor and outcry for
something to counterbalance it. He has found this counterpoise, my dear
brother, in a match between his son François, the prisoner of
Thérouanne, and--"


The young count did not finish the sentence. His voice faltered, and
every drop of blood left his face.

"Well, what's the matter, Gabriel?" asked the duke. "How pale you are
and how discomposed! Did you have a sudden attack of pain?"

"Nothing, Monseigneur, absolutely nothing, except possibly a little
over-fatigue and a slight dizziness; but I am all right again now, and
will go on if you please. Let me see, where was I? The cardinal was
saying, I think, that there was a remedy. Oh, no, farther along. Here's
the place:--"


"In a match between his son François and Madame Diane de Castro, the
legitimatized daughter of the king and Madame Diane de Poitiers. You will
remember, brother, that Madame de Castro, who was left a widow at the
age of thirteen, her husband, Horace Farnèse, having been killed at the
siege of Hesdin six months after the wedding, remained for five years at
the convent of the Filles-Dieu at Paris. The king, at the constable's
solicitation, sent for her to return to court. She is a perfect pearl of
beauty, my brother, and you know that I am a competent judge. Her charms
made a conquest of all hearts at first sight, and of the father's heart
more than all the rest. The king, who had already endowed her with the
duchy of Chatellerault, has added the duchy of Angoulême to her
possessions. She has been here only two weeks, and yet her supreme
influence over the king is already an admitted fact. Her fascination and
her sweet disposition are, no doubt, the moving causes of his very great
fondness for her. At last things have got to such a point that Madame de
Valentinois, who for some unknown reason has thought fit to invent
another mother for Madame de Castro, seems to me just at present to be
very jealous of this newly risen power. So it will be a very good thing
for the constable if he succeeds in getting such a potent ally into his
household. Between ourselves, you know that Diane de Poitiers never can
refuse much of anything to the old villain; and although our brother
D'Aumale is her son-in-law, Anne de Montmorency is still more closely
connected with her. The king, moreover, is inclined to make some amends
for the preponderating force which he sees that we are beginning to
wield in his council and his armies. And this infernal marriage is very
likely to be brought about."


"Again your voice falters, Gabriel," the duke interposed; "rest a bit,
my boy, and let me finish the letter myself, for it interests me
exceedingly. For, to tell the truth, that will give the constable a
dangerous advantage over us. But I thought that great gaby of a
François was already married to a De Fiennes. Come, give me the letter,
Gabriel."

"But I am all right, upon my word, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, who had
been reading a few lines ahead, "and I am perfectly well able to read
the few lines that remain."


"This infernal marriage is very likely to be brought about. There is
only one thing in our favor. François de Montmorency is bound by a
secret marriage to Mademoiselle de Fiennes; and so a divorce is a
necessary preliminary. But for that, the Pope's assent must be obtained;
and François is just setting out for Rome to obtain it. So make it your
business, my dear brother, to anticipate him with his Holiness, and
through our friends the Caraffas and your own influence to induce him to
reject the petition for a divorce, which will be supported, let me warn
you, by a letter from the king. But the threatened position is of
sufficient importance to call forth your best energies to defend it, as
you defended St. Dizier and Metz. I will act with you to the best of my
ability, for it will need all we both can do. And with this, my dear
brother, I pray God to grant you a long and happy life."


"Well, nothing is lost yet," said the Duc de Guise, when Gabriel had
finished reading the cardinal's letter; "and the Pope, who refuses to
supply me with soldiers, might at least be willing to make me a present
of a bull."

"So, then," said Gabriel, trembling with emotion, "you have some hope
that his Holiness will refuse to ratify this divorce from Jeanne de
Fiennes, and will be opposed to this marriage of François de
Montmorency?"

"Yes, yes! indeed, I have hopes of it. But how deeply moved you are, my
friend! Dear Gabriel! he does enter passionately into our interests! I
am quite as heartily at your service, Gabriel, be sure of that. And come
now, let us talk about your affairs a little; and since, in this
undertaking, of which I can foresee the issue only too plainly, you will
scarcely have an opportunity, I imagine, to swell the list of noteworthy
services for which I am in your debt, by any fresh exploits, suppose I
make a beginning of paying my debt to you? I don't choose to be too
heavily in arrear, my good fellow. Can I be of help or assistance to you
in any way whatever? Tell me now; come, tell me frankly."

"Oh, Monseigneur is too kind," replied Gabriel; "and I do not see--"

"For these last five years, when you have been continually fighting
under me," said the duke, "you have never accepted a sou from me. You
must be in need of money; why, God bless me, everybody needs money. It
is not a gift or a loan that I offer you, but payment of a debt. So
let's have no empty scruples; and although we are, as you know, rather
pressed for money, still--"

"Yes, I do know very well, Monseigneur, that the want of a little means
sometimes causes your grandest schemes to fall through; and I am so far
from being in need myself that I was going to offer you some thousands
of crowns, which would come in very handily for the army, and are quite
useless to me, really."

"And which I will gladly accept, for they come at a very good time, I
confess; and so one can do absolutely nothing for you, O young man
without a wish! But stay," he added in a lower tone, "that rascal
Thibault, my body-servant, you know, at the sack of Campli, day before
yesterday, put aside for me the young wife of the _procureur_ of the
town, the beauty of the neighborhood, judging from what I hear, always
excepting the governor's wife, on whom no one can lay his hand. But as
for me, upon my word, I have too many other cares in my head, and my
hair is getting grizzly. Come, Gabriel, what would you say to my prize?
_Sang-Dieu_! but you are built just right to make amends for the loss of
a _procureur_! What do you say to it?"

"I say, Monseigneur, with regard to the governor's wife, of whom you
speak, and upon whom no hand has been laid, that it was I who fell in
with her in the confusion, and carried her away, not to abuse my rights,
as you might think. On the contrary, my object was to shield a noble and
beautiful woman from the violence of a licentious soldiery. But I have
since discovered that the fair creature would have no objection to
adopting the cause of the victors, and would be very glad to shout, like
the soldier of Gaul: 'Væ victis!' But since I am now, alas! less
inclined than ever to echo her sentiments, I can, if you desire,
Monseigneur, have her brought here to one who can appreciate better than
I, and more worthily, her charms and her rank."

"Oh, oh!" cried the duke, laughing heartily. "Such extraordinary
morality almost savors of the Huguenot, Gabriel. Can it be that you have
a secret leaning toward those of the religion? Ah, take heed, my friend!
I am by conviction, and by policy, which is worse, an ardent Catholic,
and I will have you burned without pity. But come, joking apart, why the
deuce are you so strait-laced?"

"Because I am in love, perhaps," said Gabriel.

"Oh, yes, I remember, a hate and a love. Well, then, can't I show my
good-will to you by putting you in a way to meet your foes or your love?
Are you in want of a title, for example?"

"Thanks, Monseigneur; I am no longer in need of that, and as I said to
you in the first place, my ambition is not for vague and empty honors,
but for a little personal renown. Therefore, since you conclude that
there is nothing more of importance to be done here, and I am not likely
to be of much use to you, it would be a very great gratification to me
to be commissioned by you to carry to Paris, for the marriage of your
royal niece, for instance, the flags you have won in Lombardy and in the
Abruzzi. My happiness would leave nothing to be desired if you would
deign to give me a letter to his Majesty, which should bear witness to
him and to the whole court that some of these flags have been taken by
my own hand, not altogether without danger to myself."

"Indeed, I will! That is very easily done; and more than that, it is
quite right too," said the Duc de Guise. "I shall be very sorry to part
with you; but in all probability it will only be for a short time, if
war breaks out on the Flemish frontier, as everything seems to indicate,
and we will meet again there, will we not, Gabriel? Your place is always
where there is fighting to be done; and that is why you are so anxious
to get away from here, where there is nothing to be had now but
weariness and ennui, by Heaven! But we will have better sport in the Low
Countries, Gabriel, and I trust that we shall enjoy it together there."

"I shall be only too glad to follow you, Monseigneur."

"Meanwhile, how soon would you like to be off, Gabriel, to carry to the
king this wedding gift, of which your brain conceived the idea?"

"The sooner the better, I should say, Monseigneur, if the marriage is to
take place on the 20th of May, as Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine
informs you."

"Very true. Well, then, you shall go to-morrow, Gabriel; and you will
have none too much time either. So go and get some rest, my friend,
while I write the letter which will commend you to the king's notice, as
well as the reply to my brother's, of which you will kindly take charge;
and say to him besides, that I hope for a favorable result to the matter
in which the Pope is concerned."

"And perhaps, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "my presence at Paris may help
along the result you desire to that matter, and so my absence may be of
some service to you."

"Always mysterious, Vicomte d'Exmès! but I am used to it from you.
Adieu, then; and may the last night that you pass near me be a pleasant
one!"

"I will return in the morning to get my letters and your blessing,
Monseigneur. Ah! I leave with you my retainers, who have followed me in
all my campaigns. I ask your permission to take with me only two of them
and my squire, Martin-Guerre; he will answer all my needs; he is devoted
to me, and is afraid of only two things in the whole world,—his wife
and his shadow."

"How is that?" said the duke, laughing.

"Monseigneur, Martin-Guerre fled from his native place, Artigues, near
Rieux, to get away from his wife Bertrande, whom he adored, but who used
to beat him. He entered my service after Metz; but either the Devil or
his wife, to torment him or punish him for his sins, kept appearing to
him from time to time in his own image. Yes, all of a sudden, he would
see by his side another Martin-Guerre, a striking likeness of himself,
as like as if it were his reflection in a mirror; and by our Lady! that
frightened him. But for all that he has an utter contempt for bullets,
and would carry a redoubt single-handed. At Renty and at Valenza he
twice saved my life."

"Take this valiant coward with you by all means, Gabriel. Give me your
hand again, my dear friend, and be ready in the morning. My letters will
be waiting for you."

Gabriel was ready to start bright and early the next day; he passed the
night dreaming without closing his eyes. He waited on the Duc de Guise
to receive his last instructions, and pay his parting respects, and on
the 26th of April, at six in the morning, he set out for Rome, and
thence for Paris, attended by Martin-Guerre and two of his followers.




CHAPTER IV

A KING'S MISTRESS


It is the 20th of May, and we ask our readers to go with us to the
Louvre at Paris, and to the apartments of the wife of the Great
Seneschal, Madame de Brézé, Duchesse de Valentinois, commonly called
Diane de Poitiers. Nine o'clock in the morning has just struck on the
great clock of the château. Madame Diane, all in white, in a decidedly
coquettish _negligé_, is leaning or half reclining on a bed covered
with black velvet. King Henri, already dressed in a magnificent costume,
is sitting on a chair at her side.

Let us glance a moment at the scene and the _dramatis personæ_.

The apartment of Diane de Poitiers was resplendent with all the
magnificence and taste which that fair dawning of art called the
Renaissance had had the skill to lavish upon a king's chamber. Paintings
signed "Le Primatice" represented various incidents of the hunting
field, wherein the Huntress Diane, goddess of woods and forests,
naturally figured as the principal heroine. The gilded and colored
medallions and panels repeated on all sides the intertwined armorial
bearings of François I. and Henri II. In like manner were memories of
father and son intertwined in the heart of the fair Diane. The emblems
were no less historical and full of meaning, and in twenty places was
to be seen the crescent of Phœbus-Diane, between the Salamander of the
conqueror of Marignan, and Bellerophon overthrowing the Chimæra, a
device adopted by Henri II. after the taking of Boulogne from the
English. This fickle crescent appeared in a thousand different forms and
combinations which did great credit to the decorators of the time: here
the royal crown was placed above it, and there four H's, four _fleurs de
lis_, and four crowns together made a superb setting for it; again it
was threefold, and then shaped like a star. The mottoes were no less
varied, and most of them were written in Latin. "Diana regum venatrix"
(Diana, huntress of kings),--was that a piece of impertinence or of
flattery? "Donec totum impleat orbem" can be translated in two
ways,--"The crescent is to become a full moon," or "The king's glory
will fill the whole world." "Cum plena est, fit æmula solis," can be
freely translated, "Beauty and royalty are sisters." And the lovely
arabesques which enclosed devices and mottoes, and the superb
furnishings on which they were reproduced,--all these, if we should
attempt to describe them, would not only put our magnificence of the
present day to the blush, but would lose too much in the description.

Now let us cast our eyes upon the king.

History tells us that he was tall, supple, and strong. He had to resort
to regular diet and daily exercise to combat a certain tendency to
stoutness; and yet in the chase he left the swiftest far behind, and
carried away the palm from the strongest at the jousts and tourneys. His
hair and beard were black, and his complexion very dark, which gave him
so much more animation, if we may believe contemporary memoirs. He wore,
at the time we make his acquaintance, as indeed he always did, the
colors of the Duchesse de Valentinois,--a coat of green satin slashed
with white, glistening with pearls and diamonds; a double chain of gold,
to which was suspended the medal of the order of Saint Michael; a sword
chased by Benvenuto; a collar of white point de Venise; a velvet cloak
dotted with golden lilies hung gracefully from his shoulders. It was a
costume of singular richness, and suitable to a cavalier of exquisite
elegance.

We have said in brief that Diane was clad in a simple white peignoir of
a singularly thin and transparent stuff. To paint her divine loveliness
would not be so easy a matter; and it would be hard to say whether the
black velvet cushion on which her head lay, or the dress, startling in
its purity, by which her form was enveloped, served best to set off the
snows and lilies of her complexion. And surely it was such a perfect
combination of delicate outlines as to drive Jean Goujon himself to
despair. There is no more perfect piece of antique statuary; and this
statue was alive, and very much alive too, if common report is to be
believed. As for the graceful motion with which these lovely limbs were
instinct, we must not attempt to describe it. It can no more be
reproduced than can a ray of sunlight. As for age, she had none. In this
point, as in so many others, she was like the immortals; but by her side
the youngest and most blooming seemed old and wrinkled. The Protestants
babbled about philters and potions, to which they said that she had
recourse to enable her to remain always sixteen. The Catholics replied
that all she did was to take a cold bath every day, and wash her face in
ice water even in winter. Her prescription has been preserved; but if it
be true that Jean Goujon's "Diane au Cerf" was carved from this royal
model, that prescription has no longer the same effect.


[Illustration: A King's Mistress.]


Thus was she a worthy object of the affection of the two kings whom one
after the other her beauty had dazzled. For if the story of the favor
obtained by Monsieur Saint-Vallier, thanks to his fine brown eyes, seems
apocryphal, it is almost conclusively proved that Diane was François's
mistress before she became Henri's.

"It is said," chronicles Le Laboureur, "that King François, who was the
first lover of Diane de Poitiers, having expressed to her one day, after
the death of François the dauphin, some dissatisfaction at the lack of
animation exhibited by Prince Henri, she told him that he needed to have
a love affair, and that she would make him fall in love with her."

What woman wills, God wills; and Diane was for twenty years the dearly
and only beloved of Henri.

But now that we have examined the king and the favorite, is it not time
to hear what they are saying?

Henri, holding a parchment in his hand, was reading aloud the following
verses, not without some interruptions and by-play which we cannot set
down here, because they were part of the setting of the piece.


  Douce et belle bouchelette,
  Plus fraîche, et plus vermeillette
  Que le bouton églantine,
       Au matin!
  Plus suave et mieux fleurante
  Que l'immortelle amarante,
  Et plus mignarde cent fois
  Que n'est la douce rosée
  Dont la terre est arrosée
  Goutte à goutte au plus doux mois!
  Baise-moi, ma douce amie,
  Baise-moi, chère vie,
  Baise-moi, mignonnement,
       Serrement,
  Jusques à tant que je die:
  Las! je n'en puis plus, ma mie;
  Las! mon Dieu, je n'en puis plus.
  Lors ta bouchette retire,
  Afin que mort, je soupire,
  Puis, me donne le surplus.
  Ainsi ma douce guerrière,
  Mon cœur, mon tout, ma lumière,
  Vivons ensemble, vivons,
       Et suivons
  Les doux soutiens de jeunesse,
  Aussi bien une vieillesse
  Nous menace sur le port,
  Qui, toute courbe et tremblante,
  Nous attraîne, chancelante,
  La maladie et la mort.[1]


"And what might be the name of this polite versifier who tells us so
well what we are doing?" asked Henri when he had finished his reading.

"He is called Remy Belleau, Sire, and promises to rival Ronsard, it
seems to me. Oh, well!" continued the duchess, "do you put the value of
this lover's poem at five hundred crowns, as I do?"

"He shall have them, this protégé of yours, my beautiful Diane."

"But we must not allow this to make us forget the earlier ones, Sire.
Have you signed the warrant for the pension that I promised in your name
to Ronsard, the prince of poets? You have, haven't you? Well, then, I
have only one favor more to ask at your hands, and that is the vacant
abbey of Recouls for your librarian, Mellin de Saint-Gelais, our French
Ovid."

"Ovid shall have his abbey, never fear, my fair Maecenas," said the
king.

"Ah, how fortunate are you, Sire, to have the power of disposing of so
many benefices and offices at your pleasure! If I could only have your
power just for one short hour!"

"Haven't you it always, ingrate?"

"Really, have I, my Lord? But you haven't given me a kiss for two whole
minutes! That's right, dear. So you say that your power is always at my
command? Don't tempt me, Sire! I warn you that I shall avail myself of
it to pay the enormous claim which Philibert Delorme has presented to
me, on the ground that my Château d'Anet is finished. It will be the
glory of your reign; but how dear it is! Just one kiss, my Henri!"

"And for this kiss, Diane, take for your Delorme the sum produced by the
sale of the governorship of Picardy."

"Sire, do you think that I sell my kisses? I give them to you, Henri.
This Picardy governorship is worth two hundred thousand livres, I should
think, is it not? And then I can take the pearl necklace which has been
offered me, and which I was very anxious to wear to-day at the wedding
of your dear son François. A hundred thousand livres to Philibert, and
a hundred thousand for the necklace; this Picardy matter will do very
well."

"Especially as you estimate it at quite double its real worth, Diane."

"What! is it worth only one hundred thousand livres? Well, then, it's a
very simple matter for me to let the necklace go."

"Nonsense!" said the king, laughing; "there are three or four vacant
companies somewhere which will pay for the necklace, Diane."

"Oh, Sire, you are the most generous of kings, as you are the best
beloved of lovers."

"Yes, you do really love me as I love you, do you not, Diane?"

"He really has the face to ask such a question!"

"But I, you see, dear, I adore you more and more every day, because you
are every day more beautiful. Ah, what a lovely smile you have,
sweetheart, and what a sweet expression! Let me kneel here at your feet.
Put your fair hands on my shoulders. Oh, Diane, how lovely you are, and
how dearly I love you! I could stay here and just gaze at you for hours,
nay, for years. I would forget France, I would forget the whole world."

"And even this formal celebration of Monseigneur the Dauphin's
marriage?" said Diane, smiling; "and yet it is to be solemnized this
very day and in two hours' time. And even if you are all ready in your
magnificence, Sire, I am not ready at all, you see. So go, my dear Lord,
for it is time for me to call my women. Ten o'clock will strike in a
moment."

"Ten o'clock," said Henri; "and upon my word, I have an appointment at
that hour."

"An appointment, Sire? With a lady, perhaps?"

"With a lady."

"Pretty, no doubt?"

"Yes, Diane, very pretty."

"Then it can't be the queen."

"Oh, you wretch! Catherine de Médicis has a certain sort of beauty of
her own, a stern and cold style of beauty, but undeniable. However, it
is not the queen whom I expect. Can you guess who it is?"

"No, I really cannot, Sire."

"It is another Diane, dear,--the living memento of our young affections,
our daughter, our darling daughter."

"You said that too loud and too often, Sire," said Diane, frowning, and
in a somewhat embarrassed tone. "It was agreed that Madame de Castro
should pass for the child of another than myself. I was born to have
legitimate children by you. I have been your mistress because I loved
you; but I will not put up with your openly declaring me your
concubine."

"That shall be as your pride dictates, Diane," was the king's reply;
"but you love our child dearly, do you not?"

"I like to have you love her."

"Oh, yes! I love her very much. She is so fascinating, so clever, so
sweet! And then, Diane, she reminds me so of my younger days and of the
time when I loved you--ah! no more passionately than to-day, God knows,
but when I loved you so that I was willing to commit a crime."

The king, who had suddenly fallen into gloomy reflection, raised his
head.

"This Montgommery! You didn't care for him, did you, Diane? You didn't
care for him?"

"What a foolish question!" said the favorite, with a disdainful smile.
"Still so jealous after twenty years!"

"Yes, I am jealous; I am, and shall always be jealous of you, Diane.
Surely you didn't love him; but he loved you, the villain,--he dared to
love you!"

"_Mon Dieu_! Sire, you have always lent too willing an ear to the
slanders with which these Protestants are always pursuing me. That is
not the part of a Catholic king. In any event, whether the man loved me
or not, what does it matter, if my heart never for an instant ceased to
be wholly yours, for the Comte de Montgommery has been dead many years?"

"Yes, dead!" said the king, in a hollow voice.

"Come, let us not grow mournful over these reminiscences on a day which
ought to be a day of rejoicing," said Diane. "Have you seen François
and Marie yet? Are they always so lovelorn, these children? Well their
terrible impatience will soon be at an end. Think, in two hours they
will be made one, and so glad and happy, but still not so delighted as
the Guises, whose wishes are fully satisfied by this marriage."

"Yes, but who is in a fury about it?" said the king. "My old
Montmorency; and the constable has so much the more reason to lose his
head, because I greatly fear that our Diane is not destined for his
son."

"But, Sire, didn't you promise him this marriage by way of amends?"

"Certainly I did; but it seems that Madame de Castro has objections--"

"A child of eighteen just out of a convent! What objections can she
possibly have?"

"It is to confide them to me that she is probably waiting in my
apartments at this very moment."

"Go to her, then, Sire, while I proceed to beautify myself to please
you."

"And after the ceremony I shall see you again at the tilting match. I am
going to break a lance in your honor once more to-day, and I propose to
make you queen of the lists."

"The queen? And who is the other?"

"There is only one, Diane, and you know it very well. _Au revoir_."

"_Au revoir_, Sire, and pray don't be rash and careless in this tilting;
you make me shudder sometimes."

"There is no danger there, I'm sorry to say; for I could wish that there
might be, so that I might seem a little more deserving in your eyes. But
time is passing, and my two Dianes are both impatient. Tell me just once
more that you love me."

"Sire, I love you as I always have loved you, and as I shall love you
forever."

The king, before letting the curtain fall behind him, threw her a last
kiss with his hand. "Adieu, my dearly loving and dearly loved Diane,"
said he. And he left her.

Then a panel hidden by hangings in the opposite wall opened.

"For the love of heaven, have you done enough chattering for to-day?"
said the Constable de Montmorency, roughly, as he came into the room.

"My friend," said Diane, rising, "you must have seen that even before
ten o'clock, which was the hour of my appointment with you, I did
everything I could to send him away. I was quite as uncomfortable as you
were, believe me."

"As uncomfortable as I! _Pasques-Dieu_! no, my dear; and if you flatter
yourself that your discourse was either instructive or entertaining--In
the first place, what is this new crotchet, of refusing your daughter
Diane's hand to my son François, after having solemnly promised it? By
the crown of thorns! would one not say that the bastard was conferring a
great honor on the Montmorency family by condescending to enter it? The
marriage must take place; do you understand, Diane? And you must take
measures to see that it does. It is the only means left of restoring the
balance between us and the Guises, whom the deuce take! So, Diane, in
spite of the king, in spite of the Pope, in spite of everything, I wish
that this should come to pass."

"But, my friend--"

"Ah!" cried the constable, "and when I tell you that I wish it so,
_Pater noster_!"

"It shall be as you say, my friend," Diane in her fear of him made haste
to say.


[Footnote 1: Sweet and lovely little mouth,
Fresher and ruddier than bud of eglantine
     At morn!
Sweeter and more fragrant than the immortal amaranth,
And a hundred times dearer
Than the gentle dew which waters the earth,
Drop by drop, in the sweetest month!
Kiss me, sweet friend; kiss me, dear life.
Kiss me lovingly, closely, until I say:
Alas, my love, I can bear no more!
Alas, my God, I can bear no more!
Then take away thy little mouth, till dead I sigh;
Then bestow on me the rest.
Thus, sweet warrior, my heart, my light, my all,
Let us live together; let us live
And follow the sweet delights of youth,
Since near the haven old age threatens us,
Which, bowed and trembling, tottering, brings us
     Sickness and death.]




CHAPTER V

IN THE APARTMENTS OF THE ROYAL CHILDREN


The king, on returning to his own apartments, did not find his daughter
there; but the usher who was in attendance told him that after waiting
for him a long while Madame Diane had gone to the rooms set apart for
the king's children, leaving word that she should be informed as soon as
his Majesty returned.

"Very well," said Henri, "I will join her there. Leave me, for I will go
alone."

He passed through a large hall, then a long corridor, at the end of
which he softly opened a door, and stood looking behind a long
half-drawn curtain. The children's cries and shouts of laughter had
drowned the noise of his steps; and he was able, himself unseen, to
watch a most delightful and graceful picture.

Standing at the window, Mary Stuart, the beautiful young bride, had
gathered around her Diane de Castro, and Elisabeth and Marguerite de
France, all three very assiduous to help her, and chattering away for
dear life, smoothing out a fold in her dress or fixing a lock of hair
that had escaped from its fastening,--in short, giving that finishing
touch to her lovely toilette which only women know how to give. At the
other end of the room, the brothers, Charles, Henri, and François, the
youngest of all, laughing and shouting at the top of their voices, were
pushing with all their strength against a door which François the
dauphin, the young bridegroom, was trying in vain to open, while the
little rogues were determined to prevent him from having a sight of his
wife till the last moment.

Jacques Amyot, the preceptor of the princes, was talking seriously in a
corner with Madame de Coni and Lady Lennox, the governesses of the
princesses.

There in one apartment, within a space that could be covered by one
glance, was assembled a large part of the history of the future, its
woes, its passions, and its glory. There were the dauphin, who became
François II.; Élisabeth, who married Philip II., and became Queen of
Spain; Charles, who was Charles IX.; Henri, who was Henri III.;
Marguerite de Valois, who married Henri IV., and was Queen of Navarre;
François, who was successively Duc d'Alençon, d'Anjou, and de Brabant;
and Mary Stuart, who was twice a queen, and a martyr too.

The illustrious translator of Plutarch watched with a gaze at once sad
and absorbed the sports of these children and the future destinies of
France.

"No, no, François, you shall not come in!" cried rather harshly the
brutal Charles Maximilien, who was in after years to give the word for
the fearful slaughter of Saint Bartholomew.

And with his brothers' help he succeeded in pushing the bolt, and thus
made an entrance out of the question for poor François, who was too
frail in any event to have made his way in, even against these children,
and who could only stamp in his vexation, and beg from the other side of
the door.

"Dear François, how they do torment him!" said Mary Stuart to his
sisters.

"Keep quiet, do, Madame la Dauphine, at least until I put in this pin,"
laughed little Marguerite. "What a fine invention these pins are, and
what a great man the one who thought of them last year ought to become!"
said she.

"And now that the pin is in place," said gentle Élisabeth, "I am going
to open the door for poor François, in spite of these young fiends; for
it makes me sad to see him so sad."

"Oh, yes, you know all about that, you do, Élisabeth," said Mary
Stuart, sighing; "and you are thinking of your courtly Spaniard, Don
Carlos, son of the King of Spain, who fêted us and amused us so at St.
Germain."

"See how Elisabeth is blushing," cried little Marguerite, clapping her
hands mischievously. "The fact is that he was very fine and gallant,
this Castilian of hers."

"Come, come," said Diane de Castro, the eldest of the sisters, in a
motherly sort of way, "it isn't right to jest so among sisters,
Marguerite."

Nothing could have been more fascinating than the sight of these four
lovely maidens, each so different from the others, and each so perfect
in herself. Beautiful flowers just opening their buds: Diane, all purity
and sweetness; Élisabeth, serious and affectionate; Mary Stuart, all
captivating languor; and Marguerite a sparkling madcap. Henri, moved and
fascinated, could not feast his eyes enough with the charming picture.

However, he had to make up his mind to go in. "The king!" they cried
with one breath; and all, boys and girls together, rushed to meet their
king and father. Only Mary Stuart held back a little, and went softly
and drew the bolt which was keeping François prisoner. The dauphin lost
no time in coming in, and the young family was complete.

"Good-morning, my dears," said the king. "I am very glad to find you all
so well and happy. Were they keeping you out, François, my poor boy?
But you are going to have time enough now to see your betrothed
sweetheart often and always. Are you very fond of one another, my
children?"

"Oh, yes, Sire, I do love Mary!" and the passionate boy pressed a
burning kiss on the hand of her who was to be his wife.

"Monseigneur," said Lady Lennox, sharply and rather sternly, "one does
not kiss a lady's hand in public in that way, especially in his
Majesty's presence. What will he think of Madame Mary and her
governess?"

"But isn't this hand mine?" said the dauphin.

"Not yet, Monseigneur," said the duenna; "and I propose to fulfil my
duty till the last minute."

"Don't be afraid," said Mary, in an undertone to her young husband, who
was beginning to sulk; "when she isn't looking, I will give it you
again."

The king laughed beneath his beard.

"You are very strict, my Lady; but then you are quite right," he added,
checking himself. "And you, Messire Amyot, you are not dissatisfied with
your pupils, I trust. Pay great regard to the words of your learned
preceptor, young gentlemen, for he is on intimate terms with the great
heroes of antiquity. Messire Amyot, is it long since you have heard from
Pierre Danot, who was our old master, and from Henri Étienne, our
fellow-pupil?"

"The old man and the young one are both well, Sire, and will be very
proud and happy to know that your Majesty has deigned to remember them."

"Well, children," said the king, "I wanted to see you before the
ceremony, and am very glad that I have seen you. Now, Diane, I am at
your service, my dear, so come with me."

Diane bowed low and followed the king from the room.




CHAPTER VI

DIANE DE CASTRO


Diane de Castro, whose acquaintance we made when she was yet a mere
child, was now almost eighteen years old. Her beauty had fulfilled all
its promise, and had developed in regularity and charm at the same time;
the predominant expression of her sweet and lovely face was one of
childlike openness and honesty. Diane de Castro in character and in mind
was still the child whom we first knew. She was not yet thirteen when
the Duc de Castro, whom she had never seen since the day she was married
to him, had been killed at the siege of Hesdin. The king had sent the
child-widow to pass her mourning period at the convent of the
Filles-Dieu at Paris; and Diane had found such warm affection and such
pleasant customs there that she had asked her father's permission to
remain with the kind sisters and her companions until he should be ready
to make some other disposition of her. One could but respect such a
devout request; and Henri had not taken Diane from the convent until
about a month before, when the Constable de Montmorency, jealous of the
preponderance acquired by the Guises in the government, had solicited
and obtained for his son the hand of the daughter of the king and his
favorite.

During the mouth she had passed at court, Diane had not failed at once
to attract universal respect and admiration. "For," says Brantôme, in
his work on famous women, "she was very kind, and did nothing to offend
anybody; and yet her spirit was very noble and high, and she was very
obliging and discreet, and most virtuous." But her virtue, which shone
forth so pure and lovely amid the general wickedness of the time, was
entirely free from any touch of austerity or harshness. One day some man
remarked in her hearing that a daughter of France ought to be valiant
and strong, and that her shyness smacked somewhat of the cloister,
whereupon she learned to ride in a very few days, and there was no
cavalier who was so fearless and dashing a rider as she. After that she
always went with the king to the chase; and Henri yielded more and more
to her charming way of seeking, without the least pretence for any
occasion, however trifling, of anticipating his wishes and making
herself agreeable to him. So Diane was granted the privilege of entering
her father's apartments whenever she chose, and she was always sure of a
welcome. Her touching grace, her modest ways, and the odor of sweet
maidenliness and innocence which one seemed to breathe when she was
near, even to her smile, which was the least bit sad, combined to make
her perhaps the most exquisite and ravishing figure of that whole court,
which could boast of so many dazzling beauties.

"Well, my darling," said Henri, "now I am ready to hear what you have to
tell me. There's eleven o'clock striking. The marriage ceremony at St.
Germain l'Auxerrois is not to be performed till noon, so that I have
half an hour to give you, and no more. These are the pleasant moments of
my life that I pass with you."

"Sire, what a kind and indulgent father you are!"

"Oh, no, but I love you dearly, my precious child; and I desire with all
my heart to do something that will gratify you, so long as I do not
thereby prove false to the grave interests of state which a king must
always consider before any natural ties. And now, Diane, to prove it to
you, I will first of all give you my answer to the two requests you made
of me. Good Sister Monique, who loved you and watched over you at your
convent of the Filles-Dieu, has been appointed at your recommendation
Lady Abbess of the convent of Origny at St. Quentin."

"Oh, how grateful I am, Sire!"

"As for brave Antoine, your favorite servant at Vimoutiers, he will draw
a handsome pension from our treasury for life. I am very sorry, Diane,
that Enguerrand is no longer alive. We should have liked to show our
gratitude in kingly style to the worthy squire who brought up our dear
daughter Diane so happily; but you lost him last year, I think, and he
has not even left an heir."

"Sire, you are too generous and kind really."

"And more than that, Diane, here are the letters-patent which make you
Duchesse d'Angoulême. And this is not a fourth part of what I should
like to do for you; for I see that you are sometimes thoughtful and sad,
and that is why I was in haste to talk with you, because I longed to
comfort you, or to cure your sorrow. What is it, my dear? Aren't you
happy?"

"Ah, Sire," replied Diane, "how can I help being happy, being thus
surrounded by your love and your continual kindness? I only long for one
thing, and that is that the present, so full of happiness, may continue.
The future, fine and glorious as it may be, will never equal it."

"Diane," said Henri, in a grave voice, "you know that I took you from
the convent to give your hand to François de Montmorency. It would be a
grand match, Diane; and yet this alliance, which, I don't conceal from
you, would have been of great advantage to the interests of my crown,
seems to be very distasteful to you. You owe me at least your reasons
for this refusal, which troubles me so, Diane."

"Surely I will not hide them from you, my Father. And in the first
place," said Diane, with some embarrassment, "I have been told that
François de Montmorency has already been secretly married to
Mademoiselle de Fiennes, one of the queen's ladies."

"It is true," replied the king; "but this marriage, contracted
clandestinely, without the constable's consent and mine, is rightfully
void; and if the Pope decrees a divorce, you certainly, Diane, will not
show yourself more exacting than his Holiness. So if this is your only
reason--"

"But there is another, dear Father."

"And what is it, pray? How can an alliance which would be esteemed an
honor by the highest-born and wealthiest heiresses in France work ill to
you?"

"Why, Father, because--because I love some one else," cried Diane,
throwing herself, confused and weeping, into her father's arms.

"You love some one, Diane?" repeated Henri, amazed; "and what might be
the name of this favored individual?"

"Gabriel, Sire."

"Gabriel what?" asked the king, smiling at her.

"I have no idea, Father."

"How can that be, Diane? In Heaven's name, explain yourself!"

"I will tell you everything, Sire. It is an attachment of my childhood's
days. I used to see Gabriel every day He was so courteous and obliging
and gallant and handsome and clever and affectionate! He used to call me
his little wife. Ah, Sire, do not laugh; it was a very serious and holy
sentiment, and the first that ever made its impression on my heart.
Other attachments may take their places beside it, but can never destroy
it. And yet I allowed myself to be married to the Duc Farnèse, Sire,
but it was because I knew not what I did; because I was forced into it,
and obeyed blindly like the little girl that I was. Since then I have
lived and learned, and have come to understand of what treachery I was
guilty to Gabriel. Poor Gabriel! when he left me he didn't shed a tear,
but what unutterable sadness there was in the look he gave me! All this
has come back to me with the happy memories of my childhood during the
lonely years that I passed at the convent. And thus I have lived each of
the years that I was with Gabriel twice over,--in fact and in fancy, in
reality and in my dreams. And since I have returned to court here, Sire,
I have seen among the accomplished gentlemen who surround you like
another crown not one who can compare with Gabriel; and François, the
obsequious son of the haughty constable, will never make me forget the
proud and gentle companion of my young days. And so, dear Father, now
that I realize what I did and its effect, I shall remain true to Gabriel
so long as you leave me free."

"Have you ever seen him since you left Vimoutiers, Diane?"

"Alas, no, Father!"

"But you must have heard from him at least?"

"Not a word. I simply know from Enguerrand that he left the province
after my departure; he told Aloyse, his nurse, that he would never come
back until he had made himself an honorable and dreaded name, and that
she need not be anxious about him. And with that he left her, Sire."

"And have his family never heard aught of him?" asked the king.

"His family?" repeated Diane. "I never knew of his having any other
family than Aloyse, Father; and I never saw any relatives of his when I
went with Enguerrand to pay a visit at Montgommery."

"At Montgommery!" cried Henri, while the color fled from his face.
"Diane, Diane, I trust he is not a Montgommery! Tell me, for Heaven's
sake, that he is not a Montgommery!"

"Oh, no, indeed, Sire for if he had been, he surely would have lived at
the château, whereas he lived with Aloyse, his nurse, in her modest
dwelling. But what have the counts of Montgommery ever done to you,
Sire, to move you to such an extent? Are they enemies of yours? In their
province they are mentioned only with the deepest respect."

"Of course, that is true!" said the king, with a nervous, disdainful
laugh; "and they have done nothing to me, nothing at all, Diane! What
could a Montgommery do to a Valois, pray? But to return to this Gabriel
of yours. Was it not Gabriel that you called him?"

"Yes."

"And he had no other name?"

"No other that I know of, Sire; he was an orphan like me, and no one
ever mentioned his father in my presence."

"And you have no other objection to make, Diane, to this projected
alliance with Montmorency, except your former affection for this young
man? No other at all, have you?"

"That one is enough; so my heart tells me, Sire."

"Very true, Diane; and perhaps I should not undertake to overcome your
scruples if your friend were on the spot, where we could know and
appreciate him, and although he may be, I can guess, of uncertain
parentage--"

"But is there not a bar on my escutcheon too, your Majesty?"

"Yes, but at least you have an escutcheon, Madame; and you will be good
enough to bear in mind that the Montmorencys no less than the Castros
consider it an honor to receive into their family a legitimatized
daughter of mine. Your Gabriel, on the other hand--but then, that is not
the question now. The important fact in my mind is that he has not
turned up in six years, and that he has probably forgotten you, Diane,
and has, it is more than likely, given his heart to another."

"Sire, you do not know Gabriel: his is an untutored and faithful heart,
which will burn itself out in love for me."

"Very well, Diane. To you no doubt it seems improbable that he would be
unfaithful to you; and you are quite right to deny it. But everything
leads you to suppose that this young man went to the wars. And if so, is
it not probable that he has died there? I afflict you, my dear child,
for your fair brow has grown pale, and your eyes are swimming in tears.
Yes, I can see that your feeling for him is a very deeply rooted one;
and although it has seldom been my lot to meet with such, and I have got
into the habit of being incredulous about these great passions, I have
no inclination to laugh at this of yours, but I respect it. But just
see, my darling, in what an embarrassing position you place me by your
refusal, and all on account of a childish attachment whose object is
nothing more than a mere memory and a shadow. The constable, if I insult
him by withdrawing my pledged word, will be angry, and not unjustly, my
child, and will very probably leave my service; and then it will be no
longer I, but the Duc de Guise, who will be king. Think for a moment,
Diane, of the six brothers of that family: the Duc de Guise has at his
command the whole military power of France; the cardinal all the
finances; a third controls my Marseilles fleet; a fourth commands in
Scotland; and a fifth is about to take Brissac's place in Piedmont. So
that from one extremity of my realm to the other, I, the king, cannot
dispose of a soldier or a crown without their assent. I speak gently to
you, Diane, and explain these matters to you; I stoop to implore where I
might command. But I think it much better to let you judge for yourself,
and that it should be the father and not the king who obtains his
daughter's consent to his plans. And I shall obtain it, for you are a
good and obedient child. This marriage will be my salvation, my dear
child; it will give to the Montmorencys that measure of influence which
it will withdraw from the Guises. It will equalize the two arms of the
balance of which my royal power is the beam. Guise will become less
overbearing, and Montmorency more at my devotion. What! you do not
answer, dear. Do you remain deaf to the prayer of your father, who does
not storm at you or use harsh words, but who, on the contrary, enters
into all your thoughts, and asks of you only that you will not deny him
the first service which you can do him in return for what he has done,
and all that he wishes still to do for your happiness and honor? Come,
Diane, my dear daughter, you will consent, won't you?"

"Sire," replied Diane, "you are a thousand times more powerful when your
voice sues for something that it might command. I am ready to sacrifice
myself to your interests, but only on one condition, Sire."

"And what is that, you spoiled child?"

"That this marriage shall not take place for three months, and meanwhile
I will send to Aloyse for news of Gabriel, and will resort to every
other possible source of information, so that if he is no more, I may
know it; and if he is still living, I may at least ask him to return me
my plighted word."

"Granted with all my heart," said Henri, overjoyed beyond measure; "and
I will say in addition that wiser words never fell from a child's lips.
So you shall search for your Gabriel, and I will help you as you have
need of me; and in three months you shall marry François, whatever be
the result of our investigations, and whether your young friend be
living or dead."

"And now," said Diane, sadly shaking her head, "I don't know whether I
ought to pray most earnestly for his death or his life."

The king opened his lips, and was on the point of giving utterance to a
suggestion not very paternal in character, and of rather doubtful
consoling power. But he had only to look at Diane's frank expression and
lovely face, to stop the words before they came; and he betrayed his
thought only by a smile.

"For good or for ill, she will conform to the customs of the court," he
said to himself.

And then aloud,--

"The time has come to go to the Church, Diane; allow me to escort you to
the great gallery, Madame, and then I will see you again at the tilting,
and at the games in the afternoon. And if you are not too much incensed
with me for my tyrannical conduct, perhaps you will condescend to
applaud my strokes with the lance, and my passades, my fair umpire."




CHAPTER VII

HOW THE CONSTABLE SAID HIS PATER NOSTER


That same day, in the afternoon, while the jousting and holiday-making
was in progress at Tournelles, the Constable de Montmorency was
completing his examination, in Diane de Poitiers's closet at the Louvre,
of one of his secret agents.

The spy was of medium height and swarthy complexion; he had black hair
and eyes, an aquiline nose, a forked chin, and projecting lower lip, and
his back was slightly crooked. He bore a most striking resemblance to
Martin-Guerre, Gabriel's faithful squire. Any one seeing them separately
might well have mistaken either for the other; and he who saw them
standing side by side would have taken them for twin brothers, so
exactly alike were they in every respect. They had the same features and
the same figure, and were apparently of the same age.

"And the courier, what did you do with him, Master Arnauld?" asked the
constable.

"Monseigneur, I put him out of the way. It had to be done; but it was in
the night and in the forest of Fontainebleau. The murder was laid at the
door of robbers. I am very careful."

"Never mind, Master Arnauld; it is a very serious matter, and I blame
you for being so ready to play with your knife."

"I shrink at nothing when Monseigneur's service is at stake."

"That's all very well; but once for all, Master Arnauld, remember that
if you allow yourself to steal, I will allow you to hang," said the
constable, dryly and rather contemptuously.

"Never fear, Monseigneur; I am a man of discretion and foresight."

"Now let's see the letter."

"Here it is, Monseigneur."

"Very well! unseal it without breaking the seal, and read it. For
Heaven's sake, do you suppose for a moment that I am going to read it?"

Master Arnauld du Thill took from his pocket a sharp little chisel, and
cut carefully around the seal, and unfolded the letter. He turned at
once to the signature.

"Monseigneur sees that I was not mistaken. The letter addressed to the
Cardinal de Guise is from Cardinal de Caraffa, as that wretched courier
was simpleton enough to tell me."

"Read it, then, by the crown of thorns!" cried Anne de Montmorency.

Master Arnauld read as follows,--


"MONSEIGNEUR AND DEAR FRIEND,--Just three words of importance. In the
first place, in accordance with your request, the Pope will let the
affair of the divorce drag slowly along, and will put François de
Montmorency off from consistory to consistory (he arrived at Rome
yesterday) before finally refusing the dispensation that he solicits."


"_Pater noster_!" growled the constable. "May the Devil take them, all
these red hats!"

Arnauld continued his reading:--


"In the second place, Monsieur de Guise, your illustrious brother, after
having taken Campli, is holding Civitella in check. But before we
resolve to send him the men and supplies that he asks, and which we can
only give him at a great sacrifice, we must at least be assured that you
will not call him away to serve in Flanders, as the report goes is
likely to be the case. Just see that he remains with us, and his
Holiness will make up his mind to an extensive issue of indulgences,
hard though the times may be, to assist Monsieur François de Guise in
soundly whipping the Duke of Alva and his haughty master."


"_Adveniat tuum regnum_," growled Montmorency. "We will remember that,
body and blood! We will remember that, even if we have to call the
English into France. Go on, Arnauld, go on, by the Mass!"

The spy resumed:--


"In the third place, I have to announce to you, Monseigneur, to
encourage you and support you in your endeavors, the speedy arrival at
Paris of a messenger from your brother, Vicomte d'Exmès, who is
bringing to Henri the flags conquered in this Italian campaign. He is
about to set out, and will arrive no doubt at the same time that my
letter does, which, however, I have chosen to intrust to our regular
courier; his presence, and the glorious trophies which he will offer to
the king, will assuredly be of great service to you in conducting your
negotiations in every direction."


"_Fiat voluntas tua_," cried the constable, in a perfect fury of rage.
"We will give this ambassador from hell a fine reception. I commend him
to you, Arnauld. Is that the end of that cursed letter?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, all but the usual complimentary words, and the
signature."

"Good! you see that there is some work cut out for you, my fine fellow."

"I ask for nothing better, Monseigneur, with a little money thrown in to
assist in obtaining good results."

"Here are a hundred ducats, knave. You must always feel the money in
your hand."

"But I spend so much in Monseigneur's service."

"Your vices cost you more than my service does, you scoundrel."

"Oh, how mistaken Monseigneur is in me! I dream only of leading a quiet
life, in happiness and affluence, somewhere in the country, with my wife
and children about me, and passing the rest of my days in peace, like an
honest father and husband."

"A most charmingly virtuous and bucolic picture, to be sure! Oh, well,
then, mend your ways, put by a few doubloons, and marry, and you will be
in a fair way to realize these dreams of domestic felicity. What
prevents you?"

"Ah, Monseigneur, my fiery spirit! And then what woman would ever have
me?"

"Meanwhile, and pending your hymeneal plans, suppose you seal that
letter again very carefully, and carry it to the cardinal. You must
disguise yourself, you understand, and say that your dying comrade
enjoined upon you--"

"You may trust me, Monseigneur. The resealed letter and the substituted
courier will seem more authentic than the real articles."

"The deuce take it!" said Montmorency; "we forgot to take down the name
of this plenipotentiary whose coming is announced. What is he called?"

"Vicomte d'Exmès, Monseigneur."

"Ah, yes, that was it, villain. Now see that you remember the name.
Well! who dares to interrupt me again?"

"Pardon, Monseigneur," said the constable's fourrier, entering. "A
gentleman arrived from Italy is asking to see the king on behalf of the
Duc de Guise; and I thought I ought to advise you of it, especially
since he was very anxious to speak with the Cardinal de Lorraine. He
calls himself Vicomte d'Exmès."

"That was very proper of you, Guillaume," said the constable. "Show the
gentleman in here. And do you, Master Arnauld, take your place there
behind that hanging, and don't let slip this opportunity of having a
good look at the man with whom no doubt you will have some business to
transact. It is for your benefit that I receive him, so keep your eyes
and ears open."

"I am quite sure, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld, "that I have already
come across him in my travels. But no matter! It is just as well to be
certain of it. Vicomte d'Exmès, is it?"

The spy slipped behind the hangings, as Guillaume appeared, ushering
Gabriel into the room.

"Pardon me," said the young man, politely saluting the old constable;
"but to whom have I the honor of addressing myself?"

"I am the Constable de Montmorency, Monsieur; what is your will?"

"Pardon me again," said Gabriel; "but what I have to say I must say to
the king."

"But you know that his Majesty is not at the Louvre, do you not? and in
his absence--"

"I will follow his Majesty or await his return," Gabriel interposed.

"His Majesty is at the fêtes at the Tournelles, and will not return
before evening. Don't you know that the marriage of Monseigneur le
Dauphin is being celebrated to-day?"

"No, Monseigneur; I only learned of it on my way hither. But I came by
way of the Rue de l'Université and the Pont au Change, and did not pass
through the Rue St. Antoine."

"Then you ought to have followed the crowd. That would have shown you
the way to the king."

"But I have not yet had the honor of being presented to his Majesty. I
am an entire stranger at court. I hoped to find Monseigneur le Cardinal
de Lorraine at the Louvre. It was his Eminence for whom I inquired, and
I can't imagine why I have been conducted to you, Monseigneur."

"Monsieur de Lorraine," said the constable, "loves these sham fights,
being a churchman; but I, who am a man of the sword,--I care only for
real fighting, and that is why I am at the Louvre, while Monsieur de
Lorraine is at the Tournelles."

"If you please, Monseigneur, I will go and seek him there, then."

"But, _mon Dieu_, stay and rest a bit, Monsieur; for you seem to have
arrived from a distance,--from Italy, no doubt, since you entered the
city by the Rue de l'Université."

"From Italy, in truth, Monseigneur. I have no reason to conceal the
fact."

"You come from the Duc de Guise, perhaps? Well, what is he about down
there?"

"Permit me, Monseigneur, to inform his Majesty in the first instance,
and to take my leave to the end that I may fulfil that duty."

"So be it, Monsieur, since you are in such haste. No doubt," he added
with an assumed air of pleasantry, "you are in a hurry to renew your
acquaintance with some fair lady or other. I'll warrant that you are in
haste and fear at the same time. Come, now, isn't that so, my young
sir?"

But Gabriel put on his coldest and most serious expression, and replied
only with a low bow, as he left the apartment.

"_Pater noster qui es in cœlis_" snarled the constable, when the door
had closed behind Gabriel. "Does this cursed fop imagine that I wanted
to make advances to him, to win him over to my side, perchance, or to
corrupt him possibly? As if I didn't know perfectly well what he is
going to say to the king! No matter! if I fall in with him again, he
shall pay me dear for his unsociable airs and his defiant insolence! Ho,
there, Master Arnauld! Come, come! Where is the blackguard? Vanished
too, by the cross! Everybody seems to have taken on a fit of stupidity
to-day. The Devil seize them! _Pater noster_!"

While the constable was thus venting his ill-humor in curses and _Pater
nosters_, as his wont was, Gabriel, on his way out of the Louvre, was
passing through a rather dark gallery, when to his great amazement he
saw his squire, Martin-Guerre, standing near the door, although he had
ordered him to await him in the courtyard.

"Is it you, Master Martin?" said he. "So you have come to meet me! Very
well! Go you ahead with Jérôme, and wait for me with the flags well
wrapped up at the corner of the Rue St. Catherine on the Rue St.
Antoine. Perhaps Monseigneur le Cardinal would prefer that we should
present the flags to the king on the spot, and in the presence of the
whole court assembled at the jousting. Christopher will hold my horse
and bear me company. Go on! you understand me, don't you?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, I know what I wanted to know," replied Martin-Guerre.

And he started down the staircase ahead of Gabriel with an alacrity
which augured well for the speedy execution of his commission. Imagine
Gabriel's extreme surprise, when he came out more slowly and like one
who dreamed, to find his squire still in the court, and now apparently
terrified and pale as a ghost.

"Well, Martin, what is it, and what is the matter with you?" he asked
him.

"Ah, Monseigneur, I have just seen him; he passed right near me this
very moment, and spoke to me."

"Who, pray?"

"Who? Why, who but the devil, the ghost, the phantom, the monster, the
other Martin-Guerre?"

"Still this madness. Martin! Are you dreaming as you stand there?"

"No, no, indeed I was not dreaming. He spoke to me, Monseigneur, I tell
you; he stopped in front of me, turned me to stone with his wizard's
look, and said to me, laughing his infernal laugh, 'So we are still in
Vicomte d'Exmès's service, are we?' Note the plural, 'we are,'
Monseigneur; 'and we have brought from Italy the flags taken in the
field by Monsieur de Guise?' I said yes, in spite of myself, for he
fascinated me. How does he know all this, Monseigneur? And he went on:
'Let us not be afraid, for are we not friends and brothers?' And then he
heard your footsteps approaching, Monseigneur, and he added, with a
diabolical irony which made my hair stand on end, just these words: 'We
shall meet again, Martin-Guerre; we shall meet again.' And he
disappeared through that little wicket, perhaps, or more likely into the
wall."

"You poor fool!" said Gabriel. "How could he have had the necessary time
to say and do all this since you left me up there in the gallery?"

"I, Monseigneur! I haven't stirred from this spot, where you ordered me
to await you."

"It must have been another, then; and if not to you to whom have I just
been speaking?"

"Most certainly to the other. Monseigneur; to my double, my ghost."

"Poor Martin!" said Gabriel, compassionately, "are you in pain? Doesn't
your head ache? Perhaps we have walked too far in the hot sun."

"Oh, yes!" said Martin-Guerre, "I see that you fancy that I am
wandering, do you not? But a sure proof that I am not mistaken,
Monseigneur, is that I don't know a single word of the orders that you
think you gave me."

"You must have forgotten them, Martin," said Gabriel, gently. "Well,
then, I will repeat them, my good fellow. I told you to go and wait for
me with the flags in the Rue St. Antoine at the corner of the Rue St.
Catherine. Jérôme will accompany you, and I will keep Christopher with
me; don't you remember now?"

"Pardon, Monseigneur; but how can you expect me to remember what I never
knew?"

"At all events, you know it now, Martin," said Gabriel. "Come, let us
take our horses again at the gates, where our people ought to be waiting
with them, and then be off at once. To the Tournelles!"

"I obey, Monseigneur. The amount of it is that you have two squires; but
I am very glad at least that I have not two masters."

The lists for the formal celebration had been laid out across the Rue
St. Antoine from the Tournelles to the royal stables. They were in the
form of a large square, bordered on each side by scaffolding filled with
spectators. At one end were the queen and the court; at the other end
was the entrance to the lists where the participants in the games were
waiting; the general public filled the two remaining galleries.

When, after the marriage ceremony and the banquet which immediately
succeeded it were at an end, the queen and court, about three in the
afternoon, took their places on the seats reserved for them, vivas and
shouts of joy resounded on all sides.

But this noisy jubilation caused the fête to be marred by an accident
at its very beginning. The horse of Monsieur d'Avallon, one of the
captains of the Guards, terrified by the uproar, reared and leaped into
the arena, and his rider, unhorsed by the shock, hit his head a terrible
blow against one of the wooden barriers which made the enclosure, and he
was taken up half dead, and given over to the care of the surgeons in an
almost hopeless condition.

The king was much moved by this sad casualty; but his passion for games
and jousting soon got the better of his sorrow.

"Poor Monsieur d'Avallon," said he, "and such a devoted subject! Let us
hope at least that he will be well looked after."

And then he added,--

"Come! the races for the ring can begin at any time."

The game of the ring of that epoch was much more complicated and
difficult than the one that we know. The crutch from which the ring was
suspended was placed almost two thirds of the way down the lists. It was
necessary to ride at a hand gallop the first third, and at a full gallop
the second third, and while going at this high rate of speed to carry
off the ring on the end of the lance. But the lance must not be allowed
to touch the body anywhere; it must be held horizontally with the elbow,
high above the head. The game was ended by riding around the arena at a
trot. The prize was a diamond ring offered by the queen.

Henri II., on his white steed, magnificently caparisoned in gold and
velvet, was the most superb and most graceful cavalier of all. He
carried and handled his lance with admirable grace and precision, and
hardly ever missed the ring. But Monsieur de Vieilleville pressed him
close; and there was a moment when it seemed as if the prize would go to
him. He had two rings more than the king, and but three remained to be
taken; but Monsieur de Vieilleville, like an accomplished courtier,
missed them all three by extraordinary ill luck, and the prize was
awarded to the king.

As he received the ring, he hesitated a moment, and his look turned
regretfully toward Diane de Poitiers; but the gift was offered by the
queen, and it was his bounden duty to present it to the new dauphine,
Mary Stuart, the bride of the day.

"Well!" he asked, in the interval which followed this first contest,
"are there any hopes of saving Monsieur d'Avallon's life?"

"He still breathes, Sire," was the reply; "but there is almost no chance
that he will ever regain consciousness."

"Alas!" said the king, "let us have the gladiators' contest now."

This gladiators' contest was a mock combat with passades and
manœuvring, quite new, and a great curiosity in those days; but which
would have no special interest, probably, for the imagination of the
spectator of our time, or of the readers of this book. We beg to refer
to the pages of Brantôme those who are curious to read about the
marches and counter-marches of these twelve gladiators, "of whom six
were clad in white satin, and six in crimson satin, made up according to
the style in vogue in ancient Rome." All of which should be of great
historical interest in an age when local coloring had not been invented.

This fine contest came to an end amid general applause, and the
necessary preparations were made for beginning the stake-race.

At the court end of the lists several stakes five or six feet long were
stuck into the earth at regular intervals. The rules required that the
contestants should ride at a hand-gallop in and out among these
improvised trees in every direction, without missing or omitting a
single one. The prize was a bracelet of marvellous workmanship.

Out of eight courses that were run, the honors remained with the king in
three and with Monsieur le Colonel-Général de Bonnivet in a like
number. The ninth and last was to be the decisive one; but Monsieur de
Bonnivet was no less respectful than Monsieur de Vieilleville had been;
and notwithstanding the very willing disposition of his horse, he came
in third, and again Henri won the prize.

This time the king sat down beside Diane de Poitiers, and put upon her
arm without concealment the bracelet he had received.

The queen turned pale with rage.

Gaspard de Tavannes, who was just behind her, leaned forward and
whispered in Catherine de Médicis's ear,--

"Madame, follow me with your eyes, and see what I am going to do."

"And what is it that you are going to do, my good Gaspard?" said the
queen.

"To cut off Madame de Valentinois's nose," replied Tavannes, with the
utmost gravity and seriousness.

He was just about to leave her, when Catherine, half terrified and half
delighted, held him back.

"But, Gaspard, do you realize that it will be your destruction?"

"I do, Madame; but I will save the king and France!"

"Thanks, Gaspard," replied Catherine; "you are a valiant friend no less
than a rough soldier. But I command you to be still, Gaspard, and have
patience."

"Patience." In truth, that was the watchword by which Catherine de
Médicis seemed to have ordered her life up to that time. She, who
subsequently was so forward to take her place in the very first rank,
had not yet appeared to have any ambition to emerge from the obscurity
of the second. She bided her time. And yet she was at this time in the
full bloom of a beauty of which Sieur de Bourdeille has left us most
minute details; but she sedulously avoided all parade, and it is
probably to this modesty that she owed the utter absence of slander in
relation to her during her husband's lifetime. There was no one but the
brute of a constable who would have dared to call the king's attention
to the fact that the ten children that Catherine de Médicis had
bestowed on France after ten years of sterility were very little like
their father. No other person would have been bold enough to breathe a
word against the queen.

It was always Catherine's custom to appear, as she did on this day, not
even to notice the attentions which the king lavished on Diane de
Poitiers in the sight and bearing of the whole court. After she had
soothed the fiery indignation of the marshal she went on talking with
her ladies of the races that had taken place, and of the address
displayed by Henri.




CHAPTER VIII

A FORTUNATE TOURNEY


The tournaments proper were not to take place until the next and
following days; but several gentlemen attached to the court asked the
king's leave, as it was still quite early, to break a lance or two in
honor of the ladies and for their entertainment.

"So be it, gentlemen," the king replied as a matter of course. "I give
you leave with all my heart, especially as it is likely to bother
Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine, who has never had to deal with so
numerous a correspondence, I fancy, as during the two hours that we have
been here. There are two messages that he has received one right after
the other, and he seems much preoccupied with them. But never mind! we
shall know by and by what the matter is, and meanwhile you may break a
lance or two. And here is a prize for the victor," added Henri, taking
from his neck the gold necklace that he wore. "Do your best, gentlemen,
and remember that if the contest grows warm, I shall be very likely to
take a hand in it, and try to win back what I am offering you,
especially as I owe something to Madame de Castro. Take notice, too,
that at precisely six o'clock the contest will be declared at an end,
and the victor, whoever he may be, will receive his crown. Come, you
have an hour in which to show off your fine strokes. Be always careful
that no harm comes to any one. And, apropos, how does Monsieur
d'Avallon?"

"Alas, Sire, he is just at the point of death."

"God rest his soul!" said Henri. "Of all the captains of my Guards he
was the most devoted to my service and the bravest. Who is there to take
his place? But the ladies are waiting, gentlemen; and the lists are
open. How, who shall receive the necklace from the hands of the queen?"

The Comte de Pommerive was the first challenger, and he had to yield to
Monsieur de Burie, from whom Monsieur le Maréchal d'Amville soon
wrested the field; but the marshal, who was very strong and skilful as
well, held his ground against five challengers one after the other.

The king could not contain himself.

"I propose to find out, Monsieur d'Amville, if you are riveted there for
all time," he said to the marshal.

He put on his armor, and at the very first onset Monsieur d'Amville lost
his stirrups. It was Monsieur d'Aussun's turn next; but after him no
other combatant appeared.

"How's this, gentlemen?" said Henri. "What! No one else wishes to tilt
against me. Can it possibly be that you are humoring me?" he continued,
with a gathering frown. "Ah, _mordieu_! if I thought so! There is no
king here but the victor, and no privileges save those of knightly
skill. Come, attack me, gentlemen, boldly."

But no one ventured to try a pass with the king; for they dreaded
equally to vanquish him and to be vanquished.

But the king was much annoyed. He began to suspect that perhaps in
former tourneys his opponents had not put forth all their science
against him; and this thought, which made his prowess seem small in his
own eyes, filled him with anger.

At last a new champion passed the barrier. Henri, without a single
glance to see who it was, set his horse in motion and rushed at him. The
two lances were shattered; but the king, throwing away the fragment,
reeled in his saddle, and was forced to cling to the saddlebow to save
himself. At that instant six o'clock struck. Henri was beaten.

He leaped quickly and joyously to the ground, threw his reins to a
squire, and rushed to seize the hand of his vanquisher to escort him to
the queen himself. To his vast surprise he saw a face which was
absolutely unfamiliar to him. Moreover, he was a cavalier of fine
presence and noble bearing; and the queen, as she passed the necklace
around the young man's neck, while he knelt before her, could not
forbear remarking it, and smiling upon him.

But he, after bowing to the ground, rose, took a few steps toward the
platform appropriated to the court, stopped before Madame de Castro, and
offered her the necklace, the prize of victory.

The trumpets were still sounding, so that no one heard the two cries
which issued at the same moment from two mouths.

"Gabriel!"

"Diane!"

Diane, pale, and trembling with joy and wonder, took the necklace with a
shaking hand. Every one supposed that the unknown knight had heard the
king promise the necklace to Madame de Castro; and that he did not wish
to disappoint so fair a damsel. It was agreed that his proceeding was
very courteous, and bore the stamp of a true gentleman. The king himself
put no other construction on the incident.

"I am touched by such extreme gallantry," said he; "but I, who am
supposed to be able to call all my nobles by name, I confess that I
cannot recall, Monsieur, where or when I have seen you before, and I
shall be more than delighted to know to whom I am indebted for the
sturdy blow just now which would have unsaddled me, I believe, if, thank
God! I had not had such strong legs."

"Sire," replied Gabriel, "this is the first time that I have had the
honor of appearing before your Majesty. I have been hitherto with the
army, and have only just arrived from Italy. I am called Vicomte
d'Exmès."

"Vicomte d'Exmès!" echoed the king. "I shall remember the name of my
vanquisher, never fear."

"Sire," said Gabriel, "there can be no vanquisher where you are
concerned, and I bring a glorious proof of it to your Majesty."

He made a sign; and Martin-Guerre and the two men-at-arms entered the
lists with the Italian flags, which they laid at the king's feet.

"Sire," Gabriel continued, "these are the flags conquered in Italy by
your army, and sent to your Majesty by Monseigneur le Duc de Guise. His
Eminence, Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine, assures me that your
Majesty will not take it ill of me to deliver these trophies to you thus
unexpectedly, and in the presence of your court and the French people,
who are the deeply interested witnesses of your greatness and glory.
Sire, I have also the honor to hand you these letters from Monsieur le
Duc de Guise."

"Thanks, Monsieur d'Exmès," said the king. "So this is the secret of
all Monsieur le Cardinal's correspondence. These letters are your
credentials to our favor, Viscount. But you have a very striking and
triumphant way of presenting yourself. But what do I read here? That you
have yourself taken four of these flags? Our cousin Guise rates you as
one of his most gallant captains. Monsieur d'Exmès, ask of me what you
choose; and I swear by all that is holy that you shall have it on the
spot!"

"Sire, you overwhelm me; and I put myself entirely at the disposition of
your Majesty's favor."

"You were a captain under Monsieur de Guise, Monsieur," said the king.
"Would it suit you to hold the same rank in our Guards? I was perplexed
as to how I should fill the place of Monsieur d'Avallon, who met such a
sad fate here to-day; but I see that in you he will have a worthy
successor."

"Your Majesty--"

"Do you accept? Then it's done. You will begin your duties to-morrow.
Now we are about to return to the Louvre. You will tell me more at
length of the particulars of this Italian war at some future time."

Gabriel saluted him.

Henri gave the word for departure. The crowd dispersed amid shouts of
_Vive le roi_! Diane, as if by magic, found herself at Gabriel's side
for an instant.

"To-morrow at the queen's levee," said she in a low voice.

She disappeared under her escort's wing, but leaving hope divine to
blossom in the heart of her old-time friend.




CHAPTER IX

HOW ONE MAY PASS CLOSE BY HIS DESTINY WITHOUT
KNOWING IT


When the queen held a levee, it was generally in the evening after
supper; so much Gabriel learned, and was told also that his new post of
captain of the Guards not only allowed but required him to show himself
there. He had no desire to shirk that duty, and his only regret was that
he had to wait twenty-four hours before fulfilling it. We can see that
in zeal and gallantry Monsieur d'Avallon's place was likely to be
worthily filled.

But he had to think about killing those twenty-four hours, one after the
other,--those everlasting hours which separated him from the eagerly
desired moment. This young man, whose joy made him forget his weariness,
and who had as yet hardly seen Paris except on his way from one camp to
another, started to scour the city with Martin-Guerre in search of a
suitable lodging. He had the good luck, for he was in luck that day, to
find vacant the very apartments which had formerly been occupied by his
father, the Comte de Montgommery. He hired them, although they were
somewhat over-fine for a mere captain of the Guards; but he could make
himself easy in that regard by simply writing to his faithful Elyot to
send him some money from Montgommery. He also wrote to his good nurse
Aloyse to come and join him there.

Gabriel's first purpose was thus attained. He was a child no longer now,
but a man who had already proved his manhood, and with whom there must
be a reckoning; to the honorable qualities which he had inherited from
his ancestors he had been able to add some personal renown. Alone and
with no other support than his sword, and no recommendation but his
gallant behavior, he had reached high rank at twenty-four. At last he
might proudly show himself to her whom he loved, as well as to those
whom it was his duty to hate. The latter Aloyse could help him to find;
the former had found him.

Gabriel went to sleep with his heart at rest, and slept long and well.

The next day he had to present himself to Monsieur de Boissy, Grand
Equerry of France, to furnish his proofs of nobility. Monsieur de
Boissy, a man of honor, had been the Comte de Montgommery's friend. He
understood Gabriel's motives for concealing his true title, and gave him
his word that he would keep his secret. In the next place, Monsieur le
Maréchal d'Amville presented Gabriel to his company. Then Gabriel at
once began his duties by visiting and inspecting the State prisons in
Paris,--a painful necessity which it was a part of his functions to
yield to once a month.

He began with the Bastille, and ended with the Châtelet.

The governor handed him his list of prisoners, told him which ones had
died or been transferred or set free, and which were sick, and finally
made them pass in review before him,--a sad review, a mournful
spectacle. He thought his duties were done, when the governor of the
Châtelet called his attention to a page in his register which was
almost blank, and bore only this extraordinary memorandum, which
impressed Gabriel more than all the rest:--


"_No. 21, X.--Secret prisoner. If during the visit of the governor or
the captain of the Guards he makes the least attempt to speak, have him
removed to a deeper and harsher dungeon._"


"Who is this prisoner of such importance? May I know?" Gabriel asked
Monsieur de Salvoison, governor of the Châtelet.

"No one knows who he is," was the reply. "I received him from my
predecessor as he had received him from his. You notice that the date of
his imprisonment is left blank. It must have been during the reign of
François I. that he was brought here. He has undertaken to speak two or
three times, so I am told; but at his first word the governor is bound,
under the severest penalties, to close the door of his cell, and to
remove him at once to a more rigorous dungeon; and this has always been
done. There is now only one dungeon left more severe than that he
occupies, and confinement in that means death. No doubt they desire that
he should finally come to that; but just now the prisoner makes no
attempt to speak. He must be some very dangerous criminal. He is always
in shackles; and his jailer, to guard against any possibility of an
escape, is in and out of his cell every minute."

"But suppose he speaks to the jailer?" said Gabriel.

"Oh, he is a deaf mute, born in the Châtelet, who has never been
outside the walls."

Gabriel shuddered. This man, so completely isolated from the world of
the living, and who yet lived and thought, inspired in his breast a
feeling of compassion mingled with an undefinable dread. What resolution
or compunction, what fear of hell or trust in heaven, could prevent so
wretched a being from dashing out his brain against the walls of his
dungeon? Could it be the thirst for revenge, or some hope of deliverance
that enabled him to retain his hold on life!

Gabriel felt a sort of anxious eagerness to see this man; his heart beat
faster than it had ever done before except when he was on his way to see
Diane. He had visited a hundred other prisoners with no other emotion
than a sort of general compassion for their lot; but the thought of this
poor wretch appealed to him and moved him more than all the others, and
his heart was filled with sorrow when he thought of his tomb-like
existence.

"Let us go to Number 21," he said to the governor with a choking voice.

They went down several damp, black stairways, passed under several
arches which resembled the horrible spirals of Dante's Inferno; at last
the governor said, stopping before an iron door,--

"This is the place. I am not his jailer; he is in the cell, no doubt.
But I have duplicate keys; let us go in."

He opened the door, and they went in, with no light but a lantern, held
by a turnkey. Then Gabriel saw before him a mute and frightful picture,
such as one hardly sees except in the nightmare of delirium.

For walls, nothing but solid rock, black, moss-grown, and noisome; for
this gloomy hole was excavated below the bed of the Seine, and the
water, in times of freshet, filled it half full. On these loathsome
walls were crawling slimy things; and the icy air was broken by no sound
except that made by the regular, dull falling of a drop of water from
the hideous arch. A little less alive than the drop of water, a little
more alive than the almost motionless slugs, two beings that had been
human were dragging out their existence there, one guarding the other,
both dumb and awe-inspiring.

The jailer, a sort of idiot, a dull-eyed giant, with a face of deathlike
pallor, was standing in the shadow, gazing stupidly at the prisoner, who
was lying in the corner on a pallet of straw, shackled hand and foot to
a chain riveted to the wall. He was an old man, with a long white beard
and white hair. When they entered he seemed to be sleeping, and did not
stir; he might have been taken for a corpse or a statue.

But suddenly he sat up and opened his eyes, and his gaze met Gabriel's.

He was forbidden to speak; but this terrible and piercing gaze spoke for
him. Gabriel was fascinated by it, and could not remove his eyes. The
governor and turnkey overhauled all the corners of the dungeon. He,
Gabriel, rooted to the spot, neither moved forward nor back, but stood
there transfixed by those blazing eyes; he could not get away from them,
and at the same time a thousand confused and unutterable thoughts were
whirling through his brain.

The prisoner seemed no longer to view his visitor with mere
indifference, and there was a moment when he made a motion and opened
his lips as if to speak; but the governor having turned back toward
them, he remembered in time the rule laid down for him, and his lips
spoke only by a bitter smile. He closed his eyes once more, and relapsed
into his corpse-like immobility.

"Oh, let us go out!" said Gabriel to the governor. "For God's sake, let
us go out! I must have fresh air and see the sunlight again."

He did not recover his tranquillity and his life, so to speak, until he
found himself once more in the throng and tumult of the street. And even
then the gloomy vision he had seen remained in his mind and pursued him
the livelong day, as he walked thoughtfully hither and thither through
the streets.

Something seemed to tell him that the fate of this wretched captive was
connected with his own, and that a great crisis in his life was
impending. Worn out at last by these mysteriously recurring
presentiments, he directed his steps as the day drew to its close toward
the lists of the Tournelles. The day's jousting, in which Gabriel had
not cared to take part, was just coming to an end. Gabriel could see
Diane, and she saw him; and this interchange of glances at once put his
gloomy thoughts to flight as the rays of the sun disperse the clouds.
Gabriel forgot the unfortunate prisoner whom he had seen that day, to
give himself up entirely to thoughts of the lovely maiden he was to see
again in the evening.




CHAPTER X

AN ELEGY DURING THE PROGRESS OF A COMEDY


If was a custom handed down from the reign of François I. At least
three times a week, the king, the nobles, and all the ladies of the
court assembled in the evening in the queen's apartments. There they
would chat about the gossip of the day with perfect freedom, and
sometimes with a good deal of license. Private tête-à-têtes would
often take place amid the general conversation; and, says Brantôme, "as
a throng of earthly goddesses were assembled there, every nobleman and
gentleman talked with her whom he loved the best." Frequently there was
dancing too, or a play.

It was a party of this description that our friend Gabriel was to attend
on the evening in question; and contrary to his custom, he arrayed and
perfumed himself with considerable solicitude, so that he might not
appear to disadvantage in the eyes of her "whom he loved the best," to
quote Brantôme once more.

But Gabriel's delight was not altogether unalloyed by a feeling of
uneasiness; and certain vague and offensive words which had been
whispered in his hearing concerning Diane's approaching marriage had not
failed to cause him some inward anxiety. Thanks to the joy he had felt
in seeing Diane again, and in believing that he could distinguish in her
expression signs of her former affection for him, he had almost
forgotten that letter from the Cardinal de Lorraine which had been the
cause of his taking his departure so hurriedly; but the rumors which
were flying around, and the continual coupling of the names of Diane de
Castro and François de Montmorency, which came to his ears only too
plainly, brought back memory to his passionate heart. Was Diane
reconciled, then, to that hateful marriage? Did she love this François?
Distracting doubts which the evening's interview might not avail to
solve satisfactorily.

Gabriel resolved therefore to question Martin-Guerre on the subject, for
he had already made more than one acquaintance, and like most squires,
was likely to have a much more extended knowledge in such matters than
his master; for it is a fact of common observation in acoustics that
reports of all sorts sound much louder on low ground, and that echoes
are seldom heard except in valleys. This resolution came at a so much
more fortunate time, because Martin-Guerre had also made up his mind to
question his master, whose preoccupation had not escaped his notice, but
who had not, in all conscience, any right to conceal his actions or his
thoughts from a faithful retainer of five years' standing, and even more
than that,--one who had saved his life.

From this mutual determination, and the conversation which ensued,
Gabriel came to the conclusion that Diane de Castro did not love
François de Montmorency, and Martin-Guerre that Gabriel did love Diane
de Castro.

This twofold conclusion was so satisfactory to both parties that Gabriel
arrived at the Louvre fully an hour before the gates were opened; and
Martin-Guerre, as a mark of respect to the viscount's royal sweetheart,
went off to the court tailor to buy a brown cloth jerkin and
small-clothes of yellow tricot. He paid cash for the whole costume, and
immediately arrayed himself in it so as to exhibit it in the evening in
the antechambers of the Louvre, where he was to go in attendance on his
master.

Imagine the tailor's amazement half an hour later to see Martin-Guerre
appear again in other clothes. He commented on the fact. Martin-Guerre
replied that the evening had seemed a bit cool to him, and that he had
thought best to clothe himself a little more warmly. However, he was so
very well pleased with the jerkin and the small-clothes that he had come
to beg the tailor to sell him or make him another jerkin of the same
material and like cut. To no purpose did the man of the yardstick remind
Martin-Guerre that he would seem to have only one suit of clothes, and
that he would do much better to order a different costume; for instance,
a yellow jerkin and brown small-clothes, since he seemed to have a
weakness for those particular colors. Martin-Guerre would not recede
from his idea, and the tailor had to agree not to make a shade of
difference in the garments, which he was to make for him at once, since
he had none ready-made; but on this second order Martin-Guerre asked for
some credit. He had paid cash handsomely for the first; he was the
squire of Vicomte d'Exmès, captain of the king's Guards. The tailor had
that monumental trust in human nature which has been from time
immemorial the traditional propensity of his craft; so he consented, and
promised to deliver the second costume complete the next day.

Meanwhile the hour during which Gabriel had had to gnash his teeth
outside the gates of his paradise had passed away, and with a number of
others, gentlemen and ladies, he had succeeded in making his way to the
queen's apartments.

At the first glance Gabriel saw Diane; she was seated beside the
Queen-Dauphine, as Mary Stuart was henceforth called.

To approach her at once would have been very presumptuous for a
new-comer, and very imprudent too, no doubt. Gabriel resigned himself to
await a favorable opportunity when the conversation should become
animated and the attention of those who were near be called to other
objects. Meanwhile he entered into conversation with a young nobleman of
unhealthy pallor and delicate appearance, near whom he chanced to be
standing. But after some little talk on matters as insignificant as his
person seemed to be, the young cavalier asked of Gabriel,--

"To whom have I the honor of speaking, Monsieur?"

Gabriel replied, "I am Vicomte d'Exmès. And may I venture to ask you
the same question, Monsieur?" he added.

The young man looked at him in amazement as he replied,--

"I am François de Montmorency."

He might as well have said, "I am the Devil!" and Gabriel would have
shown less alarmed haste in leaving him. François, whose mind did not
work very quickly, was entirely dumfounded; but as he was not fond of
using his brain, he soon gave up the riddle, and sought elsewhere for
auditors who should be somewhat less unceremonious.

Gabriel had taken care to direct his flight toward Diane de Castro; but
his progress was arrested by a great commotion about the king. Henri was
just announcing that as he desired to close the day by treating the
ladies to a surprise, he had caused a stage to be arranged in the
gallery, and that a five-act comedy in verse by Monsieur Jean Antoine de
Baïf, entitled "Le Brave," would be performed there. This intelligence
was naturally greeted with general gratitude and applause. The gentlemen
gave their hands to the ladies to escort them into the neighboring
_salle_, where the stage had been erected; but Gabriel was too late to
escort Diane, and could do no better than take his place at a short
distance from her behind the queen.

Catherine de Médicis perceived him and called him, and he had no choice
but to present himself before her.

"Monsieur d'Exmès," said she, "how is it that we didn't see you at the
tournament to-day?"

"Madame," replied Gabriel, "the duties of the office which his Majesty
has done me the honor to bestow upon me, prevented."

"So much the worse," said Catherine, with a sweet smile, "for you are
surely one of our most daring and skilful cavaliers. You made the king
reel yesterday, and that is a very rare thing. I should have been glad
to be a witness again of your prowess."

Gabriel bowed, feeling decidedly ill at ease under this shower of
compliments, to which he knew not how to reply.

"Do you know the play that they are going to give us?" pursued
Catherine, evidently very favorably inclined toward the handsome and
modest youth.

"I know it only in Latin," was his reply; "for I am told that it is
nothing more than an imitation of one of Terence's plays."

"I see that you are as learned as you are valiant," said the queen, "as
well versed in literary matters as you are skilful with thrusts of the
lance."

All this was said in an undertone, and accompanied by glances which were
not exactly cruel. To be sure, Catherine's heart was empty for the
moment. But Gabriel, uncouth as Euripides' Hippolyte, received the
Italian's advances with an air of constraint and a frowning brow.
Ungrateful wretch! when he was to owe to this kindly disposition, at
which he turned up his nose, not only the place which he had so longed
for at Diane's side, but the most fascinating pouting by which the love
of a jealous sweetheart can betray itself.

In fact, when the prologue began, according to custom, to appeal to the
indulgence of the spectators, Catherine said to Gabriel,--

"Go and sit there behind me among these ladies, my literary friend, so
that I may at need resort to your fund of information."

Madame de Castro had selected her seat at the end of a row, so that
there was only the passage-way beyond her. Gabriel, having paid his
respects to the queen, took a stool and modestly seated himself in the
passage-way by Diane's side, so as to discommode no one.

The play began.

It was, as Gabriel had told the queen, an imitation of the "Eunuchus" of
Terence, written in lines of eight syllables, and translated with all
the pedantic simplicity of the time. We will abstain from criticising
the play. It would be, moreover, an anachronism, for criticism had not
yet been invented at that barbarous epoch. It will suffice for us to
remind our readers that the principal character is a braggart, a
swaggering soldier who allows himself to be duped and bullied by a
sycophant.

Now, from the very beginning of the play, the many partisans of the
Guises who were in the hall could see in the absurd old bully only the
Constable de Montmorency, while the Montmorency faction chose to
recognize the ambitious views of the Duc de Guise in the bluster of the
swaggering soldier. And so every scene was a piece of satire, and every
sally a pointed hit. The two factions laughed uproariously, and pointed
at one another with their fingers; and, truth to tell, this comedy which
was being enacted in the hall was no less entertaining than that which
the actors were performing on the platform.

Our lovers took advantage of the interest which the two rival camps took
in the performance to speak quietly and calmly of their love amid the
shouts and laughter. In the first place, each pronounced the other's
name in a low voice. It was the sacred invocation.

"Diane!"

"Gabriel!"

"Are you really going to marry François de Montmorency?"

"You have made rapid strides in the queen's good graces, haven't you?"

"But you heard her call me."

"And you know that the king wishes this marriage."

"But have you not consented to it, Diane?"

"But haven't you listened to Catherine, Gabriel?"

"One word, just one!" replied Gabriel. "But you still feel some
interest, do you, in the feeling which may be aroused in me by another
than yourself? Then you must care something for what is passing in my
heart."

"I care as much for it," said Madame de Castro, "as you do for what is
passing in mine."

"Oh! then let me tell you, Diane, that if you are like me, you are
jealous; if you are like me, you love me to distraction."

"Monsieur d'Exmès," said Diane, who tried for an instant to be severe,
poor child!--"Monsieur d'Exmès, I am called Madame de Castro."

"But are you not a widow, Madame? Are you not free?"

"Free, alas!"

"Oh, Diane, you sigh. Tell me, Diane, that your childish affection,
which made our early years so sweet, has left some trace in the maiden's
heart. Oh, tell me, Diane, that you still love me a little! Don't fear
that any one will hear you, for everybody near us is taken up with the
jokes of that sycophant; they have no tender words to listen to, so they
are laughing. Oh, Diane, smile upon me and answer me; do you love me,
Diane?"

"Hush! Don't you see that the act is coming to an end?" said the roguish
damsel. "Wait at least till the play begins again."

The _entr'acte_ lasted ten minutes,--ten centuries, rather! Fortunately,
Catherine, talking busily with Mary Stuart, did not call Gabriel to her
side. He would have been quite capable of declining to go, even if it
had been his everlasting ruin.

When the comedy began again amid shouts of laughter and noisy
applause,--

"Well?" Gabriel inquired.

"Well, what?" replied Diane, feigning an indifference that she was very
far from feeling. "Oh, yes, you were asking me, I believe, if I love
you. Well, then! Didn't I answer you just now, thus: 'I love you as
much as you love me'?"

"Ah!" cried Gabriel, "do you realize what you are saying, Diane? Do you
know the extent of this love of mine to which you say that yours is
equal?"

"But," said the little dissembler, "if you want me to know about it, the
least you can do is to tell me."

"Listen to me, then, Diane, and you will see that since I left you six
years ago every action of every hour of my life has tended to bring me
nearer to you. It was only on my arrival at Paris a month after your
departure from Vimoutiers, that I learned who you were: the daughter of
the king and Madame de Valentinois. But it was not your title as a
daughter of France that terrified me; it was your title as wife of the
Duc de Castro, and yet something said to me: 'No matter! raise yourself
to her level; win some renown for yourself, so that some day she may
hear your name at least, and may admire you as others fear you.' Such
were my thoughts, Diane; and I entered the service of the Duc de Guise,
as the one who seemed most likely to put me in a way to win the
honorable name at which my ambition pointed, speedily and well. In
brief, I was shut up with him within the walls of Metz in the following
year, and did my best to bring about the almost-despaired-of result, the
raising of the siege. It was at Metz, where I remained to restore the
fortification and repair all the damage inflicted in sixty-five days of
assault, that I heard of the taking of Hesdin by the imperial troops and
the death of the Duc de Castro, your husband. He had never even seen you
again, Diane! Oh, I pitied him, but how I did fight at Renty! Ask
Monsieur de Guise about it. I was also at Abbeville, Dinant, Bavay, and
Cateau-Cambrésis. I was everywhere where the fire of musketry was to be
heard; and I can fairly say that there has been no glorious action
during this reign in which I have not had some little share.

"After the truce of Vaucelles," said Gabriel, continuing his narrative,
"I came to Paris, but you were still at the convent, Diane; and my
enforced repose was becoming very wearisome when, by good luck, the
truce was broken. The Duc de Guise, who was anxious to give me some
token of his good-will, asked me if I would follow him to Italy. If I
would! Crossing the Alps in the depths of winter, we made our way
through the Milanais, carried Valenza by storm, were allowed free
passage through the duchies of Parma and Plaisance, and after a
triumphal progress through Tuscany and the States of the Church, we
arrived at the Abruzzi. Meanwhile Monsieur de Guise lacked money and
troops; yet he took Campli, and laid siege to Civitella; but the army
was demoralized, and the success of the expedition compromised. It was
at Civitella, Diane, that I learned from a letter from his Eminence, the
Cardinal de Lorraine, to his brother of your approaching marriage to
François de Montmorency.

"There was nothing more for me to do on that side of the Alps. Monsieur
de Guise himself agreed to that, and I obtained from his kindness
permission to return to France, fortified with his weighty
recommendation, and to bring to the king the flags we had conquered. But
my only ambition and desire was to see you, Diane, to speak with you,
and to learn from your own lips if you were entering into this new
contract of your own free will; and finally, after having told you, as I
have just done, of all my struggles and endeavors for these six years,
to ask you what I now ask you once more: 'Tell me, Diane, do you love me
as I love you?"

"Dear friend," said Madame de Castro, softly, "I will now respond by
telling you of my life in return for yours. When I came to court, a mere
child of twelve, after the first moments of wonder and childish
curiosity, I grew weary of it all; the gilded chains of my life here
weighed heavily upon me, and I bitterly regretted our dear woods and
fields at Vimoutiers and Montgommery, Gabriel! Every night I cried
myself to sleep. But the king my father was very kind to me, and I tried
to give him my love in return for his tenderness. But where was my
freedom? Where was Aloyse? And, oh, where were you, Gabriel? I didn't
see the king every day. Madame de Valentinois was very cold and
constrained with me, and seemed almost to avoid me; and I, Gabriel, I
had always need of being loved, as you must remember. Oh, I suffered
bitterly that first year, dear."

"Poor dear Diane!" said Gabriel, much moved.

"And so," Diane resumed, "while you were fighting, I was pining away.
Man acts, and woman waits,--such is destiny. But it is sometimes much
harder to wait than to act. After the first year of my loneliness, the
death of the Duc de Castro left me a widow, and the king sent me to pass
my period of mourning at the convent of the Filles-Dieu. But the
tranquil and peaceful life which we led at the convent suited my nature
much better than the everlasting intriguing and excitement of the court;
so when my mourning was at an end, I sought and obtained the king's
leave to remain at the convent. At least, they loved me there,--good
Sister Monique above all, who reminded me of Aloyse. I tell you her
name, Gabriel, so that you may love her too. And then, not only did all
the sisters love me, but I could still dream, Gabriel; I had the time to
do it and the right. I was free; and who was the central figure of all
my dreams, of the past as well as of the future? Dear friend, you can
guess, can you not?"

Gabriel, reassured and enraptured, answered only by a look of passionate
affection. Luckily the comedy had become very engrossing. The braggart
was being well scoffed at; and the Guise and Montmorency factions were
howling themselves hoarse with delight. The lovers might as well have
been alone in a desert.

"Five tranquil and hopeful years passed away," continued Diane. "I had
had only one misfortune, in the death of Enguerrand, my foster-father.
But a second one was not long in coming. The king recalled me to court,
and informed me that I was the destined bride of François de
Montmorency. I resisted this time, Gabriel, for I was no longer a child,
who did not know what she was doing. I resisted. Then my father went on
his knees to me, and pointed out to me how deeply this marriage
concerned the well-being of the realm. You had forgotten me, no doubt.
It was the king who said that, Gabriel. And then where were you, and who
were you? In short, the king persisted so, and begged me so
appealingly--it was yesterday, yes, only yesterday--that I promised what
he wished, Gabriel, but only on condition that, in the first place, my
sacrifice should be delayed for three months; and in the second place, I
should find out what had become of you."

"But you did promise?" said Gabriel, turning pale.

"I did, but I had not then seen you, dear; and I had no idea that the
very same day your unlooked-for appearance was to stir again in my heart
both joyful and sad emotions as soon as I recognized you. Ah, Gabriel,
handsomer and prouder than of old, but still the same! I knew all at
once that my promise to the king was of no effect, and this marriage
impossible; that my life belongs to you, and that, if you still loved
me, I would love you forever. Well, now, don't you agree that I am no
longer in debt to you, and that your life has no reproach to make to
mine?"

"Oh, you are an angel, Diane! And all that I have done to deserve your
love is nothing."

"And now, Gabriel, since fate has brought us together for a little, let
us consider the obstacles which still keep us asunder. The king is
ambitious for his daughters; and the Castros and the Montmorencys
between them have made him hard to manage, alas!"

"Make your mind easy on that score, Diane, for the family to which I
belong has nothing to ask from either of them, and it will not be the
first time either that it has been allied with the royal family of
France."

"Really, Gabriel! you fill my cup of joy to the full, in telling me
that. I am, as you know, very ignorant in heraldic matters; I do not
know the Exmès. Down at Vimoutiers I called you Gabriel; and my heart
had no need of a sweeter name than that. That is the name that I love;
and if you think that your other name will satisfy the king, why, all is
well, and I am happy indeed. Whether you are Exmès or Guise or
Montmorency, as long as you are not called Montgommery, all is well."

"And why, then, must I not be a Montgommery?" asked Gabriel, beginning
to be alarmed.

"Oh, the Montgommerys, our neighbors down yonder, have apparently done
the king some injury, for he hates them bitterly."

"Indeed!" said Gabriel, who began to feel a choking sensation in his
throat; "but is it the Montgommerys who have injured the king, or is it
rather the king who has injured the Montgommerys?"

"My father is too kind-hearted to have ever been unjust, Gabriel."

"Kind to his daughter, yes," said Gabriel; "but where his enemies are
concerned--"

"He may be terrible," replied Diane, "as you are against the enemies of
France and the king. But what does it matter, and what have the
Montgommerys to do with us, Gabriel?"

"But if I were a Montgommery, Diane?"

"Oh, do not say that, dear."

"But if it should be so?"

"In that case," said Diane, "if I found myself thus obliged to choose
between my father and you, I would throw myself at the feet of the
injured party, whichever it might be, and I would beg my father to
forgive you for my sake, or I would beg you to forgive my father for my
sake."

"And your voice is so powerful, dear Diane, that the injured one would
surely yield to your prayers, if there had never been blood shed; for
blood can only be washed out by blood."

"Oh, you frighten me, Gabriel! Come, this is far enough to carry this
test of my love; for it was nothing but a test, was it?"

"No, Diane, nothing but a test. God grant that it may prove to be
nothing more!" he murmured under his breath.

"And there is not, there cannot be any bad blood between my father and
you?"

"I hope not, Diane, I hope not; I should suffer too bitterly in making
you suffer."

"That's right, Gabriel. And if you hope not, Gabriel," she added with
her lovely smile, "I hope, for my part, to induce my father to give up
this marriage which would be my death-warrant. Such a mighty king as he
ought to have enough ways of making it up to the Montmorencys."

"No, Diane; and all his treasures and all his power could not make up to
them for losing you."

"Ah, that's your way of looking at it. But you did frighten me, Gabriel.
But never fear, dear; François de Montmorency doesn't think as you do
on this subject, thank God! and he would much prefer the bâton which
will make a marshal of him, to your poor Diane. But I, having accepted
this happy exchange, will prepare the king for it very gently. I will
remind him of the royal alliances of the D'Exmès family, and of your
own personal exploits, Gabriel."

She interrupted herself.

"Ah, _mon Dieu_! see, the play seems to be finished."

"Five acts, how short it has been!" said Gabriel. "But you are right,
Diane; and the epilogue is just pointing the moral of the piece."

"Luckily," said Diane, "we have said almost all that we had to say to
each other."

"I haven't said one thousandth part of it," said Gabriel.

"No, nor I really," said Diane; "and the queen's advances to you."

"Oh, you wretch!" said Gabriel.

"Oh, no, the wretch is she who smiles at you, and not I who grumble at
you, do you hear? Don't speak to her again this evening, will you, dear,
just to please me?"

"Just to please you! How good you are! No, I will not speak to her
again. But, see, the epilogue is also finished, alas! Adieu! but only
for a little while, is it, Diane? Say one last word to me to sustain and
comfort me, dear Diane."

"To meet soon again, and forever, Gabriel, my little _husband_,"
whispered the beaming maiden in the ear of the delighted Gabriel.

And she disappeared in the pushing, noisy crowd. Gabriel slunk away so
as to fulfil his promise of avoiding a meeting with the queen. Such
touching fidelity to his oath! And he left the Louvre, convinced that
Antoine de Baïf was a very great man, and that he had never been
present at a performance which had given him so much pleasure.

As he passed into the vestibule, he picked up Martin-Guerre, who was
awaiting him, all radiant in his new clothes.

"Well, Monseigneur, did you see Madame d'Angoulême?" the squire asked
his master when they were in the street.

"I did see her," replied Gabriel, dreamily.

"And does Madame d'Angoulême still love Monsieur le Vicomte?" continued
Martin-Guerre, who saw that Gabriel was in a good humor.

"Rascal!" cried Gabriel, "who told you that? Where did you learn that
Madame de Castro loved me, or that I loved Madame de Castro alone? Be
good enough to hold your tongue, villain!"

"Oh, well," muttered Master Martin, "Monseigneur must be beloved, else
he would have sighed and would not have insulted me; and Monseigneur
must be in love or he would have noticed my new cape and breeches."

"Why do you prate to me of breeches and cape? But really, you didn't
have that doublet a short time ago, did you?"

"No, Monseigneur, I bought it this very evening to do honor to my master
and his mistress, and I paid cash for it too,--for my wife Bertrande did
teach me order and economy, as she taught me temperance and chastity and
all the virtues. I must do her that much justice; and if I had only been
able to instil a little mildness of temper into her, we should have made
the happiest couple in the world."

"It was well done of you, chatterbox, and I will repay your outlay,
since it was for me that you incurred it."

"Oh, how generous, Monseigneur! But if Monseigneur wishes me to hold my
peace about his secret, he should not give me this new proof that he is
loved as dearly as he loves. One never empties one's purse so readily,
when the heart is not overflowing. Besides, Monsieur le Vicomte knows
Martin-Guerre, and that he is to be trusted. Faithful and dumb as the
sword that he wears!"

"Very true; but no more of this, Master Martin."

"I leave Monseigneur to his dreams."

Gabriel was dreaming to such an extent that when he reached his chambers
he felt an absolute need of pouring his dreams into a sympathetic ear:
and he wrote that same night to Aloyse,--


MY DEAR ALOYSE,--Diane loves me! But no, that is not what I ought to say
to you first of all. My dear Aloyse, come and join me here; after six
years of separation, I must embrace you once more. The main points of my
life are now fixed. I am captain of the king's Guards,--one of the most
eagerly sought of all ranks in the army; and the name I have made for
myself will help me to reinstate in honor and renown that which I
inherit from my ancestors. And I have need of you for this latter task
too, Aloyse. And then I need you because I am so happy, because, I
repeat it, Diane loves me,--yes, the Diane of former days, my child
sister, who has never forgotten her good Aloyse, although she calls the
king her father. And then, Aloyse, this daughter of the king and Madame
de Valentinois, this widow of the Duc de Castro, has never forgotten,
and still loves with her whole dear soul her obscure Vimoutiers
playmate. She has told me so within the hour, and her sweet voice still
echoes in my heart.

So come, Aloyse, for I really am too happy to be alone in my happiness.




CHAPTER XI

PEACE OR WAR?


On the 7th of June there was a sitting of the king's council, and there
was a very full attendance of members of the council of state. About
Henri II. and the princes of the blood were this day assembled Anne de
Montmorency, the Cardinal de Lorraine and his brother Charles de Guise,
Archbishop of Reims, the chancellor Olivier de Lenville, President
Bertrand, Comte d'Aumale, Sedan, Humières, and Saint-André and his
son.

Vicomte d'Exmès, in his capacity of captain of the Guards, stood near
the door, with bared sword.

All the interest of the session was, as usual, centred in the
contentions between the rival ambitions of the houses of Montmorency and
Lorraine, represented on this occasion in the council by the constable
himself and the cardinal.

"Sire," said the Cardinal de Lorraine, "the danger is imminent, and the
enemy at our gates. A formidable army is being assembled in Flanders;
and Philip II. may invade our territory to-morrow, and Mary of England
declare war against you. Sire, you have a crying need for the presence
of a gallant leader, young and vigorous, who is not afraid to act
boldly, and whose very name would incite terror in the Spaniard by
reminding him of recent defeats."

"Like the name of your brother, Monsieur de Guise, for example," said De
Montmorency, sarcastically.

"Like the name of my brother, to be sure," replied the cardinal,
valiantly; "like the name of the victor of Metz, of Renty, and of
Valenza. Yes, Sire, the Duc de Guise is the man whom you should summon
home at once from Italy, where men and supplies are lacking, where he is
like to be compelled to raise the siege of Civitella, and where his
presence and that of his army, which might be so useful against the
threatened invasion here, can be of no further use."

The king turned carelessly toward Monsieur de Montmorency, as if to say,
"Now it is your turn."

"Sire," the constable replied to his glance, "recall the army, by all
means; and this absurd conquest of Italy, about which there has been so
much braggadocio, will end, as I have always said, in ridicule. But what
need have you of the general? Look at the latest intelligence from the
North: the Flemish frontier is quiet; Philip II. is quaking in his
shoes; and Mary of England hasn't a word to say. You may still renew
the truce, Sire, or dictate terms of peace, as you choose. It is no
adventurous captain of whom you now have need, but a shrewd and
experienced minister, who is not blinded by the rash impetuosity of
youth, and in whose eyes war is not the mere plaything of an insatiable
ambition, but who can lay the foundations of an honorable peace on terms
consistent with the glory and dignity of France--"

"Like yourself, for instance, Monsieur le Connétable," interrupted the
Cardinal de Lorraine, bitterly.

"Like myself," was Anne de Montmorency's proud reply; "and I frankly
advise the king not to trouble himself further about the chances of a
war which can take place only if he chooses, and when he chooses.
Interior affairs, the condition of the treasury, and religious interests
have a much stronger claim upon our attention; and a prudent
administrator to-day will be worth a thousand times more than the most
enterprising general."

"And will have a thousand times greater claim upon his Majesty's favor,
eh?" was the cardinal's sharp retort.

"His Eminence has rounded out my reflection for me," continued
Montmorency, coolly; "and since he has put the question on that ground,
I will venture to ask his Majesty for a proof that my services in behalf
of peaceful measures are gratifying to him."

"What proof is that?" said the king, sighing.

"Sire, I beg your Majesty to make a public declaration of the honor
which you condescend to do my house by bestowing upon my son the hand of
Madame d'Angoulême. I must have this official demonstration and solemn
promise, so that I may steadfastly pursue my present course, without
having to combat the suspicions of my friends and the clamor of my
enemies."

This bold request was received, despite the king's presence, with signs
of applause or displeasure, according as the councillors belonged to one
or the other faction.

Gabriel turned pale and shuddered; but he recovered his courage somewhat
when he heard the Cardinal de Lorraine reply with spirit,--

"The Holy Father's bull, annulling the marriage of François de
Montmorency and Jeanne de Fiennes, has not yet arrived, so far as I
know, and may not arrive at all."

"Then we must get along without it," said the constable; "secret
marriages may be annulled by royal decree."

"But a decree cannot be made retroactive," was the cardinal's retort.

"But such an effect may be given to it, may it not, Sire? Say it aloud,
I conjure you, that those who attack me, as well as I myself, may have a
certain demonstration of your approbation of my views! Tell them that
your royal favor will go so far as to give a retroactive effect to this
just decree!"

"No doubt I can do it," said the king, whose feeble indecision seemed to
be yielding to this firm and steady language.

Gabriel had to lean heavily upon his sword to save himself from falling.

The constable's eyes shone with delight. The peace party seemed to be on
the verge of a decided triumph, thanks to his daring.

But at this moment the sound of trumpets was heard in the courtyard. The
air they were playing was an unfamiliar one, and the members of the
council looked wonderingly at one another. The usher came in almost
immediately, and bowing to the ground, announced,--

"Sir Edward Fleming, herald of England, begs the honor of being admitted
to your Majesty's presence."

"Let the herald of England enter," said the king, marvelling, but
outwardly calm.

He made a sign, and the dauphin and the princes came and stood about
him, while the other members of the council took their places outside
the royal circle. The herald, accompanied only by two armed attendants,
was ushered in. He saluted the king, who nodded his head slightly from
the sofa on which he remained seated.

Then said the herald,--

"Mary, Queen of England and France, to Henri, King of France: For having
maintained friendly relations with the English Protestants, enemies of
our religion and our State, and for having tendered and promised them
aid and protection against the just and deserved penalties incurred by
them, we, Mary of England, do declare war by land and by sea against
Henri of France. And as a gage of this defiance, I, Edward Fleming,
herald of England, do here fling down my gauntlet of battle."

At a sign from the king the Vicomte d'Exmès stepped forward and picked
up Sir Edward's glove. Then Henri said coolly to the herald the one
word,--

"Thanks!"

Thereupon he took off the magnificent necklace which he wore, and gave
it to Gabriel to hand to the herald, and said, inclining his head once
more,--

"You may now withdraw."

The herald bowed low and left the hall. A moment later the blare of the
English trumpets was heard once more, whereupon the king broke the
silence.

"Well, my Cousin de Montmorency," said he to the constable, "you seem to
have been a little too hasty in promising peace, and in answering for
the good intentions of Queen Mary. This alleged patronage of the English
Protestants is a mere pious pretext to conceal the love of our sister of
England for her young husband Philip II. War with the husband and wife
both! Well, so be it! A king of France need not fear all Europe; and if
the Flemish frontier will only give us a little time to look around--
Well, Florimond, again? What is it now?"

"Sire," said the usher, re-entering, "a special courier with important
despatches from Monsieur le Gouverneur de Picardie."

"Go and see what it is, I beg, Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine," said
the king, graciously.

The cardinal returned with the despatches, which he handed to the king.

"Ah, ah, gentlemen," said the king, casting his eye upon them, "a
different sort of news this. The forces of Philip II. are assembling at
Givet, and Monsieur Gaspard de Coligny advises us that the Duke of Savoy
is at their head. A worthy foe! Your nephew, Monsieur le Connétable,
thinks that the Spanish troops are about to attack Mezières and Rocroy,
so as to cut off Marienbourg. He asks for speedy reinforcements, to
enable him to strengthen these places, and hold his own in case he is
attacked."

The whole assemblage was in a state of great emotion and excitement.

"Monsieur de Montmorency," said Henri, smiling calmly, "you are not
happy in your predictions to-day. 'Mary of England,' said you, 'has not
a word to say;' and we have only just been hearing her trumpets
sounding. 'Philip II. is afraid, and the Low Country quiet,' you added.
Now, the King of Spain seems to be no more afraid than ourselves, while
the Flemish are very far from quiet. I must say that I am convinced that
the prudent administrator will have to make way for the gallant
soldier."

"Sire," said Anne de Montmorency, "I am Constable of France, and war
knows even more of me than peace."

"Very true, my good cousin, and I am glad to see that you remember
Bicocque and Marignan, and that warlike impulses are coming back to you
again. Draw your sword from the scabbard, then, and I shall rejoice. All
that I wish to say is that we must think now of nothing but war, and of
honorable and glorious war. Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine, be good
enough to write to your brother, Monsieur de Guise, to return
immediately. As for internal affairs and family matters, they must be
postponed; and I think we shall have to wait for the Pope's
dispensation, Monsieur de Montmorency, before considering farther the
proposed marriage of Madame d'Angoulême."

The constable made a wry face, while the cardinal smiled, and Gabriel
breathed again.

"Come, gentlemen," added the king, who seemed to have shaken off his
indifference all at once, "come, we must collect our thoughts now with
so many serious matters to consider. The session is at an end for this
morning, but the council will meet again this evening. Till evening,
then, and God protect France!"

"_Vive le roi_!" cried the members of the council with one voice.

And the assemblage dispersed.




CHAPTER XII

A TWOFOLD KNAVE


The constable left the king's presence buried in thought. Master Arnauld
du Thill put himself in his way, and accosted him in a low voice.

This took place in the grand gallery of the Louvre,

"Monseigneur, one word--"

"Who is it?" said the constable. "Ah, you, Arnauld? What do you want
with me? I am hardly in trim to listen to you to-day."

"Yes, I imagined," said Arnauld, "that Monseigneur was vexed by the turn
which the marriage project concerning Madame Diane and Monseigneur
François has taken."

"How did you know that, you rascal? But after all, what does it matter
who knows it? The wind is from a stormy quarter, and favors the Guises,
that is sure."

"But to-morrow it may be a fair wind for the Montmorencys," said the
spy; "and if there is none but the king against this marriage to-day,
why, he will be for it to-morrow. No, the fresh obstacle which bars our
way, Monseigneur, is a more serious one, and comes from another
quarter."

"And whence can come a more serious obstacle than the disapprobation or
even lukewarmness of the king?"

"From Madame d'Angoulême herself, for instance," replied Arnauld.

"You have scented something in that quarter, have you, my keen hound?"
said the constable, drawing nearer to him, and evidently becoming
interested.

"And how did Monseigneur suppose that I had passed the fortnight that
has elapsed?"

"True, it is a long while since I have heard a word of you."

"Neither directly nor indirectly, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld,
proudly; "and you, who used to reproach me for being mentioned rather
too often in the police-patrol reports, must confess, I think, that for
two weeks I have worked shrewdly and quietly."

"True again," said the constable; "and I have been surprised that I
haven't had to intervene to get you out of trouble, you varlet, who are
always drinking when you're not gambling, and rioting when you're not
fighting."

"And the troublesome hero of the last fifteen days has been not I,
Monseigneur, but a certain squire of the new captain of the Guards,
Vicomte d'Exmès, one Martin-Guerre."

"Yes, I remember now that Martin-Guerre's name has taken Arnauld du
Thill's place in the report that I have to examine every evening."

"For instance, who was picked up drunk by the watch the other night?"
asked Arnauld.

"Martin-Guerre."

"And who, after a quarrel at the gaming-table on account of dice found
to be cogged, struck with his sword the finest of the king's gendarmes?"

"Martin-Guerre again."

"And who only yesterday was taken in the act of trying to carry off the
wife of Master Gorju, the ironmonger?"

"Always this same Martin-Guerre," said the constable. "An abominable
rascal, to be sure. And his master, this Vicomte d'Exmès, whom I
instructed you to keep a sharp watch on, is not likely to be of much
more worth than he; for he upholds and defends him, and vows that his
squire is the mildest and most sedate of men."

"That is what you used to have the goodness to say of me, Monseigneur.
Martin-Guerre believes that he is possessed by the Devil, whereas in
truth it is I who possess him."

"What! What do you mean? You are not Satan, are you?" cried the
constable, crossing himself in his terror, for he was as ignorant as a
fool, and as superstitious as a monk.

Master Arnauld replied only with an infernal leer; but when he thought
he had alarmed Montmorency sufficiently, he said,--

"Oh, no, I am not the Devil, Monseigneur. To prove it to you and to
reassure you, I ask you to give me fifty pistoles. Now, if I were the
Devil, should I have any need of money, and couldn't I draw myself out
of all my scrapes with my tail?"

"That's true," said the constable; "and here are your fifty pistoles."

"Which I have well earned, Monseigneur, by gaining the confidence of
Vicomte d'Exmès; for although I am not the Devil, I am a bit of a
sorcerer, and have only to don a certain brown doublet, and draw on
certain yellow breeches, to make Vicomte d'Exmès speak to me as if I
were an old friend and a tried confidant."

"Hm! all this has a smack of the gallows," said the constable.

"Master Nostradamus, just from seeing me pass in the street, predicted
for me, after one glance at my face, that I should die between heaven
and earth. So I resign myself to my destiny, and devote it to your
interests, Monseigneur. To know that one is to be hung is a priceless
advantage. A man who is sure of meeting his end on the gallows, fears
nothing, not even the gallows themselves. To begin with, I have made
myself the double of Vicomte d'Exmès's squire. I told you that I would
accomplish miracles! Now, do you know, or can you guess, who this
viscount is?"

"_Parbleu_! a lawless partisan of the Guises."

"Better than that. The accepted lover of Madame de Castro."

"What's that you say, villain? How do you know that?"

"I am the viscount's confidant, as I told you. It is I who generally
carry his notes to the fair one, and bring back the reply. I am on the
best of terms with the lady's maid, who is astonished only to have so
changeable a lover,--bold as a page one day, and the next day as shy as
a nun. The viscount and Madame de Castro meet at the queen's levees
three times a week, and write every day. However, you may believe me or
not, their affection is absolutely pure. Upon my word, I should be
interested for them, if I were not interested for myself. They love each
other like cherubs, and have from childhood, so far as I can make out. I
have opened their letters now and then, and they have really moved me.
Madame Diane is jealous; and of whom, do you suppose, Monseigneur? Of
the queen! But she is altogether wrong, poor child. It may be that the
queen thinks about Monsieur d'Exmès--"

"Arnauld," the constable interposed, "you are a slanderer!"

"And that smile of yours is quite as slanderous as my words," replied
the blackguard. "I was saying that while it might well be that the queen
was thinking about the viscount, it is perfectly certain that the
viscount is not thinking about the queen. Their young loves are Arcadian
in their simplicity and perfectly irreproachable, and move me like a
gentle pastoral of ancient Rome or of the days of chivalry; and yet it
doesn't prevent me, God help me, from betraying them for fifty
pistoles, the poor little turtle-doves! But confess, Monseigneur, that
I was right in saying, as I did at first, that I have well earned those
same fifty pistoles."

"Indeed you have," said the constable; "but once more I ask you how you
have come to be so well informed?"

"Ah, Monseigneur, pardon me; that is my secret, which you may try to
guess if you choose, but which I certainly shall not disclose. Besides,
my means of information are of little consequence to you (for I alone am
responsible for them, after all) provided you attain your end. Now, your
end is to be informed as to all proceedings and plans which may tend to
injure you; and it seems to me that my revelation of to-day is not
unimportant, and may be of great use to you, Monseigneur."

"You are quite right, you rascal; but you must continue to play the spy
on this damned viscount."

"I will, Monseigneur; I am as devoted to you as I am to vice. You will
give me pistoles, and I will give you words, and we shall both be
content. Ah, there's some one coming into the gallery. A woman! The
devil! I must bid you adieu, Monseigneur."

"Who is it, pray?" asked the constable, whose sight was beginning to
fail.

"Good Lord! it's Madame de Castro herself, who is going to the king, no
doubt; and it is very important that she should not see me with you,
Monseigneur, although she wouldn't know me in this dress. She is coming
this way, and I must avoid her."

And he made his escape in the opposite direction from that in which
Diane was coming.

The constable hesitated a moment; then, making up his mind to satisfy
himself of the accuracy of Arnauld's report, he advanced boldly to meet
Madame d'Angoulême.

"Were you going to the king's closet, Madame?" said he.

"I was, Monsieur le Connétable."

"I am much afraid that you will not find his Majesty disposed to listen
to you, Madame," replied Montmorency, naturally alarmed at this step;
"and the serious news he has received--"

"Make this just the very most opportune moment for me, Monsieur."

"And against me, Madame, am I not right? For you have bitter enmity for
us."

"Alas, Monsieur le Connétable, I have no enmity against anybody in the
world."

"Have you really nothing in your heart but love?" asked De Montmorency,
in so meaning a tone that Diane Mushed and lowered her eyes. "And it is
on account of that love, no doubt, that you oppose the king's wishes and
the hopes of my son?"

Diane in her embarrassment held her peace.

"Arnauld has told me the truth," thought the constable; "and she does
love this handsome triumphal messenger of Monsieur de Guise."

"Monsieur le Connétable," Diane found strength to say at last, "my duty
calls upon me to yield obedience to the king, but I have the right to
implore my father."

"And so," said the constable, "you persist in going to find the king."

"Indeed I do."

"Oh, well! then I shall go and see Madame de Valentinois, Madame."

"As you please, Monsieur."

They bowed, and left the gallery by opposite doors; and as Diane entered
the king's closet, old Montmorency was ushered into the favorite's
apartments.




CHAPTER XIII

THE ACME OF HAPPINESS


"Here, Master Martin," said Gabriel to his squire on the same day and
almost at the same hour, "I must go and make my rounds, and shall not
return to the house within two hours. Do you, Martin, in one hour go to
the usual place and wait there for a letter, an important letter, which
Jacinthe will hand you as usual. Don't lose a moment, but make haste to
bring it to me. If I have finished my rounds, I shall be before you,
otherwise await me here. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Monseigneur, but I have a favor to ask of you."

"What is it?"

"Let me have one of the Guards to keep me company, Monseigneur, I
implore you."

"A guard to keep you company. What is this new madness? What are you
afraid of?"

"I am afraid of myself," replied Martin, piteously. "It seems,
Monseigneur, that I outdid myself last night! Up to then I had exhibited
myself only as a drunkard and a gambler and a bully; but now I have
become a rake! I whom all Artigues respected for the purity of my morals
and my ingenuous mind! Would you believe, Monseigneur, that I have sunk
so low as to have made an attempt at abduction last night? Yes, at
abduction! I tried by main force to carry off the wife of Gorju, the
iron-monger,--a very lovely woman, so they say. Unfortunately, or
fortunately rather, I was arrested; and if I had not been still in your
employ, and recommended by you, I should have passed the night in
prison. It's infamous!"

"Well, Martin, were you dreaming when you committed this last prank?"

"Dreaming! Monseigneur, here is the report. When I read it, I blushed up
to my ears. Yes, there was a time when I believed that all these
infernal performances were frightful nightmares, or that the Devil
amused himself by taking on my form for the purposes of his horrible
nightly deeds. But you undeceived me; and besides, I never see now the
one that I used to take for my shadow. The holy priest in whose hands I
have placed the guidance of my conscience has also undeceived me; and he
who so persistently violates all divine and human laws, the guilty one,
the wretch, the villain, is no doubt myself, judging from what is told
me. So that is what I shall believe henceforth. Like a hen who hatches
out ducklings, my soul has given birth to honest thoughts, which have
resulted in wicked deeds. I should not dare to say except to you that I
am possessed, Monseigneur, because if I did I should be burned alive at
short notice; but it must be, as you can see, that at certain times I
really do have, as they say, the Devil in me."

"No, no, my poor Martin," said Gabriel, laughing; "but you have been
indulging rather too freely in strong drink for some time, I fancy, and
when you are drunk, why, deuce take it! you see double."

"But I never drink anything but water, Monseigneur, nothing but water!
Surely this water from the Seine doesn't go to the head--"

"But, Martin, how about the evening when you were laid under the porch
dead-drunk?"

"Well, Monseigneur, that evening I went to bed and to sleep, commending
my soul to God; I rose also as virtuous as when I went to bed; and it
was from you and you only that I learned what I had been doing. It was
the same way the night when I wounded that magnificent gendarme, and the
other night of this most shameful assault. And yet I get Jérôme to
shut my door and lock me into my room, and I close the shutters and
fasten them with triple chains; but, _basta_! nothing is of any use. I
must believe that I get up, and that my vicious night-walking existence
begins. In the morning when I wake I ask myself. 'What have I been
doing, I wonder, during my absence last night?' I go down to find out
from you, Monseigneur, or from the district reports, and at once go to
relieve my conscience of these new crimes at the confessional, where I
can no longer obtain absolution, which is rendered impossible by my
everlasting backsliding. My only consolation is to fast and mortify the
flesh part of every day by severe scourging. But I shall die, I foresee
it, in final impenitence."

"Rather believe, Martin, that this evil spirit will be appeased, and
that you will become once more the discreet and sober Martin of other
days. Meanwhile, obey your master, and faithfully discharge the
commission with which he intrusts you. But how can you ask me to allow
you to have any one with you? You know very well that all this business
must be kept secret, and that you alone are in my confidence."

"Be sure, Monseigneur, that I will do my utmost to satisfy you. But I
cannot answer for myself, I warn you beforehand."

"Oh, this is too much, Martin! Why do you say so?"

"Don't be impatient on account of my absence, Monseigneur. I think that
I am there, and I am here; that I will do this, and I do that. The other
day, having thirty _Paters_ and thirty _Aves_ to say for penance, I
determined to triple the dose so as to mortify my spirit by tiring
myself beyond endurance; and I remained or thought that I remained in
the church of St. Gervais telling my beads for two hours and more. Oh,
well! when I got back here I learned that you had sent me to carry a
letter, and that in proof of it I had brought back a reply; and the next
day Dame Jacinthe--another fine woman, alas!--complained of me for
having been rather free with her the day before. And that has happened
three times, Monseigneur; and you wish me to be sure of myself after my
imagination has played me such tricks as that? No, no, I am not
sufficiently master of myself for that; and although the blessed water
does not burn my fingers, still there are times when there is somebody
else than Master Martin in my skin."

"Well, I will run the risk," said Gabriel, losing his patience; "and
since you have, at all events up to now, whether you have been at church
or in the Rue Froid-Manteau, skilfully and faithfully acquitted yourself
of the trust I have imposed upon you, you will do the same to-day; and
let me tell you, if you need such a stimulus to your zeal, that in this
letter you will bring me my happiness or my despair."

"Oh, Monseigneur, my devotion to you doesn't need to be worked upon, I
assure you; and if it wasn't for these devilish substitutions--"

"What! are you going to begin again?" Gabriel interrupted. "I must go;
and do you start too in about an hour, and don't forget a single point
of my instructions. One word more: you know that for several days past I
have been anxiously expecting my nurse Aloyse out of Normandy; and you
understand that if she comes while I am away, you must give her the room
adjoining mine, and make her as welcome as if she were in her own house.
You will remember?"

"Yes, Monseigneur."

"Come, then, Martin, we must be prompt to act, and discreet, and, above
all, not lose our presence of mind."

Martin replied only with a repressed sigh; and Gabriel left his house in
the Rue des Jardins.

He came back two hours later, as he had said, absorbed and preoccupied.
As he entered, he saw only Martin, rushed up to him, seized the letter
which he had expected with so much impatience, made a gesture of
dismissal, and read:--


"Let us thank God, Gabriel," said this letter; "the king has yielded,
and our happiness is assured. You must have learned of the arrival of
the herald from England, bearing a declaration of war in the name of
Queen Mary, and of the great preparations in Flanders. These events,
threatening for France, perhaps, are favorable to our love, Gabriel,
since they add to the influence of the young Duc de Guise, and tend to
lower that of old Montmorency. The king, however, still hesitated; but I
implored him, Gabriel: I said that I had found you again, and that you
were noble and valiant; and I told him your name--so much the worse! The
king, without promising anything, said that he would reflect; that after
all, when the affairs of State became less urgent, it would be cruel in
him to compromise my happiness; and that he could make some amends to
François de Montmorency with which he would have to be content. He has
promised nothing, but he will do everything, Gabriel. Oh, you will learn
to love him, as I do, this kind father of mine, who is going to bring to
pass all the dreams we have dreamed these last six years! I have so much
to say to you, and these written words are so cold! Listen, my friend,
come to-night at six o'clock during the council. Jacinthe will bring you
to me, and we will have a good long hour to talk of the bright future
which is opening before us. But I can foresee that this Flanders
campaign will claim you, and that you must make it, alas! to serve the
king and to deserve my hand,--mine, who love you so dearly. For I do
love you, _mon Dieu_, I do! Why should I try now to conceal it from you?
Come to me, then, so that I may see if you are as happy as your Diane."


"Oh, yes, indeed I am happy!" cried Gabriel, aloud, when he had finished
the letter; "and what is lacking to my happiness now?"

"The presence of your old nurse, no doubt," unexpectedly replied Aloyse,
who had been sitting motionless and silent in the shadow.

"Aloyse!" cried Gabriel, rushing to her and embracing her: "oh, Aloyse,
my dear old nurse, if you only knew how I wanted you! How are you? You
have not changed a bit. Kiss me again. I have not changed any more than
you, in heart at least,--the heart that loves you so. I was worried to
death at your delay: ask Martin. And why have you kept me waiting so
long?"

"The recent storms, Monseigneur, have washed away the roads; and if I
had not been in so great a state of excitement over your letter that it
made me brave enough to venture in spite of obstacles of every sort, I
should not have been here yet."

"Oh, you did very well to make such haste, Aloyse, you did very well;
for really what good is it to be so happy all by one's self? Do you see
this letter I have just received? It is from Diane, your other child,
and she tells me--do you know what she tells me?--that the obstacles
which stood in the way of our love may be removed; that the king will no
longer require her to marry François de Montmorency; and last and best
of all, that Diane loves me,--yes, that she loves me! And you are at
hand to hear all this, Aloyse; so tell me, am I not really at the very
acme of happiness?"

"But suppose, Monseigneur," said Aloyse, maintaining the grave and
melancholy tone she had assumed at first, "suppose that you had to give
up Madame de Castro?"

"Impossible, Aloyse! and just when these difficulties have smoothed
themselves all out!"

"Difficulties created by man may always be overcome," said the nurse;
"but not so with those which God interposes, Monseigneur. You know
whether I love you, and whether I would not give my life to spare yours
the mere shadow of trouble; well, then, suppose I say to you: 'Without
asking for the reason, Monseigneur, give up all thoughts of Madame de
Castro, cease to see her, and crush out this passion for her by every
means in your power. A fearful secret, which in your own interest I
implore you not to ask me to disclose, lies between you two, to keep you
apart.' Suppose I should say this to you, begging you on my knees to do
as I asked, what would your reply be, Monseigneur?"

"If it were my life which you asked me to destroy, Aloyse, without
asking for the reason, I would gratify you. But my love is a matter
outside my own will, nurse, for it also comes from God."

"Oh, good Lord!" cried the nurse, joining her hands, "he blasphemes.
But you see that he knows not what he does, so pardon him, good Lord!"

"But you terrify me; don't keep me so long in this deathly anguish,
Aloyse, but whatever you would or ought to tell me, speak, speak, I
implore you!"

"Do you wish it, Monseigneur? Must I really reveal to you the secret
which I have sworn before God to keep, but which God Himself to-day bids
me keep no longer? Well, then, Monseigneur, you are deceived; you must
be, do you hear, it is absolutely necessary that you should be deceived
as to the nature of the sentiment which Diane inspires in you. It is not
desire and passion (oh, no! be sure that it is not), but it is a serious
and devoted affection, due to her need of the protecting hand of a
friend and brother,--nothing more tender or more absorbing than that,
Monseigneur."

"But you are wrong, Aloyse; the fascinating beauty of Diane--"

"I am not wrong," Aloyse made haste to say, "and you will soon agree
with me; for the proof of what I say will soon be as clear to you as to
myself. Know, then, that in all human probability Madame de
Castro--courage, my dear boy!--Madame de Castro is your sister!"

"My sister!" cried Gabriel, leaping from his chair as if he were on
springs. "My sister!" he repeated, almost beside himself. "How can it be
that the daughter of the king and Madame de Valentinois should be my
sister?"

"Monseigneur, Diane de Castro was born in May, 1539, was she not? Comte
Jacques de Montgommery, your father, disappeared in January of the same
year; and do you know of what he was suspected? Do you know what the
accusation was against him, your father? That he was the favored lover
of Madame Diane de Poitiers, and the successful rival of the dauphin,
who is to-day King of France. Now, compare the dates, Monseigneur."

"Heavens and earth!" cried Gabriel. "But let us see, let us see," he
went on, making a supreme effort to collect his senses; "my father was
accused, but who proved that the accusation had any basis in fact? Diane
was born five months after my fathers death; but how does that prove
that she is not the daughter of the king, who loves her as his own
child?"

"The king may be mistaken, just as I too may be mistaken, Monseigneur;
remember that I didn't say, 'Diane is your sister!' But it is probable
that she is; or if you choose, it is possible that she may be. Is it any
less my duty, my horribly painful duty, to give you this information,
Gabriel? I am right to do it, am I not? for you wouldn't give her up
without it. Now let your conscience decide as to your love; and may God
guide your conscience!"

"Oh, but this uncertainty is a million times more horrible than the
calamity itself," said Gabriel. "_Mon Dieu_! who can solve this doubt
for me?"

"The secret has been known to only two persons on earth, Monseigneur,"
said Aloyse; "and there have been but two human beings who could have
answered you: your father, who is buried in an unknown tomb, and Madame
de Valentinois, who will not be likely to confess, I imagine, that she
has deceived the king, and that her daughter is not his."

"Yes; and in any event, if I do not love my own father's daughter," said
Gabriel, "I love the daughter of my father's murderer! For it is the
king, it is Henri II., on whom I must wreak vengeance for the death of
my father, is it not, Aloyse?"

"Who knows but God?" replied the nurse.

"Confusion and darkness, doubt and terror everywhere!" cried Gabriel.
"Oh, I shall go mad, nurse! But no," continued the brave youth, "I must
not go mad yet; I must not! I will in the first place exhaust every
possible means of learning the truth. I will go to Madame de
Valentinois, and will demand from her the secret, which I will sacredly
keep. She is a good and devout Catholic, and I will obtain from her an
oath which will make me sure of her sincerity. I will go to Catherine de
Médicis, who may perhaps know something. I will go to Diane, too, and
with my hand on my heart will ask the question of my heart-beats. I
would go to my father's tomb, if I but knew where it lies, Aloyse, and I
would call upon him with a voice so potent that he would rise from the
dead to reply to me."

"Poor dear child!" whispered Aloyse, "so brave and strong, even after
this fearful blow; and showing such a bold front to such a cruel fate!"

"And I will not lose a moment about going to work," said Gabriel, rising
with a sort of feverish animation. "It is now four o'clock; in half an
hour I shall be with Madame la Sénéchale; an hour later with the
queen; and at six at the rendezvous where Diane awaits me; and when I
see you again this evening, Aloyse, I may perhaps have lifted a corner
of this gloomy veil in which my destiny is now shrouded. Farewell till
evening."

"And I, Monseigneur, can I do nothing to help you in this formidable
undertaking?"

"You can pray to God for me, Aloyse."

"For you and Diane, yes, Monseigneur."

"Pray for the king, too, Aloyse," said Gabriel, darkly, and he left the
room precipitately.




CHAPTER XIV

DIANE DE POITIERS


The Constable de Montmorency was still with Diane de Poitiers, and was
addressing her in a loud voice, as rough and imperious with her as she
had shown herself sweet and gentle with him.

"Well, after all, she is your daughter, isn't she?" he was saying; "and
you have the same rights and the same authority over her as the king
has. Demand that this marriage take place!"

"But you must remember, my good friend, that having hitherto shown her
very little of a mother's affection I can hardly hope to exert a
mother's authority over her, and to chastise where I have never
caressed. We are, as you know, Madame d'Angoulême and myself, on very
cool terms with each other; and in spite of her advances at first, we
have only met at very long intervals. Besides, she has succeeded in
gaining a very great personal influence over the king's mind; and in
truth, I should find it hard to say which of us two is the more powerful
at this moment. What you ask me to do, my friend, is very difficult, not
to say impossible. Lay aside all thought of this marriage, and let us
replace it by a still more brilliant alliance. The king has betrothed
his little Jeanne to Charles de Mayenne; we will induce him to bestow
little Marguerite's hand on your son."

"My son sleeps in a bed and not in a cradle," replied the constable;
"and how, I should like to know, could a young girl, just learning to
talk, add to the fortunes of my family? Madame de Castro, on the other
hand, has, as you have just reminded me most opportunely, a vast
personal influence over the king; and that is why I wish her for my
daughter-in-law. _Mon Dieu_! it is a most extraordinary thing that when
a gentleman who bears the name of the foremost noble in Christendom
stoops to wed a bastard, he should meet with so many obstructions in
carrying out the _mésalliance_. Madame, you are no more the king's
favorite for nothing than I am your lover for nothing. In spite of
Madame de Castro, in spite of this fop who adores her, in spite of the
king himself, I insist that this marriage shall take place,--I insist
upon it."

"Oh, very well, my friend," replied Diane de Poitiers, meekly, "I agree
to do the possible and impossible to help you to attain your ends. What
more do you want me to say? But at least tell me that you will be kinder
to me, and will not rage and storm at me so, cruel one!"

And with her lovely red lips the beautiful duchess lightly touched old
Anne's rough grizzled beard, while he grumblingly submitted to the
caress.

For such was this singular passion, inexplicable except on the theory of
extraordinary depravity, which was nourished by the idolized favorite of
a handsome young monarch for an old graybeard who abused her.
Montmorency's rough brutality made amends to her for Henri's
love-making; and she took more delight in being ill-treated by the one
than in being petted and caressed by the other. Prodigious caprice of
the feminine heart! Anne de Montmorency was neither clever nor
brilliant; and he was, on very good grounds, reputed to be covetous and
stingy. The inhuman punishments he had inflicted upon the rebellious
population of Bordeaux had of themselves attached a sort of hateful
notoriety to his name. He was brave, it is true; but that quality is
common in France, and he had up to this time hardly ever been fortunate
in the battles in which he had taken part. At the victories of Ravenna
and Marignan, where he had held no command, he had not made himself
conspicuous above the common herd; at Bicocque, where he was colonel of
the Swiss Guards, he had let his regiment be almost cut to pieces; and
at Pavia he was taken prisoner. His military celebrity had not since
been increased, and St. Laurent had made a pitiable ending to it.
Without the favor of Henri II., inspired, no doubt, by Diane de
Poitiers, he would not have risen above the second place in the king's
council any more than in the army; and yet Diane loved him, coddled him,
and obeyed him in everything, being at once the favorite of a manly,
handsome young monarch and the slave of a ridiculous old veteran.

Just at this moment there was a discreet knock at the door; and a page,
entering at Madame de Valentinois's summons, announced that Vicomte
d'Exmès earnestly begged to be allowed a very brief audience of the
duchess on a most serious matter.

"The lover himself!" cried the constable. "What can he want of you,
Diane? Can he possibly have come to ask you for your daughter's hand?"

"Shall I allow him to come in?" meekly asked the favorite.

"Of course, of course; this incident may help us. But let him wait a
moment. Just one word more between ourselves."

Diane de Poitiers gave orders accordingly to the page, who left the
room.

"If Vicomte d'Exmès comes to you, Diane," the constable went on, "it
must be because some unexpected difficulties have arisen; and it must be
a very desperate emergency to drive him to resort to so desperate a
remedy. Now, listen carefully to what I say; and if you follow my
instructions to the letter, I will answer for it that your hazardous
interference with the king in this matter will be quite unnecessary.
Diane, whatever the viscount asks at your hands, refuse it. If he asks
what path he shall take, send him in the opposite direction to that in
which he wishes to go. If he wants you to say 'yes,' say 'no;' but say
'yes' if he hopes for a negative answer. Be contemptuous with him, and
haughty and ill-tempered, the worthy daughter of the fairy Mélusine,
from whom you of the family of Poitiers are said to have descended. Do
you understand me, Diane, and will you do as I say?"

"In every respect, my dear Constable."

"Then my fine fellow's threads will be considerably tangled, I fancy.
The poor fool, thus to walk right into the jaws of the--" he started to
say "she-wolf," but caught himself--"into the jaws of the waives. I
leave him to you, Diane; and you must give me a good account of this
handsome claimant. Till this evening!"

He condescended to kiss Diane's brow, and went out. Vicomte d'Exmès was
ushered in by another door.

Gabriel saluted Diane most respectfully, while she responded with an
impertinent nod. But Gabriel, buckling on his armor for this unequal
combat of burning passion against frigid vanity, began calmly enough:--

"Madame," said he, "the step which I have ventured to take with
reference to you is a bold one, no doubt, and may seem mad. But
sometimes in one's life circumstances come to light of such serious
moment as to lift us above the ordinary conventions and every day
scruples. Now, I am involved in one of these terrible crises of my
destiny, Madame. I, who speak to you, have come to put my life in your
hands; and if you let it fall, it will be broken forever."

Madame de Valentinois made not the least sign of encouragement. With her
body bent forward, resting her chin on her hand, and her elbow on her
knee, she gazed at Gabriel with a look of wonder mingled with weariness.

"Madame," he resumed, trying to shake off the gloomy effect of this
feigned indifference, "you either know or do not know that I love Madame
de Castro. I love her, Madame, with a deep, ardent, overpowering love."

"What is that to me?" seemed to say Diane de Poitiers's careless smile.

"I speak to you of this love which fills my whole soul, Madame, to
explain my saying that I ought to understand and excuse, yes, even
admire, the blind fatalities and insatiable demands of an engrossing
passion. So far from blaming it, as the common people do, or of pulling
it to pieces like the philosophers, or of condemning it like the
priests, I kneel before it and adore it as a blessing from the Most
High. It makes the heart into which it enters purer and more noble and
divine; and did not Jesus Himself consecrate it when He said to Mary
Magdalene that she was blessed above all other women for having loved so
well?"

Diane de Poitiers changed her position, and with eyes half closed
stretched herself out carelessly on her couch.

"I wonder how much longer his sermon is going to last," she was
thinking.

"Thus you see, Madame," continued Gabriel, "that love is in my eyes a
holy thing, and more than that, it is omnipotent. If the husband of
Madame de Castro were living still, I should love her just the same, and
should not even try to overcome the irresistible impulse. It is only a
false love which can be subdued; and true love no more flees from itself
than it commands its own beginning. So, Madame, you yourself, chosen and
beloved by the greatest king in the world,--you ought not to be, on that
account, out of all danger of contracting a sincere passion; and if you
had been unable to resist it, I should pity you and envy you, but I
would not condemn you."

Still unbroken silence on the part of the Duchesse de Valentinois.
Amused astonishment was the only emotion expressed upon her face.
Gabriel went on with still more warmth, as if to melt this brazen heart
with the flames that were seething in his own.

"A king falls in love with your adorable beauty, as may well be
imagined. You are touched by his affection; but may it not be that your
heart does not respond to it, much as it would like to do so? Alas! yes.
But standing near the king, a handsome gentleman, gallant and devoted,
sees you and loves you; and this more obscure but not less powerful
passion meets a response in your heart, which has not opened to admit
the thought of a king. But are you not a queen too, a queen of beauty,
just as the king who loves you is king in power? Are you not as
independent and free as he? Is it titles which win hearts? Who could
prevent you from having for one day, for one hour even, in your kind and
loving heart, preferred the subject to the master? It is not I, at all
events, who would have so little sympathy with lofty sentiments as to
esteem it a crime in Diane de Poitiers that being beloved of Henri II.,
she had loved the Comte de Montgommery."

Diane, at this home-thrust, made a sudden movement and half rose from
her seat, opening her great bright eyes to their fullest extent. Too few
persons at court knew her secret for her not to have felt a shock at
these words of Gabriel.

"Have you any substantial proof of this love that you prate of?" she
asked, not without a shade of anxiety in her tone.

"I have nothing but moral certainty of it, Madame," replied Gabriel;
"but I have that."

"Ah!" said she, resuming her insolent pouting. "Well, then, it is all
the same to me if I confess the truth to you. Yes, I did love the Comte
de Montgommery. And what next?"

But next, Gabriel had no more positive knowledge, and could only stumble
about in the darkness of conjecture. However, he continued:--

"You loved Jacques de Montgommery, Madame, and I venture to say that you
still love his memory; for if he disappeared from the face of the earth,
it was on your account and for your sake. Very well! it is in his name
that I come to beg your indulgence, and to ask you a question which will
seem to you, I say again, very presumptuous; but I also repeat that your
reply, if you are good enough to reply, will arouse only gratitude and
worship in my heart, for upon your reply my life hangs. Again I repeat
that if you do not refuse to answer me, I will be henceforward at your
service, body and soul; and the most firmly established power in the
world may sometime be in need of a devoted heart and hand, Madame."

"Go on, Monsieur," said the duchess, "and let us get at this terrible
question."

"I ought to ask it of you on my knees, Madame," said Gabriel, suiting
the action to the word.

And then he resumed with beating heart and faltering voice,--

"Madame, it was in the course of the year 1538 that you loved the Comte
de Montgommery, was it not?"

"Possibly," said Diane; "and then?"

"It was in January, 1539, that the Comte de Montgommery disappeared, and
in May, 1539, that Madame Diane de Castro was born?"

"Well?" asked Diane.

"Well, Madame!" said Gabriel, so low that she could hardly hear him,
"there lies the secret which at your feet I implore you to divulge to
me,--the secret on which my fate depends, and which shall die with me,
believe me, if you will deign to reveal it to me. On the crucifix which
hangs above your head, I swear it, Madame; I will yield up my life
rather than your confidence. And besides, you will always be able to
prove me a liar, for your word would be believed before mine; and I ask
you for no proof, but for your word alone. Madame, Madame, was Jacques
de Montgommery the father of Diane de Castro?"

"Oho!" said Diane, with a contemptuous laugh, "that is rather a bold
question; and you were quite right to precede it with such a lengthy
preamble. But never fear, Monsieur, I bear you no ill-will for it. You
have interested me like a riddle, and now you interest me still more;
for what is it to you, pray, Monsieur d'Exmès, whether Madame
d'Angoulême be the child of the king or the count? The king is supposed
to be her father, and that should satisfy your ambition, if you are
ambitious. Why do you draw me into it; and what claim have you to thus
question me about the past to no purpose? You have a reason, no doubt;
but what is the reason?"

"I have a reason indeed, Madame," said Gabriel; "but I conjure you not
to ask it of me for mercy's sake!"

"Oh, yes," said Diane, "you want to know my secrets and to keep yours to
yourself. That would be a very advantageous thing for you, no doubt!"

Gabriel detached the ivory crucifix which surmounted the carved oak
_prie-Dieu_ behind Diane's couch.

"By your everlasting salvation, Madame," said he, "swear to keep silent
as to what I tell you, and to make no use of it to my disadvantage!"

"Such an oath as that!" said Diane.

"Yes, Madame, for I know you to be a zealous and devout Catholic: and if
you swear by your everlasting salvation, I will believe you."

"And suppose I decline to swear?"

"I shall hold my peace, Madame, and you will have refused to save my
life."

"Do you know, Monsieur," replied Diane, "that you have strangely aroused
my woman's curiosity'? Yes, the mystery with which you so tragically
surround yourself attracts me and tempts me, I confess. You have
triumphed over my imagination to that extent, I tell you frankly; and I
did not suppose that any one could so pique my curiosity. If I swear, it
is, I give you fair warning, so that I may learn more about you. From
curiosity, pure and simple, I agree to do it."

"And I too, Madame," said Gabriel, "I implore you thus, so that I may
learn more; but my curiosity is that of the criminal awaiting his
death-sentence. Bitter and fearful curiosity, as you see! Will you take
this oath, Madame?"

"Say you the words, and I will say them after you, Monsieur."

And Diane said, after Gabriel, the following words:

"By my salvation, in this life and the next, I swear to reveal to no one
on earth the secret which you are about to impart to me, and never to
make any use of it to injure you, and to act in all ways just as if I
had never known it, and never should know it."

"Very well," said Gabriel, "and I thank you for this first proof of your
condescension. Now, in two words, you shall know all: my name is Gabriel
de Montgommery, and Jacques de Montgommery was my father!"

"Your father!" cried Diane, springing to her feet in a state of
stupefied excitement.

"So that if Diane de Castro is the count's daughter," said Gabriel,
"Diane de Castro, whom I love, or whom I thought that I loved to
distraction, is my sister!"

"Ah, I see," replied Diane de Poitiers, recovering herself a bit.--"This
will be the constable's salvation," she thought to herself.

"Now, Madame," continued Gabriel, pale but firm, "are you willing to do
me the further favor of swearing, as before, upon this crucifix, that
Madame de Castro is King Henri II.'s daughter? You do not reply? Oh, why
do you not reply. Madame?"

"Because I cannot take that oath, Monsieur."

"Ah, _mon Dieu, mon Dieu_! Diane is my father's child, then?" cried
Gabriel, tottering.

"I did not say that! I will never assent to that!" cried Madame de
Valentinois; "Diane de Castro is the king's daughter."

"Oh, really, Madame? Oh, how kind you are!" said Gabriel. "But, pardon
me! Your own interest may induce you to say so. So swear it, Madame,
swear it! In the name of your child, who will bless you for it, oh,
swear it!"

"I will not swear," said the duchess. "Why should I?"

"But, Madame," said Gabriel, "this very moment you took the same oath
simply to gratify your vulgar curiosity, as you told me yourself; and
now, when a man's very life is at stake, when by saying these few words,
you might rescue two souls from the bottomless pit, you ask, 'Why should
I say these words?'"

"But I will not swear, Monsieur," said Diane, coldly and decidedly.

"And if I should marry Madame de Castro notwithstanding, Madame, and if
Madame de Castro is my sister, don't you think that the crime will
rebound upon you?"

"No," replied Diane, "not when I have not taken my oath to it."

"Oh, horrible! horrible!" cried Gabriel. "But consider, Madame, that I
can tell everywhere that you loved the Comte de Montgommery, and were
false to the king, and that I, the count's son, am certain of it."

"Mere moral certainty, without proofs," said Diane, with a wicked smile,
having resumed her air of impertinent and haughty indifference. "I will
say that you lie, Monsieur; and you told me yourself that when you
affirm and I deny, you will not be the one to be believed. Consider,
too, that I can say to the king that you have presumed to make love to
me, threatening to circulate slanders about me if I didn't yield to
you. And then you will be lost, Monsieur Gabriel de Montgommery. But
pardon me," said she, rising; "I must leave you, Monsieur. You have
really entertained me exceedingly, and your story is a very singular
one."

She struck a bell, to summon a servant.

"Oh, this is infamous!" cried Gabriel, beating his brow with his
clinched fists. "Oh, why are you a woman, or why am I a man? But,
nevertheless, take care, Madame! for you shall not play with my heart
and my life with impunity; and God will punish you, and avenge me for
what you have done,--for this infamy, I say it again!"

"Do you think so?" said Diane. And she accompanied her words with a dry,
mocking little laugh which was peculiar to her.

At this moment, the page whom she had called raised the tapestry
curtain. She gave Gabriel a mocking salute and left the room.

"Well, well!" said she to herself, "my good constable is decidedly in
luck. Dame Fortune is like me,--she loves him. Why the devil do we love
him?"

Gabriel followed her out, mad with rage and grief.




CHAPTER XV

CATHERINE DE MÉDICIS


But Gabriel was strong and brave of heart, and filled with steadfast
resolution. After the consternation of the first moments had abated, he
shook off his despondency, held his head aloft once more, and requested
an audience of the queen.

Catherine de Médicis had no doubt heard of this mysterious tragedy of
her husband and the Comte de Montgommery; in fact, who knows that she
did not herself play a part in it. At that time she was hardly more than
twenty years old. Was it not likely that the jealousy of a beautiful but
abandoned young wife would cause her to keep her eyes constantly open to
every act and every misstep of her rival? Gabriel relied upon her memory
to throw light upon the darkness of the path along which he was groping
his way, but where he was so much interested in having his course made
clear to him both as lover and as son, for his happiness' sake or for
his revenge.

Catherine received Vicomte d'Exmès with that marked kindness which she
had not failed to show him on every occasion.

"Is it you, my handsome king of the lists?" said she. "To what happy
chance do I owe this welcome visit? You very seldom honor us, Monsieur
d'Exmès; and I think this is the very first time that you have sought
an audience of us in our apartments. But you are and always will be a
welcome guest, remember that."

"Madame," said Gabriel. "I do not know how to thank you for such
kindness; rest assured that my devotion--"

"Oh, never mind your devotion!" interposed the queen; "but let us come
to the object which brings you here. Can I serve you in any way?"

"Yes, Madame, I think that you can."

"So much the better, Monsieur d'Exmès," replied Catherine, with a most
engaging smile; "and if what you ask of me lies in my power, I promise
beforehand to grant it. That may be rather a compromising agreement,
perhaps, but I know you will not make an unfair use of it, my good
friend."

"God forbid, Madame! I have no such intention."

"Go on, then, and tell me," said the queen, sighing.

"It is information, Madame, that I have ventured to seek from
you,--nothing more. But to me this nothing is everything; so you will
excuse me, I know, for recalling memories which may be painful to your
Majesty. They relate to something which happened as long ago as the year
1539."

"Oh, dear, I was very young then,--almost a child," said the queen.

"But already very lovely, and most surely worthy of being loved,"
replied Gabriel.

"Some people used to say so," said the queen, delighted at the turn the
conversation was taking.

"And yet," Gabriel went on, "another woman dared to encroach upon the
right which was yours by the gift of God, and by your birth and beauty;
and not content with drawing away from you, by witchery and enchantment,
no doubt, the eyes and the heart of a husband who was too young to see
clearly, this woman betrayed him who had betrayed you, and loved the
Comte de Montgommery. But in your righteous contempt you may have
forgotten all this, Madame?"

"By no means," said the queen; "and this incident, with all the
intrigues dating from it, is very clear still in my mind. Yes, she loved
the Comte de Montgommery; and then, seeing that her passion was
discovered, she basely pretended that it was a mere feint to put the
dauphin's affection for her to the proof; and when Montgommery
disappeared, poor fellow,--made away with, perhaps, by her own
order,--she never shed a tear for him, but appeared at a ball the next
day, laughing and gay. Oh, yes, I shall always remember the first
schemes by means of which this woman undermined my new-born power; for I
was annoyed by them then, and I passed my days and my nights weeping.
But since then my pride has come to my aid. I have always fulfilled my
duty, and more too: I have compelled, by my dignified conduct,
consistent and constant respect for myself as wife, as mother, and as
queen. I have given seven children to the King of France; but now I love
my husband only with a tranquil sort of affection, as a friend and the
father of my sons, and I no longer recognize in him any right to demand
any tenderer emotion. My life has been devoted to the public good long
enough; and may I not now live a little for myself? Have I not bought my
happiness sufficiently dear? If the devotion of some young and
passionate heart should be laid at my feet, would it be a crime in me if
I did not spurn it, Gabriel?"

Catherine's glances were quite in keeping with her words; but Gabriel's
thoughts were elsewhere. As soon as the queen had ceased to speak of his
father, he had ceased to listen, and had lost himself in thought. This
revery, which Catherine interpreted as being in accord with her own
wishes, by no means displeased her. But Gabriel soon broke the silence.

"One last explanation, and the most serious of all," said he. "You are
so kind to me! I was sure that in coming to you I should be entirely
satisfied. You have spoken of devotion; you may count absolutely on
mine, Madame. But complete your work, for Heaven's sake! Since you knew
the details of this tragic incident in the life of the Comte de
Montgommery, do you know whether there was any doubt at the time that
Madame de Castro, who was born some months after the count's
disappearance, was really the king's daughter? Did not the tongue of
scandal, of calumny, I may say, set afloat suspicion in that direction
and ascribe to Monsieur de Montgommery the paternity of Diane?"

Catherine de Médicis looked at Gabriel for some time without a word, as
if to satisfy herself of the feeling which had dictated his words. She
thought she had discovered it, and began to smile.

"I have noticed," she said, "that you have been attracted by Madame de
Castro, and have been assiduously paying court to her. Now I see your
motive. Only, before you commit yourself, you wish to be sure, do you
not, that you are following no false scent, and that it is really a
daughter of the king to whom you are offering your homage? You don't
wish, after you have married the legitimatized daughter of Henri II., to
discover some fine day unexpectedly that your wife is the Comte de
Montgommery's illegitimate child? In a word, you are ambitious, Monsieur
d'Exmès. Don't protest, for it only makes me esteem you the more; and
more than that, it may be of advantage to my plans for you, rather than
detrimental to them. You are ambitious, are you not?"

"But, Madame," replied Gabriel, in great embarrassment, "perhaps it
amounts to that--"

"Very good; I see that I have guessed your secret, young gentleman,"
said the queen. "Well, then! Are you willing to believe a friend? In the
interest of these plans of yours, lay aside your views touching this
Diane. Give up this doll-faced chit. I don't know, to tell the truth,
whose daughter she is, whether king's or count's, and the last
supposition may very well be the true one; but if she were born of the
king, she is not the woman or the support that you stand in need of.
Madame d'Angoulême's is a weak and yielding nature, all feeling and
grace, if you please, but without force or energy or courage. She has
succeeded in winning the king's good graces, I agree; but she hasn't the
tact to take advantage of them. What you need, Gabriel, to help you to
the fulfilment of your noble dreams, is a virile and courageous heart,
which will assist you as it loves you, which will serve you and be
served by you, and which will fill both your heart and your life. Such
a heart you have found without being aware of it. Vicomte d'Exmès."

He looked at her in utter amazement; but she continued, warming to her
subject:--

"Listen: our lofty destiny makes us queens free from the observance of
the proprieties enjoined upon the common herd; and from our supreme
height if we wish to be the object of the affection of a subject, we
must take some steps forward ourselves, and extend a welcoming hand.
Gabriel, you are handsome, brave, ardent, and proud! Since the first
moment that I saw you I have felt for you a strange sentiment, and--I am
not in error, am I?--your words and your looks, and even this very
proceeding to-day, which is perhaps only a well-planned
détour,--everything combines to make me believe that I have not to do
with an ingrate."

"Madame!" said Gabriel, whose surprise had changed to alarm.

"Oh, yes, you are touched and surprised, I see," continued Catherine,
with her sweetest smile. "But you do not judge me harshly, do you, for
my necessary frankness? I say again, the queen must make excuses for the
woman. You are shy, with all your ambition, Monsieur d'Exmès; and if I
had been withheld by scruples which would be beneath me, I might have
been deprived of a devotion which is very precious to me. I much
preferred to be the first to speak. Come, then! collect yourself once
more. Am I such a very terrible object?"

"Oh, yes!" muttered Gabriel, pale and trembling.

But the queen entirely misinterpreted the meaning of his exclamation.

"Come, come!" said she, with a playful pretence of misgiving. "I have
not deprived you of your good sense yet, so far as to make you lose
sight of your own interests, as you proved by the questions you put to
me on the subject of Madame d'Angoulême. But set your mind at ease, for
I do not desire your abasement, I say again, but your elevation.
Gabriel, up to this time I have kept myself out of sight in the second
rank; but do you know, I shall soon shine in the first. Madame Diane de
Poitiers is no longer young enough to preserve her beauty and her
supremacy. On the day when that creature's prestige begins to wane, my
reign will begin; and mark well that I shall know how to reign, Gabriel.
The instincts of domination which I feel at work in me assure me of it;
and then, too, it is in the very Médicis blood. The king will learn
some day that he has no more clever adviser, none more skilful and more
experienced, than myself. And then, Gabriel, when that time comes, to
what heights may not that man aspire who linked his fortune with mine
when mine was still in the shadow; who loved in me the woman, not the
queen? Will not the mistress of the whole realm be able to recompense
worthily the man who devoted himself to Catherine? Will not this man be
her second self, her right arm, the real king, with a mere phantom of a
king above him? Will he not hold in his hand all the dignity and all the
might of France? A fair dream, is it not, Gabriel? Well, Gabriel, do you
choose to be that man?"

She valiantly held out her hand to him.

Gabriel kneeled at her feet and kissed that lovely white hand; but his
nature was too frank and loyal to allow him to involve himself in the
tricks and falsehoods of a simulated passion. Between deceit and danger
he was too honest and too bold to hesitate a moment, so raising his
noble head, he said,--

"Madame, the humble gentleman who is at your feet begs you to look upon
him as your most obedient servant and your most devoted subject; but--"

"But," said Catherine, smiling, "these are not the worshipful terms
which I require of you, my noble cavalier."

"And yet, Madame," continued Gabriel, "I cannot make use of any more
tender and affectionate words in addressing you, for--pardon me, I
beg--she whom I loved dearly before I ever saw you is Madame Diane de
Castro; and no love, even though it be the love of a queen, can ever
find a resting-place in this heart, which is always filled with the
image of another."

"Ah!" exclaimed Catherine, with colorless cheeks and tightly closed
lips.

Gabriel, with head cast down, waited manfully for the storm of
indignation and scorn which was impending over him. Scorn and
indignation are not apt to be long in coming, and after a few moments of
silence,--

"Do you know, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Catherine, struggling to keep
down her voice and her anger,--"do you know that I consider you very
bold, not to say impudent! Who spoke to you of love, Monsieur? Where did
you get the idea that I wished to tempt your bashful virtue? You must
have a most exalted and presumptuous opinion of your own deserts to dare
to think of such things, and to put such a hasty construction upon a
kindness of heart whose only mistake was in bestowing itself in an
undeserving quarter. You have very deeply injured a woman and a queen,
Monsieur!"

"Oh, Madame," replied Gabriel, "pray believe that my religious
veneration--"

"Enough!" Catherine interposed; "I know that you have insulted me, and
that you came here to insult me! Why are you here? What purpose directed
your steps? Of what importance to me are your love and Madame de Castro,
or any of your concerns? You came to seek information from me! Absurd
pretext! You desired to make a queen of France the confidante of your
passion! It is senseless, I tell you! worse than that, it is an
outrage!"

"No, Madame," replied Gabriel, standing proudly erect, "it is no outrage
to have met an honest man who chose to wound you rather than deceive
you."

"Hold your peace, Monsieur!" replied Catherine; "I command you to hold
your peace and to leave me. Consider yourself lucky if I do not yet
think best to divulge to the king your audacious offence. But never let
me see you again, and henceforth consider Catherine de Médicis your
bitter enemy. Yes, I shall come across you again, be sure, Monsieur
d'Exmès! And now leave me."

Gabriel saluted the queen, and withdrew without a word.

"Well," he reflected when he was alone again, "one hatred more! But what
difference would that make to me if I had only learned something about
my father and Diane? The king's favorite and the king's wife for
enemies! Fate may be preparing perhaps to make the king himself my
enemy. And now for Diane, for the hour has arrived; and God grant that I
may not be more sad and despairing when I part from her who loves me
than I have been on leaving those who hate me!"




CHAPTER XVI

LOVER OR BROTHER?


When Jacinthe ushered Gabriel into the apartment in the Louvre occupied
by Diane de Castro as the king's legitimatized daughter, she, in the
pure and honest outpouring of her heart, rushed to meet her well-beloved
without undertaking to dissemble her joy. She would not have refused to
offer her brow to be kissed; but he contented himself with pressing her
hand.

"Here you are at last, Gabriel!" said she. "How impatiently I have been
awaiting you, dear! Lately I have not seemed to know whither to turn the
full stream of happiness that I feel within me. I talk and laugh when I
am all alone, and I am crazy with joy! But here you are, Gabriel, and we
may at least have a happy hour together! But what is the matter, my
love? You seem cold and serious and almost sad. Is it with such a solemn
face and such cool reserve that you show your love for me, and your
gratitude to God and my father?"

"To your father? Yes, let us speak of your father, Diane. As for this
seriousness at which you wonder, it is my way to receive good fortune
with a grave face; for I distrust her gifts, in the first place, having
been unused to them heretofore, and my experience has been that she only
too often hides a sorrow under the mask of a favor.

"I didn't know that you were such a philosopher, nor so unlucky,
Gabriel!" replied the maiden, half in fun and half in anger. "But, come!
you were saying that you wished to talk about the king; and I am very
glad. How kind and generous he is, Gabriel!"

"Yes, Diane; and he loves you dearly, doesn't he?"

"With an infinite tenderness and gentleness, Gabriel."

"No doubt," muttered Vicomte d'Exmès, "for he may very well believe,
poor dupe, that she is his child! Only one thing surprises me," he
continued aloud; "and that is, how the king, who must have felt in his
heart that he should love you thus dearly, could have allowed twelve
years to elapse without ever seeing you or knowing you, and have left
you at Vimoutiers, lost, to all intents and purposes. Have you never
asked him, Diane, for an explanation of such strange indifference? Such
utter forgetfulness, do you know, seems hardly consistent with the kind
feeling that he seems to have for you now."

"Oh," said Diane, "it was not he who forgot me,--poor Papa!"

"But who was it, then?"

"Who? Why, Madame Diane de Poitiers, to be sure! I don't know if I ought
to say my mother."

"And why did she make up her mind to abandon you thus, Diane? Ought she
not to have been glad and proud, and to have glorified herself in the
king's sight for having given birth to you, and having thus acquired one
claim the more to his affection? What had she to fear? Her husband was
dead; and her father--"

"All that is very true, Gabriel," said Diane; "and it would be very
hard, not to say impossible, for me to justify in your eyes this
extraordinary feeling--is it of pride?--which has made Madame de
Valentinois refuse to acknowledge me formally as her child. Don't you
know, dear, that in the first place she induced the king to conceal the
fact of my birth; that she consented to my being recalled to court only
at his urgent request, which was almost a command; and that she didn't
choose even to be mentioned in the decree by which I was legitimatized?
I have no inclination to complain of her for it, Gabriel, because if it
had not been for this inexplicable pride of hers, I should never have
known you, and you would not have loved me. But, nevertheless, I have
sometimes been pained to think of the sort of repugnance which my mother
seems to feel for everything that relates to me."

"A repugnance which may be remorse only," thought Gabriel, with terror;
"she was able to deceive the king, and it was not without hesitation and
dread--"

"But what are you thinking about, dear Gabriel?" said Diane. "And why do
you ask me all these questions?"

"Oh, for no reason at all! A misgiving of my anxious heart,--that's all;
don't worry about it, Diane. But, at all events, if your mother does
seem to feel only aversion and almost hatred for you, your father,
Diane,--your father makes up for her coldness by his affection, doesn't
he? And you, if you do feel shy and constrained with Madame de
Valentinois, your heart expands in the king's presence, does it not, and
recognizes in him a true parent?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Diane; "and the very first day that I saw him,
when he spoke to me so tenderly, I felt drawn to him at once. It is not
from policy that I am affectionate and obliging with him, but from
instinct. It was not the king, not my benefactor and my patron, that I
loved so dearly,--it was my father!"

"One can never be mistaken about such matters!" cried Gabriel, beside
himself with joy. "Dear, dear Diane, my dearest love, I am glad that you
love your father so, and that in his presence you feel the tender
emotions of gratitude and love! This lovely filial devotion does you
honor, Diane!"

"And I am glad, too, that you understand it and approve of it," said
Diane. "But now that we have spoken of my father, and of his love for me
and mine for him, and of our obligation to him, Gabriel, suppose we talk
a little about ourselves and our own love; why not? Come, what do you
say? We are selfish creatures," added she, with the lovely ingenousness
which was hers alone. "Besides, if the king were here, he would reprove
me for not thinking at all of myself,--of ourselves; and do you know,
Gabriel, what he keeps saying to me every minute? 'My dear child, be
happy! Be happy; do you understand? And in that way you will make me
happy.' And so, Monsieur, now that our debt of gratitude is paid, let us
not be too forgetful of ourselves."

"Very true," said Gabriel, thoughtfully,--"very true. Let us now give
ourselves up to this attachment which binds us to each other for life.
Let us look into our hearts, and see what is going on there. Let us lay
bare our very souls to each other."

"Well, we will," said Diane; "that will be delightful!"

"Yes, delightful!" responded Gabriel, in a melancholy tone. "And do you,
first, Diane, tell me what you feel for me. Don't you love me less than
your father?"

"Oh, you jealous boy!" said Diane. "Be sure that my love for you is very
different, and it is not by any means easy to explain. When I am with
the king, I am calm, and my heart beats no more quickly than usual; but
when I see you, oh, then I feel a curious agitation, which pains and
delights me at the same time, and spreads over my whole being. To my
father I can say, even before the whole world, the sweet and loving
words which come to my lips; but to you, it seems to me that I should
never dare to say even the one word 'Gabriel' before another soul, not
even when I am your wife. In a word, the happiness which your presence
brings me is as restless and unquiet--I had almost said painful--as the
joy which I feel with my father is calm and peaceful; but the pain of
the one is more ecstatic than the tranquillity of the other."

"Say no more! oh, say no more!" cried Gabriel, in despair. "Yes, you do
love me, indeed; and it terrifies me! And yet it encourages me, too, I
must say; for surely God would not have implanted such a passion in your
heart, if it had been wrong for you to love me!"

"What do you mean, Gabriel?" asked Diane, in amazement. "Why should my
confession, which I have the best right in the world to make to you,
since you are going to be my husband,--why should it put you thus beside
yourself? What danger can be hidden in my love?"

"None, Diane, none. Pay no attention to me. It is joy which intoxicates
me thus,--pure joy! Such supreme happiness makes me dizzy with delight.
But you didn't always love me so restlessly and with such painful
sensations. When we used to walk together under the trees at Vimoutiers,
you had only friendship for me,--fraternal friendship."

"I was only a child then," said Diane. "I had not then been dreaming of
you for six solitary homesick years; my love had not then grown as my
body grew; I had not lived two months in the midst of a court where
licentious language and corrupt morals had made me cherish more fondly
still the thought of our pure and holy affection."

"True, true, Diane!" said Gabriel.

"And now, do you, dear Gabriel, in your turn tell me of your devotion
and passionate love for me. Open your heart to me, as I have laid mine
bare to your gaze. If my words have sounded pleasantly in your ears, do
you let me hear your voice telling me how much you love me, and how
dearly you love me."

"Oh, as for me, I don't know," said Gabriel. "I cannot tell you that!
Don't ask me about it, don't press me to ask myself, for it is too
terrible!"

"But, Gabriel," cried Diane, in deadly terror, "it is your words that
are terrible; don't you see that they are? What! You don't choose even
to tell me that you love me?"

"If I love you, Diane! She asks me if I love her! Truly, then, yes, I do
love you, like a madman, perhaps like a criminal!"

"Like a criminal!" cried Madame de Castro, beside herself with terror
and amazement. "What crime can there be in our love? Are we not both
free? Will not my father consent to our union? God and the angels must
delight in such a love."

"Grant, oh, Lord, that she blaspheme not," cried Gabriel, in his heart,
"even as I perhaps blasphemed myself, in speaking to Aloyse!"

"What can be the matter?" repeated Diane. "My dear, you are not sick,
are you? And you, generally so strong, whence come these fanciful fears?
For I have no fear when near you. I know that with you I am as safe as
with my father. See, to recall you to yourself, to life and happiness, I
press close to your breast without fear, my dearly beloved husband! I
press my brow against your lips without hesitation."

Smiling bewitchingly, she approached him, her glorious face turned up to
his, and her angelic glance soliciting his pure embrace.

But Gabriel pushed her away in terror. "Away!" he cried; "no, no! leave
me, flee from me!"

"Oh, _mon Dieu_!" moaned Diane, letting her arms fall by her side. "_Mon
Dieu_! he repels me; he loves me not!"

"I love you too well!" said Gabriel.

"If you love me, why should my proffered caresses be so terrible to
you?"

"Are they really terrible to me, then?" said Gabriel to himself. "Is it
my instinct which repels them, and not my reason? Oh, come, Diane, let
me see you and know you, and feel your presence! Come, and let me press
my lips on your brow with a brother's kiss, in which a betrothed lover
may indulge himself."

He strained Diane to his heart, and pressed a long burning kiss on her
hair.

"Ah, I deceived myself!" cried he, in rapture at her very touch. "It is
not the voice of blood which is crying to you from my heart; it is the
voice of love! I know it! Oh, what bliss!"

"What did you say, dear?" replied Diane. "If you say that you love me,
you say all that I care to hear or to know."

"Oh, indeed I love you, blessed angel; I love you passionately, madly!
Yes, I love you, and to feel your heart beating against mine, like this,
is very heaven to me; or is it hell?" cried he, suddenly, releasing
himself from her embrace. "Away, away! let me fly, for I am accursed!"

And he fled wildly from the room, leaving Diane dumb with terror, and as
if turned to stone by despair.


[Illustration: Mary Stuart and Gabriel.]


And he, poor fellow, no longer knew where he was going or what he was
doing. He descended the stairs mechanically, reeling like a drunken man.
These three fearful experiences were too much for his reason. When he
reached the grand gallery of the Louvre, his eyes closed in spite of
him, his legs gave way, and he sank on his knees against the wall,
murmuring,--

"I foresaw that the angel would cause me more bitter agony than the two
devils."

He had fainted. Night had come on; and no one was passing through the
gallery.

He was recalled to his senses by feeling a soft hand smoothing his
forehead, and hearing a sweet voice speaking to his very soul. He opened
his eyes. The little queen-dauphine, Mary Stuart, stood before him, with
a lighted taper in her hand.

"Ah, how fortunate! Another angel!" said Gabriel.

"Is it you, Monsieur d'Exmès?" said Mary. "Oh, how you frightened me! I
thought you were dead. What is the matter? How pale you are! Do you feel
any better? I will call for help, if you wish."

"Useless, Madame," said Gabriel, trying to rise. "Your voice has
restored me to life."

"Let me help you," said Mary. "Poor fellow! Are you ill? You had
fainted, hadn't you? As I was passing, I spied you lying here, and I
hadn't strength enough to cry out. And then reflection gave me courage,
and I came nearer to you; and I was pretty brave, I think. I laid my
hand on your forehead, which was like ice. I called you, and you came to
yourself. Do you still feel better?"

"Yes, Madame; and may God bless you for your goodness! I remember now, I
had a fearful pain in my temples as if they were being pressed by an
iron vice; my knees shook under me; and I fell here by this drapery. But
how did the pain come on? Ah, yes, I remember now, I remember it all.
Alas, _mon Dieu_! _mon Dieu_! Too well I remember."

"It is some terrible sorrow that oppresses you so, is it not?" asked
Mary. "It must be so, for, see, you are paler than ever again at the
mere remembrance of it. Lean on my arm, for I am willing and strong; and
I will call help, and find somebody to go home with you."

"Thanks, Madame," said Gabriel, struggling to recover his strength and
his resolution. "I find I still have strength enough to go home alone.
See, I can walk without help, and with a firm step. I am no less
grateful to you; and while I live I shall never forget your simple and
touching kindness, Madame. You came to me like an angel of comfort at a
painful crisis in my life. Nothing but death, Madame, can ever efface it
from my heart."

"Oh, _mon Dieu_! what I did was the most natural thing in the world to
do, Monsieur d'Exmès; I would have done as much for any suffering
creature, and so much the more gladly for you whom I know to be the
devoted friend of my Uncle de Guise. Pray don't thank me for such a
small matter."

"This small matter was everything, Madame, in the state of despair to
which I was reduced. You don't wish that I should thank you; but I,
Madame, wish to remember it. Adieu; I shall remember."

"Adieu, Monsieur d'Exmès; pray take care of yourself, and try to find
comfort somewhere."

She gave him her hand, which Gabriel kissed with deep respect. Then she
left the gallery by one door, and he by another.

When he was outside of the walls of the Louvre, he walked along the
river-bank, and arrived at the Rue des Jardins in about half an hour. He
had but one thought in his brain, and was suffering terribly.

Aloyse was anxiously awaiting him.

"Well?" said she.

Gabriel struggled manfully to overcome a feeling of faintness which
dimmed his sight anew. He would have liked well to weep, but he could
not. He replied in a faltering voice,--

"I know nothing, Aloyse! Everything has been dumb and speechless,--these
women and my heart as well. I know nothing except that my brow is as
cold as ice, and yet I am burning up. _Mon Dieu_! _mon Dieu_!"

"Courage, Monseigneur!" said Aloyse.

"I have had courage," said Gabriel; "but God be merciful to me, I am
dying!"

And once more he fell backward on the floor, but this time he did not
come to himself again.




CHAPTER XVII

THE HOROSCOPE


"The sick man will live, Dame Aloyse! The danger has been very great,
and his convalescence will be very slow. All this blood-letting has
weakened the poor fellow terribly; but he will live, never fear! And
thank God that the extreme debilitation of the body has lessened the
blow that his mind has received, for we cannot cure those wounds; and
this one of his might have been fatal,--indeed, it may yet be!"

The physician who spoke thus was a man of great height, with a great
bulging forehead and deep-set and piercing eyes. The common people
called him Master Nostredame; but he signed his own name Nostradamus. He
seemed to be not more than fifty years old.

"But, holy Jesus, look at him, Messire!" replied Dame Aloyse. "He has
been lying there since the evening of June 7; and it is now the 2d of
July, and during that whole time he has not spoken one word,--has not
even seemed to see me or to know me, and has been like one dead, alas!
Look, if you touch his hand, he doesn't appear to notice it!"

"So much the better, I tell you, Dame Aloyse! I pray that he may be as
long as possible in awaking to the remembrance of his sorrows. If he can
continue, as I trust he will, another month in this weak state, without
knowing or thinking about anything, he will recover, beyond a doubt."

"He will recover!" said Aloyse, raising her eyes to heaven as if
offering thanks to God.

"Yes, he will recover if there is no relapse. And you may say so to that
pretty maid who comes twice a day to get news of him; for there is an
affair with some great lady hidden under all this, is there not?
Sometimes that sort of thing is very delightful, and sometimes fatal."

"Yes, indeed, it is fatal; you are quite right, Master Nostredame," said
Aloyse; with a sigh.

"God grant that he recover from his passion as well as from his illness,
Dame Aloyse! if indeed illness and passion haven't always the same
cause and the same effect. But I will answer for the one, and not for
the other."

Nostradamus opened the soft and apparently lifeless hand that he held in
his, and looked very carefully and attentively at the palm; he even
lifted the skin from the fore and middle fingers. He seemed to be
racking his brain to remember something.

"It is strange!" he said in an undertone, as if he were talking to
himself. "Several times I have examined this hand, and every time it has
seemed to me as if I had already examined it long ago. But what are the
marks which have struck me so? The mensal line is of favorable length;
the medial is a little doubtful; but the line of life is perfect. There
is nothing extraordinary about it. The predominating characteristic of
this youth should be a steadfast will, firm and unswerving as the arrow
aimed by a sure hand. That is not what has aroused my wonder heretofore.
And then my memories are too confused not to refer to some long ago
time; and your master is not more than twenty-five, is he, Dame Aloyse?"

"He is only twenty-four, Messire."

"He was born in 1533, then. Do you know the day?"

"It was the 6th of May."

"But you don't know whether it was in the morning or the evening?"

"Pardon me! I was with his mother when he was born. It was just on the
stroke of half after six in the morning."

Nostradamus made a note of these facts.

"I will see what was the condition of the heavens on that day at that
hour," said he. "But if Vicomte d'Exmès were twenty years older, I
would swear that I had already held his hand in mine; but that's of
little consequence, after all. It is not the sorcerer, as the people
sometimes call me, but the physician, who has work to do here; and I
tell you again, Dame Aloyse, the physician will answer now for the
invalid's welfare."

"Pardon, Master!" said Aloyse, sadly; "you say that you will answer for
the disease, but that you will not answer for the passion."

"The passion! Oh! But," Nostradamus replied, smiling significantly, "I
should say that the attendance of the little maid twice a day tends to
show that the passion is not altogether a hopeless one."

"Quite the contrary, Master,--quite the contrary!" cried Aloyse, in an
accent of horror.

"Come, come, Dame Aloyse! wealthy, gallant, young, and handsome as
Vicomte d'Exmès is, a man is in no danger of being held off for long by
the ladies in a time like ours. A brief postponement is the utmost he
has to fear."

"But suppose that this is not the case, Master. Suppose that when
Monseigneur is restored to life and reason, the first and only thought
which his restored reason will entertain should be this: 'The woman whom
I love is irrevocably lost to me,' then what will happen to him?"

"Oh, we must hope that this supposition of yours has no foundation in
fact, for that would be terrible! Such an overwhelming grief as that
would be a terrible strain for his enfeebled brain. So far as one can
judge of a man by his features and the look of his eyes, your master,
Aloyse, is no mere superficial creature; and in such a case as you
suppose, his energetic and forceful will would be only one danger more,
and being shattered by trying to do what is impossible, might shatter
his life with it."

"Holy Jesus! my boy will die!" cried Aloyse.

"He will at least be in danger of inflammation of the brain," said
Nostradamus. "But why need it be so? There must be some way of showing
him a mere glimmer of hope. The most remote or most elusive chance it
may be, yet he will grasp it, and it will save him."

"He shall be saved, then," said Aloyse, gloomily. "I will perjure my
soul, but he shall be saved. Messire Nostredame, I thank you."

A week passed, and Gabriel seemed to be trying to think, even though he
did not succeed. His eyes, still wandering and expressionless, seemed to
be asking questions, nevertheless, of the faces and objects about him.
Then he began to assist himself in the changes which they had to make in
his position, to raise himself in bed alone, and to take of his own
volition the potions that Nostradamus handed him.

Aloyse, standing unwearied at his pillow, waited.

At the end of another week, Gabriel could speak. Light had not yet fully
evolved order out of the chaos of his mind. He could only say a few
words, incoherent and unconnected, but which had reference to the events
of his past. Aloyse fairly quaked with terror when the physician was
there, lest he should reveal some of his secrets.

Her apprehensions were justified by the event; and one day, Gabriel, in
a feverish sleep, cried aloud before Nostradamus,--

"They think that my true name is Vicomte d'Exmès. No, no, don't think
it! I am the Comte de Montgommery."

"The Comte de Montgommery!" said Nostradamus, in whose brain the name
had awakened some memory.

"Silence!" said Aloyse, her finger on her lip.

However, Nostradamus went away without Gabriel's having said anything
further; and as he did not mention the words that had fallen from the
invalid on the next or any following day, Aloyse, thinking it over,
feared to attract his attention to something which it might be her
master's interest to conceal. So the incident appeared to have been
forgotten by both of them.

Gabriel continued to improve. He recognized Aloyse and Martin-Guerre; he
asked for whatever he needed; and he spoke with a gentle sadness which
made it possible to hope that his reason had returned.

One morning, it was the first day that he had left his bed, he said to
Aloyse,--

"Well, nurse, and the war?"

"What war, Monseigneur?"

"Why, the war against Spain and England."

"Oh, Monseigneur, I hear sad news of that. The Spaniards, reinforced by
twelve thousand English, have entered Picardy, they say, and there is
fighting going on all along the frontier."

"So much the better," said Gabriel.

Aloyse attributed this reply to the remains of his delirium. But the
next morning, with perfect coolness, Gabriel said to her,--

"I did not ask you yesterday if Monsieur de Guise had returned from
Italy."

"He is on the way, Monseigneur," said Aloyse, in amazement.

"That is well! What day of the month is it, nurse?"

"Tuesday, August 4, Monseigneur."

"It will be two months on the 7th since I have been lying on this bed of
anguish," was Gabriel's comment.

"Oh," cried Aloyse, trembling, "how well Monseigneur remembers!"

"Yes, I remember, Aloyse,--I remember; but," he added sadly, "though I
have not forgotten, it seems that I have been forgotten. Has no one been
to inquire for me, Aloyse?"

"Yes, indeed!" said Aloyse, in an uncertain voice, and anxiously
watching the effect of her words on the young man's face,--"yes, indeed,
Monseigneur! a maid named Jacinthe came twice a day to learn how you
were. But for the last fortnight, since you have been perceptibly and
surely improving, she has come no more."

"She comes no more! And do you know why, nurse?"

"Yes, Monseigneur. Because her mistress, according to what Jacinthe said
the last time she came, has obtained the king's leave to withdraw to a
convent till the end of the war at least."

"Really!" said Gabriel, with a sweet and melancholy smile.

And as a tear, the first he had shed for two months, rolled slowly down
his cheek, he added,--

"Dear Diane!"

"Oh, Monseigneur," cried Aloyse, beside herself with delight,
"Monseigneur has uttered that name! and without a shock, and without
swooning. Master Nostredame was mistaken. Monseigneur is saved!
Monseigneur will live, and I shall not need to be false to my oath."

We can see that the poor nurse's delight had almost made her mad; but
Gabriel, luckily, did not notice her last words. He replied simply, with
a smile full of bitterness,--

"Yes, I am saved; but still, dear Aloyse, I shall not live."

"How so, Monseigneur?" said Aloyse, trembling again in every limb.

"My body has held out manfully," Gabriel replied; "but my soul, Aloyse,
my soul, do you think that it has not been stricken to death? I am going
to recover from this long sickness, it is true; and I am allowing myself
to be cured, as you see. But, luckily, there is fighting on the
frontier; and I am captain of the Guards, and my place is where they are
fighting. As soon as I am strong enough to mount my horse, I shall go
where my place is. And at the very first battle in which I have a hand,
Aloyse, I shall take good care so to arrange matters that I shall never
have to return."

"You will kill yourself! Holy Virgin! And why, Monseigneur,--why, I pray
you?"

"Why? Because Madame de Poitiers refused to speak, Aloyse; because Diane
may be my sister; and because I love Diane; because it may be that the
king was responsible for my father's murder; and because I cannot wreak
my vengeance on him unless I am sure of it. And so, since I can neither
avenge my father nor marry my sister, I don't see what more there is for
me to do in this world. That is why I choose to leave it."

"No, Monseigneur, you shall not leave it," said Aloyse, gloomy and cast
down, and in a spiritless voice. "You shall not leave it, because you
have much to do, and a terrible task, I promise you. But I shall not
speak to you of it until the day when you are entirely well again; and
Master Nostredame tells me that you may hear what I have to say, and
that you have sufficient strength to bear it."

That day arrived on the Tuesday of the week following. Gabriel had been
out for the three days preceding, getting ready his equipments, and
preparing for his departure; and Nostradamus had said he would come once
more during the day to see his convalescent, but that it would be for
the last time.

When Aloyse was alone with Gabriel, she said to him,--

"Monseigneur, have you considered well the extreme resolution you have
taken, and do you persist in it?"

"I do indeed," said Gabriel.

"And you mean to kill yourself?"

"I mean to kill myself."

"And is it because you have no means of ascertaining whether Madame de
Castro is or is not your sister that you mean to die?"

"For that very reason."

"What did I say to you, Monseigneur, to put you on the track of this
fearful secret? Do you remember what I said!"

"To be sure! That God in the other world and two persons only in this
had ever known this secret. The two human beings were Diane de Poitiers
and the Comte de Montgommery, my father. I have begged and implored and
threatened Madame de Valentinois; but when I left her, I was more
uncertain and despairing than ever."

"But when I told you, Monseigneur," said Aloyse, "you declared that if
it were necessary for you to descend into your father's tomb to wrest
this secret from him, you would not shrink from the task."

"But," said Gabriel, "I have no idea where that tomb is situated."

"Nor I, but you must seek for it, Monseigneur."

"And even if I should find it," cried Gabriel, "God would have to work a
miracle for me. The dead do not speak, Aloyse."

"No, the dead do not; but the living do."

"Great God! what do you mean?" said Gabriel, pale as a ghost.

"That you are not, as you kept calling yourself in your delirium, the
Comte de Montgommery, Monseigneur, but only Vicomte de Montgommery,
because your father, the Comte de Montgommery, is still living."

"Heaven and earth! Do you know that he is alive, my dear father?"

"I don't know it, Monseigneur, but I believe and hope so; for his was a
strong and sturdy nature like yours, and should have resisted suffering
and misfortune as valiantly. Now, if he is alive, he is not the one to
refuse, as Madame Diane did, to reveal the secret on which your
happiness depends!"

"But where shall we find him; of whom demand him? In Heaven's name,
Aloyse, tell me!"

"It is a terrible story, Monseigneur! And I swore to my husband, by your
father's command, never to reveal it to you; for as soon as you know it,
you will plunge into the midst of fearful dangers, Monseigneur, and will
declare war against foes a hundred times stronger than yourself. But the
most desperate peril is preferable to certain death. You had made up
your mind to die; and I knew that you would not grow weak in that
determination. After all, I prefer to expose you to the doubtful chances
of the bitter conflict which your hither dreaded in your behalf. At all
events, your death will be less certain, and will be delayed a little.
So I am going to tell you everything, Monseigneur; and it may be that
God will pardon me for proving false to my oath."

"Yes, of course, dear Aloyse. My father! my father living! Oh, quickly!
speak!"

But at this moment there was a soft knock at the door, and Nostradamus
appeared.

"Aha, Monsieur d'Exmès," said he, "how bright and lively you are! I'm
glad to see it! You were not like this a month ago. You seem to be all
ready to take the field."

"Yes, indeed,--to take the field," said Gabriel, with sparkling eye,
looking meaningly at Aloyse.

"So I see that the physician has no further business here," said
Nostradamus.

"Nothing, save to receive my grateful thanks, Master, and I dare not say
the value of your services, for under certain circumstances one's life
is not valuable."

And Gabriel, pressing the doctor's hand, left in it a roll of
gold-pieces.

"Thanks, Monsieur Vicomte d'Exmès," said Nostradamus. "But give me
leave to make you a present which I think will prove of value to you."

"What is it, pray, Master?"

"You know, Monseigneur," Nostradamus began, "that I do not occupy myself
entirely with men's illnesses. I have presumed to look farther and
higher. I have tried to read their destinies,--a task full of
uncertainty and obscurity; but in default of light, I have sometimes, I
think, caught glimpses of the truth. God, I am convinced, has written
twice over, in advance of his birth, the vast and mighty scheme of each
man's destiny; in the stars of heaven, his native land, to which he
raises his eyes so often, and in the lines of his hand,--an intricate
conjuring book which he carries always with him, but which he cannot
even begin to spell except at the cost of unwearying study. During many
days and nights, Monseigneur, I have dug and delved away at these two
sciences, as fathomless as the cask of the Danaïdes,--chiromancy and
astrology. I have summoned before me all future ages; and a thousand
years from now, those who are then alive may be sometimes amazed at my
prophecies. But I know that the truth only shines in streaks, for
although I sometimes see clearly, often, alas! I am in doubt.
Nevertheless I am certain that I have now and then hours of clairvoyance
which almost frighten me, Monseigneur. In one of these infrequent hours,
I saw, twenty-five years ago, the destiny of a gentleman attached to the
court of King François clearly written in the stars which watched over
his birth and in the complicated lines of his hand. This extraordinary,
curious, and perilous destiny made a strong impression on me. Fancy my
astonishment, then, when in your hand and in the stars which presided
over your birth, I seemed to read a horoscope like that which had so
surprised me long ago; but I could not distinguish it so clearly as
before and the lapse of twenty-five years had confused my memory. Last
of all, Monseigneur, last month, in the height of your fever, you
pronounced a name; I heard only the name, but it caught my attention at
once. It was the name of the Comte de Montgommery."

"Of the Comte de Montgommery?" Gabriel cried in alarm.

"I tell you again, Monseigneur, that I heard nothing but the name; and
the rest is of little importance, for that name was the name of the man
whose destiny had been made as clear to me as the noonday sun. I
hastened home and hunted among my old papers until I found the Comte de
Montgommery's horoscope. But a most singular circumstance, Monseigneur,
and one which I have never met with before in more than thirty years of
study, is that there must be some mysterious connection, some strange
affinity, between you and the Comte de Montgommery; and God, who never
ordained the same destiny for two men, must have reserved both of you
for the same fate. For I was not mistaken; the lines of the hand and the
constellations had the same aspect for both. I should not dare to say
that there was to be no difference in the details of your two lives; but
the predominating feature of both horoscopes is the same. I long ago
lost sight of the Comte de Montgommery; but I ascertained that one of my
predictions in his regard was fulfilled. He wounded François I. in the
face with a red-hot brand. Has the remainder of his destiny been
fulfilled? That is what I cannot say. I can only be sure that the same
misfortune and the same violent death which threatened him are impending
over you."

"Can it be?" said Gabriel.

"Here, Monseigneur," said Nostradamus, handing to Vicomte d'Exmès a
roll of parchment, "here is the horoscope which I drew off at the time
for the Comte de Montgommery. I should make no changes in it were I to
write yours to-day."

"Give it me, Master, give it me!" said Gabriel. "This is indeed an
inestimable gift; and you cannot imagine how precious it is to me."

"One word more, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Nostradamus; "one last word to
put you on your guard, though God be supreme, and one can hardly turn
aside His plans. The nativity of Henri II. presaged that he would die in
a duel or in single combat."

"But," asked Gabriel, "what connection?"

"When you read this scroll, you will understand me, Monseigneur.
Meanwhile it remains only for me to take my leave of you, and to hope
that the catastrophe with which God menaces your life may at least be
not sought by you."

And having saluted Gabriel, who pressed his hand warmly and escorted him
to the door, he took his leave.

As soon as he was with Aloyse once more, Gabriel unrolled the parchment;
and having made sure that no one could interrupt him or spy upon him, he
read aloud the following lines:--


  "En joûte, en amour, cettuy touchera
             Le front du roy,
   Et cornes ou bien trou sanglant mettra
             Au front du roy.
   Mais le veuille ou non, toujours blessera
             Le front du roy.
   Enfin, l'aimera, puis, las! le tuera
             Dame du roy."[2]


"It is well!" cried Gabriel, with beaming eye and a look of triumph.
"Now, dear Aloyse, you may tell me how my father, the Comte de
Montgommery, was entombed alive by King Henri II."

"By King Henri II.!" cried Aloyse; "how do you know, Monseigneur?"

"I guess it! But you can tell me of the crime, since God has pointed out
to me my revenge."


[Footnote 2: "In tilting and in love-making this youth shall ever
     Be matched against the king,
And shall in winning hearts and breaking heads
     E'en triumph o'er the king.
Yea, though he wish it not, still shall his brand
     Wound in the face the king.
And then, alas! shall love him and destroy him
     The lady of the king."]




CHAPTER XVIII

THE LAST RESORT OF A COQUETTE


Elaborated and perfected by the aid of contemporary memoirs and
chronicles, the narrative of Aloyse, who had been informed by her
husband, Perrot Travigny, squire and confidential servant of the Comte
de Montgommery, of all the incidents of his master's life, so far as he
knew them,--the narrative of Aloyse, we say, thus perfected, gave the
following sad story of Jacques de Montgommery, Gabriel's father. His son
knew the leading details of it; but the sinister _dénouement_, which
brought it to a close, was a sealed book to him, as to everybody else.

Jacques de Montgommery, Seigneur de Lorges, was, as all his ancestors
had been, daring and brave; and during the stormy reign of François I.
he was always to be found in the front rank when fighting was going on.
And so he became a colonel in the French infantry very early in life.

But among his many brilliant exploits there was one untoward incident to
which Nostradamus had had reference.

It was in 1521, when the Comte de Montgommery was barely twenty years
old, and only a captain. It was a severe winter; and the young men,
young King François at their head, were indulging in a snowball
fight,--a sport not unattended with danger, and much in vogue at the
time. They were divided into two parties, one defending a certain house
which the other assaulted with bullets of snow, Comte d'Enghien,
Seigneur de Cérisoles, was killed in just such a game. Jacques de
Montgommery was very near killing the king on this occasion. The battle
over, they set about warming themselves; the fire had been allowed to go
out, and the whole crowd of young madcaps rushed about to rekindle it.
Jacques came running in, first of all, with a blazing stick in a pair of
tongs; but on the war he encountered François, who had no chance to
protect himself, and received a violent blow on the face from the
red-hot brand. Fortunately nothing came of it but a wound, although a
very severe one; and the ugly scar left by it was the cause of the
fashion of wearing the beard long and the hair short, which was ordained
by François at that time.

As the Comte de Montgommery atoned for this unfortunate casualty by a
thousand brilliant exploits, the king bore him no ill-will for it, and
interposed no obstacle to his rising to the first rank at court and in
the army. In 1530 Jacques married Claudine de Boissière. It was a mere
marriage de convenance; but he long mourned for his wife, who died in
1533, when Gabriel was born. Melancholy, moreover, was the most marked
trait of his character, as is the case with all those who are
predestined to some fatality. When he was left a widower and alone, he
found relief only on the battlefield, and was driven into danger by
sheer ennui. But in 1538, after the truce of Nice, when this man of war
and of action had to conform to the etiquette of the court, and to walk
up and down in the galleries of the Tournelles or the Louvre, with his
parade-sword at his side, he was near dying of disgust.

A mad passion saved him, and was his ruin.

The regal Circe involved this overgrown boy, sturdy and ingenuous, in
her toils. He fell in love with Diane de Poitiers.

Three months he revolved about her, gloomy and lowering, without ever
addressing a single word to her; nor was there any need of a word for
the grande sénéchale to understand that his heart belonged to her. She
made a note of that passion in a corner of her memory as something that
might possibly be of use to her on occasion.

The occasion came. François I. began to neglect his beautiful mistress
for Madame d'Étampes, who was less beautiful in face, but had the great
advantage of being attractive in other respects.

When the signs that she was being superseded were unmistakable, Diane,
for the first time in her life, spoke to Jacques de Montgommery.

This took place at the Tournelles, at a fête given by the king to the
new favorite.

"Monsieur de Montgommery," said Diane, calling him by name.

He drew near her, with heaving chest, and made an awkward salutation.

"How very sad you are, Monsieur de Montgommery!" she said.

"To the point of death, Madame."

"And why, in Heaven's name!"

"Madame, because I should like to kill myself."

"For some one, no doubt?"

"To kill myself for some one would be very sweet; but, _ma foi_, to do
it for nothing would be sweeter yet."

"What a fearful state of melancholy!" said Diane; "and whence comes this
black despair, pray?"

"Ah! can I say, Madame?"

"Well, then, I know, Monsieur de Montgommery. You are in love with me."

Jacques turned white as a sheet; and then, with a more tremendous
struggle than it would have cost him to cast himself headlong and alone
into the midst of a whole battalion of the enemy, he replied in a harsh
and uncertain voice,--

"Well, then, Madame, you are right. I do love you. So much the worse for
me!"

"So much the better, rather," replied Diane, laughing.

"What did you say, Madame?" Montgommery cried, with his heart thumping
against his ribs. "Ah, Madame, take heed! this is no joke, but a deep
and sincere passion, whether it be a possible or an impossible one to
gratify."

"And why should it be impossible?" asked Diane.

"Madame," was Jacques's reply, "pardon my frankness, but I never learned
to envelop facts with many words. Does not the king love you, Madame?"

"Yes," sighed Diane; "he loves me."

"And don't you see, then, that it is not for me to declare my unworthy
love, though I cannot help loving you?"

"Unworthy of you, it is true," said the duchess.

"Oh, no, not of me!" cried the count; "and if the day should ever
come--"

But Diane interrupted him with an air of grave melancholy and well
assumed dignity,--

"Enough, Monsieur de Montgommery; let us put an end to this interview, I
beg."

She bowed coldly, and turned away, leaving the poor count a prey to a
whirl of conflicting emotions,--jealousy, love, hatred, grief, and joy.
So Diane saw the adoration which made him bow down before her. But
perhaps he had wounded her! He must have seemed unjust, ungrateful,
cruel to her! He repeated to himself over and over again all the sublime
nonsense of love.

The next day Diane de Poitiers said to François I., "You didn't know,
did you, Sire, that Monsieur de Montgommery was in love with me?"

"What's that?" said François, laughing. "The Montgommerys are of an
ancient family, and almost as nobly born, upon my word, as I; and what's
more they are almost as brave, and now it seems that they are almost as
good at love-making."

"And is that all the reply that your Majesty has to make to me?" Diane
asked him.

"And what do you want me to say, my dear?" replied the king. "Do you
really think that I ought to take it ill of the Comte de Montgommery
that he has as good taste and as good eyes as I have?"

"If Madame d'Étampes were in question," muttered Diane, wounded to the
quick, "you would not say so."

She pursued the conversation no further, but resolved to go on with the
experiment. When she next saw Jacques some days later, she began to
question him again,--

"How is this, Monsieur de Montgommery? Still more melancholy than
usual?"

"I am indeed, Madame," said the count, humbly; "for I shudder to think
that I have offended you."

"Not offended, Monsieur," said the duchess, "but grieved sorely."

"Oh, Madame," cried Montgomery, "I, who would give all my blood to spare
you a tear,--how can it be that I have caused you the least grief?"

"Did you not tell me that because I was the king's favorite I had no
right to aspire to the affection of a simple gentleman?"

"Ah, I had no such idea as that, Madame," said the count; "indeed, I
could have no such idea, for I, a simple gentleman, love you with a
passion as sincere as it is profound. I only meant to say to you that
you could not love me, since the king loves you and you love him."

"The king does not love me, nor do I love the king," replied Diane.

"God in heaven! Then you may come to love me!" cried Montgommery.

"I may love you," replied Diane, calmly; "but I can never tell you that
I love you."

"And why not, Madame?"

"To save my father's life," said Diane, "I consented to become the
mistress of the King of France; but the way to restore my honor is not
to become the mistress of the Comte de Montgommery."

She accompanied this half-refusal with so passionate and so languishing
a glance that the count could not restrain himself.

"Ah, Madame," said he to the coquettish duchess, "if you love me as I
love you--"

"Well, what then?"

"What then! Why, what matters the world, or the prejudices of family or
of honor? For me you are the universe. For three months I have seen
nothing but your face. I love you with all the blind devotion and all
the ardor of a first passion. Your sovereign beauty intoxicates me and
distracts me. If you love me as I love you, be Comtesse de
Montgommery,--be my wife."

"Thanks, Count," said Diane, triumphantly. "I will remember these noble
and generous words. Meanwhile you know that green and white are my
colors."

Jacques in a transport of delight kissed Diane's hand, prouder and
happier than if the crown of the whole world had been on his head.

And when François I., the following day, called Diane's attention to
the fact that her new adorer had begun to wear her colors in public,--

"Has he not a right to, Sire?" said she, fixing her keen glance upon
the king. "And may I not allow him to wear my colors when he offers to
let me wear his name?"

"Is it possible?" the king asked.

"There is no doubt about it, Sire," the duchess replied, with
confidence, thinking for a moment that her plan had succeeded, and that
the jealousy of her unfaithful lord would reawaken his love.

But after a moment of silence, the king, rising to put an end to the
interview, said to Diane, gayly,--

"If that is so, Madame, we will give the office of grand
sénéchal--which has been vacant since the death of Monsieur de
Brézé, your first husband--to Monsieur de Montgommery as a wedding
present."

"And Monsieur de Montgommery will accept it," was Diane's proud reply;
"for I will be a faithful and loyal wife to him, and I would not be
false to my troth to him for all the kings in Christendom."

The king bowed and smiled, without making any reply, and left the room.

Unquestionably Madame d'Étampes's star was in the ascendant.

The same day Diane the ambitious, with bitter anger at her heart, said
to the enraptured Jacques,--

"My gallant Count, my noble Montgommery, I love you with all my heart."




CHAPTER XIX

HOW HENRI II. BEGAN TO ENJOY HIS INHERITANCE
DURING HIS FATHER'S LIFE


The marriage of Diane and the Comte de Montgommery was appointed to take
place in three months; and it was currently rumored in that
scandal-mongering and licentious court that Diane de Poitiers, in her
eager desire for revenge, had given earnest-money to her future husband.

The three months passed. The Comte de Montgommery was more infatuated
than ever; but Diane postponed the performance of her promise from day
to day, on one pretext or another.

A very short time after she had given this promise, she had noticed that
the young Dauphin Henri was in the habit of feasting his eyes upon her
when no one was by. Thereupon a new ambition awoke in the heart of the
imperious Diane. The title of Comtesse de Montgommery was only of use to
conceal a defeat, while the title of favorite of the dauphin would be
almost a triumph. What! Madame d'Étampes, who was always prating
contemptuously about Diane's age, was loved by the father only; that was
nothing. She, Diane, would be loved by the son! For her a youthful
passion; for her hope; for her the future! Madame d'Étampes had
succeeded her; but she would succeed Madame d'Étampes. She would keep
always before her, waiting patiently and calmly for her time to come, a
constant, living menace. For Henri would some day be king; and Diane,
always beautiful, would be queen once more. It would be in truth a
notable triumph.

Henri's character made her still more certain of her game. He was only
nineteen at this time, but had taken part in more than one war; for four
years he had been married to Catherine de Médicis, but remained none
the less an uncouth and muddle-headed boy. He was as awkward and
embarrassed at the fêtes at the Louvre, and in the presence of the
other sex, as he was accomplished and daring in horsemanship, in feats
of arms, or at tilting,--in all directions, in short, where skill and
address were requisite. Being dull intellectually, and slow-witted, he
was an easy prey to anybody who cared to take him up. Anne de
Montmorency, who was not on good terms with the king, devoted his
attention to the dauphin, and had no difficulty in enforcing his views
upon him, and bringing his tastes to conform to his own, which were
those of a man of mature years. He led him hither and thither according
to his will and caprice. Ultimately he succeeded in planting in that
weak and yielding mind the wide-spreading roots of an all-powerful
influence, and obtained such control over Henri that thenceforth
seemingly nothing but the ascendency of some woman could disturb his
power.

But he was horrified before long to see that his pupil was on the verge
of falling in love. Henri abandoned the friends with whom the constable
had shrewdly surrounded him. Henri became melancholy and dreamy where he
had been shy before. Montmorency looked around, and thought that he
could see that it was Diane de Poitiers who was enthroned in his fancy.
This rough gendarme preferred that it should be Diane rather than
another, for in his vulgar fashion he estimated the royal courtesan much
more nearly at her true worth than did the chivalrous Montgommery. He
based his plans upon the low motives which he attributed to her, judging
her by himself; and with his mind once more at ease, he left the dauphin
to hover sighing about the grande sénéchale.

It was indeed her beauty which aroused Henri's sluggish heart. She was
roguish and provoking and lively; her finely-shaped head moved very
prettily and quickly hither and thither; her glance shone with promise;
and her whole person had a sort of magnetic attraction (they called it
magic in those days) which easily led poor Henri astray. It seemed to
him that this fair creature would unveil to him the secret of a new
life. The siren was to him, strange and innocent savage that he was, as
fascinating and dangerous as the hidden mysteries of a cavern.

Diane saw all this; but she still hesitated to incur the risk of this
new future, through fear of the past in the shape of François I., and
of Comte de Montgommery in the present.

But one day when the king, always courteous and attentive to the other
sex, even to those with whom he was not in love, and to those whom he
had ceased to love, was talking with Diane de Poitiers in the embrasure
of a window, he noticed the dauphin watching them with a sly and jealous
look.

François called him.

"Aha, Monsieur my son, what are you doing there? Come this way," he
said.

But Henri, pale and ashamed, after hesitating a moment between his duty
and his fear, instead of replying to his father's invitation, adopted
the expedient of running away as if he had not heard him.

"Well, well, what a boorish, shy dog!" said the king. "Can you
understand such bashfulness, Madame Diane? Have you, goddess of the
forests, ever seen a fallow deer more terrified? Ah, what a wretched
failing?"

"Is it your Majesty's pleasure that I should undertake to amend
Monseigneur le Dauphin's ways?" asked Diane, smiling.

"Surely," said the king, "it would be hard to imagine a prettier teacher
or a more delightful apprenticeship."

"Consider his education completed, then, Sire," replied Diane; "I will
take charge of it."

She soon hunted up the fugitive.

The Comte de Montgommery, being on duty that day, was not at the Louvre.

"I frighten you terribly, Monseigneur, do I not?"

Diane began the conversation thus; and the conversation thus begun was
continued.

How she concluded it; how she seemed not to notice the prince's
blunders, but hung upon his lightest word; how he left her with the
conviction that he should soon be clever and fascinating; and how he did
gradually become clever and fascinating with her; how, in short, she
became his mistress in every sense of the word, ordering him about,
giving him lessons, and humoring him all at the same time,--it was the
same old, untranslatable comedy over again, which will always be played,
but never has been and never will be written.

And Montgommery? Oh, Montgommery loved Diane too well to suspect her,
and had devoted himself to her too blindly to have any clearness of
vision left. Everybody at court was already gossiping about Madame de
Poitiers's latest love-affair, as to which the noble count was in a
state of blissful ignorance which Diane took good care not to dispel.
The structure she was building was too fragile as yet for her not to
dread the least shock, or any outburst; so while her ambition led her to
maintain her hold on the dauphin, prudence kept her from breaking with
the count.




CHAPTER XX

OF THE USEFULNESS OF FRIENDS


Now let us allow Aloyse to go on and finish her tale, having narrated
these preliminary facts by way of explanation of what is to come.

"My husband, brave Perrot," she said to Gabriel, who was all rapt
attention, "had not failed to hear the reports which were on everybody's
lips about Madame Diane, and all the sport that was made of Monsieur de
Montgommery; but he did not know whether it was his duty to warn his
master, who he saw continued trustful and happy, or whether he should
hold his peace about the shameful plot in which this ambitious woman had
involved him. He told me of his hesitation, for I used to give him very
good advice, and he had put my discretion and my loyalty to the proof;
but in this matter I was as undecided as he as to what course we should
take.

"One evening we were sitting in this very room, Monseigneur and Perrot
and I; for the count never treated us as servants, but as friends, and
had chosen to retain, even here in Paris, the patriarchal custom of
passing winter evenings current in Normandy, where the master and his
retainers used to warm themselves at the same fire after working
together through the day. The count, buried in thought, his head resting
on his hand, was sitting before the fire. He used commonly to pass the
evening with Madame de Poitiers; but for some time she had very
frequently sent word to him that she was ill and could not receive him.
He was thinking about her, no doubt, while Perrot was fitting the straps
of a cuirass, and I was spinning.

"It was the 7th of January, 1539, a cold and rainy evening, and the day
after the Epiphany. Remember that ill-omened date, Monseigneur."

Gabriel nodded to show that no word escaped him, and Aloyse continued,--

"All at once Monsieur de Langeais, Monsieur de Boutières, and the Comte
de Sancerre were announced,--three gentlemen of the court, friends of
Monseigneur, but much closer friends of Madame d'Étampes. All three
were wrapped in great dark cloaks; and although they came in laughing, I
seemed to feel that they brought disaster with them; and my instinct,
alas! was not far out of the way.

"The Comte de Montgommery rose and advanced to greet the new-comers with
the hospitable and courtly manner which became him so well.

"'Welcome, my friends!' said he to the three, as he shook hands with
them.

"At a sign from him I came forward to take their cloaks, and all of them
sat down.

"'What good fortune brings you to my poor quarters?' the count asked.

"'A threefold bet,' replied Monsieur de Boutières; 'and your presence
here, my dear Count, wins mine for me on the spot.'

"'As for mine,' said Monsieur de Langeais, 'it was won before we came
here.'

"'And mine,' said the Comte de Sancerre, 'I shall win in a moment, as
you will see.'

"'What were your bets, pray, gentlemen?' said Montgommery.

"'Well,' said Monsieur de Boutières, 'Langeais here made a bet with
D'Enghien that the Dauphin would not be at the Louvre this evening. We
have been there, and have duly decided that D'Enghien has lost.'

"'As for De Boutières,' said the Comte de Sancerre, 'he bet with
Monsieur de Montejan that you would be at home this evening, my dear
Count; and you see that he has won.'

"'And you have won, too, Sancerre, I'll warrant,' said Monsieur de
Langeais; 'for in fact the three bets were really but one, and we must
win or lose together. Sancerre, Monsieur de Montgommery, bet one hundred
pistoles with D'Aussun that Madame de Poitiers was ill this evening.'

"Your father, Gabriel, turned fearfully pale.

"'You have won, too, Monsieur de Sancerre,' said he, with a trembling
voice; 'for Madame la Grande Sénéchale just now sent word to me that
she could receive no one this evening on account of a sudden
indisposition.'

"'There,' cried Monsieur de Sancerre, 'just as I said! You will bear
witness for me to D'Aussun, gentlemen, that he owes me a hundred
pistoles.'

"Then they all fell to laughing like madmen; but the Comte de
Montgommery remained very grave.

"'Now, my good friends,' said he, with an accent not free from
bitterness, 'will you kindly explain this riddle for me?'

"'With all my heart, upon my word!' said Monsieur de Boutières; 'but
first send these good people away.'

"We were already at the door, Perrot and I; but Monseigneur motioned for
us to remain.

"'These are devoted friends of mine,' he said to the young gentlemen;
'and as I have nothing to blush for, I have nothing to conceal.'

"'As you choose!' said Monsieur de Langeais; 'it seems rather
provincial, but the matter concerns you more than us, Count. And I am
sure, too, that they must know the great secret, for it has made the
circuit of the whole town; and you will be the last one to hear it, as
is generally the case.'

"'Tell me, I beg you!' exclaimed Monsieur de Montgommery.

"'My dear Count,' resumed Monsieur de Langeais, 'we are going to tell
you, because it pains us deeply to see a brave and courteous gentleman
like yourself so deceived; but if we do tell you, it is only on
condition that you accept the revelation philosophically,--that is to
say, with a laugh,--for the whole matter is not worth your anger, I
assure you; and then, too, any outburst of wrath would be disarmed
beforehand.'

"'We shall see! I am waiting,' replied Monseigneur, coldly.

"'Dear Count,'--Monsieur de Boutières it was who spoke now, the
youngest and most heedless of the three,--'you are acquainted with
mythology, are you not? No doubt you know the story of Endymion? But
what do you think was Endymion's age at the time of his liaison with
Diane Phœbé? If you imagine that he was in the neighborhood of forty,
you are mistaken, my dear fellow, for he was less than twenty, and hadn't
a sign of a beard even. I know that from my governor, who has the
whole story at his tongue's end. And that is how it happens that
Endymion on this particular evening is not at the Louvre; and that Dame
Luna is in bed and not to be seen, probably on account of the storm; and
lastly, that you are at home, Monsieur de Montgommery,--whence it
follows that my governor is a great man, and that we have won our three
bets. _Vive la joie_!'

"'Your proofs?' asked the count, coldly.

"'Proofs!' replied Monsieur de Langeais, 'why, you can go and seek those
for yourself. Don't you live within two steps of La Luna?'

"'Very true. Thanks!' was the count's only reply.

"He rose from his chair; and the three friends had to rise too, chilled
and rather alarmed by Monsieur de Montgommery's stern and forbidding
demeanor.

"'Come, come, Count,' said Monsieur de Sancerre, 'don't go and do
anything foolish or imprudent! And remember that it is as dangerous to
rub against the lion's whelp as against the lion himself.'

"'Don't be alarmed,' replied the count.

"'At least you don't intend to do yourself any harm?'

"'That's as it may be,' said he.

"He showed them to the door, or rather almost pushed them out, and then,
coming back, said to Perrot,--

"'My cloak and my sword.'

"Perrot brought them to him.

"'Is it true that you knew this thing, you two?' asked the count,
adjusting his sword.

"'Yes, Monseigneur,' replied Perrot, looking at the floor.

"'Why didn't you give me some warning of it, Perrot?'

"'But, Monseigneur--' my husband began falteringly.

"'Oh, it's all right; you are not my friends, you two, but just good
people, that's all.'

"He tapped his squire on the shoulder good-naturedly. He was very pale,
but spoke with a sort of solemn calmness. Again he said to Perrot,--

"'Is it a long while that these reports have been circulating?'

"'Monseigneur,' said Perrot, 'it is five months that you have been in
love with Madame de Poitiers; and your marriage was arranged to take
place in November. I am assured that Monseigneur le Dauphin has been in
love with Madame Diane since about a month after she welcomed your
addresses. However, it is hardly more than two months since it has been
talked about, and personally I have known of it for only a fortnight.
The rumors did not take definite shape until the postponement of the
wedding, and the talk has been mostly under the rose, for fear of
Monseigneur le Dauphin. Only yesterday I whipped one of Monsieur de la
Garde's people for having the face to laugh about it in my hearing; and
Monsieur de la Garde didn't dare to say a word.'

"'They shall not laugh any more about it,' said Monseigneur, in a tone
that made me fairly shudder.

"When he was ready to depart, he passed his hand across his forehead,
and said,--

"'Aloyse, bring Gabriel to me; I want to kiss him.'

"You were sleeping, Monseigneur Gabriel,--sleeping calmly like a little
cherub; and you began to cry when I woke you and took you from your bed.
I wrapped you in a blanket, and thus carried you to your father. He took
you in his arms, gazed at you for some time without a word, as if to
take his fill of the sight of you, then pressed a kiss upon your
half-closed eyes. At the same time a tear fell on your rosy cheek,--the
first tear which he, the strong proud man, had ever shed before me. He
gave you back to my arms, saying,--

"'I commend my child to you, Aloyse.'

"Alas! they were the last words he ever said to me. They have remained
where they fell, and I seem to hear them always.

"'I am going with you, Monseigneur,' said my good Perrot then.

"'No, Perrot. I must go alone. Do you stay here.'

"'But, Monseigneur--'

"'I wish it so,' said he.

"It was useless to protest further, when he spoke thus, and Perrot
therefore remained silent. The count took our hands.

"'Adieu, my dear friends,' said he; 'no, not adieu! _au revoir_'

"And then he went away, calmly and with a firm step, as if he were going
to return in a quarter of an hour.

"Perrot said not a word; but as soon as his master was out of the house,
he too took down his cloak and his sword. We didn't exchange a word,
and I made no attempt to prevent his going; he did but his duty in
following the count, though it were to his death. He held out his arms
to me, and I threw myself weeping into them; then having kissed me most
tenderly, he followed Monsieur de Montgommery's footsteps. All this had
not taken a minute, and we had not exchanged one word.

"Left alone, I fell upon a chair, sobbing and praying. The rain outside
was falling with redoubled violence, and the wind was howling dismally.
But you, Monseigneur Gabriel, you had fallen off again into a peaceful
sleep, from which you were to awake an orphan."




CHAPTER XXI

WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN THAT JEALOUSY SOMETIMES ABOLISHED
TITLES EVEN BEFORE THE FRENCH REVOLUTION


"As Monsieur de Langeais had said, the Hôtel de Brézé, where Madame
Diane then lived, was in the Rue du Figuier St. Paul, only two steps
from us, and there it still stands,--this abode of disaster.

"Perrot followed his master at a distance, saw him stop at Madame
Diane's door, knock, and then go in. He drew near to the house. Monsieur
de Montgommery was speaking haughtily and with much confidence to the
valets, who were trying to prevent his entrance, declaring that their
mistress was ill in her chamber; but the count forced his way in, and
Perrot took advantage of the confusion to creep softly in behind him, as
the door remained half open. He knew his way about the house very well,
having carried more than one message to Madame Diane. He went upstairs
in the darkness behind Monsieur de Montgommery, unopposed, either
because nobody saw him, or because the squire's presence was of trifling
consequence when the master had broken through all rules.

"At the top of the staircase the count found two of the duchess's women,
terrified and weeping, who asked him what he wanted at such an
unseasonable hour. Ten o'clock was just striking on all the clocks in
the neighborhood. Monsieur de Montgommery replied firmly that he must
see Madame Diane at once; that he had something of importance to tell
her without delay, and that if she could not receive him, he would wait.

"He spoke loud enough to be heard in the duchess's bedroom, which was
close at hand. One of the women went in, and came back at once to say
that Madame de Poitiers had retired; but that she would come and speak
with the count, who was to wait for her in the oratory.

"The dauphin was not there then, or else he was acting very timorously
for a son of France. Monsieur de Montgommery followed the two women
without objection as they lighted him into the oratory.

"Perrot then who had been crouching in the darkness of the stairway,
went on to the floor above, and hid behind a high curtain in a corridor
which separated Madame de Poitiers's bedroom from the oratory where
Monsieur de Montgommery was awaiting her. At the ends of this wide
passage-way were two disused doors, one of which had formerly led into
the oratory, and the other into the bedroom. Perrot found to his great
delight that by slipping behind the hangings of one or the other of
these doors, which had been allowed to remain for symmetry's sake,
though no longer in use, and by listening attentively, he could hear
almost every word that was said in either apartment. Not that my brave
husband was influenced by mere idle curiosity, Monseigneur; but the
count's last words as he parted from us, and an undefinable instinct,
warned him that his master was running some risk, and that at this very
moment they were setting a trap for him perhaps; so he determined to
remain at hand to assist him in case of need.

"Unfortunately, as you will see, Monseigneur, not one of the words that
he heard and afterward repeated to me threw the least ray of light upon
the obscure and fatal question which is in our minds to-day.

"Monsieur de Montgommery had not waited two minutes when Madame de
Poitiers entered the oratory rather hurriedly.

"'What is the trouble, Monsieur?' said she; 'and why this nocturnal
invasion after my request that you would not come to-day?'

"'I will tell you frankly in a word, Madame; but send these women away
first. Now listen to me. I will be very brief. I have been told that I
have a rival in your affection; that my rival is the dauphin, and that
he is with you here this very evening.'

"'And you must have believed it, since you came running here to make
sure?' said Madame Diane, haughtily.

"'I was in agony, Diane, and I came here hoping to find a cure for my
suffering.'

"'Very well; and now you have seen me,' replied Madame de Poitiers, 'you
know that your informants lied to you; so leave me to get some rest. In
Heaven's name, go, Jacques!'

"'No, Diane,' said the count made suspicious, no doubt, by her haste to
get rid of him; 'for if they did lie in claiming that the dauphin was
here now, they may not have lied in assuring me that he will be here
before the evening is over; and I shall be very glad to prove them
slanderers at every point.'

"'And so you will remain, Monsieur?'

"'I will remain, Madame. Do you go and lie down if you are ill, Diane. I
will keep watch over your slumber, if you are willing.'

"'But by what right will you do this, Monsieur?' cried Madame de
Poitiers. 'What title have you? Am I not free still?'

"'No, Madame,' replied the count, steadily, 'you are no longer free to
make a loyal gentleman whose attentions you have accepted the
laughing-stock of the whole court.'

"'At all events, I will not accept this last attention,' said Madame
Diane. 'You have no more right to remain here than other people have to
laugh at you. You are not my husband, are you? And I don't bear your
name, so far as I am aware.'

"'Oh, Madame,' cried the count, in despair, 'what does it matter to me
how much they laugh at me? That is not the question? _Mon Dieu_, no! and
you know it, Diane; and it is not my honor that lies bleeding and crying
to you for pity, but my love. If I had been offended by the gibes of
those three idiots, I would have drawn my sword on them, and that would
have been the end of it. But my heart was torn, Diane, and I came flying
to you. My dignity! my reputation! it is not about those that I am
troubled, not in the least; it is because I love you, and am raving mad
with jealousy; because you have told me and proved to me that you love
me; and because I will kill any one who dares to interfere with this
love which is my all, whether he be dauphin or the king himself, Madame!
I don't worry about the shape my vengeance shall take, I assure you. But
as God lives, I will be revenged!'

"'And revenged for what, pray? and why?' demanded an imperious voice
behind Monsieur de Montgommery.

"Perrot shivered with fear of what was to come; for across the dimly
lighted corridor he saw Monsieur le Dauphin, who is to-day king, and in
his wake the harsh and mocking features of Monsieur de Montmorency.

"'Heaven help me!' cried Madame Diane, falling upon a couch and wringing
her hands; 'this is just what I feared.'

"Monsieur de Montgommery at first gave only a short sharp cry of dismay.
Then Perrot heard him say with a marvellously calm voice,--

"'Monseigneur le Dauphin, just one word, by your leave! Tell me that you
have not come here because you love Madame de Poitiers, and because
Madame de Poitiers loves you.'

"'Monsieur de Montgommery,' replied the dauphin, restraining his rising
anger, 'just one word, by my command! Tell me that I do not find you
here because Madame Diane loves you, and because you love Madame Diane.'

"Matters having reached this stage, the actors were no longer the heir
of the mightiest throne in the world and a simple gentleman, his
subject, but two men, angered and jealous rivals, two suffering hearts,
two distraught minds.

"'I was Madame Diane's chosen and accepted husband, as everybody knew,
and as you knew,' replied Monsieur de Montgommery, altogether omitting
the title by which the prince had a claim to be addressed.

"'A mere promise in the air, a forgotten promise,' cried Henri; 'and
although perhaps of more recent date than yours, the rights of my love
are no less sure, and I will maintain them.'

"'Ah, the villain! he speaks of his rights!' cried the count, already
drunk with rage and jealousy. 'Do you dare to say, then, that this woman
belongs to you?'

"I say that she doesn't belong to you, at all events,' replied Henri; 'I
say that I am at Madame's house with Madame's approbation, and I fancy
that you can hardly say the same. So I am impatiently awaiting your
departure, Monsieur.'

"'If you are so impatient, well and good! let us go together; that's
very simple.'

"'A challenge!' cried Montmorency, coming forward at this. 'Do you dare,
Monsieur, to offer a challenge to the Dauphin of France?'

"'There is no Dauphin of France in the case at all,' replied the count;
'there is only a man who claims to be beloved by the woman whom I love,
that's all.'

"He must have made a pass at Henri at this juncture, for Perrot heard
Diane cry out,--

"'He means to insult the prince! he will murder the prince! Help!'

"Embarrassed, no doubt, by the strange part she was playing, she rushed
out of the room, notwithstanding Monsieur de Montmorency's efforts to
detain her by assuring her that she need not be afraid, for they were
two against one, and had a strong escort below. Perrot saw Madame Diane
cross the corridor and burst into her own room, weeping violently and
calling aloud for her women and the dauphin's people.

"But her flight had no tendency to allay the heat of the two
adversaries, far from it; and Monsieur de Montgommery repeated with
bitter meaning the word 'escort' which had just been uttered.

"'It is with the swords of his retainers, doubtless,' said he, 'that
Monseigneur le Dauphin intends to avenge these insults?'

"'No, Monsieur,' replied Henri, proudly, 'my sword alone will suffice to
punish an insolent villain.'

"Each already had his hand upon his sword-hilt, when Monsieur de
Montmorency interposed.

"'Pardon, Monseigneur,' said he; 'but he who may be king to-morrow has
no right to put his life in jeopardy to-day. You are not a man,
Monseigneur; you are a whole nation. A dauphin of France draws his sword
only for France herself.'

"'But in that case,' cried Monsieur de Montgommery, 'a dauphin of
France, who has everything at command, should not filch from me the one
on whom my whole life depends, who is in my eyes dearer than my honor,
than my native country, than my child in its cradle, even than my
immortal soul itself; for she had made me forget all these,--this woman
who has perhaps been false to me. But no, she is not false to me; it
cannot be, for I love her too dearly! Monseigneur, pardon my violence
and my madness, I beg, and condescend to tell me that you do not love
Diane. Of course you would not come to the house of one you loved
accompanied by Monsieur de Montmorency and a mounted escort of eight or
ten! I ought to have thought of that.'

"'I chose,' said Monsieur de Montmorency, 'to attend Monseigneur with an
escort this evening, despite his objections, because I had been secretly
warned that a trap would be laid for him to-day. However, I meant to go
no farther than the door of the house; but your loud voice, Monsieur,
reached my ears, and was the cause of my coming farther than I intended,
and thus becoming convinced of the accuracy of the intelligence afforded
by the unknown friends who put me upon my guard so opportunely.'

"'Ah, I know who they are, these unknown friends!' said the count,
laughing bitterly. 'They are the same ones, no doubt, who notified me
also that the dauphin would be here this evening; and their plans have
succeeded to admiration, to their delight no doubt, and to hers who set
them about it. For Madame d'Étampes, I presume, had no object except to
compromise Madame de Poitiers by a public scandal. So Monsieur le
Dauphin, in coming to pay his visit with an army in attendance, has
marvellously helped on this marvellous scheme! Aha! so you have no
longer to show the least discretion, Henri de Valois, in your relations
with Madame de Brézé? So you label her publicly as your declared
favorite, do you? She is really yours by a certified and authenticated
title; and I can no longer doubt or hope? You have surely stolen her
from me beyond recall, and with her my happiness and my life? Well,
then, by heaven and earth! I have no more occasion to be discreet
either'. Because you are the son of France, Henri de Valois, is no
reason why I should cease to be a gentleman; and you shall give me
satisfaction for this insult, or you are nothing but a coward!"

"'Scoundrel!' cried the dauphin, drawing his sword and springing at the
count.

"But Monsieur de Montmorency again threw himself between them.

"'Monseigneur, once more I say that in my presence the heir to the
throne shall not cross swords about a woman with a --'

"'With a gentleman of more ancient race than you, foremost baron in
Christendom though you be!' the count burst in, fairly beside himself.
'Besides, every noble is as good as the king; and kings have not always
been so discreet, as you undertake to claim, and for very good reasons.
Charles of Naples challenged Alphonse of Arragon, and François I., not
so very long ago, challenged Charles V. "That was king against king,"
you say. 'Very well! Monsieur de Nemours, the king's nephew, called out
an humble Spanish captain. The Montgommerys are every whit as good as
the Valois; and as they have many times intermarried with the royal
children of France and England, there is no reason why they should not
fight with them. The Montgommerys of old bore the arms of France pure in
the second and third quarterings. After their return from England,
whither they followed William the Conqueror, their arms were azure, a
lion, or, armed, and _lampassé_ argent, with the motto _Garde lieu_!
and three _fleurs-de-lis_ on a field gules. Come, then, Monseigneur, our
arms are like our swords, a fitting guarantee of our knightly prowess.
Ah, if you loved this woman as I do, and if you hated me as I hate you!
But no, you are a mere timid boy, happy in being able to hide behind
your preceptor.'

"'Monsieur de Montmorency, let me go!' cried the dauphin, struggling
fiercely with Montmorency, who was holding him back.

"'No, by Heaven!' said Montmorency, 'I will not let you fight with this
madman! Below there! Help! help!' he shouted at the top of his voice.

"And Diane, too, leaning over the stairway, could be distinctly heard
crying with all her might,--

"'Help! Come up, you fellows! Are you going to let your masters be
murdered?'

"This Delilah-like perfidy--for, after all, they were two to one against
Monsieur de Montgommery--undoubtedly excited the count's blind fury to
the highest pitch. Perrot, paralyzed with terror, heard him say,--

"'Does it need, then, the last insult of all to convince you,--you and
your go-between,--Henri de Valois, that you _must_ give me
satisfaction?'

"Perrot supposed that he then approached the dauphin and threatened to
strike him with his hand, for Henri roared like a tiger. But Monsieur de
Montmorency had evidently caught the count's arm, for while he was
shrieking louder than ever, 'Help! help!' Perrot, who could see nothing,
heard the prince cry out,--

"'His glove touched my face! He must die by no other hand than mine,
now, Montmorency!'

"All this took place with the rapidity of lightning. Just at that moment
the escort came in; then ensued a savage combat, and a tremendous noise
of trampling, and clashing steel. Monsieur de Montmorency cried, 'Bind
the madman!' And the dauphin, 'Don't kill him! In Heaven's name, don't
kill him!'

"This one-sided battle didn't last a moment. Perrot hadn't time even
to rush to his master's assistance. He got as far as the threshold; and
there he saw one of the escort lying on the floor, and two or three
others covered with blood. But the count was disarmed, and already bound
and tightly held by five or six armed men who had attacked him at once.
Perrot, who was not noticed in the confusion, thought he could be of
more use to Monsieur de Montgommery by remaining free, and in condition
to let his friends know, or to rescue him on some more favorable
occasion. So he returned noiselessly to his post, and there, on the
alert and with his hand on his sword, he waited--since his master was
not killed, or even wounded--until it was time to show himself, and
perhaps save him; for you will soon see, Monseigneur, that neither
resolution nor daring was lacking in my good husband; But he was as
prudent as he was valiant, and knew how to make skilful use of his
opportunities. For the moment his cue was to watch; and that is what he
did, carefully and with perfect self-possession.

"Meanwhile Monsieur de Montgommery, tightly pinioned, was still crying
out,--

"'Didn't I tell you, Henri de Valois, that you would have to fight with
ten swords against my one, and meet my insult with the obedient courage
of your soldiers?'

"'You hear, Monsieur de Montmorency!' said the trembling dauphin.

"'Let him be gagged!' was Monsieur de Montmorency's only reply. 'I will
soon give you your instructions,' said he to the men, 'as to what is to
be done with him. Meanwhile keep careful watch on him; you shall answer
for him to me with your heads.'

"And he left the oratory, taking the dauphin with him. They passed
through the corridor, where Perrot was hiding behind the hangings, and
went into Madame Diane's apartment.

"Perrot thereupon went over to the other wall, and applied his ear to
the other disused door.

"The scene of which he had already been an auditor was on the whole less
terrible than that to which he was now to listen."




CHAPTER XXII

DESCRIBES THE MOST CONVINCING PROOF THAT A WOMAN
CAN GIVE THAT A MAN IS NOT HER LOVER


"'MONSIEUR de MONTMORENCY,' said the dauphin, as he entered the room,
angry and cast down, 'if you had not held me back, I should be better
content with myself and you than I am at present.'

"'Permit me to say, Monseigneur,' Montmorency replied, 'that you talk
like a hot-headed youth, and not like the king's son. Your days do not
belong to you; they belong to your people, Monseigneur, and crowned
heads have different duties from other men.'

"'Why, then, should I be so angry with myself, and so ashamed?' said the
prince. 'Ah! there you are, Madame,' he added, addressing Diane, whom he
had just espied.

"And for the moment his wounded self-esteem got the better of his
jealous passion.

"'It is at your house and through your connivance,' said he, 'that I
have been insulted for the first time in my life.'

"'Alas! at my house, yes; but do not say through my connivance,
Monseigneur,' replied Diane. 'Haven't I suffered quite as much as
you,--yes, more than you? Am I not innocent of all this? Do you suppose
that I care for that man, pray? Or that I have ever cared for him?'

"Having betrayed him, she now disowned him; it was very simple.

"'I love you and only you, Monseigneur, she went on; 'my heart and soul
are yours only and absolutely; and my existence dates only from the day
when you accepted this heart which is devoted to you. But before that it
may be--yes, I remember vaguely that I did allow this Montgommery to
entertain some hope. Never anything positive, and no definite
engagement. But you came; and all else was forgotten. Since that time I
swear to you--and you may believe my words rather than the jealous
slanders of Madame d'Étampes and her friends--since that blessed time I
have not had a single thought or a single heart-beat that has not been
for you, Monseigneur. That man lies; that man is acting in concert with
my enemies; that man has no right over her who belongs so completely to
you, Henri. I hardly know the man; and not only do I not love him, but,
Great Heaven, I hate and despise him! See, I don't even ask you if he be
dead or alive. I think only of you. And as for him, I hate him!'

"'Is this true, Madame?' said the dauphin, still with something of
gloomy distrust in his tone.

"'It will be very easy and a very short matter to prove it,' replied
Monsieur de Montmorency. 'Monsieur de Montgommery is living, Madame; but
he is securely bound and in no condition to do any harm. He has put a
shameful outrage upon the prince. But to accuse him before the ordinary
tribunals is not to be thought of; to punish him for such a crime would
be more dangerous than the crime itself. On the other hand, it is still
more utterly out of the question that Monseigneur le Dauphin should
engage in single combat with this insolent scoundrel. Now what do you
suggest, Madame? What shall we do with this man?'

"There was a moment of painful silence. Perrot held his breath so that
he might not lose a syllable of the words which were so slow in coming.
But it was evident that Madame Diane was in fear for herself as well as
for what she was going to say. She hesitated about uttering her own
sentence.

"But at last she had to speak; and with a voice that was still
reasonably firm, she said,--

"'Monsieur de Montgommery has been guilty of the crime of
_lèse-majesté_. Monsieur de Montmorency, to what penalty are they
liable who commit that crime?'

"'Death,' the constable replied.

"'Then,' said Madame Diane, coldly, 'my opinion is that this man should
die.'

"Both the others stood aghast at these words; and there was another
pause before Monsieur de Montmorency replied,--

"'You mean by that, Madame, that you do not love Monsieur de
Montgommery, and never have loved him.'

"'For my part,' said the dauphin, 'I am less desirous than ever now that
he should die.'

"'I hold the same views,' said Montmorency, 'but on different grounds
from yours, I take it, Monseigneur. The opinion which generosity moves
you to express, I hold for prudential reasons. Monsieur de Montgommery
has many friends and powerful allies in France and England; it is known
at court that he was likely to meet us here to-night. If they come to us
and ask us boldly and clamorously for news of him to-morrow, it must not
be that we are able to produce only a dead body. Nobles cannot be
treated like serfs and put to death without ceremony. We must be able to
reply,--"Monsieur de Montgommery has absconded;" or, "Monsieur de
Montgommery is wounded and ill;" but in any event, "Monsieur de
Montgommery is alive!" 'And if we are pushed to the last extremity, and
if they persist in clamoring for him to the end, well, then we must be
in a position where if worst comes to worst, we can take him from his
prison or his bed and produce him to the slanderers. But I hope that
this precaution, necessary though it be, will nevertheless be useless.
Monsieur de Montgommery will be sought for and inquired for to-morrow
and the day after; but in a week's time the matter will begin to die
out, and in a month he will not be mentioned at all. Nothing is
forgotten so speedily as a friend; and we must help to change the
subject of common gossip. My conclusion is, then, that the culprit must
neither die nor live; he must disappear.'

"'So be it!' said the dauphin. 'Let him go; let him leave France! He
has property and connections in England; let him take refuge there.'

"'Not by any means, Monseigneur,' Montmorency replied. 'Death is too
much; but banishment is not enough. Would you like,' he added in a lower
tone, 'to have this fellow tell in England rather than in France how he
threatened you with an insulting gesture?'

"'Oh, don't remind me of that!' cried the dauphin, grinding his teeth.

"'Yet I must remind you of it, Monseigneur, to fortify you against a
perilous decision. It is essential, I say again, that the count should
tell no tales, living or dead. The men of our escort can be depended
upon; and, besides, they have no idea with whom they are dealing. The
governor of the Châtelet is a friend of mine; more than that, he is as
deaf and dumb as his prison, and devoted to his Majesty's service. Let
Monsieur de Montgommery be carried to the Châtelet this very night. A
good strong dungeon will keep him for us, or give him back to us, as we
choose. To-morrow he will have disappeared; and we will take pains to
spread most contradictory and inconsistent reports as to his
disappearance. If these rumors do not die out of themselves, and if the
count's friends are too persistent in making search for him, which is
hardly probable; and if they institute a rigorous and thorough inquiry,
which would greatly surprise me,--why, then we can justify ourselves in
one word by producing the register of the Châtelet, which will prove
that Monsieur de Montgommery, accused of the crime of _lèse-majesté_,
is held in prison pending the regular decree of the courts. Then, when
this fact is once established, will it be our fault if the prison is
unhealthy; and if grief and remorse have taken too strong a hold on
Monsieur de Montgommery, and if he dies before he has had time to appear
to answer to the charge?'

"'Oh, Monsieur!' cried the dauphin, in horror.

"'Never fear, Monseigneur,' replied the prince's adviser; 'we shall have
no need to go to such lengths. The rumors caused by the count's
disappearance will die away. His friends will be consoled, and will soon
forget; and Monsieur de Montgommery will live, if he chooses, the life
of a prisoner from the moment that he dies to the world.'

"'But has he not a son?' asked Madame Diane.

"'Yes, a very young boy, who will be told that no one knows what has
become of his father, and who will, when he has grown up, if he lives to
grow up, poor little orphan, have interests and passions of his own, and
will not trouble himself to unearth a story fifteen or twenty years
old.'

"'That is all very true, and well thought of,' said Madame de Poitiers.
'Come, I am inclined to accept it; nay, more, I approve of it, and
marvel at it.'

"'You are really too kind, Madame,' replied Montmorency, much flattered,
'and I am very glad to see that we are suited to appreciate each other.'

"'But I neither approve of it nor marvel at it, for my part,' cried the
dauphin; 'on the contrary, I oppose it and disclaim it.'

"'Disclaim it, Monseigneur, and you will do quite right,' said Monsieur
de Montmorency. 'Disclaim it; but do not oppose it. Find fault with it;
but let it go on. All this doesn't concern you at all; and I take the
whole responsibility of the affair upon my shoulders, before God and
man.'

"'But henceforth we shall be bound together by fellowship in crime,
shall we not,' said the dauphin, 'and you will no longer be my friend
simply, but my accomplice?'

"'Oh, Monseigneur, perish the thought!' cried the crafty minister. 'You
ought not to compromise yourself by punishing the culprit any more than
by fighting him. Is it your pleasure that we refer the whole matter to
the king your father?'

"'No, no; let my father know nothing of all this,' said the dauphin,
quickly.'

"'But my duty,' said Monsieur de Montmorency, 'will compel me to inform
him, nevertheless, Monseigneur, if you persist in thinking that the time
for chivalrous deeds is to last forever. Come, let us not hasten the
affair, if you prefer not, and let us wait for time to ripen our
judgment. Only let us make sure of the count's person, as an essential
part of our final plans, whatever they may be; and then we will postpone
for a time any final conclusion on the subject.'

"'Very well,' said the dauphin, whose feeble will was quick to grasp at
this pretended adjournment of the painful subject. 'Monsieur de
Montgommery will thus have time to reconsider his first unreflecting
impulse, and I also may reflect at my leisure on what my conscience and
my dignity demand that I should do.'

"'Let us go back to the Louvre, then, Monseigneur,' said Monsieur de
Montmorency, 'and leave no doubt of our presence there. I will send him
back to you to-morrow, Madame,' he continued, turning to Madame de
Poitiers with a smile; 'for I can see that you love him with a real,
heartfelt passion.'

"'But is Monseigneur le Dauphin convinced of it?' said Diane; 'and have
I his forgiveness for this unfortunate meeting, so entirely unforeseen
by me?'

"'Yes, indeed you must love me,--in truth, with a mighty love, Diane,'
replied the dauphin, thoughtfully; 'and I am in too great need of
believing it to doubt it. And as the count very truly said, I felt too
keenly the pang which cut my heart when I fancied I had lost you, so
that your love is henceforth necessary to my existence; and when I loved
you once, it was for life.'

"'Ah, God grant that you speak the truth!' cried Diane, passionately,
covering with kisses the hand that the dauphin held out to her in token
of forgiveness.

"'And now let us be off without more delay,' said Monsieur de
Montmorency.

"'_Au revoir_, Diane.'

"'_Au revoir_, my dear Lord,' said the duchess, with a most captivating
accent upon the last words.

"She went with him to the door of the room. While the dauphin was
descending the stairs, Monsieur de Montmorency opened the door of the
oratory where Monsieur de Montgommery was still lying, guarded and
bound, and said to the leader of the men-at-arms,--

"'I will send hither at once one of my people, who will instruct you
what to do with your prisoner. Until then watch his every movement, and
don't lose sight of him for one moment. You shall answer to me, all of
you, with your lives.'

"'Very well, Monseigneur,' replied the soldier.

"'Besides, I shall be on the watch too,' said Madame de Poitiers, from
the door where she was still standing.

"They all disappeared, and Perrot from his hiding-place could hear
nothing but the regular tread of the sentinel stationed just within the
oratory to guard the door, while his comrades guarded the prisoner."




CHAPTER XXIII

USELESS DEVOTION


Aloyse, having rested a few moments, for she could hardly breathe as she
recalled this mournful story, collected herself once more, and at
Gabriel's earnest entreaty finished her narrative in these words:--

"One o'clock in the morning was striking when the dauphin and his
unscrupulous mentor took their leave. Perrot saw that his master was
lost beyond all hope of rescue if he gave Monsieur de Montmorency's
messenger time to arrive. The moment for him to act was at hand. He had
noticed that Monsieur de Montmorency had not mentioned any countersign
or any signal by which his envoy could be recognized; so after waiting
about half an hour, to give Monsieur time to have given him his
instructions, Perrot crept carefully out of his hiding-place, went down
a few stairs on his toes, and then ascended them again, making his tread
distinctly audible, and knocked at the door of the oratory.

"The scheme that he had formed on the spur of the moment was an
audacious one; but its very audacity gave it some chance of success.

"'Who's there?' asked the sentinel.

"'A messenger from Monseigneur le Baron de Montmorency.'

"'Open,' said the leader of the party to the sentinel.

"The door opened, and Perrot entered boldly and confidently.

"'I am,' said he, 'the squire of Monsieur Charles de Manffol, who is
attached to Monsieur de Montmorency's service, as you know. We were just
going off guard at the Louvre, my master and I, when we met on the
Grève Monsieur de Montmorency with a tall young man wrapped in a cloak.
Monsieur de Montmorency recognized Monsieur de Manffol, and called him.
After talking together a few moments, they both ordered me to come here
to Madame Diane de Poitiers's house, Rue du Figuier. I should find here,
they said, a prisoner, as to whom Monsieur de Montmorency has given me
certain directions which I am about to carry out. I asked him for a
small escort; but he told me that there was already a sufficient force
here, and I see that there are more of you than I need to assist me in
executing the conciliatory mission with which I am intrusted. Where is
the prisoner? Ah, there he is! Remove the gag, for it is necessary that
I should speak to him, and that he should be able to reply to me.'

"The conscientious leader of the men-at-arms still hesitated, despite
Perrot's deliberate speech.

"'Have you no written order to give me?' he asked.

"'Does one write orders on the Place de Grève at two in the morning?'
replied Perrot, shrugging his shoulders. 'Monsieur de Montmorency told
me that you would expect me.'

"'Very true.'

"'Well, then, what game are you trying to play on me, my good fellow?
Come, leave the room, you and your people; for what I have to say to
this gentleman must be kept secret between ourselves. What! don't you
hear me? Leave us, I say!'

"They did finally leave; and Perrot walked coolly up to Monsieur de
Montgommery, who had been relieved of his gag.

"'My brave Perrot!' said the count, who had recognized his squire at
once, 'how do you happen to be here?'

"'You shall know, Monseigneur; but we have not a moment to lose now.
Listen.'

"In a few words he told him of the scene which had transpired in Madame
Diane's apartment, and of the determination which Monsieur de
Montmorency seemed to have taken of burying forever the terrible secret
of the insult with the insulter. Thus it was necessary to escape this
fatal captivity by a bold and desperate stroke.

"'And what do you mean to do, Perrot?' asked Monsieur de Montgommery.
'See, there are eight of them against us two, and here we are not in the
house of our friends,' he added bitterly.

"'Never mind that!' said Perrot; 'do you just let me do all the acting
and the talking, and you are saved, you are free.'

"'What's the use, Perrot?' said the count, gloomily. 'What more have I
to do with life or liberty? Diane does not love me! Diane hates me and
betrays me!'

"'Put by all remembrance of that woman, and think of your child,
Monseigneur.'

"'You are right, Perrot; I have already neglected him too much, poor
little Gabriel, and God is just to punish me for it. For his sake, then,
I ought and I will try to avail myself of this last chance of safety
which you hold out to me, my friend. But, in the first place, listen to
me: if this chance fails me, if this undertaking, audacious to the point
of madness, which you are about to venture on, fails, I do not wish to
bequeath to the orphan for his inheritance, Perrot, the results of my
unhappy fate; I do not wish to subject him after my disappearance from
among the living to the powerful hatred to which I have been forced to
yield. Swear to me, then, that if the prison or the tomb opens its doors
to me, and you survive me, Gabriel shall never know from you the
circumstances of his father's disappearance from the world. If he should
come to know this terrible secret, he would try some day either to
avenge me or to rescue me, and would ruin himself. I shall have a bitter
enough reckoning to settle with his mother, without adding that burden
to it. Let my son live in happiness, free from anxiety about his
father's past! Swear this for me, Perrot, and do not consider yourself
relieved from the obligation of this oath unless the three actors in the
scene you have described to me die before I do, and the dauphin (who
will be king then, no doubt), Madame Diane, and Monsieur de Montmorency
carry their potent hatred with them to the grave, and can no longer harm
my child. Then, in that very improbable concurrence of events, let him
try, if he will, to learn of my whereabouts and to find me. But until
then, let him know as little as everybody else--yes, less than anybody
else--of his father's end. Do you promise me this, Perrot! Do you swear
it? I will not give myself up to your rash and, I greatly fear,
fruitless devotion, except on that one condition, Perrot.'

"'Do you wish it so, Monseigneur? Then I swear it.'

"'Upon the cross of your sword-hilt, Perrot, Gabriel shall never know
from you of this perilous mystery?'

"'Upon the cross of my sword-hilt, Monseigneur!' said Perrot, his right
hand held aloft.

"'Thanks, my dear friend. Now do with me as you will, my faithful
servant. I place my reliance on your courage and the favor of God.'

"'Be self-possessed and confident, Monseigneur,' replied Perrot. 'You
will soon see.'

"Recalling the leader of the men-at-arms, he said,--

"'What the prisoner has said to me is satisfactory, and you may unbind
him and let him go.'

"'Unbind him! Let him go!' rejoined the astounded leader.

"'To be sure! Such are Monsieur de Montmorency's orders.'

"'Monsieur de Montmorency,' replied the man-at-arms, shaking his head,
'ordered us to keep this prisoner in sight, and said as he went away
that we should answer for it with our lives. How can it be that Monsieur
de Montmorency now wishes us to set the gentleman at liberty?'

"'So that you refuse to obey me, who speak in his name, do you?' said
Perrot, abating nothing of his assurance.

"'I hesitate. See here, if you were to order me to kill the man, or to
throw him into the river, or to take him to the Bastille, we would obey,
but to let him go!--that, you see, is not the sort of thing we're
accustomed to.'

"'So be it!' replied Perrot, in no whit disconcerted. 'I have given you
the orders that I received, and I wash my hands of the rest of it. You
will answer to Monsieur de Montmorency for the consequences of your
disobedience. As for me, there's nothing more for me to do here.
Good-evening!'

"And he opened the door, as if to take his leave.

"'Ho, there, one moment!' said the leader; 'how quick you are! So you
mean to declare that it is Monsieur de Montmorency's will that we should
let this prisoner go? You are quite sure that it was Monsieur de
Montmorency who sent you?'

"'You idiot!' replied Perrot; 'how else should I know that he had a
prisoner under guard here? Has any other person gone out to tell of it,
if it was not Monsieur de Montmorency himself?'

"'Well, your man shall be unbound!' said the soldier, as surly as a
tiger whose prey has been torn from his grasp. 'How changeable these
great lords are, _corps Dieu_!'

"'Good! I will await you,' said Perrot.

"He remained outside, nevertheless, on the topmost step of the
staircase, with his face turned toward the stairs, and his drawn sword
in his hand. If he saw the real messenger from Montmorency coming up, he
must see to it that he came no farther.

"But he neither saw nor heard behind him Madame de Poitiers, who,
aroused by the sound of voices, had come out of her chamber, and gone
along to the open door of the oratory. She saw that they were releasing
Monsieur de Montgommery, who was transfixed with horror as he saw her
there.

"'Wretches!' she cried, 'what are you doing there?'

"'We are obeying the orders of Monsieur de Montmorency, Madame,' said
the leader, 'and releasing the prisoner.'

"'It cannot be possible!' replied Madame de Poitiers. 'Monsieur de
Montmorency can never have given such orders. Who brought you this
order?'

"The men pointed out Perrot, who had turned about, stupefied with
terror, on hearing Madame Diane's voice. A ray of light from the lamp
fell full upon poor Perrot's pale face, and Madame Diane recognized him
at once.

"'That man?' said she; 'that man is the prisoner's squire! Just see what
you were about to do!'

"'That's a lie!' replied Perrot, still trying to deny his identity. 'I
am Monsieur de Manffol's squire, and am sent here by Monsieur de
Montmorency.'

"'Who says that he was sent by Monsieur de Montmorency?' chimed in the
voice of a new arrival, who was the real envoy himself. 'My good
fellows, this man lies! Here are the Montmorency ring and seal; and you
ought to know me too. I am the Comte de Montausier.[3] What! you dared
to take away the prisoner's gag, and were in the very act of releasing
him? Wretches! Gag him again, and bind him tighter still!'

"'As you please!' said the chief of the guards; 'but the orders he gave
us sounded all right, and were easy to understand.'

"'Poor Perrot!' was all the count said.

"He did not stoop to utter a word of reproach to Madame de Poitiers,
though he would have had time enough before the handkerchief they put
between his teeth was in place. It may be, too, that he feared to
compromise his true-hearted squire any further; but Perrot, unluckily,
wasn't as discreet as he, and said to Madame Diane indignantly,--

"'Well, Madame, you don't stop halfway in a felony, at least! Saint
Peter denied his Lord three times, but Judas only betrayed him once. You
have betrayed your lover three times within an hour. To be sure, Judas
was only a man, while you are a woman and a duchess.'

"'Seize that man!' cried Madame Diane, in a perfect fury of rage.

"'Seize that man!' the Comte de Montausier echoed.

"'Ah, but I am not taken yet!' cried Perrot.

"And in so desperate a plight he took a desperate step; with one leap he
was at Monsieur de Montgommery's side, and began to cut his bonds with
his poniard, crying,--

"'Help yourself, Monseigneur, and let us sell our lives as dearly as we
can!'

"But he had only time to free his left arm; for he could defend himself
only partially while trying to cut the count's cords at the same time.
Ten swords clashed with his. Surrounded, and struck at on all sides at
once, a powerful blow that he received between the shoulders laid him at
his master's feet, and he fell unconscious, and like a dead man."


[Footnote 3: This exploit of the young Comte de Montausier, the
apprehension of Montgommery, was a fitting prelude to the assassination
of Lignerolles. It is well-known that Monsieur de Lignerolles having
informed Charles IX. that the Duc d'Anjou, his master, had confided to
him his secret scheme for getting rid of the leading Huguenots, the king
induced his brother (D'Anjou) to have Lignerolles put out of the way as
a precaution against any possible indiscretion on his part. The Comte de
Montausier took charge of the execution, with four or five other
gentlemen-executioners, all of whom eventually came to a wretched end.
"Wherefore," says Brantôme, "we ought to take great care that we slay
no man unjustly; for one scarcely ever hears of such a murder which has
not been avenged with the sanction of God, who has put a sword at our
side for use, and not to be abused."]




CHAPTER XXIV

SHOWS THAT BLOOD-STAINS CAN NEVER BE COMPLETELY
WASHED OUT


"Perrot knew nothing of what happened after that.

"When he came to himself, his first sensation was of bitter cold. Then
he collected his thoughts, opened his eyes, and looked about him; it was
still profoundly dark. He was lying on the moist earth, and a dead body
lay beside him. By the light of the little lamp which is always burning
in the recess of the image of the Virgin, he saw that he was in the
Cemetery of the Innocents. The body that had been thrown down by his
side was that of the guard who had been killed by Monsieur de
Montgommery. They had undoubtedly supposed that my husband was dead.

"He tried to rise, but the terrible pain from his wounds prevented him.
However, putting all his strength into an almost superhuman effort, he
succeeded in standing up and taking a few steps. Just then the black
darkness was relieved by the light of a lantern; and Perrot saw two
evil-looking men approaching with spades and mattocks.

"'They told us we should find them at the foot of the image of the
Virgin,' said one of them.

"'Here are the sparks,' said the other, spying the soldier. 'But, no,
there's only one.'

"'Well, we must find the other, then.'

"The two grave-diggers turned the light of their lantern upon the ground
near them; but Perrot had made shift to drag himself behind a tomb at
some distance from the place where they were looking for him.

"'The Devil must have carried one man off,' remarked one of the men, who
seemed to be in a joking mood.

"'In God's name, don't say such things,' cried the other, shuddering,
'at such an hour, and in such a place!'

"And he crossed himself, with every indication of terror.

"'Well, at all events, there's only one here,' said the first who had
spoken. 'What's the odds? Bah! we will bury the one that is here, and
then say that his friend had escaped; or it may be that they didn't
count right.'

"They set about digging a grave; and Perrot, who was tottering away
little by little, was glad to hear the jovial digger say to his
companion,--

"'It has just occurred to me that if we admit that we found only one
body, and dig only one grave, the man will give us only five pistoles,
perhaps, instead of ten. Wouldn't it be better for our pockets to say
nothing about this extraordinary escape of the second corpse?'

"'Yes, faith!' replied his devout companion. 'Let us content ourselves
with saying that we have accomplished our task; and then we shall have
told no lie.'

"Meanwhile, Perrot, faint as death, had got as far as Rue
Aubry-le-Boucher. There he hailed a market gardener's wagon, returning
from market, and asked the driver where he was going.

"'To Montreuil,' was the reply.

"'Then will you be kind enough to give me a lift as far as the corner of
Rue Geoffroy L'Asnier and Rue St. Antoine, where I live?'

"'Get in,' said the gardener.

"In this way Perrot made the greater part of the journey to our lodgings
without much fatigue; and yet ten times on the way he thought that he
was dying. At last the wagon stopped at Rue Geoffroy L'Asnier.

"'Well, here you are at home, my friend,' said the gardener.

"'Thank you, my kind fellow!' said Perrot.

"He got down with much stumbling, and was obliged to lean against the
first wall that he came to.

"'My comrade has had a little too much to drink,' remarked the peasant,
starting up his horse.

"And away he went, singing the new _chanson_ just written by Master
François Rabelais, the jolly curé of Meudon:--


  "'O Dieu, père Paterne,
      Qui muas l'eau en vin,
    Fais de mon cul lanterne
      Pour luire à mon voisin!'[4]


"It took Perrot an hour to get from Rue St. Antoine to Rue des Jardins.
Luckily the January nights are long. He didn't meet a soul, and arrived
home about six o'clock.

"My anxiety had kept me all night at the open window, Monseigneur,
notwithstanding the cold. At Perrot's first call I rushed to the door
and opened it.

"'Not a sound, on your life!' were his first words to me. 'Help me up
to my room, but not a cry, not a word!'

"He went upstairs, leaning on my arm; while I, seeing that he was
wounded and bleeding, didn't dare to speak, because he had forbidden
me, but wept silently. When we finally got to our room, and I had taken
off his coat and relieved him of his weapons, the poor soul's blood
covered my hands, and I saw the great gaping wounds. He forbade my cry
of horror by a stern gesture, and assumed the easiest position possible
on the bed.

"'At least, let me call a surgeon, for God's sake!' I sobbed.

"'Useless!' was his answer. 'You know that I have a little skill in
surgery. One of my wounds at least--the one just below the neck--is
mortal; and I should not be alive now, I think, if something stronger
than pain had not sustained me, and if God, who punishes assassins and
traitors, had not prolonged my life for a few hours to serve His future
plans. Soon the fever will seize me, and all will be over. No physician
in the world can prevent that.'

"He spoke with such painful effort that I begged him to rest a little.

"'I must do so,' said he, 'and carefully husband what strength I have.
But give me writing materials.'

"I brought what he asked for; but he had not then discovered that a
sword-cut had mangled his right hand. At his best it was a hard matter
for him to write, so he threw pen and paper aside.

"'Well, then, I must speak,' said he; 'and God will let me live long
enough to finish what I have to say. For if it should ever come to pass
that He, the just and merciful God, should aim a blow at my master's
three enemies, in their omnipotence or in their life, which are the
perishable goods of the wicked, then Monsieur de Montgommery may be
saved by his son.'

"Then, Monseigneur," continued Aloyse, "Perrot began and told me the
whole mournful story which I have fully detailed to you. There were long
and frequent interruptions; and when he felt too exhausted to continue,
he told me to leave him, and go down and show myself to the people in
the house. I pretended, and without much pretence either, to be very
anxious about the count and my husband. I sent everybody to make
inquiries at the Louvre, and among Monsieur le Comte de Montgommery's
friends one by one, and then among his acquaintances. Madame de Poitiers
sent word that she had not seen him, and Monsieur de Montmorency that he
didn't understand why they came to bother him.

"So all suspicion was diverted from me, as Perrot wished; and his
murderers might well believe that their secret was hidden in the
master's dungeon and the squire's grave.

"When I had thus put the servants off the scent for some time, and had
intrusted you to one of them, Monseigneur Gabriel, I went back to my
poor Perrot, who bravely resumed his narrative.

"About midday the fearful agony which had racked him up to that time
seemed to abate somewhat. He spoke with less difficulty and with some
animation. But as I was taking heart over this improvement, he said to
me, smiling mournfully,--

"'This apparent change for the better means simply that the fever is
coming on, as I told you it would. But, God be praised! I have finished
describing this frightful plot. Now you know what no other but God and
these three assassins know; and your loyal heart, always steadfast and
strong, will enable you, I am sure, to keep this secret of death and
blood until the day when, as I hope and pray, you may reveal it to him
who has the right to know it. You have heard the oath that Monsieur de
Montgommery required of me; and you must repeat the same oath to me,
Aloyse.

"'So long as it is dangerous for Gabriel to know that his father is
living,--so long as the three all-powerful enemies who have slain my
master shall be left in this world by God's wrath,--do you keep silent,
Aloyse. Swear it to your dying husband.'

"Weeping, I swore it; and it is that sacred oath which I am now proving
false to, Monseigneur, for your three foes, more powerful and more to be
dreaded than ever, are still living. But you were about to die yourself;
and if you make a wise and discreet use of my revelation, that which
threatens to destroy you may be your father's salvation and yours. But
tell me again, Monseigneur, that I have not committed an unpardonable
sin, and that because of my good intentions, God and my dear Perrot will
forgive my perjury."

"There is no perjury in all this, blessed creature," replied Gabriel;
"and there has been throughout your conduct naught but heroic devotion.
But tell me the rest! tell me the rest!"

"Perrot," continued Aloyse, "went on to say,--

"'When I shall be no more, dear wife, you will do wisely to close this
house, dismiss the servants, and betake yourself to Montgommery with
Gabriel and our child. And even at Montgommery don't live in the
château, but in our little house; and bring up the heir of the noble
counts, if not in absolute secrecy, still without any luxury or display,
so that his friends may know him, and his enemies forget him. All our
good people down yonder, both the intendant and the chaplain, will
assist you in fulfilling the important duty which the Lord has put upon
you. It would be much better that Gabriel himself until he is eighteen
at least should be ignorant of the name he bears, but should know only
that he is of gentle birth. You will see. Our worthy chaplain and
Monsieur de Vimoutiers, the child's guardian, will assist you with their
advice; but even from these loyal friends you must conceal the tale that
I have told you. Confine yourself to saying that you fear that Gabriel
may be in danger from his father's powerful enemies.'

"Perrot also gave me all manner of cautions, which he repeated in a
thousand different forms until his suffering began again, accompanied by
weakness which was no less grievous to look upon; and yet he employed
every moment of comparative ease to cheer me up and comfort me.

"He also mentioned to me and made me promise one thing which required by
no means the least display of energy on my part, I confess, and was not
the least potent cause of suffering to me.

"'In Monsieur de Montmorency's mind,' said he, 'I am buried in the
Cemetery of the Innocents; so I must have disappeared with the count. If
any sign of my return here should be discovered, you would be lost,
Aloyse, and Gabriel too, perhaps! But your arm is strong and your heart
is brave. When you have closed my eyes, collect all the strength of your
soul and body, wait till the middle of the night when everybody here is
sound asleep after the labors of the day, and then take my body down
into the old burial-vault of the lords of Brissac, to whom this hotel
formerly belonged. No one ever enters that abandoned tomb; and you will
find the key to it, all rusty, in the great clothes-press in the count's
room. Thus I shall have consecrated burial; and although a simple squire
may be unworthy to lie among so many great nobles, still after death we
are all nothing but Christians, are we?'

"As my poor Perrot seemed to be growing weaken and insisted on having my
word, I promised all that he asked. Toward evening he became delirious,
and to that, frightful agony succeeded. I beat my breast in despair at
my inability to relieve him; but he made a motion that it was of no
avail.

"At last, burning up with fever, and racked by terrible agony, he
said,--

"'Aloyse, give me some water,--just a drop.'

"I had already offered, in my ignorance, to give him something to quench
the burning thirst from which he said he was suffering, but he had
persistently declined it; so I hastened to find a glass, which I handed
to him.

"Before he took it, he said,--

"'Aloyse, one last kiss and one last adieu! and remember; remember!'

"I covered his face with kisses and tears. Then he asked me for the
crucifix, and placed his dying lips upon the nails of the cross of
Jesus, saying only, 'Oh, _mon Dieu_! oh, _mon Dieu_!' He pressed my hand
with a last trembling grasp, and took the glass which I offered him. He
took but one swallow, trembled violently all over, and fell back upon
the pillow.

"He was dead.

"I passed the rest of the evening praying and weeping. However, I went,
as I usually did, to superintend your retiring, Monseigneur. You can
well believe that no one wondered at my grief. Terror reigned in the
house; and all the faithful servants were grieving over the probable
fate of their master and their good comrade Perrot.

"However, about two in the morning, everything was quiet, and I alone
was awake. I washed away the blood with which my husband's body was
covered, wrapped it in a cloth, and putting myself in God's hands, I set
about taking down the dear burden, which weighed still heavier at my
heart than in my arms. When my strength gave out, I knelt by the body
and prayed.

"At last, after what seemed an interminable half-hour, I reached the
door of the vault. When I opened it, not without considerable
difficulty, an icy blast came rushing out and extinguished the lamp
which I carried, and almost suffocated me. But I revived speedily, and
laid my husband's body in a tomb which was open and empty, and which
seemed as if it were waiting to receive him; then having kissed his cold
lips once more and for the last time, I let down the heavy marble slab,
which separated me forever from the beloved husband of my bosom. The
noise of the stone falling upon stone frightened me so that, scarcely
taking time to close the door of the vault, I fled like a mad woman, and
never stopped until I reached my own room, where I fell upon a chair,
completely exhausted. However, it was necessary that I should burn up
the bloody cloths and bandages before daybreak, so that they might not
betray me. When the first ray of light appeared, my weary task was done,
and not a single trace remained of the events of the preceding day and
night. I had put everything out of sight with the great care displayed
by a criminal who means to leave nothing to bear witness to or to recall
his crime.

"But such long and wearisome toil prostrated me completely, and I fell
ill. However, it was my duty to live for the sake of the two orphans
whom Providence had intrusted to my sole protection; and I did live,
Monseigneur."

"Poor woman! poor martyr!" said Gabriel, taking her hand in his.

"A month later," continued the nurse, "I carried you to Montgommery, in
obedience to my husband's dying instructions.

"In the sequel it turned out as Monsieur de Montmorency had predicted.
The inexplicable disappearance of the Comte de Montgommery and his
squire made a noise at court for about a week; then the talk began to
die out; and finally, the expected arrival of the Emperor Charles V.,
who was on his way through France to chastise the people of Ghent,
became the universal subject of conversation.

"It was in May of the same year, five months after your father's
disappearance, that Diane de Castro was born."

"Yes," rejoined Gabriel, thoughtfully; "and did Madame de Poitiers
belong to my father? Did she love the dauphin after him or
simultaneously?--sombre questions these, which cannot be answered
satisfactorily by the slanderous gossip of an idle court. But my father
is alive! He must be alive! And Aloyse, I will find him. There are two
men living in me now,--a son and a lover, who will find a way to
discover his living tomb."

"God grant it!" said Aloyse.

"And have you learned nothing since, nurse," said Gabriel, "as to the
prison where these wretches may have buried my father?"

"Nothing, Monseigneur; and the only clew that we have on that point is
the remark of Monsieur de Montmorency as reported by Perrot,--that the
governor of the Châtelet was a devoted friend of his, and could be
depended upon."

"The Châtelet!" cried Gabriel; "the Châtelet!"

For like a flash of lightning his memory brought before him all at once
the gloomy, desolate old man, who might never utter a word, and whom he
had seen with such a strange agitation of the heart, in one of the
deepest dungeons of the royal prison.

Bursting into tears, Gabriel threw himself into the arms of his faithful
and true-hearted nurse.


[Footnote 4: "Oh, God, our Heavenly Father,
Who changedst water to wine,
Make of my breech a lantern
To light this friend of mine!"]




CHAPTER XXV

AN HEROIC RANSOM


The next day, August 12, it was with an unfaltering step and a tranquil
face that Gabriel de Montgommery took his way to the Louvre to ask
audience of the king.

He had debated long and earnestly in his own mind, and with Aloyse, as
to what he should do and say. Convinced that a violent course would have
no other result with an adversary who wore a crown than to subject him
to his father's fate, Gabriel had resolved to speak plainly and with
dignity, but in a tone of moderation and with due respect. He would ask,
not demand. Would there not still be time for him to adopt a more lofty
demeanor, and ought he not in the first place to ascertain if the lapse
of eighteen years had not softened Henri's bitter enmity?

Gabriel, in forming this resolution, showed as much discretion and
shrewdness as were consistent with the bold step he had determined on.

Circumstances moreover lent him aid from an unexpected quarter.

As he entered the courtyard of the Louvre, attended by
Martin-Guerre,--the real Martin-Guerre on this occasion,--Gabriel
noticed an extraordinary commotion; but his mind was too deeply absorbed
in his own affairs to pay much attention to the busily talking groups
and sad faces which he passed at every step.

Nevertheless, he could but recognize on his way a litter with the Guise
arms, and salute the cardinal, who was just leaving it in a state of
great excitement.

"Ah! is it you, Monsieur Vicomte d'Exmès," said Charles de Lorraine,
"and are you quite yourself again? So much the better! so much the
better! Monsieur my brother was asking for news of you in his last
letter with much interest."

"Monseigneur is so very kind!" responded Gabriel.

"You have well earned it by your gallantry," said the cardinal. "But
where are you going so fast?"

"To seek the king, Monseigneur."

"Hm! The king has other business on hand than receiving you, my young
friend. But wait a moment! I am going to his Majesty also, for he just
sent for me. Let us go up together; I will be your sponsor, and you
shall lend me the support of your strong arm. One good turn for another.
In fact, that is just what I was going to say to his Majesty; for you
have heard the sad news, I suppose?"

"No, indeed," Gabriel replied; "for I have just come from home; and I
only noticed that there seemed to be something exciting in the air."

"I should say as much!" said the cardinal. "Monsieur de Montmorency has
been up to his old tricks down yonder with the army. He undertook to fly
to the relief of St. Quentin, which was in a state of siege, did the
gallant constable! Don't go so fast, I beg you, Monsieur d'Exmès, for I
no longer have the sprightly legs of twenty years. I was saying that he
offered battle to the enemy, the intrepid general! It was day before
yesterday, August 10, St. Laurent's Day. He had almost as many troops as
the Spaniards, a superb body of cavalry,--the very pick and flower of
the French nobility. Oh, well! he had so skilfully arranged matters,
experienced commander that he is, that he sustained a most overwhelming
defeat in the plains of Gibercourt and Lizerolles; that he was himself
wounded and made prisoner, and with him all the leading officers and
generals who did not remain on the field. Monsieur d'Enghien is among
the latter; and of the whole infantry not a hundred men have come back.
And that explains why everybody is so absorbed, Monsieur d'Exmès, and
why his Majesty needs me, no doubt."

"Great God!" cried Gabriel, appalled, even in the depths of his own
sorrow, by this great public calamity; "Great God! are the days of
Poitiers and Agincourt returning upon poor France? But St. Quentin,
Monseigneur?"

"St. Quentin," the cardinal replied, "was still holding out when the
courier left; and the constable's nephew, Monsieur l'Amiral Gaspard de
Coligny, who is defending the town, has sworn to lessen the result of
his uncle's defeat by allowing himself to be buried in the ruins of the
place rather than surrender it. But I am much afraid that he may be
buried already, and the last rampart which kept the enemy out carried."

"In that case the kingdom is lost!" said Gabriel.

"May God protect France!" rejoined the cardinal. "But here we are at the
king's apartments; and we will see what steps he proposes to take to
protect himself."

The guards, as well they might, allowed the cardinal to pass with a bow,
for they saw in him the man necessary for the emergency, and whose
brother was the only man who could save the country. Charles de
Lorraine, followed by Gabriel, entered unopposed the king's apartments,
where they found him alone with Madame de Poitiers, and a prey to most
profound dismay. Henri, as he saw the cardinal, rose and came eagerly
forward to meet him.

"Your Eminence has arrived most opportunely," said he. "Well, well,
Monsieur de Lorraine, what a frightful disaster! Who could have imagined
it, I ask you?"

"I, Sire," replied the cardinal, "if your Majesty had asked me the
question a month ago, at the time of Monsieur de Montmorency's
departure--"

"No useless recrimination, cousin!" said the king; "we have not to do
with the past, but with the threatening future and the dangerous
present. Monsieur le Duc de Guise is on his way from Italy, is he not?"

"Yes, Sire; and he should be at Lyons now."

"God be praised!" cried the king. "Well, Monsieur de Lorraine, I intrust
the welfare of the realm to the care of your illustrious brother. You
and he, do you henceforth assume full power and sovereign authority to
forward this glorious result. Be kings like me, and more truly kings
than I am. I have just written with my own hand to Monsieur le Duc de
Guise, to hasten his return. Here is the letter. Will your Eminence
kindly write as well, and point out to your brother our horrible
position and the necessity of not losing a moment, if France is to be
saved. Say to Monsieur de Guise that I put myself entirely in his hands.
Write, Monsieur Cardinal, and write at once, I beg. You have no need to
go away from here. See, here in this closet you will find all you need.
The courier, booted and spurred, is waiting below, already in the
saddle. Hasten, Monsieur Cardinal, I pray you; hasten! A half-hour more
or less may save or ruin everything."

"I obey your Majesty," replied the cardinal, going toward the closet,
"and my noble brother also will obey, for his life belongs to the king
and the kingdom; but whether he succeed or fail, your Majesty will
remember later that you have intrusted him with power in a desperate
situation."

"Say dangerous," rejoined the king, "but do not say desperate. But do my
good city of St. Quentin and Monsieur de Coligny, its brave defender,
still hold their own?"

"Yes, or they were holding out two days ago, at all events," said
Charles; "but the fortifications were in a pitiable condition, and the
starving inhabitants were talking of capitulation; and with St. Quentin
in the hands of the Spaniard to-day, Paris will be his in a week. Never
mind, Sire! I will write to my brother, and you need not to be told that
whatever man can do, Monsieur de Guise will do."

And the cardinal, saluting the king and Madame Diane, entered the closet
to write the letter which Henri desired.

Gabriel had remained apart, thinking deeply and unnoticed. His generous
young heart was deeply moved by contemplation of the terrible extremity
to which France was reduced. He forgot that it was Monsieur de
Montmorency, his bitterest enemy, who had been beaten, wounded, and
captured. For the moment he saw in him only the commander of the French
forces. In fact, he thought almost as much of his country's danger as of
his father's suffering. The noble youth had a sympathetic heart, which
was easily aroused by deep feeling, and he pitied all who were in
distress; and when the king, after the cardinal had left the room, sank
back despairingly upon his couch, with his head in his hands, crying
aloud,--

"Oh, St. Quentin! on thee now hangs the destiny of France! St. Quentin,
my noble city! If thou canst still resist but for one short week,
Monsieur de Guise will have time to return, and the defence of thy
faithful walls be organized anew! Whereas if they fall, the foe will
march upon Paris, and all will be lost. St. Quentin, oh, I would give
thee a new privilege for each hour of resistance, and a diamond for each
of thy crumbling stones, if thou couldst hold out only one week more!"

"Sire, it shall hold out, and more than a week!" said Gabriel, coming
forward.

He had made his resolution; and a sublime resolution it was!

"Monsieur d'Exmès!" cried Henri and Diane, in the same breath,--the
king in wonder, and Diane with contempt.

"How did you come here, Monsieur?" asked the king, sternly.

"Sire, I entered with his Eminence."

"That's a different matter," said Henri; "but what were you saying,
pray, Monsieur d'Exmès?--that St. Quentin might hold out, I think."

"Yes, Sire; and you said, did you not, that if it did hold out, you
would endow it with freedom and wealth?"

"I say it again," said the king.

"Very well, Sire; and would you refuse to the man who should make its
holding out possible what you would accord to the town which held out?
To the man whose energetic will should infect the whole city, and who
would not surrender it until the last piece of the wall crumbles under
the enemy's cannon? The favor which this man shall ask at your hands,
this man who shall have given you this week's respite, and thus
preserved your kingdom, shall he ask it in vain, Sire, and will you
chaffer about an act of mercy with, him who has given you back an
empire?"

"No, by Heaven!" cried the king; "and whatever a king has to give that
man shall have."

"A bargain, Sire; for not only can a king give, but he can forgive as
well. And it is a pardon, and not titles or gold which this man will ask
at your hands."

"But who is he? Where is this deliverer?" said the king.

"He stands before you, Sire. It is I, the humble captain of your Guards,
but who feel in my heart and my arm a superhuman strength, which shall
help me to prove that I make no vain boast in undertaking to save at one
and the same time my country and my father."

"Your father, Monsieur d'Exmès!" said the astonished king.

"I am not Monsieur d'Exmès," said Gabriel. "I am Gabriel de
Montgommery, son of Comte Jacques de Montgommery, whom you ought to
remember, Sire."

"The son of the Comte de Montgommery!" cried the king, rising and
turning pale.

Madame Diane too fell back upon her couch with a gesture of terror.

"Yes, Sire," replied Gabriel, calmly; "I am the Vicomte de Montgommery,
who, in exchange for the service which he will render you by maintaining
the defence of St. Quentin for a week, asks you for nothing but his
father's liberty."

"Your father, Monsieur!" said the king. "Your father is dead, has
disappeared. What do I know about him? I don't know, I'm sure, where
your father is."

"But I do, Sire; I know," replied Gabriel, choking down a terrible
dread. "My father has been in the Châtelet for eighteen years past,
awaiting the divine gift of death; or the royal gift of mercy. My father
is alive; I am certain of it. As to his crime, of that I know nothing."

"You know nothing of it?" the king asked, frowning darkly.

"I know nothing of it, Sire; but surely it should have been a serious
offence to have deserved so long an imprisonment. But it could not have
been an unpardonable one, since it did not merit death. Sire, listen. In
eighteen years justice has had time to slumber and clemency to awake.
Human passions, whether evil or good, do not resist so long as that. My
father, who was a vigorous man when he entered his prison, will come out
of it old and feeble. However guilty he may have been, has not his
expiation been ample? And even if it should happen that his punishment
was too severe, is he not too weak to remember? Restore to liberty,
Sire, a poor prisoner, who will henceforth be of no consequence in the
world. Remember, O Christian king, the words of the Christian creed, and
forgive the sins of another that your own sins may be forgiven!"

These last words were uttered in a meaning tone which caused the king
and Madame de Valentinois to look at each other in anxious and terrified
inquiry.

But Gabriel chose only to touch delicately upon this sore spot in their
consciences, and made haste to continue,--

"Please take notice, Sire, that I address you as an obedient and devoted
subject. I have not said to you, 'My father was not tried; my father was
secretly condemned without an opportunity to be heard in his own
defence; and such injustice seems much like revenge. So I, his son, am
about to appeal boldly to the nobility of France from this secret
judgment which has been pronounced upon him. I am about to declare from
the house-tops to every one who wears a sword the insult which has been
offered to us all in the person of one gentleman--'"

Henri moved uneasily in his seat.

"I have not said this, Sire," Gabriel went on. "I know that there are
emergencies stronger than law and right, and where an arbitrary act is
the least perilous. I respect, as my father undoubtedly would respect,
the secrets of a past which lies so far behind us. I ask you simply to
allow me to commute the balance of my father's punishment by a glorious
exploit of deliverance. I offer you by way of ransom for him to hold St.
Quentin for a week against the enemy; and if that is not enough, why, to
make up for the eventual loss of St. Quentin by capturing some other
town from the Spaniards or the English! Surely that will be worth the
gift of freedom to an old gray-headed man. Well, I will do all this and
more too! for the cause which strengthens my arm is a pure and holy one.
My will is strong and daring: and I know that God will be with me."

Madame Diane could not restrain a smile of incredulity at this heroic
exhibition of youthful enthusiasm and confidence such as she had never
seen and could not appreciate.

"I understand your smile, Madame," rejoined Gabriel, with a sad glance
at her; "you think that I shall fall under this great task, do you not?
_Mon Dieu_! it may be so. It may be that my presentiments mislead me.
But what then? Why, then I shall die. Yes, Madame, yes, Sire, if the
enemy enters St. Quentin before the end of the eighth day, I shall die
in the breach for the town which I have failed to defend. Neither God
nor my father nor you can ask more of me than that. My destiny will then
have been fulfilled as the Lord has seen fit: my father will die in his
dungeon, and I upon the field of battle; and you,--you will be relieved
by natural means of the debt and of your creditor at the same time. Then
you can be easy in your mind."

"That last remark of his is very true, at all events," whispered Diane,
in the ear of the king, who was absorbed in thought.

However, she said aloud to Gabriel, while Henri maintained a dreamy
silence,--

"Even supposing that you fall, Monsieur, leaving your work half done, it
is easy to imagine that you will leave some inheritor of your name
behind you, or some confidant of your secret."

"I swear to you by my father's safety," said Gabriel, "that when I die
everything shall die with me, and that no one will then have the right
to importune his Majesty on this subject. I put myself in God's hands in
advance, I say again; and you ought, in like manner, Sire, to recognize
His intervention, if He shall endow me with the strength to fulfil my
vast design. But here and now, if I die, I relieve you from all
obligation and from all responsibility, Sire,--at least before men; but
the rights of the Most High are not lost by prescription."

Henri shuddered. His naturally irresolute mind did not know what course
to decide upon; and the vacillating prince turned to Madame de Poitiers
as if to ask for aid and advice.

She, understanding fully his hesitation, to which she was well used,
responded to his glance with a peculiar smile.

"Is it not your opinion, Sire, that we ought to rely upon the word of
Monsieur d'Exmès, who is a loyal gentleman, and, I believe, of a
chivalrous and knightly character? I know not whether his request is or
is not well founded; and your Majesty's silence in that regard affords
no ground upon which I or any one can allege anything, and leaves the
whole question in uncertainty. But in my humble opinion, Sire, you
should not reject so generous a proffer; and if I were in your place, I
would gladly pledge my royal word to Monsieur d'Exmès to grant him, if
he fulfil his heroic and daring promise, whatever favor he might choose
to ask at my hands on his return."

"Ah, Madame, I ask no more than that," said Gabriel.

"Just one word more," resumed Diane. "How," she added, fixing a piercing
glance upon the young man,--"how and why did you make up your mind to
speak of a mysterious affair, which seems to be of some consequence,
before me,--before a woman who may be anything but discreet for aught
you know of her, and an entire stranger to this whole matter?"

"I had two reasons, Madame," replied Gabriel, with perfect sang-froid.
"In the first place, I imagined that there neither could be nor should
be any secret in his Majesty's heart so far as you are concerned. In
that case, it was only disclosing to you what you were sure to know
sooner or later, or what you already knew. In the second place, I hoped,
as indeed has come to pass, that you would deign to support my request
to the king; that you would urge him to put me to this proof; and that
you, a woman, would be found, as you always have been, on the side of
clemency."

It would have been impossible for the closest scrutiny to detect in
Gabriel's tone the least inflection of irony, or upon his calm and
unmoved features the slightest symptom of a disdainful smile; and Madame
Diane's penetrating gaze was thrown away.

She responded to a speech which might after all have been meant to be
complimentary by a slight inclination of the head.

"Allow me one more question," she said, "just as to one circumstance
which has aroused my curiosity, that is all. How is it that you who are
so young happen to be in possession of a secret that is eighteen years
old?"

"I reply so much the more willingly, Madame," said Gabriel, gravely and
sombrely, "because my reply may serve to convince you of God's
intervention in the matter. My father's squire, one Perrot Travigny, who
was killed in the transactions which preceded the disappearance of the
count, has risen from the tomb, by the grace of God, and has revealed to
me what I have told you."

At this reply, delivered in a tone of the utmost solemnity, the king
arose, pale and breathless, and even Madame de Poitiers, despite her
nerves of steel, could not repress a shudder of terror. At that
superstitious epoch, when apparitions and ghosts were freely believed
in, Gabriel's words, uttered with the conviction of truth personified,
might well have had a terrifying effect upon two tormented consciences.

"Enough, enough, Monsieur!" said the king, hastily, with trembling
voice; "and everything that you ask is granted. Leave us! leave us!"

"And I may set out for St. Quentin, then, within the hour, relying upon
your Majesty's word?"

"Yes, yes, Monsieur, set out at once!" said the king, who,
notwithstanding Diane's warning glances, had great difficulty in
mastering his distress; "set out at once! Do what you have promised; and
I give you my word as king and gentleman that I will do what you wish."

Gabriel, with joy at his heart, bent low before the king and duchess,
and took his leave without another word, as if, having obtained his
desire, he had not a moment more to lose.

"At last! He is not here now!" said the king, breathing deeply, as if
relieved of a heavy burden.

"Sire," said Madame de Poitiers, "be calm, and try to regain your
self-command. You came very near betraying yourself before that man."

"That is no man, Madame," said the king, as one dreaming; "that is my
ever-living remorse: it is my reproachful conscience."

"Well, Sire," said Diane, who was herself again, "you have done very
well to accede to this Gabriel's request, and to send him where he is
now going; for I am very much mistaken, or your remorse will soon die
before St. Quentin, and you will then be rid of your conscience."

The Cardinal de Lorraine returned at this moment with the letter he had
been writing to his brother, and the king had no time to reply.

Meanwhile Gabriel, leaving the king with a light heart, had only one
thought and one wish in the world: it was to see once more, with hope
beating high in his breast, her whom he had left with death in his soul;
to say to Diane de Castro all that he hoped from the future, and to draw
from her loved glances the courage of which he should stand so much in
need.

He knew that she had gone into a convent; but into what convent? It
might be that her women had not gone with her; and he turned his steps
in the direction of her former apartment at the Louvre, to question
Jacinthe.

Jacinthe was with her mistress; but Denise, the second waiting-maid, had
stayed behind; and it was she who received Gabriel.

"Ah, Monsieur d'Exmès!" she cried. "You are such a welcome visitor; for
it may perhaps be that you have come to give me some news of my dear
mistress."

"On the contrary, Denise, I have come to learn of her from you," said
Gabriel.

"Ah, Holy Virgin! I know nothing at all, and I am terribly frightened
about her."

"But why so anxious, Denise?" asked Gabriel, who began to be anxious
himself.

"Why!" replied the maid; "why, you must know where Madame de Castro is
now!

"Indeed, no! I know nothing about it, Denise; and it is just what I
hoped to learn from you."

"Holy Virgin! and didn't you know, Monseigneur, that she asked leave of
the king to enter a convent a month ago?"

"I know that; and then?"

"And then! Ah, that is the terrible part of it. For do you know what
convent she chose? That of the Benedictines, of which her old friend,
Sister Monique, is superior, at St. Quentin, Monseigneur,--at St.
Quentin, at this very moment besieged and perhaps taken by these English
and Spanish heathens. She had not been there a fortnight, Monseigneur,
when the siege began."

"Oh," cried Gabriel, "the hand of God is in all this! He awakens the son
in me to new life, by arousing the lover anew, and thus doubles my
courage and my strength. Thanks, Denise. This for your good news," he
added, placing a purse in her hand. "Pray to Heaven for your mistress
and for me."

In hot haste he went down once more into the courtyard of the Louvre,
where Martin-Guerre was awaiting him.

"Where do we go now, Monseigneur?" asked the squire.

"Where the cannon is echoing, Martin,--to St. Quentin! to St. Quentin!
We must be there day after to-morrow, so we start within the hour, my
fine fellow."

"Ah, so much the better!" cried Martin. "Oh, mighty Saint Martin, my
patron saint," he added, "I am content now to be a drunkard and a
gambler and a rake; but I give you fair warning that I would throw
myself into the midst of the enemy's battalions if ever I were a
coward!"




CHAPTER XXVI

JEAN PEUQUOY THE WEAVER


A general council of the military leaders and prominent citizens was
being held in the St. Quentin town-hall. It was the 15th of August
already, and the town had not yet capitulated; but there was much talk
about capitulation. The suffering and destitution of the inhabitants
were at their height; and since there was no hope of saving the place,
and since the enemy, some day, sooner or later, were sure to gain
possession, would it not be better to put an end to so much misery?

Gaspard de Coligny, the gallant admiral, whom the Constable de
Montmorency, his uncle, had intrusted with the defence of the place, had
determined not to admit the Spaniard until the last extremity. He knew
that each day's delay, terrible though it was to the suffering people,
might be the salvation of the kingdom. But what could he do against the
discouragement and mutterings of the whole population? The war outside
the walls gave no time for fighting within; and if the people of St.
Quentin should refuse some day to perform the labor which was required
of them as well as of the troops, further resistance would be useless,
and it would remain but to deliver the keys of the town, and with them
the key of France, to Philip II. and his general, Philibert Emmanuel of
Savoy.

However, he had resolved, before contemplating such a disastrous step,
to make one last supreme effort; and with that in view he had convoked
this assembly of the principal men of the town, whom we will now allow
to complete our information as to the desperate condition of the
fortifications, and, above all, as to the condition of the brave hearts
of their defenders;--the most important fortifications of all.

The speech with which the admiral opened the sitting appealing
eloquently to the patriotism of his hearers, was received with
depressing silence. Then Gaspard de Coligny directly questioned Captain
Oger, one of the valiant gentlemen who served under him. He hoped by
beginning with the officers to urge the citizens on to further
resistance. But Captain Oger's advice unluckily was not what the admiral
anticipated.

"Since you have done me the honor to ask my opinion, Monsieur l'Amiral,"
said he, "I will say what I have to say frankly, but with much sorrow:
St. Quentin can hold out no longer. If we had any hope of maintaining
ourselves for a week even, or for four days, or for two days, I would
say, 'These two days may afford time for the army to be reorganized;
these two days may save our country,--therefore let us not surrender
until the last stone in the walls has crumbled, and the last man has
fallen.' But I am convinced that the next assault, which may be made
within an hour, will be the last. Is it not, then, better, while there
is still time, to save what can be saved of the town by capitulation,
and escape pillage at least, if we cannot escape defeat?"

"Yes, yes, that is true! Well said! that is the only reasonable course
to take," muttered those who heard him.

"No, gentlemen, no!" cried the admiral; "we are not dealing with reason
now, but with sentiment. Besides, I do not believe that one single
assault will let the Spaniards into the town, when we have already
repelled five. Come, Lauxford, you know the present condition of the
works and the countermines: are not the fortifications sufficiently
strong to hold out for a long time to come? Speak frankly, and don't
represent matters any more or less favorable than they really are. We
have come together to learn the truth; and it is the truth I ask of
you."

"I will tell it to you," replied the engineer Lauxford, "or rather I
will let the facts speak for themselves; they will tell you the truth
better than I, and without flattery. For this purpose, all you need to
do is to go over with me in your mind the vulnerable points of these
fortifications. Monsieur l'Amiral, at the present moment there are four
practicable openings for the enemy; and I must confess that I am much
surprised that he has not already made use of them. In the first place,
there is a breach in the wall at the Boulevard St. Martin wide enough
for twenty men to pass through abreast. We have lost there more than two
hundred men,--living walls, who cannot, however, supply the lack of
walls of stone. At the Porte St. Jean, the great tower alone is still
standing, and the best curtain is battered to pieces. There is a
countermine at that point, all closed and ready; but I fear that if we
fire it, we shall cause the destruction of the great tower; which alone
holds the assailants in check, and the ruins of which would serve them
as ladders. At the hamlet of Remicourt, the Spanish trenches have cut
through the outer wall of the moat, and they have taken up a position
there under cover of a mantlet, behind which they are battering away at
the walls without intermission. Finally, on the Faubourg d'Isle side,
you know, Monsieur l'Amiral, that the enemy is in possession not only of
the moats, but of the boulevard and the abbey; and they are so firmly
lodged there that it is no longer possible to inflict any damage on them
at that point, while, step by step, they are scaling the parapet,--which
is only five or six feet thick,--attacking in flank with their batteries
the men at work on the Boulevard de la Reine, and worrying them so that
it has been impracticable to keep them at work. The remainder of the
fortifications will perhaps stand out; but there are the four mortal
wounds, and they will soon sap the life of the city, Monseigneur. You
have asked me for the truth, and I have given it to you in all its
melancholy details, leaving to your wisdom and foresight to say what use
shall be made of it."

Thereupon the mutterings of the throng began again, and although no one
dared to say it aloud, every one was saying under his breath,--

"The best thing to do is to capitulate, and not risk the disastrous
chances of an assault."

But the admiral rejoined, undismayed,--

"Hold, gentlemen, another word! As you say, Monsieur Lauxford, if our
walls are wreak, we have, to supplement their weakness, our gallant
soldiers,--living ramparts. With them, and with the earnest concurrence
of the citizens, is it not possible to postpone the taking of the town
for a few days? (And what would be a shameful act to-day will cover us
with glory then.) Yes, the fortifications are too weak, I agree; but we
have troops in sufficient numbers, have we not, Monsieur de
Rambouillet?"

"Monsieur l'Amiral," said the captain who was addressed, "if we were
down in the square, in the midst of the crowd, who are awaiting the
result of our deliberations, I would say yes; for we should do our
utmost to inspire hope and confidence in every breast. But here, in
council, before those whose courage needs no proof or stimulus, I do not
hesitate to tell you that we have not men enough for the difficult and
dangerous work to be done. We have given arms to every one who was able
to carry them. The rest are employed in the defensive works, and
children and old men are doing their share there. Even the women are
assisting in the good work by saving and nursing the wounded. In short,
not one arm is idle, and yet arms are sadly needed. There is not a spot
on the ramparts where there is one man too many, and there are
frequently not enough. Multiply as we will, it is impossible to arrange
our forces so that fifty more men are not absolutely necessary at the
Porte St. Jean, and at least fifty others at the Boulevard St. Martin.
The disaster of St. Laurent has deprived us of reinforcements that we
had reason to anticipate; and unless you expect succor from Paris,
Monseigneur, it is for you to consider if, in such dire extremity, you
ought to risk the lives of the small number of men we have left, and of
this remnant of our gallant gendarmerie, who may still do much good
service in helping to defend other places, and perhaps to save our
country."

The whole assembly murmured approval of these words; and the distant
shouting of the people who were crowding around the building on the
outside was a still more eloquent commentary upon them.

But at this moment a voice of thunder cried,--

"Silence!"

Every voice was hushed; for he who spoke in such a commanding and steady
voice was Jean Peuquoy, the syndic of the guild of weavers,--a citizen
who was held in the highest esteem and consideration, and was a little
feared by the people.

Jean Peuquoy was a type of the sturdy bourgeoisie, who loved their city
as a mother and as a child, worshipped her and grumbled at her, lived
always for her, and would die for her if need were. For the honest
weaver there was no world but France, and in all France naught but St.
Quentin. No one was so well versed as he in the history and traditions
of the town, its ancient customs, and old-time legends. There was not a
quarter, not a street, not a house, which in its present or its past had
any secrets from Jean Peuquoy. He was in himself the municipality
personified. His shop was a second Grand'place, and his wooden house in
the Rue St. Martin another town-hall. This venerable mansion was made
noticeable by a very peculiar coat-of-arms,--a shuttle crowned between
the antlers of a full-grown stag. One of Jean Peuquoy's ancestors (for
Jean Peuquoy reckoned up his ancestors like any gentleman)--a weaver
like himself, it need not be said, and in addition an archer of
renown--had put out the two eyes of this fine stag with two shafts at
more than a hundred paces. These superb antlers are still to be seen at
St. Quentin in the Rue St. Martin. Every one for ten leagues around knew
the antlers and the weaver. Jean Peuquoy was thus the city itself; and
every dweller in St. Quentin listened to the voice of his country
speaking through him.

And so no one stirred when the weaver's voice, rising above the
grumbling and the muttering, shouted, "Silence!"

"Yes, be silent!" he continued, "and lend me your ears for one moment,
my fellow-citizens and good friends, I beseech you. Let us look over
together, with your leave, what we have already done, and we may perhaps
learn from that what we have still to do. When the enemy sat down before
our walls; when we saw this swarm of Spaniards, English, Germans, and
Walloons, under the redoubtable Philibert Emmanuel of Savoy, swooping
down like locusts around our town,--we bravely accepted our lot, did we
not? We did not murmur, nor did we accuse Providence of having cruelly
selected St. Quentin as the expiatory sacrifice of France. Far from it;
and Monsieur l'Amiral will do us the justice to say that from the very
hour of his arrival, bringing us the mighty succor of his experience and
valor, we did our best to forward his plans with our persons and our
property. We have furnished supplies and money, and have ourselves
shouldered the cross-bow and wielded the pick and shovel. Those of us
who have not acted as sentinels on the walls have been digging in the
town. We have helped to discipline and restore order among the
rebellious peasants in the suburbs, who refused to work in payment for
the protection we had afforded them. In short, we have done, I honestly
believe, everything that could possibly be asked of men whose trade is
not war. So we hoped that our lord the king would speedily remember his
loyal subjects in St. Quentin, and would send us without delay the
succor that we needed; and so it happened. Monsieur de Montmorency came
hurrying hither to drive the forces of Philip II. from our gates, and we
thanked God and the king; but the fatal day of St. Laurent dashed our
hopes to the ground in a few short hours. The constable was taken, his
army cut to pieces, and we were left in a more hopeless state than ever.
Five days have passed since then, and the enemy have made good use of
them. Three fierce assaults have cost us more than two hundred men and
whole sections of the walls. The cannon thunders unceasingly. Listen! it
echoes my very words. But we do not wish to hear it, and listen only on
the side where Paris lies, to hear if we cannot distinguish some sound
to announce the arrival of further reinforcement. But no; and our last
resources are, so far as we can see, exhausted. The king abandons us,
and has many other things to do than to think of us. He must collect
around him at Paris all that remains of his forces, and must save the
kingdom rather than one poor town; and if he does turn his eyes and his
thoughts toward St. Quentin now and then, it is only to ask if its
death-agony will last long enough to give France time to recover. But as
to hope or chance of relief, there is no more now for us, dear
countrymen and friends. Monsieur de Rambouillet and Monsieur de Lauxford
have spoken the truth. We lack fortifications and troops; our city is
dying; we are abandoned, despairing, and lost!"

"Yes, yes!" cried the whole assembly, with one accord; "we must
surrender! we must surrender!"

"Not so," rejoined Jean Peuquoy; "we must die!"

An amazed silence followed this unexpected conclusion. The weaver
profited by it to proceed with increased animation.

"We must die. What we have already done points out to us what remains
for us to do. Messieurs Lauxford and de Rambouillet say that we cannot
hold out; but Monsieur de Coligny says that we must hold out! And let us
do it! You know whether I am devoted to our good town of St. Quentin, my
dear brothers. I love her as I loved my old mother, in very truth. Every
bullet that strikes her venerable walls seems to pierce my heart; and
yet now that the general has spoken, I feel that he must be obeyed. Let
not the arm rebel against the head, and St. Quentin perish! Monsieur
l'Amiral knows what he is doing and what he means to do. He has weighed,
in his wisdom, the fate of one city against the fate of France. He has
decided that St. Quentin must die, like a sentinel at his post; so be
it. The man who murmurs is a coward; and he who disobeys, a traitor. The
walls are crumbling: let us make new walls with our dead bodies; let us
gain a week, let us gain two days, or an hour even, at the price of all
our blood and all our property. Monsieur l'Amiral knows the worth of all
this; and since he asks it of us, we must do it. He will have to answer
for it to God and to the king; but that doesn't concern us. As for us,
our business is to die when he says, 'Die!' Let Monsieur de Coligny's
conscience look out for the rest. He is responsible, and we must
submit."

After these solemn, mournful words, every tongue was still, every head
lowered, Gaspard de Coligny's like the others, and even to a greater
degree than the others. It was in truth a heavy burden which the syndic
of weavers put upon him; and he could not forbear a shudder as he
thought of all these lives with which he was thus made chargeable.

"I see by your silence, my friends and brothers," continued Jean
Peuquoy, "that you understand and approve what I have said; but one
cannot expect husbands and fathers to pronounce sentence aloud upon
their wives and children. To say nothing is to make a favorable reply.
You will allow Monsieur l'Amiral to make orphans of your children and
widows of your wives; but you cannot pronounce their sentence
yourselves, is it not so? It is quite right too. Say nothing and die. No
one would be so brutal as to require you to cry: 'Meure St. Quentin!'
But if your patriotic hearts beat, as I believe they do, in unison with
mine, you can at least cry, 'Vive la France!'"

"Vive la France!" echoed a few voices, as feeble as the wailing of
children, and as mournful as sobs.

Then Gaspard de Coligny, deeply moved, and in a state of intense
agitation, rose hastily from his seat.

"Listen to me; listen!" he cried: "I will not accept such a fearful
responsibility alone. I was able to resist you when you wished to yield
to the enemy, but when you do yield to me, I can no longer discuss the
question; and since every soul in this assembly is of a contrary opinion
to that which I hold, and since you all deem the sacrifice useless--"

"I believe, may God forgive me," broke in a loud voice from the crowd,
"that even you are about to speak of giving up the town, Monsieur
l'Amiral."




CHAPTER XXVII

GABRIEL AT WORK


"Who dares thus to interrupt me?" demanded Gaspard de Coligny, with a
gathering frown.

"I!" said a man, attired in the costume of a peasant of the suburbs of
St. Quentin, making his way forward through the crowd.

"A peasant!" exclaimed the admiral.

"No, not a peasant," rejoined the stranger, "but Vicomte d'Exmès,
captain of the king's Guards, who comes in his Majesty's name."

"In the king's name!" exclaimed the throng of astonished citizens.

"In the king's name," repeated Gabriel; "and you see that he has not
abandoned his noble people of St. Quentin; on the contrary, he is still
anxious about them. I came in, disguised as a peasant, three hours
since; and during these three hours I have examined the walls and
listened to your deliberations. But let me say that what I have heard
hardly agrees with what I saw. Whence this discouragement, suitable for
none but women, which seems to have stricken with panic the stoutest
hearts? How comes it that you thus suddenly lose all hope, and leave
yourselves a prey to imaginary fears? What! have you sunk so low that
you can only rebel against the will of Monsieur l'Amiral, or bend your
necks to the yoke in resignation? Show your face, by the living God, not
to your leaders, but to the enemy; and if you cannot overcome them, at
least let your defeat be more glorious than a triumph. I come from the
ramparts; and I tell you that you can hold them two weeks yet, and the
king only asks you to keep the enemy at bay one week to insure the
salvation of France. To all that you have listened to in this hall I
will make answer in two words, and will point out to you a remedy for
your ills and a ray of hope to calm your fears."

The officers and notables crowded around Gabriel, already under the
magic spell of his powerful and sympathetic will.

"Hear him! hear him!" they cried.

It was amid a breathless stillness that Gabriel continued,--

"In the first place, Monsieur Engineer Lauxford, what did you say,--that
four weak spots in the fortifications were like open gates for the enemy
to come in? Well, let us see. The Faubourg d'Isle side is in the
greatest danger; the Spaniards are masters of the abbey, and from that
point they are keeping up such a well-directed fire that our workmen
don't dare to show themselves. Allow me, Monsieur Lauxford, to point out
to you a very simple and very excellent way to protect them, which I saw
put in practice by the besieged at Civitella this very year. It consists
simply in screening our workmen from the Spanish batteries by placing
old flatboats across the boulevard, piled upon one another, and filled
with bags of earth. The cannon-balls waste their force in the soft soil;
and behind that shelter our workmen will be as safe as if they were out
of range of the cannon. At the hamlet of Remicourt, the enemy, under
cover of a mantlet, are calmly undermining the wall, you say? I have
with my own eyes verified the fact. But that is the place, Monsieur
Engineer, where we must locate a countermine, and not at the Porte St.
Jean, where the great tower makes your countermine not only useless but
dangerous. So remove your sappers and miners from the western to the
southern side, Monsieur Lauxford, and you will find great advantage in
so doing. But the Porte St. Jean, you will ask, and the Boulevard St.
Martin, are they to be left undefended? Fifty men at the first, and
fifty at the second point will be enough; so Monsieur de Rambouillet
himself has told us. But," he added, "these hundred men are not
forthcoming. Very well! I will furnish them."

A murmur of glad surprise was heard all over the room.

"Yes," resumed Gabriel, in a steadier tone, as he saw that their hearts
were somewhat encouraged by his words, "I left Baron de Vaulpergues with
his company of three hundred lancers three leagues from here. We
understand each other. I agreed to come here, risking all the perils of
passing through the enemy's camp, in order to satisfy myself as to the
most favorable points for him to make his way into the town with his
men. I am here, as you see; and my plans are made. I shall now return to
Vaulpergues. We shall divide his company into three. I shall take
command in person of one of these detachments; and at nightfall, there
being no moon, we propose to march from three different directions, each
toward a postern designated beforehand. Surely we shall be very
unfortunate if only one of our three detachments eludes the enemy, when
their attention is called off by the other two. In any event, there will
surely be one; and a hundred determined men will be thrown into the
town, where, fortunately, there is no lack of provisions. These hundred
men will be posted, as I said, at the Porte St. Jean and the Boulevard
St. Michel; and now tell me, Monsieur Lauxford and Monsieur de
Rambouillet,--tell me, I beg, what spot in the walls will then offer an
easy entrance to the enemy."

With universal acclamation the assembly received these stirring words,
which so powerfully awakened new hope in their despondent hearts.

"Oh," cried Jean Peuquoy, "now we can fight, and we can conquer."

"Fight, yes; but as for victory, I dare not hope it," rejoined Gabriel,
with an air of authority. "I have no desire to make matters appear
better than they really are, but only that they should not be made to
appear worse. I wished to prove to every one of you, and first of all,
to you, Master Jean Peuquoy, who have given utterance to such noble but
gloomy words,--I wished to prove to you, in the first place, that the
king does not abandon you, and in the second place, that your fall might
be glorious, but obstinate resistance must be of the greatest service.
You said a moment since, 'Let us offer ourselves as a sacrifice;' and
now you say, 'Let us fight.' It is a great step forward. Yes, it is
possible, nay, it may be probable that the sixty thousand men who are
now besieging your frail ramparts will end by carrying them. But in the
first place, do not imagine that the noble struggle you will have
maintained will expose you to cruel reprisals. Philibert Emmanuel is a
brave soldier, who loves and honors bravery in others, and will never
punish you for your valor. And last of all, think that if you can hold
out ten or twelve days more, you will perhaps have lost your town, but
you will surely have saved your country. A sublime and noble end! Towns,
like men, have their patents of nobility; and the mighty deeds that they
accomplish are their titles and their ancestors. Your little children,
men of St. Quentin, will some day be proud of their fathers. Your walls
may be destroyed; but who can ever destroy the glorious memory of this
siege? Courage, then, heroic sentinels of a kingdom! Save the king, and
save your country. But a moment ago, with heads bowed down, you seemed
to have resolved to die, the willing victims of stern necessity. Lift up
your heads! If you perish, let it be as willing heroes, and your memory
shall never perish! Thus you can heartily join me in the cry: 'Vive la
France!' and 'Vive St. Quentin!'"

"Vive la France! Vive St. Quentin! Vive le roi!" burst enthusiastically
from a hundred throats.

"And now," said Gabriel, "to the ramparts and to work! and encourage by
your example your fellow-citizens, who await you. To-morrow a hundred
pairs of arms more, I swear, shall be here to aid you in your work of
salvation and of glory."

"To the ramparts!" cried the throng.

And out they rushed, carried away with joy and hope and pride, and
inspiring with their words and their enthusiasm those who had not heard
the words of the unhoped-for liberator, who had been sent by God and
the king to the disheartened town.

Gaspard de Coligny, the worthy and high-minded commander, had listened
to Gabriel in silence born of wonder and admiration. When the whole
assemblage had dispersed with triumphant shouts, he left the seat he had
occupied, went up to the young man, and pressed his hand with an air of
amazement.

"Thanks, Monsieur," said he; "you have saved St. Quentin and myself from
disgrace, and it may be France and the king from destruction."

"Alas! I have done nothing as yet, Monsieur l'Amiral," said Gabriel. "I
must now go back to Vaulpergues; and God alone can enable me to go out
as I came in, and to introduce the hundred men I have promised into the
town. It is God and not I to whom thanks must be rendered, ten days from
now."




CHAPTER XXVIII

WHEREIN MARTIN-GUERRE IS NOT CLEVER


Gabriel de Montgommery remained in conversation with the admiral more
than an hour.

Coligny could but marvel at the firmness and boldness and knowledge
displayed by this youth, who talked of strategy like a commanding
general, of defensive works like an engineer, and of moral influence
like a gray-headed sage. Gabriel, on his side, admired the upright and
noble character of Gaspard, and the kind-heartedness and honesty of
conscience which made him perhaps the purest and most loyal gentleman of
the age. Certainly the nephew bore but little resemblance to the uncle!
At the end of an hour the two men, one with hair that was already
turning gray, while the locks of the other were still of the hue of the
raven, understood and appreciated each other as if their acquaintance
were of twenty years' standing.

When they had fully agreed upon the measures to be taken to facilitate
the entrance of Vaulpergues's troops on the following night, Gabriel
took leave of the admiral, saying to him confidently: "Au revoir!" He
carried with him the countersigns and necessary signals.

Martin-Guerre, disguised as a peasant, like his master, awaited him at
the foot of the staircase in the town-hall.

"Ah, there you are, Monseigneur!" cried the worthy squire. "I am very
glad indeed to see you again; for a whole hour I have heard nothing from
every passer-by but the name of Vicomte d'Exmès, accompanied with
exclamations of wonder and extravagant praise! You have upset the whole
town. What talisman did you bring, Monseigneur, to make such a
revolution in the hearts of the whole population?"

"The word of a resolute man, Martin,--nothing more. But talking is not
enough, and now we must act."

"Let us act, then, Monseigneur,--for my part, actions suit me better
than words. We are going, I see, to take a walk in the fields under the
noses of the enemies' sentinels. Well, Monseigneur, I am ready."

"Don't be in too great haste, Martin," rejoined Gabriel; "it is too
light, and I must wait for the dusk before leaving the town, by
agreement with the admiral. We have therefore almost three hours before
us. Then too I have something to do meanwhile," he added, with some
embarrassment. "Yes, a very important matter to look after,--some
information to seek."

"I understand," said Martin-Guerre, "something about the strength of the
garrison, is it not, or about the weak spots in the fortifications? What
untiring zeal!"

"You don't understand anything at all about it," said Gabriel, smiling.
"No, I know all that I want to know about the ramparts and the troops;
and it is with a matter more--more personal that I am occupied just
now."

"Speak, Monseigneur; and if I can help you in any way--"

"Yes, Martin, you are, I know, a faithful servant and a devoted friend,
so I have no secrets from you except those which do not belong to me. If
you don't know whom I am seeking for anxiously and fondly in this town,
after my duties are done, Martin, it must be because you have
forgotten."

"Oh, pardon, Monseigneur, I know now!" cried Martin. "It is, is it not,
a--a Benedictine?"

"It is, Martin. What can have become of her in this panic-stricken town.
In truth, I didn't dare to ask Monsieur l'Amiral for fear of betraying
myself by my distress. And then, too, would he have been able to answer?
Diane changed her name, no doubt, when she entered the convent."

"Yes," rejoined Martin; "for I must say that which she bore, and
which is a lovely name in my opinion, has a slightly heathenish sound,
because of Madame de Poitiers, I suppose. Sister Diane! The fact is that
that name is as offensive as my other self when he is tipsy."

"What shall I do, then?" said Gabriel. "The best way would be perhaps to
inquire, in the first place, about the Benedictine convent in a general
way."

"Yes," said Martin-Guerre; "and then we will go from the general to the
particular, as my old curé used to say when he was suspected of being a
Lutheran. Well, Monseigneur, I am at your orders to make these
inquiries, as for every other purpose."

"We must go about it separately, Martin; and then we shall have two
chances instead of one. Be careful and reserved, and try above all
things not to drink, you incorrigible tippler! We need all our
self-possession."

"Oh, Monseigneur knows that since we left Paris I have regained my
former sobriety, and drink nothing but pure water. I have only seen
double once."

"I am glad to hear it," said Gabriel. "Well, then, Martin, in two hours
meet me at this spot."

"I will be here, Monseigneur."

And they separated.

Two hours later they met as they had agreed. Gabriel was radiant, but
Martin-Guerre very sheepish. All that the latter had learned was that
the Benedictines had chosen to share with the other women of the town
the labor and honor of nursing and watching the wounded; that every day
they were scattered about among the ambulances, and did not return to
the convent till evening; and that soldiers and citizens alike were
unsparing of their admiration and veneration for them.

Gabriel, by good luck, had learned something more. When the first person
he met had told him all that Martin-Guerre had learned, Gabriel asked
the name of the superior of the convent. It was, if his memory served
him, Mother Monique, Diane de Castro's friend. Gabriel then inquired
where the saintly woman was to be found.

"In the place where the danger is greatest," was the reply.

Gabriel made his way to the Faubourg d'Isle, and actually found the
superior there. She knew already by the public reports who the Vicomte
d'Exmès was, what he had said at the town-hall, and what part he was
going to play at St. Quentin. She received him as the envoy of the king
and the savior of the city.

"You will not be surprised, Mother," said Gabriel, "that coming in the
king's name, I ask you for news of his Majesty's daughter, Madame Diane
de Castro. I have sought her in vain among the nuns whom I have met on
my way. She is not ill, I trust?"

"No, Monsieur le Vicomte," replied the superior; "but I required her to
remain at the convent to-day, and take a little rest, for not one of us
has equalled her in devotion and courage. She has been everywhere, and
always ready, practising at all times and in all places, and with a sort
of joy and eagerness, her sublime charity, which is our gallantry. Ah,
she is the worthy daughter of the blood of France! And yet she is
unwilling that her title and her rank should become known; and she will
take it very kindly of you, Monsieur le Vicomte, to respect her noble
incognito. But no matter! if she does hide her noble birth, she shows
her kind heart; and all those who are suffering rejoice to see her
angel's face pass like a ray of celestial hope in the midst of their
pain. She is called, from the name of the order, Sister Benedicta; but
our poor wounded fellows, who do not know Latin, call her the Sister
Bénie."

"And well the name fits Madame la Duchesse!" cried Gabriel, who felt
tears of joy gathering in his eyes. "And may I see her to-morrow,
Mother,--that is, if I return?"

"You will return, brother," replied the superior; "and in that spot
where you hear the most pitiful groans and shrieks of pain, there you
will find Sister Bénie."

Thus it was that Gabriel rejoined Martin-Guerre, with his heart full to
overflowing with renewed courage, and certain now, as the superior was,
that he would come safe and unscathed through the perils of the night.




CHAPTER XXIX

WHEREIN MARTIN-GUERRE IS A BUNGLER


Gabriel had acquired sufficiently accurate information about the suburbs
of St. Quentin to avoid going astray in a region where he was an utter
stranger. Under cover of nightfall he and Martin-Guerre left the town by
the least carefully guarded postern without hindrance. Wrapped in long
dark cloaks, they glided into the moat-like shadows, and thence by the
breach in the wall into the fields.

But they were not beyond the greatest danger. Small bodies of the enemy
patrolled the suburbs day and night; encampments were scattered here and
there about the besieged town, and any encounter might be fatal to our
peasant-soldiers. The least risk that they ran was to be delayed a day;
that is to say, to make the projected expedition entirely useless.

And so when after a half-hour of travelling they arrived at a
cross-roads, Gabriel stopped and seemed to reflect. Martin-Guerre also
stopped, but he did not reflect. That task he ordinarily left to his
master. Martin-Guerre was a brave and loyal squire, but he had no desire
or ability to be anything more than the hand; Gabriel was the head.

"Martin," Gabriel began, after a moment's thought, "here are two roads,
both of which lead to the forest of Angimont, where Baron de Vaulpergues
is waiting for us. If we keep together, Martin, we may be taken
together; while if we separate, we have a double chance of carrying out
our plans and of finding Madame de Castro. Let us each take a different
road. Do you take this one; it is the longest, but the safest, according
to Monsieur l'Amiral. You will, however, have to go near the Walloon
encampment, where Monsieur de Montmorency is probably a prisoner. You
must avoid it by making a detour, as we did last night. Use all your
assurance and self-possession. If you fall in with any troops, you must
pass yourself off for a peasant of Angimont, and say that you have been
carrying provisions to the Spanish camp at St. Quentin, and were delayed
on your return. Do your best to imitate the Picardy patois, which will
not be very difficult with foreigners. But, above all things, err rather
on the side of audacity than timidity. Assume an air of confidence, for
if you hesitate, you are lost."

"Oh, be quite easy, Monseigneur," said Martin-Guerre, with a very
self-satisfied mien. "I am not so simple as I seem, and I will give a
good account of myself."

"Well said, Martin. I will take this other road; it is shorter, but more
dangerous, for it is the main highway from Paris, which is watched more
carefully than all the others. I shall run across more than one hostile
party, I fear, and I shall have to drown myself in the ditches, or flay
myself in the thickets, more than once; and when all is said and done,
it is very possible that I may not accomplish my purpose. But no matter,
Martin! Wait for me just half an hour; if I do not join you in that
time, let Monsieur de Vaulpergues set out without delay. It will then be
about midnight, and the danger will not be so great as in the evening.
Nevertheless, Martin, advise him from me to adopt every possible
precaution. You know what is to be done,--to divide his company into
three detachments, and approach the town as quietly as possible from
three opposite directions. It is too much to hope that all three
detachments should succeed in getting into the place; but the failure of
one may very well be the salvation of the others. But it's all the same!
It is quite possible that we shall meet no more, my good Martin; but we
must think only of the welfare of the country. Your hand! And may God
keep you!"

"Oh, I pray only for you, Monseigneur!" rejoined Martin. "If He will
only preserve you, He may do what He pleases with me; for I am good for
nothing except to worship you and serve you. So I hope to have some fine
sport with these infernal Spaniards to-night."

"I like to see you in this frame of mind, Martin. Well, adieu! Good luck
to you, and keep cool, above all things!"

"Good luck, Monseigneur, and don't be too rash!"

The master and squire then separated. Everything went well at first with
Martin; and although it was scarcely possible for him to lose his way,
he nevertheless showed considerable skill in avoiding some
suspicious-looking armed men from whom the darkness hid him. But as he
drew near the Walloon encampment, the sentinels became much more
numerous.

At the fork of two roads, Martin-Guerre suddenly found himself between
two parties of soldiers, one on foot, and the other mounted; and a sharp
_Qui vive_? told the unlucky squire that he was discovered.

"Well," said he, "now the time has come to show the impudence which my
master recommended to me so forcibly."

And struck with an almost providentially bright idea, he began to sing
at the top of his voice, and very opportunely, the following ballad of
the siege of Metz:--


"Le vendredi de la Toussaint,
Est arrivé la Germanie
À la belle croix de Messain
Pour faire grande boucherie."[5]


"Hola! qui va la?" cried a harsh voice with an accent and pronunciation
almost unintelligible, but which we will not undertake to describe lest
we become unintelligible ourselves.

"A peasant from Angimont," replied Martin-Guerre, in a no less
nondescript patois.

And he kept on his way and his song with increasing vigor and spirit,--


"Se campant au haut des vignes
Le duc d'Albe et sa compagnie,
À Saint-Arnou, près nos fossés,
C'était pour faire l'entreprise
De reconnaître nos fossés--"[6]


"Ho, there! Will you hold your noise and stop, wretched peasant, with
your cursed song?" shouted the same harsh voice.

Martin-Guerre reflected that these importunate fellows who hailed him
were ten against one; that, thanks to their horses, they could overtake
him with ease, and that he might do an immense amount of harm by running
away. So he stopped short. After all, he was not altogether disappointed
at having an opportunity to display his self-possession and his
cleverness. His master, who seemed sometimes to doubt the existence of
those qualities in him, would have no excuse for it henceforth, if he
should succeed in extricating himself with address from such a perilous
position.

At first he assumed an air of most perfect self-confidence.

"By Saint Quentin the martyr!" he muttered, approaching his captors,
"this is a fine business for you, keeping a poor belated peasant away
from his wife and little ones at Angimont. Come, tell me, pray, what you
want of me."

He meant to say this in Picardy patois; but he really said it in the
dialect of Auvergne with the accent of a Provençal.

The man who had hailed him had a similar intention of replying in
French, but the best he could do was Walloon with a German accent.

"What do we want of you? To question you and search you, night-prowler;
for how do we know that there isn't a spy hidden under your peasant's
smock?"

"Go on, then; question me and search me," was Martin-Guerre's response,
accompanied with a hoarse and most unnatural laugh.

"We will take you to camp with us."

"To camp!" exclaimed Martin. "Oh, well, that's all right. I will speak
to the general. Ah, you choose to arrest an unfortunate peasant on his
way back from carrying supplies to your comrades down yonder at St.
Quentin! May I be damned if I ever do it again! I will let your whole
army die of hunger first. I was going to Angimont after more supplies;
but you stop me on the way. Ah, you don't know me yet. I'll be even with
you for this! 'Saint Quentin, tête de kien,' says the Picardy proverb.
Take me for a spy indeed! I propose to complain to your chief. Let us go
to your camp!"

"_Mordieu_! What gibberish!" retorted the commander of the scouting
party. "I am the chief, my friend; and it is with me that you will have
to reckon when we can see you plainly, if you please. Do you suppose we
are going to rouse the generals for a blackguard like you?"

"Yes, I do; and it is to the generals that I propose to be taken!" cried
Martin-Guerre, volubly. "I have something to say to the generals and the
marshals. I propose to say to them that a man who is supplying you and
your people with food is not to be arrested thus without once crying,
'Look out!' I have done nothing wrong. I am an honest inhabitant of
Angimont. I mean to demand an indemnity for my trouble; and you shall be
hung for yours, you wretches!"

"Comrade, he seems sure of his ground, do you know!" said one of the
soldiers to his chief.

"Yes," replied the other; "and I would let him go if it didn't seem to
me every little while that I recognize his figure and his voice. Come
forward; everything will be explained in camp."

Martin-Guerre, placed between two of the horsemen for safe-keeping,
never ceased to swear and grumble during the whole journey. As he
entered the tent to which they escorted him in the first place, he swore
and grumbled still more.

"So this is the way you treat your allies, is it? Oh, well, just wait
till we furnish any more oats for your horses, or meal for you! I give
you up. As soon as you have recognized me and let me go, I will go back
to Angimont, and not leave the place again; or better still, I will
leave it, and enter a complaint against you to Monseigneur Philibert
Emmanuel in person, the first thing to-morrow morning. He is not the man
to allow such an affront to be put upon me."

At this moment the ensign who was in command of the party held a torch
to Martin-Guerre's face. He fell back three steps in wonder and horror.

"By the devil!" he cried, "I was not mistaken. It is he, the miserable
villain! Don't you recognize him now, you fellows?"

"Yes, indeed we do!" repeated each of the troops in turn, as he examined
Martin-Guerre's features with a curiosity which in every case changed at
once to rage.

"Ah, you do recognize me at last, then?" rejoined the poor squire, who
began to be seriously alarmed. "You know who I am? Martin Cornouiller of
Angimont. And you are going to release me, are you not!"

"We release you, you villain, you rake, you gallows-bird!" cried the
ensign, with flaming eyes and threatening fists.

"Well, well, what the deuce is the matter, my friend?" said Martin.
"Perhaps I am no longer Martin Cornouiller?"

"No, you are not Martin Cornouiller," replied the ensign; "and to unmask
you and prove you a liar, here are ten men standing around you, who know
you well. My friends, tell this impostor his name, to convict him of
deceit and infernal falsehood."

"It's Arnauld du Thill! it's that scoundrel, Arnauld du Thill!" the ten
voices shouted in chorus with terrifying unanimity.

"Arnauld du Thill! What do you mean?" asked Martin, turning pale.

"Oh, yes, deny yourself now, you villain!" cried the ensign. "But
luckily here are ten witnesses to contradict you. Before them,
notwithstanding your peasant's dress, have you the face to declare that
I didn't take you prisoner at the battle of St. Laurent in attendance
upon the constable?"

"No, no, I am Martin Cornouiller," stammered Martin, who was beginning
to lose his head.

"You are Martin Cornouiller?" said the ensign, with a contemptuous
laugh; "you are not that coward Arnauld du Thill, who promised me a
ransom, whom I treated with every consideration, and who only last night
made his escape, carrying with him not only the little money that I
possessed, but my dearly-loved Gudule, the lovely _vivandière_?
Villain! what have you done with Gudule?"

"What have you done with Gudule?" echoed his companions, in ominous
chorus.

"What have I done with Gudule?" said Martin-Guerre, completely crushed.
"How can I tell, miserable wretch that I am! Ah, well, do you really all
recognize me? Are you perfectly sure that you are not mistaken? Can you
swear that my name is--Arnauld du Thill; that this fine fellow took me
prisoner at the battle of St. Laurent; and that I have treacherously
carried off his Gudule? Can you swear to all this?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried the ten voices, vigorously. "Very well. I am not
surprised," said Martin-Guerre, piteously (he was apt to wander a
little, we remember, when this matter of his twofold existence was
touched upon). "No, indeed, I am not surprised. I would have insisted
until to-morrow that my name is Martin Cornouiller; but you know me as
Arnauld du Thill. I was here yesterday, it seems; so I say no more.
Expect no more resistance from me, for I submit. From the moment that
this turns out to be so, my feet and hands are tied. I did not foresee
this. It has been such a long time since my alibis ceased to trouble me.
Come on! it's all right. Do with me as you will; carry me off; imprison
me; strangle me; what you tell me of Gudule puts the finishing touch to
my conviction that you are right. Yes, I recognize my own hand in that!
But I am very glad to know that my name is Arnauld du Thill."

Poor Martin-Guerre thenceforth confessed everything that they chose,
allowed himself to be overwhelmed with insults and reproaches, and
offered his all to God by way of penance for the new offences that they
charged him with. As he could not tell what had become of Gudule, they
loaded him with chains, and subjected him to all varieties of
ill-treatment, but without wearing out his angelic patience. All that he
regretted was that he had not had time to fulfil his commission to Baron
de Vaulpergues; but who could have imagined that new crimes would rise
to confront him, and reduce to nothing his splendid schemes for
exhibiting his address and presence of mind?

"One thing that consoles me, however," he reflected, in the damp corner
where they had flung him down upon the ground, "is that perhaps Arnauld
du Thill may enter St. Quentin triumphantly with a detachment of
Vaulpergues's company. But no, no! that is a delusive hope too; and what
I know of the blackguard would lead me rather to guess that the monster
is at some inn on the road to Paris with the fair Gudule. Alas, alas! I
can't help thinking that I could put more heart into my penance if I had
at least some little knowledge of the sin."


[Footnote 5: "On Friday after All Saints
All Germany came down
With fire and sword and rapine
To sack our well-loved town."]

[Footnote 6: "Encamped above the vineyards,
Bold Alva and his band
Came spying round St. Arnou,
Our trenches to--"]




CHAPTER XXX

THE STRATEGY OF WAR


Fanciful as it appeared to him, Martin-Guerre's hope was realized
nevertheless. When Gabriel after a thousand narrow escapes reached the
forest where Baron de Vaulpergues was awaiting him, the first face that
he saw was that of his squire, and the first words he uttered were,
"Martin-Guerre!"

"Here I am, Monseigneur," was the squire's reply, in a steady voice.

This Martin-Guerre needed nobody to advise or urge him to be impudent.

"Were you much ahead of me, Martin?" asked Gabriel.

"I have been here an hour, Monseigneur."

"Have you really? But it seems to me that you have changed your dress,
for surely you hadn't on that doublet when you left me three hours
ago."

"No, Monseigneur; I obtained this one of a peasant who was more
appropriately dressed than I, as I thought, and gave him mine in
exchange."

"Very well! and you had no unfortunate encounter?"

"Not one, Monseigneur."

"Quite the contrary," said the Baron de Vaulpergues, coming up to them,
"for the blackguard, when he arrived here, was accompanied by a very
charming little maiden, upon my word,--a Flemish _vivandière_, so far
as we could judge from her speech. She seemed to be very sad, poor
creature; but he very roughly though with much discretion dismissed her
at the edge of the forest before coming to this spot, despite her tears.

"Now, Monsieur d'Exmès," he continued, "if your idea and the admiral's
agree with mine, we shall not start for half an hour. It is not yet
midnight; and in my judgment we ought not to reach St. Quentin till
toward three o'clock. That is the time when sentinels get weary and
relax their vigilance somewhat. Don't you think with me, Monsieur le
Vicomte?"

"Most decidedly I do; and Monsieur de Coligny's instructions are in
perfect accord with your opinion. At three in the morning he will expect
us; and we ought to arrive then if we are ever to arrive."

"Oh, we shall get there, Monseigneur, allow me to assure you!" said
Arnauld-Martin. "I made good use of my opportunity to examine the
surroundings of the Walloon camp when I came by; and I can guide you by
that road as safely as if I had been in the neighborhood for a
fortnight."

"This is most marvellous, Martin!" cried Gabriel,--"such wonders
accomplished in so short a time! Why, I shall have as much confidence
henceforth in your intelligence as in your loyalty!"

"Oh, Monseigneur, if you will rely on my zeal and my discretion, I ask
for nothing more!"

The crafty fellow's plot was so well contrived, and so favored by luck
and his audacity, that since Gabriel's arrival the impostor had spoken
nothing but the truth.

While Gabriel and Vaulpergues were deliberating aside as to what road
they should take, he, for his part, was completing the details of his
plan, so as not to interfere with the miraculous chances which had
served him so well thus far.

This is what actually occurred. Arnauld, having escaped with Gudule's
assistance from the camp where he was held a prisoner, had prowled about
in the neighboring woods for eighteen hours, not daring to leave their
shelter for fear of falling into the hands of the enemy. Toward evening
he thought that he saw in the forest of Angimont the tracks of horsemen
who must, he judged, be anxious to keep out of sight, or they would not
have resorted to such impracticable paths. Therefore they must be
Frenchmen lying in ambush, so Arnauld tried to overtake them, and
succeeded. It was then that he dismissed Gudule with all possible speed;
and the poor child returned, weeping, to the tents, expecting, no doubt,
to find another lover there to take the place of the one she had lost.
The first one of Vaulpergues's soldiers whom Arnauld fell in with called
him Martin-Guerre; and for very good reasons he did not undeceive him.
Listening with all his ears, and saying very little himself, he soon
learned everything. Vicomte d'Exmès was expected to return that very
night, after having notified the admiral at St. Quentin of Vaulpergues's
approach, and bringing with him the necessary plans and instructions to
facilitate throwing the detachment into the place. Martin-Guerre was
with him, they said; so they naturally took Arnauld to be Martin, and
questioned him about his master.

"He will soon be here," was his reply. "We came by different roads."

In his own mind he was considering what a fine thing it would be for him
if he could attach himself to Gabriel. In the first place, his means of
subsistence in these hard times would be assured; then he knew that his
master, the constable, at present Philibert Emmanuel's prisoner, was
suffering less, possibly, from the disgrace of his defeat and captivity
than from the thought that his detested rival, the Duc de Guise, would
soon be omnipotent at court, and would exercise unbounded influence over
the king's mind. To dog the steps of a friend of Guise, then, would be
to establish himself at the very fountain-head of information, which he
could sell at a high price to the constable. Last of all, was not
Gabriel personally an enemy of the Montmorencys, and the principal
obstacle in the way of the marriage of Duc François with Madame de
Castro?

Arnauld remembered all this, but could not avoid the reflection at the
same time that the return of the true Martin-Guerre to his master's side
might well upset all his fine plans. In order to avoid being convicted
of imposture, he lay in wait for Gabriel's coming, hoping to be able to
keep the credulous Martin-Guerre out of the way, or to get rid of him
altogether. Imagine his delight, then, when Gabriel came up to him
alone, and at once recognized him as his squire. Arnauld had spoken the
truth without knowing it. After that he left everything to chance, and
relying upon his patron the devil having led poor Martin into the toils
of the Spaniards, he boldly assumed the rôle of the absentee, in which
he succeeded admirably, as we have seen.

Meanwhile the conference between Gabriel and Vaulpergues came to an end;
and when the three detachments were under arms, and ready to start on
their respective routes, Arnauld insisted on accompanying Gabriel on the
road which led by the Walloon camp. It was the road which the real
Martin-Guerre was to have taken; and if they should happen to meet him,
Arnauld wanted to be on the spot, so that he might make him disappear,
or disappear himself, as need required.

But they passed the camp without seeing anything of Martin; and the
thought of that trifling danger was soon lost sight of in the more
serious peril which awaited him, as well as Gabriel and the little band
of whom they made part, before the closely invested walls of St.
Quentin.

Within the town the anxiety was no less acute, as may well be imagined;
for the salvation or destruction of all depended almost entirely on the
bold _coup-de-main_ to be undertaken by Gabriel and Vaulpergues. So at
two o'clock in the morning the admiral in person made the round of the
points agreed upon between himself and Gabriel, enjoining upon the
picked men, who were posted as sentinels at these important spots, the
most watchful attention. Then he mounted to the belfry tower, whence he
could overlook the whole town and all the neighborhood; and there, dumb
and motionless, scarcely breathing, he listened in the silence, and
looked out upon the night. But he heard only the deadened, far-off sound
of the Spanish miners and the French counterminers; he saw naught but
the tents of the enemy, and, farther away, the gloomy forest of Origny
standing darkly out in the black night.

Unable to overcome his restlessness, the admiral determined to go to the
spot where the fate of St. Quentin was to be decided. He came down from
the tower, and on horseback, attended by several officers, rode to the
Boulevard de la Reine, and up to one of the posterns at which
Vaulpergues might be expected, and waited, standing on an angle of the
ramparts.

Just as three o'clock was striking from La Collégiale, the hoot of an
owl was heard from the heart of the marshes of the Somme.

"God be praised! there they are!" cried the admiral.

Monsieur du Breuil, at a sign from Coligny, using his hands as a
speaking-trumpet, imitated distinctly the cry of the osprey.

Then a deathly silence followed. The admiral and his companions stood as
if made of stone, their ears on the alert, and their hearts heating
fast.

Suddenly a musket-shot was heard in the direction from which the cry had
come; and almost at the same moment there was a general discharge,
accompanied by sharp cries and a terrible uproar.

The first detachment was discovered.

"A hundred brave men gone already!" cried the admiral.

He came rapidly down from the boulevard, remounted his horse, and
without another word rode in the direction of the Boulevard St. Martin,
where he expected another part of Vaulpergues's company.

There he was seized again with the same anguish of soul. Gaspard de
Coligny at this moment resembled a gambler who has staked his fortune
upon three casts of the dice: the first cast was lost; what luck awaited
him in the second?

Alas! the same cry was heard outside the ramparts, and the same answer
made from the town; then, as if this second scene were merely a fatal
repetition of the first, a sentinel gave the alarm again, and the rattle
of musketry and the heart-rending shrieks told the terrified people of
St. Quentin that a second combat--say rather, a second butchery had
occurred.

"Two hundred martyrs!" said Coligny, in a grief-stricken voice.

And again throwing himself upon his horse, in two minutes he was at the
postern of the faubourg, which was the third of the posts agreed upon
between Gabriel and himself. He rode so quickly that he was the first
man on the rampart; and his officers joined him there one by one. But
listen as eagerly as they might, they could hear nothing but the groans
of the dying in the distance and the shouts of the victors.

The admiral thought that all was lost. The enemy's camp was aroused.
There could not be a Spanish soldier who was not awake now. He who was
in command of the third party might well have thought best not to march
right upon such deadly peril, and had probably withdrawn without
hazarding a blow. Thus the third and last throw had failed the ruined
gambler. Coligny kept saying to himself that very probably the last
detachment had been surprised with the second, and that the noise of the
two massacres had been combined.

A tear--a burning tear of despair and rage--rolled down the admiral's
swarthy cheek. In a few hours the people, discouraged anew by this last
calamity, would demand in loud tones that the place be surrendered; and
even were they not to make such a demand, Gaspard de Coligny no longer
deceived himself with the hope that with troops so exhausted and
demoralized as his, the first assault would not open the gates of St.
Quentin and of France to the Spaniards. And surely the assault would not
be long in coming, and the signal for it would probably be given as soon
as day broke, if not even at once during the darkness, while these
thirty thousand men, bursting with pride over the slaughter of three
hundred, were still drunk with their magnificent exploit.

As if to confirm Coligny's apprehensions, Du Breuil, the governor of the
town, uttered the word _alerte_ in his ear in a stifled voice; and as he
turned toward him, he pointed out a body of men in the moat, dark and
noiseless, who seemed to be marching out of the darkness toward the
postern.

"Are they friends or foes?" asked Du Breuil, in a low voice.

"Silence!" whispered the admiral; "let us be on our guard in any event."

"How can they make so little noise?" said the governor. "I seem to see
horses, and yet there is not a sound, and the very earth seems deadened
beneath their steps! Really, they seem like phantoms!"

The superstitious Du Breuil crossed himself as a precautionary measure;
but Coligny, grave and thoughtful, carefully watched the dumb black mass
without fear and without sign of emotion.

When the new-comers were hardly fifty paces away, Coligny himself
mimicked the cry of the osprey.

The hoot of the owl replied.

Thereupon the admiral, beside himself with joy, rushing to the guard at
the postern, ordered it to be opened immediately; and a hundred
horsemen, enveloped, men and beasts, in ample black cloaks, rode into
the town without a sound. Then it could be seen that the hoofs of the
horses, which beat so softly upon the ground, were wrapped in pieces of
cloth filled with sand. It was due to their adoption of this expedient,
which was suggested to them only when the two other detachments had been
betrayed by the noise they made, that the third party had succeeded in
making their way in unobstructed; and the man who had thought of this
expedient, and who was in command of the party, was no other than
Gabriel.

It was a small matter, no doubt, this reinforcement of a hundred men;
but it would suffice to keep the two threatened positions defended for a
few days, and, above all, it was the first happy circumstance of this
siege, which had been so fruitful in disasters. The news of such good
augury went through the town like the wind. Doors were thrown open,
windows illuminated, and universal acclamations welcomed Gabriel and his
men as they passed.

"No, no!--no rejoicing," said Gabriel, gravely and sadly. "Remember the
two hundred poor fellows who fell down there."

He raised his hat as if to salute the heroic dead, among whom was the
noble Vaulpergues.

"Yes," responded Coligny, "we pity them and honor them. But, Monsieur
d'Exmès, what shall we say to you? How shall we thank you? At least, my
friend, let me fold you in my arms, for you have already twice saved St.
Quentin."

But Gabriel, pressing his hand warmly, again rejoined,--

"Monsieur l'Amiral, tell me that in ten days' time."




CHAPTER XXXI

ARNAULD DU THILL'S MEMORY


It was full time that the successful stroke should be accomplished, and
the welcome succor be thrown into the town. Day was beginning to break;
and Gabriel, completely worn out from having hardly closed his eyes for
four days, was taken to the town-hall by the admiral, who gave him the
next room to the one he himself occupied. There Gabriel threw himself
upon the bed, and slept as if he would never wake.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon before his refreshing slumber, of
which the poor youth, with all his anxiety, stood so much in need, was
broken by Coligny's entrance. An assault had been made by the enemy
during the day and gallantly repulsed, but another was threatened for
the next day; and the admiral, who had had every reason thus far to.
think well of Gabriel's advice, had come to ask it once more. Gabriel
was soon out of bed and ready to receive Coligny.

"Just a word to my squire, Monsieur l'Amiral," said he, "and I am at
your service."

"At your convenience, Vicomte d'Exmès," rejoined Coligny. "As the
Spanish flag would be flying over this building at this moment but for
you, I may well say to you, 'You are at home.'"

Gabriel went to the door, and called Martin-Guerre. He came at once, and
Gabriel led him aside.

"My good Martin," said he, "I told you yesterday that I should have
hereafter as much confidence in your intelligence as in your loyalty,
and I will prove it to you. You must go at once to the ambulance at the
Faubourg d'Isle. There you will inquire, not for Madame de Castro, but
for the superior of the Benedictines, good Mother Monique; and it is she
alone whom you must ask to say to Sister Bénie--you understand, to
Sister Bénie--that Vicomte d'Exmès, on a mission at St. Quentin from
the king, will call upon her within an hour, and that he entreats her to
await him there. You see, Monsieur de Coligny is likely to keep me here
some time; and in a matter of life and death, you know, one must always
put duty before pleasure. So go, and let her know at least that my heart
is with her."

"She shall know it, Monseigneur," said Martin, eagerly; and he was off
on the moment, leaving his master somewhat less impatient, as well as
easier in his mind.

He made the best of his way to the ambulance at the Faubourg d'Isle, and
asked for Sister Monique on all sides with much earnestness of manner.

The superior was pointed out to him.

"Ah, Mother!" said the cunning scamp, approaching her. "I am very glad
to find you at last; my poor master would have been so cast down if I
had not been able to execute my commission to you and Madame de Castro."

"Who are you, pray, my friend, and whence do you come?" asked the
superior, surprised as well as grieved to find that Gabriel had kept so
ill the secret she had confided to him.

"I come on behalf of Vicomte d'Exmès," rejoined the false
Martin-Guerre, affecting a sort of simple-minded artlessness. "You must
know Vicomte d'Exmès, I should think! The whole town is talking of
nothing but him."

"To be sure!" said the superior; "I know our deliverer. We have prayed
heartily for him. I had the honor of seeing him here yesterday; and I
counted on seeing him again to-day after what he said."

"He is coming; yes, his Lordship is coming," continued Arnauld-Martin.
"But Monsieur de Coligny delays him; and in his impatience he sent me on
in advance to you and to Madame de Castro. Don't be astonished, Mother,
that I know that name and pronounce it. Long time loyalty, put to the
proof over and over again, justifies my master in trusting as implicitly
in me as in himself; and he has no secrets from his trusty and devoted
servant. I have only wit and intellect enough, so people say, to love
him and protect him; but I have that instinct in good measure, at least,
and no one can deny it me, by the relics of Saint Quentin! Oh, pardon
me, Mother, for swearing so before you. I didn't realize what I was
doing; and habit, you know, and the impulse of the heart--"

"It's all right!" said Mother Monique, smiling; "so Monsieur d'Exmès is
coming, is he? He will be very welcome. Sister Bénie is very anxious to
see him, to have news of the king, who sent him hither."

"Ha, ha!" Martin laughed in an idiotic way, and said, "The king, who
sent him to St. Quentin, but not to Madame Diane, I suppose."

"What do you mean?" asked the superior.

"I say, Madame, that I, who love Vicomte d'Exmès as a master and as a
brother, am truly glad that you, a woman so worthy of respect and
endowed with such abundant authority, should interest yourself a little
in the love-affairs of Monseigneur and Madame de Castro."

"The love-affairs of Madame de Castro!" cried the horrified superior.

"Yes, to be sure," responded the treacherous scoundrel. "Madame Diane
must surely have confided everything to you, her real mother and her
only friend?"

"She has spoken to me in a vague way of suffering in which her heart was
involved," said the nun; "but of an unhallowed love, and of the
viscount's name, I know nothing, absolutely nothing."

"Oh, yes, you deny it from modesty, no doubt," rejoined Arnauld, shaking
his head very knowingly. "In truth, for my part, I think your conduct is
very estimable; and I am very grateful to you for it. You are acting
very bravely too! 'Ah!' you said to yourself, 'the king is opposed to
the love of these children. Diane's father would be furiously angry if
he should suspect that they ever saw each other! Oh, well! I, holy and
upright woman that I am, will defy his royal Majesty and his paternal
authority, and will lend the poor lovers the sanction of my approval and
my character; I will arrange interviews for them, and will give new life
to their hope and bid their remorse be still.' Indeed, the assistance
you are rendering them is superb, is magnificent, do you understand?"

"Holy Virgin!" was all the superior could say, clasping her hands in
terror and amazement, for her heart was timid and her conscience easily
alarmed. "Holy Virgin! a father and a king defied, and my name and my
life entangled in these intrigues!"

"Hold!" said Arnauld; "I see my master down there now, hurrying to thank
you in person for your kind offices, and to ask you, the impatient
youth, when and how he can, thanks to you, see his adored mistress once
more."

Gabriel did come up at this moment, breathless and eager; but before he
reached her side, the superior stopped him with a motion of her hand,
and said, drawing herself up to her full height,--

"Not a step farther, and not a word, Monsieur le Vicomte! I know now by
what title, and with what intentions, you desire to see Madame de
Castro. Do not imagine that hereafter I shall lend a hand to forward
your schemes, which are, I fear, unworthy of a gentleman. Besides, not
only ought I to decline, but I do not choose, to listen to you any more;
furthermore, I intend to use my authority to deprive Diane of every
opportunity and every excuse for meeting you, whether in the parlor of
the convent or in the ambulances. She is her own mistress, I know, and
has not taken the vows which bind her to us; but so long as she thinks
fit to remain in the convent, her chosen asylum, she may rely upon my
protection to keep her honor safe, and not her love."

With a frigid bow the superior saluted Gabriel, who stood transfixed
with astonishment; and then she withdrew without waiting for his reply,
and without once turning toward him.

"What does all this mean?" asked the young man of his pretended squire,
after a moment of speechless stupefaction.

"I know no more about it than you do, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld, who
imposed a mask of consternation upon the delight he really felt. "Madame
la Supérieure received me very ill, if I must say so, and declared that
she was thoroughly acquainted with your designs, but that it was her
duty to oppose them, and to do her best to advance the views of the
king, and that Madame Diane no longer loved you, even if she had ever
done so."

"Diane loves me no longer!" cried Gabriel, turning pale. "Alas! alas!"
he continued, "so much the better perhaps! Meanwhile I wish to see her
again, and to prove to her that I am neither indifferent to her nor
guilty in her regard. This last interview, which I need to encourage me
in my task, it is absolutely necessary that you should help me to
obtain, Martin-Guerre."

"Monseigneur knows," replied Arnauld, with humility, "that I am the
devoted instrument of his will, and that I obey him in all things, as
the hand obeys the head. I will use every effort, as I have done up to
this very moment, to procure for Monseigneur the interview which he
craves with Madame de Castro."

Thereupon, laughing behind his cape, the crafty scamp followed Gabriel,
as he returned in deep dejection to the town-hall.

In the evening, when the false Martin-Guerre, after making a circuit of
the fortifications, found himself alone in his room, he drew from his
breast a paper which he perused with an appearance of the liveliest
satisfaction.


Arnauld du Thill's account with Monsieur le Connétable de
  Montmorency, from the day when he was forcibly separated
  from Monseigneur. (This account comprises public as well
  as private services.)

For having (while held a prisoner after the battle of St.
  Laurent, and being taken before Philibert Emmanuel)
  advised that general to release the constable without
  ransom, upon the specious pretext that Monseigneur
  would do less harm to the Spaniards with his sword than
  good by his advice to the king. . . . fifty crowns.

For having escaped by a clever trick from the camp where
  he was held, and having thus saved Monsieur le Connétable
  the expense of his ransom, which in his generosity
  he would not have hesitated to pay in order to recover so
  faithful and valuable a servant . . . one hundred crowns.

For having skilfully guided by little-known paths the
  detachment which Vicomte d'Exmès was leading to
  the relief of St. Quentin and of Monsieur l'Amiral
  de Coligny, the well-loved nephew of Monsieur le
  Connétable . . . . . . . . . . . twenty livres.


There was more than one other item in Master Arnauld's list quite as
impertinently greedy as these. When he had read them all through, he
took his pen, and added the following:--


For having, under the name of Martin-Guerre, entered the
  service of Vicomte d'Exmès, and while in such service denounced
  said viscount to the superior of the Benedictines
  as the lover of Madame de Castro, and thus insured the separation
  of these two young people, according to the best interests
  of Monsieur le Connétable . . . two hundred crowns.


"That is not very dear," said Arnauld; "and this last item quite outdoes
all the others. The sum total is very satisfactory. It amounts nearly to
a thousand livres, and with a little imagination we can put it up to two
thousand; and when I have my hand on them, _ma foi_! I will go out of
business, take a wife, and be a good father to my children, and
church-warden of my parish somewhere in the provinces, and thus fulfil
the dream of my whole life, and the honorable end of all my wicked
deeds."

Arnauld went to bed and slept on these virtuous reflections.

The next day he was commissioned by Gabriel to go in search of Diane
once more; and we can guess how he acquitted himself of the commission.
Leaving Monsieur de Coligny, Gabriel himself began to investigate and
make inquiries. But about ten in the morning the enemy made a furious
assault; and he had to hasten to the boulevards. As usual, Gabriel
performed prodigies of valor, and acted as if he had two lives to lose.

He did have two to save; besides, if he made himself conspicuous by his
gallantry, doubtless Diane would hear his name talked of.




CHAPTER XXXII

THEOLOGY


Gabriel was returning in a state of utter exhaustion from the point
where the assault had taken place, with Gaspard de Coligny, when two
men, passing very near him, mentioned the name of Sister Bénie. He left
the admiral, and running after the men, asked them eagerly if they knew
anything of her whose name they had mentioned.

"Oh, _mon Dieu_! no, Captain, no more than yourself," replied one of
them, who was no other than Jean Peuquoy. "In fact, I was just
expressing some anxiety about her to my companion here; for no one has
seen the lovely brave girl all day long, and I was just saying that
after such a brisk engagement as we have just had, there are many poor
wounded fellows who are much in need of her nursing and her heavenly
smile. But we shall soon know if she is seriously ill; for it will be
her turn to do night duty with the ambulance to-morrow. She has never
missed her turn yet; and there are too few of the nuns, and they relieve
one another too frequently, to be willing or able to get along without
her except in case of absolute necessity. We shall see her to-morrow
evening, then, no doubt; and I shall thank God for one poor invalid's
sake, for she knows how to comfort and encourage them like a real Notre
Dame."

"Thanks, my friend, thanks!" said Gabriel, pressing Jean Peuquoy's hand
warmly, and leaving the good man much surprised at being so honored.

Gaspard de Coligny had heard Jean Peuquoy, and noticed Gabriel's
delight. When they were walking together again, he said nothing to him
on the subject at first; but when they were once in the house and by
themselves in the room where the admiral kept his papers and issued his
orders, he said to Gabriel with his pleasant smile,--

"You take a very lively interest, I see, my friend, in this nun, Sister
Bénie."

"The same interest that Jean Peuquoy takes," replied Gabriel, blushing;
"the same interest that you take yourself, no doubt, Monsieur l'Amiral,
for you must have noticed, as I have, how sorely our wounded need her,
and what a beneficial influence her words and her very presence exert
upon them and upon all the combatants."

"Why do you try to deceive me, my friend?" said the admiral. "You must
have very little confidence in me that you try thus to lie to me."

"What, Monsieur l'Amiral!" responded Gabriel, more and more embarrassed;
"who has been able to make you believe--"

"That Sister Bénie is no other than Madame Diane de Castro, and that
you are deeply in love with her?"

"You know that?" cried Gabriel, amazed beyond measure.

"Why should I not know it?" rejoined the admiral. "Is not Monsieur le
Connétable my uncle! Is there anything at court that he doesn't know
all about? Has not Madame de Poitiers the king's ear, and has not
Monsieur de Montmorency Diane de Poitiers's heart? As very weighty
interests of our family are apparently involved in all this, I was
naturally informed of the whole business, so that I might be on my
guard, and render every aid to forward the schemes of my noble relative.
I had not been a day at my post in St. Quentin, to defend the place or
to die here, when I received an express from my uncle. It was not, as I
supposed at first, to inform me of the movements of the enemy and the
constable's proposed operations. By no means! The messenger had risked a
thousand dangers to notify me that Madame Diane de Castro, the king's
daughter, was at the convent of the Benedictines at St. Quentin under an
assumed name, and that I must keep a strict watch over her movements.
Then again, yesterday a Flemish messenger, bribed by Monsieur de
Montmorency in his captivity, inquired for me at the southern gate. I
fancied that he had come from my uncle to tell me to take courage; that
it was for me to re-establish the glory of the Montmorencys, sullied by
the defeat of St. Laurent; and that the king would infallibly add other
reinforcements to those brought hither by you, Gabriel; and that I must
in any event die in the breach rather than deliver St. Quentin. But no,
no! the purchased messenger came not to bring me any such stirring words
to encourage and sustain me; and I was grievously mistaken. The man was
only instructed to notify me that Vicomte d'Exmès, who had come in the
night before upon the pretence of fighting and dying here, was in love
with Madame de Castro, who is betrothed to my cousin, François de
Montmorency, and that the meeting of the lovers might have a bad effect
upon the vast plans being matured by my uncle; but that luckily I was
governor of St. Quentin, and it was my duty to devote all my energies to
the task of keeping Madame Diane and Gabriel d'Exmès apart; and, above
all, to prevent their having any conversation together, and thus to
contribute to the elevation and power of my house!"

All this was said with a bitterness and melancholy that were very
perceptible; but Gabriel thought of nothing but the blow aimed at his
hopes.

"And so, Monsieur," he said to the admiral, with bitter anger at his
heart, "it was you who denounced me to the superior of the Benedictines,
and who, faithful to your uncle's instructions, count, no doubt, upon
taking from me, one by one, all the chances which I may still have of
finding Diane and seeing her again."

"Hold your peace, young man!" cried the admiral, with an unspeakably
proud expression. "But I forgive you," he added more gently; "for your
passion blinds you, and you have not yet had time to know Gaspard de
Coligny."

There was so much noble and dignified kindness in the tone in which
these words were uttered that all Gabriel's suspicions vanished like
mist, and he was deeply ashamed that he had entertained them for one
moment.

"Pardon me!" he said, stretching out his hand to Gaspard. "How could I
ever have thought that you would allow yourself to be led into such
intrigues? A thousand pardons, Monsieur l'Amiral!"

"Oh, it's all right, Gabriel!" rejoined Coligny; "and I know that your
impulses are youthful and pure. No, indeed, I do not mingle in such
underhand practices; on the contrary, I despise them and those who have
conceived them. In such performances I can see no glory, but only shame
for my family; and far from wishing to profit by them, I blush at them.
If these men, who build up their fortune by such means, scandalous or
not; who, in their haste to gratify their ambition and their greed,
never heed the sorrow and the desolation of those who are as good as
they; who would even, to arrive a little sooner at their goal, pass over
the dead body of their mother-land,--if these men are my kinsmen, it
must be the punishment which God inflicts upon me for my pride, and with
which He recalls me to humility; it is an encouragement to me to show
myself harsh toward myself and just to my neighbors, as a means of
redeeming the sins of my relatives."

"Yes," rejoined Gabriel, "I know that the honor and virtue of the days
of the apostles dwell in your breast, Monsieur l'Amiral; and I beg your
pardon once more for having for one moment spoken to you as to one of
the fine gentlemen without faith or law whom I have learned too well to
despise and detest."

"Alas!" said Coligny, "we should rather pity them,--these poor fools who
are ambitious of nothing, these wretched, blinded Papists. But," he
continued, "I forget that I am not speaking to one of my brothers in
religious matters. Never mind, Gabriel; you are worthy of being one of
us, and you will come to us sooner or later. Yes; God, in whose hands
all means are holy, will lead you to the right, I foresee, through this
very passion; and this unequal conflict in which your love will cause
you to hurl yourself against a corrupt court will end in bringing you
into our ranks some day. I shall be happy to sow in your breast, my
friend, the first seeds of the divine harvest."

"I knew, Monsieur l'Amiral," said Gabriel, "that you were of the
Reformed religion; and that very fact has led me to esteem the
persecuted sect. Nevertheless, you see, I am weak in mind, being feeble
in heart; and I am sure that I shall always profess the same religion
that Diane does."

"Oh, well!" said Gaspard, in whom, as in most of his sect, the fever of
proselytism was at its height,--"oh, well! if Madame de Castro is of the
religion of virtue and truth, she is of our faith, and so will you be,
Gabriel. So will you be, I say again, because that dissolute court, rash
youth, against which you are taking up arms, will overcome you; and you
will burn to be revenged. Do you believe that Monsieur de Montmorency,
who has set his heart upon the king's daughter for his son, will consent
to give up that rich prize to you?"

"Alas! perhaps I shall not dispute it with him," said Gabriel. "Only let
the king remain true to his sworn promise to me--"

"Sworn promise!" exclaimed the admiral. "Do you talk of sworn promises
in connection with the man who, after he had commanded the parliament to
discuss the question of liberty of conscience freely before him, had
Anne Dubourg and Dufaur burned at the stake for having pleaded the cause
of the reform, relying upon the royal word?"

"Oh, don't say so, Monsieur l'Amiral!" cried Gabriel. "Don't tell me
that King Henri will not keep the solemn promise that he has given me;
for in that event not my faith alone would rise in rebellion, but my
sword too, I fear: I would not become a Huguenot, but a murderer."

"Not if you become a Huguenot," rejoined Gaspard. "We may be martyrs,
but shall never be assassins. But your vengeance, though it be not a
bloody one, may be none the less terrible, my friend. You will assist us
with your youthful ardor and your zealous devotion in a work of
renovation which is likely to be more depressing to the king than a
thrust of the sword. Remember, Gabriel, that it is our purpose to wrest
from him his iniquitous and monstrous privileges; remember that it is
not in the Church alone, but in the government that we are striving to
introduce reforms which will be helpful to the worthy, but a menace to
the wicked. You have seen whether I love France and serve her. Well,
then, I am for these reforms partly because I see in them the true
greatness of my country. Oh, Gabriel, Gabriel, if you had but read once
the convincing arguments of our Luther, you would see how soon the
spirit of investigation and liberty which breathes in them would put a
new soul in your body, and open a new life before you."

"My life is my love for Diane," was Gabriel's response; "and my soul is
in the sacred task which God has imposed upon me, and which I trust to
accomplish."

"The love and the task of a man," said Gaspard, "which may surely be
reconciled with the love and the task of a Christian. You are young, and
do not see clearly, my friend; but I foresee only too plainly, and my
heart bleeds to say it to you, that your eyes will be opened by
misfortune. Your generosity and your purity of soul will sooner or later
bring grief upon you in that licentious and scandalous court, just as
tall trees attract the lightning in a storm. Then you will call to mind
what I have said to you to-day. You will learn to know our books,--this
one, for instance;" and the admiral took up a volume that was lying open
on the table. "You will understand these outspoken and stern, but just
and noble words, which are spoken to us by one as young as yourself, a
councillor of the Bordeaux parliament, named Étienne de la Boétie. And
then you will say, Gabriel, in the words of this vigorous work, 'La
Servitude Volontaire': 'What a misfortune, or what a crime it is to see
an infinite number of men not obeying, but servilely following,--not
being governed, but tyrannized over by one individual, and not by a
Hercules or a Samson, but by one little man, generally the most
faint-hearted and effeminate in the whole land.'"

"Those are indeed not only dangerous, but bold words, and stimulating to
the intellect," said Gabriel. "You are quite right, too, Monsieur
l'Amiral; it may be that rage will some day drive me into your ranks,
and that oppression will lead me to espouse the cause of the oppressed.
But until that time comes, you see, my life is too full to admit these
new ideas which you have laid before me; and I have too much to do to
leave me time to read books."

Nevertheless, Gaspard de Coligny continued to urge upon him warmly the
doctrines and ideas which were then fermenting in his mind like new
wine, and the conversation was prolonged to great length between the
passionate young man and his earnest elder,--the one as determined and
impetuous as action, the other grave and serious as thought.

Moreover, the admiral was hardly at fault in his gloomy forebodings; and
misfortune was preparing to fertilize the seeds which this interview had
sown in Gabriel's ardent soul.




CHAPTER XXXIII

SISTER BÉNIE


It was a calm and beautiful August evening. In the sky, which was of a
deep blue studded with stars, the moon had not yet risen; but the night
was so much the more full of mystery, more dreamy, and more enchanting.

This mild tranquillity was in striking contrast with the commotion and
uproar which had lasted through the day. The Spaniards had made two
assaults in quick succession, and had been twice beaten back; but not
before they had killed and wounded a larger number than the few
defenders of the town could afford to lose. The enemy, on the other
hand, had a strong reserve of fresh troops to replace those who were
wearied in the contests of the day. So that Gabriel, always on his
guard, feared that the two assaults were intended simply to exhaust the
strength of the garrison and relax their vigilance, and that a third
assault or a nocturnal surprise might have more chance of success.
Meanwhile ten o'clock struck from La Collégiale, and nothing took place
to confirm his suspicions. Not a light was to be seen among the Spanish
tents. In the camp, as in the town, nothing could be heard but the
monotonous cry of the sentinels; and the camp itself, like the town,
seemed to be reposing after the severe labors of the day.

Consequently Gabriel, after making one last tour of the fortifications,
thought that he might for a moment relax the unintermitted watch which
he had kept over the town, like a son over his dying mother. St. Quentin
had already held out four days since the young man's arrival. Four days
more, and he will have kept the promise he made the king; and it will
remain only for the king to be true to his.

Gabriel had ordered his squire to attend him, but without saying where
he was going. Since his ill-luck of a day or two before with the
superior, he had begun to have some suspicions of Martin-Guerre's
intelligence, if not of his loyalty. So he had forborne to tell him of
the precious information he had procured from Jean Peuquoy; and the
false Martin-Guerre, who supposed he was accompanying his master merely
on a circuit of the walls, was surprised to see him turn his steps
toward the Boulevard de la Reine, where the principal ambulance had been
established.

"Are you going to see some wounded man, Monseigneur?" said he.

"Silence!" was Gabriel's only reply, placing his finger to his lips.

The principal ambulance, which Gabriel and Arnauld reached at this
moment, was quite near the ramparts, and not far from the Faubourg
d'Isle, which was the most dangerous point, and the one consequently
where relief was most essential. It was a large building which had been
used before the siege as a storehouse for provisions, but had been
placed at the disposal of the surgeons when the need became urgent. The
mild summer night made it possible to leave the door in the centre open,
to renew and freshen the air. From the foot of the steps, which led up
to an outside gallery, Gabriel was able to look into this abode of
suffering, where lamps were always kept burning.

It was a heart-rending spectacle. Here and there were a few
blood-stained beds prepared in great haste; but such luxuries were
reserved for the privileged few. The greater part were stretched on the
floor, on mattresses or coverlets, or in some cases on straw simply.
Sharp or plaintive moans were continually calling the surgeons or their
assistants from all sides; but they, in spite of their zeal, could not
hear them all. They attended to dressing those wounds which were most in
need of it, and performed the most pressing amputations; the others had
to wait. The trembling of fever or the convulsions of agony made the
poor wretches twist and turn on their pallets; and where in some corner
one of them lay at full length, motionless and without a sound, the
winding-sheet laid upon his face told only too plainly that he would
nevermore move or complain.

Before this sad and heart-rending picture the strongest and hardest
hearts would have lost their courage and their callousness. Even Arnauld
du Thill could not repress a shudder; and Gabriel's face became as pale
as death.

But all at once a sad smile appeared upon the young man's pallid
countenance. In the midst of this Inferno overflowing with suffering,
like that described by Dante, a calm and radiant angel, a sweet and
lovely Beatrix, burst upon his sight. Diane, Sister Bénie rather,
passed tranquilly and sadly in and out among these poor sufferers.

Never had she seemed more beautiful to the dazzled Gabriel. Indeed, at
the fêtes of the court, gold and diamonds and velvet did not so well
become her as did the coarse woollen dress and white nun's stomacher in
that dismal ambulance. With her lovely profile, her modest demeanor, and
her look of consolation and encouragement, she might have been taken for
the very incarnation of Pity, descending to this home of suffering. The
most vivid imagination of a Christian soul could not picture her in more
admirable guise; and nothing could be so affecting as to see this
peerless beauty lean over the emaciated faces disfigured by anguish, and
this king's child holding out her lovely hand to these nameless, dying
soldiers.

Gabriel involuntarily thought of Madame Diane de Poitiers, engrossed at
that moment, no doubt, with extravagant trifling and shameless amours;
and marvelling at the marked contrast between the two Dianes, he said to
himself that God had surely endowed the daughter with such virtues to
redeem the faults of the mother.

While Gabriel, who was not ordinarily addicted to the habit of dreaming,
thus lost himself in his reflections and his comparisons without taking
heed of the flight of time, within the ambulance quiet gradually
succeeded to the former confusion. The evening was already well
advanced; the surgeons completed their rounds; and the bustle and the
noise ceased. Silence and repose were enjoined upon the wounded men; and
soothing draughts made it easier for them to obey the injunction. Here
and there a pitiful moan would be heard, but no more of the almost
incessant, heart-rending shrieks of pain. Before another quarter of an
hour had elapsed, everything became as calm and quiet as such suffering
can be.

Diane had said her last words of comfort and hope to her patients, and
had urged rest and patience upon them after the physicians, and more
effectively than they. All did their best to obey her voice, so sweet in
its imperiousness. When she saw that the prescriptions ordered for each
one were at hand, and that for the moment there was no further need of
her, she drew a long breath, as if to relieve her breast from its
oppressive burden, and drew near the exterior gallery, meaning, no
doubt, to take a breath or two of fresh air at the door, and to obtain a
little surcease of the wretchedness and weakness of man by gazing upon
the stars in God's heaven.

She leaned upon a sort of stone balustrade; and her look, bent upward to
the sky, failed to perceive at the foot of the steps, and within ten
feet of her, Gabriel in a perfect ecstasy of delight at the sight of
her, as if he were standing before some heavenly apparition.

A sharp movement on the part of Martin-Guerre, who did not seem to share
in his ecstasy, brought our lover back to earth again.

"Martin," said he, in a low voice to his squire, "you see what a
marvellous chance is within my grasp. I must and will take advantage of
it, and speak--alas! perhaps for the last time--to Madame Diane. Do you
meanwhile see that no one interrupts us, and keep watch a little apart,
remaining nevertheless within call. Go, my faithful fellow; go."

"But, Monseigneur," Martin began to object, "are you not afraid that
Madame la Supérieure--"

"She is in another room probably," said Gabriel. "At all events, I must
not hesitate, in view of the necessity which may hereafter separate us
forever."

Martin seemed to yield, and moved away, swearing to himself.

Gabriel drew a little nearer Diane; and restraining his voice so as to
arouse the attention of no one else, he called her name softly,--

"Diane! Diane!"

Diane was startled; and her eyes, which had hardly got used to the
darkness, did not detect Gabriel at first.

"Did some one call me?" she said. "Who is it?"

"I," Gabriel replied, as if Medea's monosyllable were enough to reveal
his identity to her.

In good sooth it was; for Diane, without pursuing her inquiries any
further, rejoined in a voice trembling with feeling and surprise:--

"You, Monsieur d'Exmès! Is it really you? And what do you want of me in
this place and at this hour? If, as I have been told, you bring me news
of the king my father, you have delayed it long, and you have chosen
place and time very ill; if not, you know that there is nothing I can
listen to from you, and nothing I want to hear. Well, Monsieur d'Exmès,
you do not reply. Do you not understand me? You say nothing? What does
this silence mean, Gabriel?"

"'Gabriel!' It is well with us, then!" cried the youth. "I made no
reply, Diane, because your cold words froze my blood, and because I hadn't
the strength to call you 'Madame,' as you called me 'Monsieur.'"

"Do not call me 'Madame,' and call me 'Diane' no more. Madame de Castro
is no longer here. It is Sister Bénie who stands before you. Call me
'sister,' and I will call you my brother."

"What! What do you say?" cried Gabriel, recoiling in terror. "I call you
my sister! Why in God's name do you ask me to call you my sister?"

"Why, it is the name by which every one knows me now," said Diane. "Is
it such a terrible name, pray?"

"Yes, yes, indeed it is! Or rather, no! Forgive me; I am mad. It is a
lovely and dear name. I will accustom myself to it, Diane; I will
accustom myself to it--my sister."

"You must," Diane responded with a sad smile. "Besides, it is the real
Christian title which will be suitable for me henceforth; for although I
have not yet taken the vows, I am even now a nun at heart, and I soon
shall be one in fact, I hope, when I shall have obtained the king's
consent. Do you bring me that consent, my brother?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Gabriel, in a tone wherein reproach and grief were
mingled.

"_Mon Dieu_!" said Diane, "there is not the least bitterness in my
words, I assure you. I have suffered so much recently among men that I
have naturally sought shelter with God. It is not anger which rules my
actions and my words, but sorrow."

Indeed, there was in Diane's speech an accent that told of sadness and
suffering; and yet in her heart that sadness was mingled with an
involuntary joy which she could not conceal at the sight of Gabriel,
whom she had long ago believed to be lost to her love and to the world,
and whom she found to-day vigorous and manly, and, it might be, still
fond of her.

And so, without wishing, almost without knowing it, she had descended
two or three steps, and drawn on by an invincible power, had come so
much nearer to Gabriel.

"Listen," said he. "This cruel misunderstanding which is rending our
hearts must come to an end. I can no longer bear the thought that you do
not understand me, that you believe in my indifference to you or (who
knows?) in my hatred for you. That terrible suspicion worries me even in
the midst of the sacred and difficult task which it is for me to
accomplish. But come a little apart, my sister. You still trust in me,
do you not? Let us move away from this spot, I beg you. Even if we
cannot be seen, we may be overheard; and I have reason to fear that some
one may desire to interrupt our interview,--this interview which, I tell
you, my sister, is essential to my reason and my peace of mind."

Diane reflected no longer. Such words from such lips were omnipotent
with her. She ascended two steps to look into the hall and see if she
was needed; and finding everything quiet, she at once went back to
Gabriel, resting her hand confidingly in the loyal one of her faithful
knight.

"Thanks," said Gabriel. "Moments are precious; for what I fear, do you
know, is that the superior, who knows of my love now, would object to
our having this explanation, deep and pure though my love for you is, my
sister."

"That explains, then," said Diane, "why, after having told me of your
arrival and of your wish to see me, good Mother Monique, informed by
some one, no doubt, of the past, which I confess I had partly concealed
from her, has kept me from leaving the convent for three days, and would
have kept me in this evening too if my turn to do night duty in the
ambulance had not arrived, and I had not insisted upon fulfilling my sad
duty. Oh, Gabriel, is it not wrong in me to deceive her,--my sweet and
venerable friend?"

"Must I then tell you again that with me it is as if you were with your
brother, alas! that I ought to and will hush the impulses of my heart,
and speak to you only as a friend should speak, but a friend who is ever
devoted to you, and would gladly die for you, but who will listen to his
melancholy rather than his love, never fear?"

"Speak, then, my brother!" said Diane.

"My brother!"--that horrible and yet delightful name always reminded
Gabriel of the strange and mysterious alternative which his destiny had
laid before him, and like a magic word drove away the burning thoughts
which the silent night and the ravishing beauty of his beloved might
well have awakened in the young man's heart.

"My sister," said he, in a steady voice, "it was absolutely necessary
that I should see you and speak with you, so that I might address two
prayers to you. One relates to the past, the other to the future. You
are kind and obliging, Diane; and I know you will grant them both to a
dear friend who may perhaps never meet you more on his path through
life, and whom a fatal and perilous mission exposes to the risk of death
at every moment."

"Oh, don't say that! don't say that!" cried Madame de Castro, almost
fainting, and proving the extent of her love in her distraction and
horror at the thought.

"I say it to you, my sister," Gabriel responded, "not to alarm you, but
that you may not refuse me a pardon and a favor. The pardon is for the
terror and grief which my delirious utterances must have caused you the
day when I saw you last at Paris. I cast terror and desolation into your
poor heart. Alas, my sister, it was not I who spoke to you; it was the
fever in my blood. I did not know what I said, upon my word! And a
terrible revelation, which had been made to me that very day, and which
I could scarcely keep to myself, filled my soul with madness and
despair. Perhaps you remember, my sister, that it was just after leaving
you that I was stricken with that long and painful illness which almost
cost me my life or my reason?"

"Do I remember it, Gabriel!" cried Diane.

"Do not call me Gabriel, if you please! Call me always your brother, as
you did just now,--call me your brother! That name, which terrified me
at first, I find it necessary to hear now."

"As you choose, my brother," said Diane, with amazement.

At that moment, fifty paces from them, the regular tramp of a body of
men on the march was heard, and Sister Bénie, full of terror, pressed
close to Gabriel.

"Who is that? _Mon Dieu_! they will see us!" she exclaimed.

"It is one of our patrols," answered Gabriel, much disturbed.

"But they will pass very near us, and will recognize me or hail us. Oh,
let me go in, quick, before they come any nearer! Let me go, I pray!"

"No; it is too late!" said Gabriel, detaining her. "To attempt to fly
now would be to expose yourself. Come this way, rather,--come up here,
my sister!"

And followed by the trembling Diane, he hastily mounted a stairway,
hidden by a stone buttress, which led to the very walls. There he
ensconced Diane and himself between an untenanted sentry-box and the
battlements.

The patrol passed within twenty paces without seeing them.

"Well, this certainly is a poorly guarded point!" said Gabriel, in whom
his dominant thought was always on the alert.

But his mind at once reverted to Diane, who was hardly at her ease yet.

"You may feel safe now, my sister," said he; "the danger is over. But
now listen to me, for time passes, and my two burdens are still heavy on
my heart. In the first place, you have not told me that you forgive my
madness, and so I am still carrying this weary load of the past."

"Does one forgive the madness of fever and the ravings of despair?" said
Diane. "No, my brother, we must pity and comfort them rather. I bore you
no ill-will; no, I wept for you. And now that I see that you are
restored to life and reason, I am resigned to the will of God."

"Ah, my sister, it is not resignation alone that you should feel!" cried
Gabriel; "you must be hopeful too. That is why I was anxious to see you.
You have lifted my burden of remorse for the past, and I thank you; but
you must also remove the weight of anguish which weighs upon my heart
for your future. You are, as you well know, one of the principal objects
for which I live. It is necessary that my mind should be tranquillized
as to that object, so that I may only have to concern myself, as I go my
way, with the perils of the road; it must be that I may count upon
finding you waiting for me at the end of my journey with a welcoming
smile, sad if I fail, and joyous if I succeed, but in any event with the
welcoming smile of a friend. With that object in view, there should be
no misunderstanding between us. Meanwhile, my sister, it will be
necessary that you should trust my word, and have a little confidence in
me; for the secret which lies at the root of all my actions does not
belong to me. I have sworn not to reveal it; and if I wish that the
promises made to me should be kept, I must in my turn keep the promises
that I have made to others."

"Explain yourself," said Diane.

"Ah," rejoined Gabriel, "you see how I hesitate and beat around the
bush, because I am thinking of the garb that you wear, and of the name
of sister, by which I am calling you, and, more than all else, of the
profound respect for you that dominates my heart; and I do not wish to
say one word to awake distressing memories or elusive hopes. And yet I
must say to you that your beloved image has never been effaced, has
never even faded in my soul, and that no person and no event can ever
weaken it."

"My brother!" Diane interrupted, confused and delighted at the same
time.

"Oh, hear me to the end, my sister!" said Gabriel. "I say again, nothing
has changed, and nothing will ever change, this ardent--devotion which I
have consecrated to you; and more than that, I am only too happy to
think and to say that whatever happens to me, it will always be not only
my blessed privilege, but my bounden duty, to love you. But what is the
nature of this sentiment? God only knows, alas! but we shall soon know
too, I hope. Meanwhile, this is what I have to ask of you, my sister:
trusting in the Lord and your father, do you leave everything to
Providence and my friendship, hoping nothing, but not despairing either.
Understand me, pray! You told me long ago that you loved me; and pardon
my presumption, but I seem to feel in my heart that you can love me
still if our fate so wills. Now, my wish is to lessen the too
distressing effect of my mad words when I parted from you at the Louvre.
We must not deceive ourselves with vain imaginings, nor, on the other
hand, believe that everything is over for us in this world. We must
wait. In a short time I shall come to you and say one of two things.
Either this: 'Diane, I love you; remember our childhood and your
promises. You must be mine, Diane; and we must resort to every possible
means to obtain the king's consent.' Or else I shall say to you: 'My
sister, an irresistible fatality stands in the way of our love, and
opposes our happiness; we are in no way to blame for it, and it is
something more than human--yes, almost divine--which stands between us,
my sister. I give you back your promise; you are free. Give your life to
another; you cannot be blamed for it, nor even, alas! are you to be
pitied. No; our tears, even, would be out of place. Let us bow our heads
without a word, and accept with resignation our inevitable destiny. You
will always be dear and holy in my eyes; but our two lives, which may
still, thank God! be lived side by side, can never be united.'"

"What a strange and fearful enigma!" Madame de Castro, lost in terrified
thought, could not refrain from saying.

"An enigma," responded Gabriel, "of which I can give you the key-word at
that time, no doubt. Until then it will be in vain that you seek to
discover the secret, my sister; so be patient, and pray. Promise me, at
least, that you believe in my loyalty to you, and that you will no
longer cherish the purpose of renouncing the world to bury yourself in a
cloister. Promise me that you will have faith and hope, even as you have
already had charity."

"Faith in you and hope in God; yes, I can readily promise that now, my
brother. But why do you wish me to promise to return to the world if I
am not to go thither in your company? Is not my heart enough? And why do
you wish that I should give my life to you as well, when, after all, it
may not be to you that I devote it? Within and without, everything is
dark, O God!"

"Sister," said Gabriel, in his deep, solemn tones, "I ask this promise
of you that I may go forward in peace of mind and resolution upon my
perilous and perhaps fatal path, and that I may be sure of finding you
free and waiting for me at the rendezvous which I have appointed for
you."

"Very well, my brother; and I will obey you," said Diane.

"Oh, thanks, thanks!" cried Gabriel. "Now the future belongs to me. Will
you place your hand in mine as a pledge of your promise, my sister?"

"Here it is, my brother."

"Ah, now I am sure of being victorious!" cried the impetuous youth.
"Henceforth it seems to me as if nothing could contravene my wishes and
my plans."

At this moment, as if to give the lie twice over to this hopeful dream,
voices were heard from the direction of the town calling Sister Bénie;
and at the same time Gabriel thought that he heard a slight noise in the
moat behind him. But at first he concerned himself only with Diane's
terror.

"They are looking for me and calling me. Holy Virgin! if they should
find us together! Adieu, my brother! Adieu, Gabriel!"

"_Au revoir_, my sister; _au revoir_, Diane! And now go! I will stay
here. You wandered out by yourself to take the air. We shall meet soon
again; and once more I thank you."

Diane hastily descended the steps and ran to meet the people, who with
torches in their hands were calling her name everywhere with all their
might, Mother Monique at their head.

Who, by seemingly foolish hints, had aroused the superior? Who, if not
Master Arnauld, who with the most grief-stricken air was among those who
were hunting for Sister Bénie? No one had such an ingenuous air as this
rascal could assume, wherein he resembled the true Martin-Guerre so much
the more.

Gabriel, reassured as to Diane's safety when he saw her join Mother
Monique and her search-party unharmed, was making ready to leave the
fortifications himself, when suddenly a dark form rose from the ground
behind him.

A man, an enemy, armed from head to foot, was just bestriding the wall.

To rush at this man and prostrate him with one blow of his sword, crying
in a sonorous voice, "Alarm! alarm!" to spring to the top of the ladder,
covered with Spaniards, which was placed against the wall,--was the work
of but an instant for Gabriel.

It was an attempted night surprise, and Gabriel had not erred: the enemy
had made the two day assaults in quick succession to enable them to make
this bold attempt at night with better chance of success.

But Providence or, to speak more accurately, if perhaps with less
religious feeling, love had led Gabriel to the spot. Before another man
had time to follow upon the platform the one he had already killed, he
seized with his strong hands the two uprights of the ladder and
overturned it, with the ten men who were upon it.

Their cries as they struck the ground were confused with Gabriel's
unceasing shouts, "To arms!" But at a distance of twenty paces another
ladder was already against the wall; and at that point there was no
footing for Gabriel. Luckily he spied in the shadow a large rock; and
the imminent peril increasing his strength, he succeeded in raising it
upon the parapet, whence he had only to push it over upon the second
ladder. The great weight broke it in two at a blow; and the poor
wretches who were swarming up fell into the moat, bruised or dying,
their agonizing shrieks causing their companions to hesitate.

Meanwhile Gabriel's shouts had given the alarm; the sentinels had taken
it up; the drums were beating to arms; the alarm-bell on La Collégiale
was ringing lustily. Five minutes had not elapsed ere more than a
hundred men had joined Vicomte d'Exmès, and were ready to assist him in
repulsing any assailants who might still dare to show their heads, and
likewise firing upon those who were in the moat, and unable to respond
to the volleys from their arquebuses.

Thus this bold _coup de main_ of the Spaniards failed. Its only chance
of success, in truth, was to find that the point of attack was
undefended, as they supposed that it was; but Gabriel, happening to be
on the spot, had baffled their scheme. The assaulting party had no
choice but to withdraw, which they did as quickly as possible, leaving,
however, a number of dead behind them, and carrying away a number of
injured men.

Again the town had been saved, and again by Gabriel's hand.

But it was necessary that it should still hold out for four long and
weary days, before the promise he had made to the king would be
fulfilled.




CHAPTER XXXIV

A VICTORIOUS DEFEAT


The first effect of the unexpected check they had received was to
discourage the besiegers; and they seemed to realize that they could
never gain possession of the town except by dealing with the remaining
resources of resistance one by one, and thus making each of them
unavailable. For three days they made no fresh assault; but all their
batteries were kept in play, and all their mines were working without
rest or intermission. The men who defended the place, seemingly endowed
with more than human energy and courage, appeared to be invincible; the
Spaniards assailed the walls, and found them less solid than the breasts
of those who manned them. The towers crumbled; the trenches were filled
with the debris; and the fortifications were levelled, bit by bit.

At last, four days after the abortive night attack, the Spaniards once
more hazarded an assault. It was the eighth and last day of the allotted
time. If the attack of the enemy was unsuccessful once more, Gabriel
would have saved his father as well as the town; if not, all his trouble
and all his labor had been thrown away, and the old man, Diane, and
himself would be all lost.

Therefore it can well be imagined that it would be more than impossible
to describe the superhuman, god-like valor and courage displayed by him
on that day of days. One would hardly have believed that so much
strength and untiring vigor could exist in the soul and body of one man.
He saw not danger or death, but thought only of his father and his
betrothed; and he hurled himself against the pikes, and moved hither and
thither amid the thickly flying cannon-balls and bullets as if he were
invulnerable. A piece of stone struck him in the side, and a lance-head
in the face; but he felt not the wounds. He seemed intoxicated with
daring; he ran to and fro, waving his sword, and encouraging his men not
only with his words, but by his example. He was to be seen wherever the
peril was most imminent. As the soul gives life to the whole body, so
did he to the whole town. He was in himself ten men, twenty,--yes, a
hundred; and yet in his superb exaltation his coolness and
clear-headedness never failed him. With a glance swifter than light he
saw where danger threatened, and was on the spot in the twinkling of an
eye; and when the assailants fell back, and our brave fellows,
electrified by his contagious gallantry, had clearly regained the
advantage, like a flash Gabriel was off to some other threatened point,
and began again his heroic work, an utter stranger to weariness or
weakness.

This lasted six hours, from one o'clock to seven.

At seven it grew dark; and the Spaniards fell back on all sides. Behind
a few crumbling pieces of stone-work, with a few fragments of towers and
a handful of exhausted and wounded soldiers, St. Quentin had again added
one day more, several days, it might be, to the record of her glorious
resistance.

When the last man of the enemy had left the last of the points of
assault, Gabriel fell back into the arms of those who were near him,
utterly worn out with fatigue and with joy.

They bore him in triumph to the town-hall.

His wounds were but slight, and his swoon could not be of long duration.
When he regained his senses, Admiral de Coligny was at his side, his
face radiant with pleasure.

"Monsieur l'Amiral," were Gabriel's first words, "it's not a dream, is
it? There has been a fierce assault to-day, which we succeeded in
repelling?"

"Yes, my friend, and thanks to you in great measure," replied Gaspard.

"And the week that the king allotted me has passed!" cried Gabriel. "Oh,
thank God! thank God!"

"And to complete your satisfaction, my dear fellow," rejoined the
admiral, "I bring you some glorious news. Under cover of our obstinate
defence of St. Quentin, the preparations for the defence of the whole
kingdom have apparently been perfected; one of my spies, who succeeded
in seeing the constable and entering the town again during the confusion
to-day, has given me every reason to hope for the best in that regard.
Monsieur de Guise has arrived at Paris with the Italian army, and in
concert with the Cardinal de Lorraine, is engaged in raising men, and
putting towns in a posture of defence. St. Quentin, in her dismantled
and depopulated condition, could not beat back another assault; but her
work and ours is done, and France is saved, my friend. Yes, behind our
faithful ramparts every one is under arms: the nobility and all the
orders of the State have arisen; recruits abound; the free gifts from
the clergy are pouring in; and two troops of German auxiliaries have
been retained. When the enemy shall have made an end of us, and that
cannot now be long delayed unfortunately, he will at least find others
ready to challenge him. France is saved, Gabriel!"

"Ah, Monsieur l'Amiral, you cannot imagine how much good you have done
me," Gabriel responded. "But allow me to ask one question; it is from no
vain feeling of conceit that I ask it; you know me too well now to
believe that. No, there is beneath my question a very serious and very
deep meaning, believe me. Monsieur l'Amiral, in two words, do you think
that my presence here during the last week has counted for anything in
the fortunate result of the siege of St. Quentin?"

"For everything, my friend, for everything!" the admiral replied with
generous frankness. "The day of your arrival you saw yourself that
except for your unexpected intervention I should have yielded; that my
courage was giving way under the terrible weight of responsibility with
which my conscience was burdened; and that I should then have delivered
to the Spaniard the keys of this city with which the king had intrusted
me. The next day did you not succeed in carrying out your undertaking of
throwing reinforcements into the town,--weak reinforcements, to be sure,
but sufficient nevertheless to rekindle the courage of the besieged? I
say nothing of the sagacious advice which you gave to our miners and
engineers. I say nothing of the superb gallantry which you have
displayed all the time and at all points during every assault. But who
almost miraculously saved the town from being surprised by a night
attack four days since? And this very day, who, with unheard-of temerity
and success, succeeded in prolonging still farther a resistance which I
confess I believed to be impossible? You, always you, my friend, who,
being everywhere present and unfailingly ready at every corner of the
fortifications, seemed in very truth to have acquired the angels' gift
of ubiquity; so that our soldiers know no other name for you than
Captain _Five-Hundred_, Gabriel, I say to you with sincere delight and
profound gratitude that you are the first and sole deliverer of this
town, and consequently of France."

"Oh, many, many thanks, Monsieur l'Amiral, for your too kind and
flattering words! But pardon me! are you willing to repeat them in his
Majesty's presence?"

"It is not my wish simply, my friend," the admiral replied; "it is my
duty; and you know that Gaspard de Coligny never proves recreant to his
duty."

"What good fortune!" said Gabriel; "and what do I not owe you for it,
Monsieur l'Amiral? But are you willing to make my obligation still
greater? Say nothing to any one, I beseech you, not even to Monsieur le
Connétable, in fact, to any one rather than to him, of what I have been
able to do to assist you in your glorious task. Let the king alone know
it. His Majesty will see from that I was influenced by no thirst
for glory or for reputation, but only by my wish to keep a promise I
made to him; and it lies in his power to give me, if he chooses, a
reward a thousand times more precious in my sight than all the honors
and dignities of his realm. Yes, Monsieur l'Amiral, let this reward but
be bestowed upon me, and Henri's debt to me, if debt there be, will be
paid a hundred times over."

"It should be a magnificent recompense, then," rejoined the admiral.
"God grant that the king's gratitude may not disappoint you! However, I
will do as you wish, Gabriel; and although it costs me a pang to keep
silent as to your deserts, since you ask me, I will say nothing."

"Ah!" cried Gabriel, "what a long and weary time it has been since I
have felt such peace as reigns in my heart at this moment! How pleasant
it is to be able to hope and believe, even though it be but a little, in
the future! Now I will go upon the walls and fight with a light heart,
and it seems as if I should be unconquerable. Can it be that iron or
lead will dare to wound a man in whose heart hope is born?"

"Do not rely too much upon that, my friend, I pray you!" said Coligny,
smiling. "For I can already say to you without hesitation that you are
deceived by your conviction of victory. The town is almost entirely open
on all sides; a few cannon-balls will soon level the last fragments of
her walls and her towers. More than that, we have scarcely one
able-bodied man left; and the troops who have so gallantly supplied the
place of fortifications hitherto are now in their turn lacking. The next
assault will make the enemy masters of the place; and we must cherish no
delusions in that direction."

"But may it not be that Monsieur de Guise will send us reinforcements
from Paris?" asked Gabriel.

"Monsieur de Guise," Gaspard answered, "will not expose his precious
forces for the sake of a town three quarters taken; and he will be quite
right. Let him keep his men in the heart of France, for there they are
most needed. St. Quentin is sacrificed. The expiatory victim has
struggled long enough, thank God! and it only remains for her to fall
nobly; and in that we will try still to help her, will we not, Gabriel?
We must make the triumph of the Spaniard before St. Quentin cost him
more than a defeat. We will fight no longer for our own salvation, but
for the sake of fighting."

"Yes, yes, for pleasure, for sport!" said Gabriel, joyfully,--"a hero's
pleasure, Monsieur l'Amiral, and sport worthy of you! Well, then, so be
it! let us amuse ourselves by holding the town two or three or four days
more, if we can. Let us hold Philip II., Philibert Emmanuel, Spain,
England, and Flanders all in check before a few pieces of crumbling
stone. It will be a little more time gained for Monsieur de Guise, and
an entertaining spectacle for us. What do you say?"

"I say, my friend, that your pleasantry is sublime, and that there is
glory hidden in your jokes."

The event justified the hope of Gabriel and Coligny. In fact, Philip II.
and his general, Philibert Emmanuel, being furiously indignant at being
delayed so long before one town, and at having already made ten
fruitless assaults, determined not to hazard an eleventh without being
assured of success. As they had done before, they allowed three days to
pass without an assault, and made use of their batteries instead of
their soldiers, since it had been abundantly proved that in that heroic
town the walls were not so enduring and steadfast as the hearts of its
defenders. The admiral and Vicomte d'Exmès spent the three days in
having the damage inflicted by the batteries and mines repaired as fast
as possible by their workmen; but unfortunately arms were wanting. On
the 26th of August, at noon, not a single section of the walls remained
standing. The houses were left without protection, as in an open town,
and the soldiers were so few that they could not even form a single line
at the principal posts.

Gabriel himself had to admit this; and before the signal for the assault
was given,--the town was apparently at the besiegers' mercy.

At all events it was not taken at the breach defended by Gabriel. With
him there were Monsieur du Breuil and Jean Peuquoy; and all three fought
so well, and showed such marvellous prowess, that they drove back the
assailants three times. Gabriel, above all, gave himself up to the work
with a joyous heart; and Jean Peuquoy was so astounded at the mighty
blows of the sword which he saw him dealing to right and left that he
came very near being killed himself in his openmouthed admiration, and
Gabriel was compelled on two different occasions to save his admirer's
life.

So the worthy bourgeois swore upon the spot an everlasting worship and
devotion for the viscount. He even exclaimed in his enthusiasm that he
regretted his native town a little less because he should have another
attachment to cherish; and that although it was true that St. Quentin
had given him his life, Vicomte d'Exmès had preserved it for him!

Nevertheless, despite his noble efforts, the town absolutely could hold
out no longer; the ramparts were no more than one unbroken breach; and
Gabriel, Du Breuil, and Jean Peuquoy were still fighting away, while the
streets behind them were filled with the enemy, who had gained
possession of the town.

But the gallant little city had nobly held out for seventeen days, and
had successfully resisted eleven assaults.

Twelve days had passed since Gabriel's arrival; and he had surpassed the
terms of his promise to the king by twice forty-eight hours!




CHAPTER XXXV

ARNAULD DU THILL IS STILL UP TO HIS LITTLE TRICKS


At first, pillage and slaughter were the order of the day; but Philibert
issued a very strict prohibition, and put a speedy end to the confusion;
and Admiral de Coligny having been taken before him, Philibert
complimented him in the highest terms.

"I cannot punish gallantry; and the town of St. Quentin will be treated
no more harshly than if she had capitulated the day that we sat down
before the walls."

And the victor, as high-minded as the vanquished, allowed the admiral to
discuss with him the conditions which should be imposed.

St. Quentin was naturally declared a Spanish town; but those of the
people who preferred not to accept the domination of the stranger were
at liberty to withdraw, giving, up all claim to their houses, however.
Moreover, everybody, soldiers and citizens, were free from that moment;
and Philibert retained only fifty prisoners of all ages and conditions
and both sexes, selected by him or his captains, for the purpose of
holding them to ransom, and thus procuring means wherewith to pay the
arrears due to the troops. The property and persons of all others were
to be respected; and Philibert gave his personal attention to the
prevention of disorder. However, as Coligny had exhausted all his
personal fortune in maintaining the siege, he was courteous enough to
ask no ransom for him. The admiral would be free the next day to join
his uncle, the Constable de Montmorency, at Paris, who had not found his
conquerors so disinterested after the battle of St. Laurent, but had
furnished ransom in a round sum, which France would eventually pay in
one way or another, no doubt; but Philibert Emmanuel considered it an
honor to become the friend of Gaspard, and did not choose to put a price
upon his freedom. His principal officers and the wealthiest citizens
would suffice to pay the expenses of the siege.

These terms, which were certainly more favorable than he had any right
to expect, were accepted submissively by Coligny, and by the citizens
with mingled sentiments of joy and fear. The important question to be
solved was, upon whom would the dreaded choice of Philibert Emmanuel and
his officers fall? That was what the next day would bring forth; and
when that day came, the proudest became very lowly, and the wealthiest
made a great deal of talk about their poverty.

Arnauld du Thill, who was a very expert and ingenious haggler, passed
the night thinking over matters, and finally hit upon a combination
which might, he thought, turn out very profitably for him. He arrayed
himself as handsomely as possible, and from an early hour in the morning
walked proudly up and down the streets, which were filled to overflowing
with the victorious besiegers of all nations,--German, English,
Spaniards, etc.

"What a Tower of Babel!" said Arnauld, anxiously, hearing nothing but
foreign jargon. "With the few English words that I know I shall never be
able to enter into negotiations with any of these jabberers. Some say,
'Carajo'!' others, 'Goddam!' and others still, 'Tausend saperment!' and
not one --"

"_Tripes et boyaux_! Will you halt, you villain?" shouted a harsh voice
behind Arnauld at this moment.

Arnauld turned hurriedly about toward the man, who, despite his very
marked English accent, seemed thus familiar with the niceties of the
French tongue.

He was a great fellow, with a pale face and sandy hair, who had the
appearance of being a sharp trader and a stupid man. Arnauld du Thill
recognized an Englishman at the first glance.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I make you my prisoner; that's what you can do for me," replied the
man, who embellished his discourse with English slang, which Arnauld
tried hard to imitate, so as to make himself more intelligible to his
interlocutor.

"Why do you make me your prisoner rather than another?" he
continued?--"rather than that weaver over there, for instance?"

"Because you are fitted out better than the weaver," was the
Englishman's reply.

"Oh, yes!" Arnauld retorted. "And by what right, please, do you arrest
me?--you who are only a simple archer, I think."

"Oh, I am not acting on my own account, but in the name of my master,
Lord Grey, who commands the English archers, and to whom Duke Philibert
Emmanuel has allotted, as his share in the prize, three prisoners,--two
noblemen and one bourgeois,--with whatever ransom he may be able to get
for them. Now, my master, who knows that I have two hands and a pair of
eyes, instructed me to follow the chase and ferret out three prisoners
of value for him. You are the best game I have fallen in with yet; so I
take you by the collar, Messire Bourgeois."

"It is a great honor for a poor squire," retorted Arnauld, modestly.
"Will your master feed me well, do you think?"

"Blackguard! Do you suppose he proposes to feed you for long?" said the
archer.

"Until it pleases him to set me at liberty, I imagine that he surely
will not let me die of hunger."

"Hm!" said the archer. "Can it be that I have taken a poor old naked
wolf for a fox with a magnificent pelt?"

"I am afraid so, my lord archer," said Arnauld; "and if Lord Grey, your
master, has promised you a commission according to the value of the
prizes you obtain for him, I fear that twenty or thirty blows with a
club will be the only benefit you will derive from me. What I say is not
for the purpose of deceiving you, and I advise you to try it."

"You rascal! It may well be that you are right!" rejoined the
Englishman, examining the sly fellow more closely; "and I may lose with
you what Lord Grey promised to give me,--one livre in every hundred that
he realizes from his prisoners."

"This is the man for me," thought Arnauld. "Hallo, then," said he,
aloud, "my hostile friend, if I put you in a way to lay your hand on a
very rich prize,--on a prisoner worth ten thousand Tours livres, for
instance,--would you be the man to show some little gratitude to me?"

"Ten thousand Tours livres!" cried the Englishman. "Prisoners of that
sort are pretty scarce. Why, I should get a hundred livres then,--not a
bad nest-egg."

"Yes; but you would have to give fifty to the friend who put it in your
way. That's fair, is it not?"

"Oh, well, I'll do it," said Lord Grey's archer, after a momentary
hesitation. "But take me to the man at once, and give me his name."

"We need not go far to find him," Arnauld responded. "Just a few steps
this way! See, I don't wish to show myself with you on the square; let
me hide behind the corner of this house. There; now you go on. Do you
see on the balcony of that house a gentleman talking with a citizen?"

"I do," said the Briton. "Is that my man?"

"That is our man."

"His name?"

"Vicomte d'Exmès."

"Oh, indeed!" rejoined the archer. "So that is Vicomte d'Exmès. He is
very handsomely spoken of at the camp. Is he as wealthy as he is
gallant?"

"I will answer to you for that."

"Do you know him very well, then, Master?"

"_Pardieu_! I am his squire."

"Ah, Judas!" The archer could not restrain the exclamation.

"No," was Arnauld's unmoved comment; "for Judas was hanged, and I shall
not be."

"It may be that you will find it difficult to escape," said the archer,
who had his jocose moments.

"Well, we shall see," retorted Arnauld; "but no more talk. Do you hold
to our bargain,--yes or no?"

"It's done!" the Englishman replied; "and I will escort your master to
my lord. Afterward you shall point out to me another nobleman and some
substantial citizen, if you know any such."

"I know the right ones at the same price,--half of your commission."

"You shall have it, you emissary of the devil!"

"I am yours rather," said Arnauld. "But, come, no trickery! Between two
rascals each must be careful of his footing. Besides, I should find you
again sure. Will your master pay cash?"

"Cash in advance; you shall come with us to my lord upon the pretext of
accompanying your viscount; I shall get my pay, and will give you your
share at once. But you in return, being very grateful, as you should be,
will help me to find my second and third prizes, won't you?"

"We'll see about that," said Arnauld. "Let us attend to the first one
now."

"That's a very short matter," said the archer. "Your master is too rough
in time of war not to be mild and gentle in time of peace; we know that.
Take two minutes' start of me, and take up your station behind him; you
will see that I know my business."

Arnauld left his worthy pupil, entered the town-hall, and with a smile
on his false face went into the room where Gabriel was talking with Jean
Peuquoy, and asked him if he had need of him. He was still speaking when
the archer came in with an apologetic air. He went straight up to the
viscount, who looked at him with much amazement, and bowing low,--

"Have I the honor of speaking to Monseigneur le Vicomte d'Exmès?" he
asked with such a look as every merchant has for his merchandise.

"I am Vicomte d'Exmès," Gabriel replied with increasing wonder; "what
do you want with me?"

"Your sword, Monseigneur," said the archer, bowing almost to the floor.

"You!" exclaimed Gabriel, recoiling from him with a motion of
inexpressible contempt.

"In the name of my master, Lord Grey, Monseigneur," replied the modest
archer, "you are named as one of the fifty prisoners whom Monseigneur
l'Amiral is to put in the hands of the victors. Don't blame poor me for
being forced to be the bearer of this unpleasant information."

"Blame you for it!" said Gabriel, "no! But Lord Grey, a gentleman,
forsooth! might have taken the trouble to ask me for my sword himself.
It is to him that I desire to hand it; do you understand?"

"As Monseigneur pleases."

"And I am glad to believe that he will accept a ransom for me?"

"Oh, never fear, never fear, Monseigneur!" said the archer, eagerly.

"I am at your service, then," said Gabriel.

"But this is an indignity," cried Jean Peuquoy. "You do wrong to submit
thus, Monseigneur. Refuse to go; for you are not of St. Quentin,--you
are not of the town!"

"Master Jean Peuquoy is right," Arnauld du Thill earnestly interposed,
stealthily making a sign to the archer to denounce the citizen to him.
"Yes, Master Jean Peuquoy has put his finger upon the truth: Monseigneur
is not of St. Quentin; and Master Jean Peuquoy knows it. Yes, indeed, he
knows the whole town! He has been burgher for forty years, and syndic of
his guild, and captain of the bowmen! What have you to say to that,
Englishman?"

"I have just this to say," replied the Briton, who had taken his
cue,--"that if this is Master Jean Peuquoy, I have an order to arrest
him too, for his name is on my list."

"Me!" ejaculated the worthy burgher.

"Even you, Master," was the response.

Peuquoy looked inquiringly at Gabriel.

"Alas, Messire Jean," said Vicomte d'Exmès, sighing in spite of
himself, "I think that our best plan, after having done our duty as
soldiers during the battle, will be to bow to the rights of the victors,
now that the battle is done. Let us submit, Master Jean Peuquoy."

"And go with this fellow?" asked Peuquoy.

"To be sure, my good friend; and glad am I in this latest trial not to
be separated from you."

"That is very true, Monseigneur," said Peuquoy, with emotion; "and you
are very kind to say it. Besides, when such a noble and gallant captain
as yourself accepts his lot with equanimity, ought an unfortunate
burgher like myself to complain? Let us go. Varlet," he went on,
addressing the archer, "it is done; and I am your prisoner or your
master's."

"Remember that you are going with me to Lord Grey's quarters," rejoined
the archer, "where you will remain, if you please, until you have
furnished a handsome ransom."

"Where I will remain forever, son of the evil one!" cried Jean Peuquoy.
"Your English master shall never know the color of my crowns; I will die
first. If he is a Christian, he will have to support me until my last
hour; and I forewarn you that I am a very hearty eater."

The archer cast a terrified glance in the direction of Arnauld du Thill;
but the latter reassured him with a nod, and pointed to Gabriel, who was
laughing at his friend's outburst. The Englishman knew how to take a
joke, and began to laugh heartily.

"As to that, Monseigneur," said he, "and you, Messire, I am going to
take--"

"You are going to precede us to Lord Grey's quarters," Gabriel
interrupted haughtily; "and we will arrange details with your master."

"As Monseigneur pleases," said the archer, with humility.

Walking in front of them, but taking good care to keep an eye on them,
he escorted the gentleman and the burgher to Lord Grey's quarters, while
Arnauld du Thill followed at some distance.

Lord Grey was a dull-witted, phlegmatic soldier, bored to death, and
himself a bore, for whom war was mere trafficking, and who was in a very
bad humor at receiving no pay for himself and his troops except such as
he might get from the ransom of three unfortunate prisoners. He received
Gabriel and Jean Peuquoy with cold dignity.

"So it is Vicomte d'Exmès whom I have the honor to have for my
prisoner," said he, looking at Gabriel with curiosity. "You have given
us a good deal of trouble, Monsieur; and if I were to demand for your
ransom all that you have cost King Philip II., I fancy that King Henri's
France could hardly pay it."

"I did my best," said Gabriel, simply.

"Your best is very good; and I congratulate you!" retorted Lord Grey.
"But that is not the question now. The chances of war, although you did
wonders to prevent it, have put you in my power, you and your mighty
sword. Oh, keep it, Monsieur, keep it," he added, as he saw that Gabriel
made a movement as if to hand it to him. "But what can you offer to
redeem my right to your service? Let us arrange that matter. I am well
aware that gallantry and wealth do not always go together, unluckily.
However, I cannot afford to forego my right entirely. Would five
thousand crowns seem a fitting price for you to pay for your liberty?"

"No, my Lord," said Gabriel.

"No? You think it too much?" rejoined Lord Grey. "Ah, but this accursed
war! And such a poor country! Come, four thousand crowns is not too
much, by Heaven!"

"It is not enough, my Lord," replied Gabriel, coolly.

"What, Monsieur! what did you say?" cried the Englishman.

"I say," Gabriel replied, "that you misunderstood my words, my Lord. You
asked me if five thousand crowns seemed to me a reasonable ransom, and I
said no; for in my own opinion I am worth twice that, my Lord."

"Very well!" rejoined Lord Grey; "and in truth, your king may very well
spare that amount to retain such a gallant soldier as you."

"I trust I shall not be obliged to call upon the king," said Gabriel;
"for my private fortune, I am sure, will enable me to meet this
unforeseen expenditure, and to deal directly with you in this matter."

"So much the better!" said Lord Grey, somewhat surprised. "That makes
ten thousand crowns that you are to account to me for, then; and I beg
your pardon, but when may I expect the payment?"

"You will readily understand," said Gabriel, "that I brought no such sum
with me to a besieged town; on the other hand, the resources of Monsieur
de Coligny and his friends, I believe, like my own, have run pretty low,
therefore I do not wish to trouble them by requesting a loan. But if you
will allow me a little time, I can send for it from Paris--"

"Very well!" said Lord Grey; "meanwhile I will content myself with your
word, which is as good as gold. But as business is business, and as a
certain misunderstanding that exists between my soldiers and the
Spaniards may oblige me to return to England, you will not take it ill
if I keep you in custody until the full quittance of the sum agreed
upon,--not in this Spanish town of St. Quentin, which I am on the point
of leaving, but at Calais, which is in English hands, and of which my
brother-in-law, Lord Wentworth, is governor. Does that arrangement meet
your views?"

"To admiration!" said Gabriel, on whose pale lips a bitter smile
appeared. "I only ask your leave to send my squire to Paris to procure
the gold, so that neither my captivity nor your confidence may be
protracted any further than is necessary."

"Nothing could be more reasonable," Lord Grey replied; "and pending the
return of your emissary, be assured that you will be treated by my
brother-in-law with all the consideration that is due you. You will have
all possible freedom at Calais, the more so because it is a strong
fortified town; and Lord Wentworth will take good care of you, for he is
more addicted to feasting and debauchery than he ought to be. But that
is his own affair; fortunately his wife, who was my sister, is dead. I
only wished to tell you that you would not be likely to be bored."

Gabriel bowed without replying.

"And now, Master," resumed Lord Grey, turning to Jean Peuquoy, who had
shrugged his shoulders in wonder more than once during the foregoing
scene,--"now for you. You are, I see, the burgher who has been allotted
to me with two gentlemen."

"I am Jean Peuquoy, my Lord."

"Well, Jean Peuquoy, what ransom may we ask for you?"

"Oh, I am going to dicker with you, Monseigneur! Trader against trader,
as they say. Oh, you may knit your brows! I am not proud, my Lord, and
in my own opinion I am not worth ten livres."

"Nonsense!" said Lord Grey, scornfully. "You shall pay a hundred livres;
that is hardly as much as I promised the archer who brought you here."

"A hundred livres! So be it, my Lord, if you value me so high," retorted
the shrewd captain of the bowmen. "But you don't want a hundred livres
cash, do you?"

"What! Haven't you that petty sum, even?"

"I had it, my Lord," said Peuquoy, "but I gave it all to the poor and
the wounded during the siege."

"But you have friends, surely, or kinsmen?"

"Friends? Ah, we mustn't rely too much upon friends, my Lord. And
kinsmen? No, I have none: my wife died childless, and I have no brother;
only a cousin--"

"Well, and this cousin?" asked Lord Grey, with some signs of losing
patience.

"This cousin, my Lord, who will undoubtedly pay the sum you ask of me,
happens to live at Calais."

"Ah, indeed!" said Lord Grey, suspiciously.

"_Mon Dieu_! yes, my Lord," added Jean Peuquoy, with every appearance of
absolute sincerity; "my cousin's name is Pierre Peuquoy, and he has been
for more than thirty years a gunsmith at the sign of the God Mars, Rue
du Martroi."

"And he is devoted to you, is he?" asked Lord Grey.

"I believe him to be, my Lord! I am the last of the Peuquoys of my
branch; so that it goes without saying that his feeling for me amounts
to veneration. More than two centuries ago, one of our ancestral
Peuquoys had two sons, one of whom became a weaver and settled at St.
Quentin, while the other adopted the armorer's trade, and took up his
abode at Calais. Ever since that time the St. Quentin Peuquoys have been
weavers, and the Calais Peuquoys have continued to forge arms and armor.
But although separated, distance has never cooled their mutual
affection; and they have always assisted each other, as occasion arose,
and as befits those bound together by ties of blood, and descendants of
the same ancestor. I am sure that Pierre will loan me the sum necessary
to redeem my freedom; nevertheless, I have not seen this good cousin of
mine for ten years,--for you English are by no means free with your
permission to us Frenchmen to enter your strong towns."

"Yes, yes," said Lord Grey, pleasantly, "for more than two hundred and
ten years the Calais Peuquoys have been Englishmen."

"Oh!" cried Jean, warmly, "the Peuquoys--"

Then he suddenly interrupted himself.

"Well, well," Lord Grey rejoined in surprise, "the Peuquoys--"

"The Peuquoys, my Lord," said Jean, twirling his cap about in an
embarrassed way,--"the Peuquoys do not concern themselves with politics,
that is what I was about to say. Whether they are English or French, so
long as they possess an anvil with which to earn their daily bread at
Calais, and a shuttle here in St. Quentin, the Peuquoys have no fault to
find."

"Well, who knows?" said Lord Grey, jocosely; "perhaps you will set up
for yourself as a weaver in Calais, and thus become a subject of Queen
Mary. Then the Peuquoys will be united at last after so many years."

"Upon my word! that may very well be," said Jean, artlessly.

Gabriel could not conceal his surprise at hearing the gallant burgher,
who had taken such an heroic part in the defence of his town, talk as
calmly about becoming an Englishman as of changing his helmet; but a
wink which Jean Peuquoy bestowed upon him while Lord Grey was looking
the other way reassured Gabriel as to his friend's loyalty, and
convinced him that some mystery lay hidden under his joking.

Lord Grey soon dismissed them both.

"To-morrow we will leave St. Quentin for Calais together," he said.
"Meanwhile you are at liberty to make such preparations as you choose,
and to take your leave of your friends. I allow you to go on your parole
so much the more readily," said he, with his peculiar delicacy, "because
you will be challenged at the gates, and no one is allowed to leave the
town without a permit from the governor."

Gabriel saluted Lord Grey without a word, and left the house with Jean
Peuquoy, without noticing that his squire, Martin-Guerre, remained
behind instead of following him.

"What is your intention, my friend?" he said to Peuquoy, when they were
in the street. "Is it possible that you haven't a hundred crowns to pay
your ransom with at once? Why do you persist in making this journey to
Calais? Does this armorer cousin really exist? What strange object have
you in all this?"

"Hush!" replied Jean Peuquoy, mysteriously. "In this Spanish atmosphere
I hardly dare to risk a word. You can rely upon your squire,
Martin-Guerre, can you not?"

"I will answer for him," Gabriel answered; "notwithstanding some lapses
of memory and occasional backsliding, his is the most faithful heart in
the world."

"Good!" said Peuquoy. "We must not send him at once from here, to obtain
the money for your ransom at Paris, but take him to Calais with us, and
let him start from there. We cannot have too many pairs of eyes."

"But what do these precautions mean, pray?" asked Gabriel. "I see: you
have no relative at all in Calais?"

"Indeed I have," replied Peuquoy, eagerly. "Pierre Peuquoy really
exists, and just as really has he been brought up to love and sigh for
his former country, France; and like me, he stands ready to strike a
blow in case of need, if you should chance to conceive while in that
city some such heroic plan as you have put in execution here so many
times."

"My noble friend," Gabriel responded, pressing the burgher's hand, "I
divine your meaning; but you estimate my abilities too high, and judge
me by your own measure. You know not how much selfishness there is in
what you call my heroism; nor do you know that in the future, a sacred
duty--even more sacred, if that can be, than my country's glory--has the
first and only claim upon me."

"Well, then," said Jean Peuquoy, "you will fulfil that duty as you have
all your other duties! And among the others," he added, lowering his
voice, "there may be an opportunity afforded which will call upon you to
take your revenge at Calais for St. Quentin."




CHAPTER XXXVI

CONTINUATION OF MASTER ARNAULD DU THILL'S HONORABLE
NEGOTIATIONS


Let us now leave the young captain and the old burgher to their dreams
of conquest, and return to the squire and the archer settling their
accounts in Lord Grey's house.

The archer, after the two prisoners had taken their leave, asked for his
promised commission from his master, who gave it to him without much
demur, being well-satisfied with the skilful selection his emissary had
made.

Arnauld du Thill, in turn, waited for his share, which, we must do the
Englishman the justice to say, he brought him in good faith. He found
Arnauld in a corner scrawling some fresh lines on the Constable de
Montmorency's endless account, and muttering to himself,--

"For having cleverly arranged to have Vicomte d'Exmès included among
the prisoners of war, and having thus relieved Monseigneur le
Connétable from said viscount for a time--"

"What are you doing there, my friend?" said the archer, seizing him by
the shoulder.

"What am I doing? Making out an account," replied the false
Martin-Guerre. "How does ours stand?"

"Here is what I owe you," said the archer, putting the crowns in
Arnauld's hands, which he proceeded to count very carefully.
"You see that I have kept my promise, and don't regret parting with
the money. You have put me on the track of two unexceptionable
prisoners.--especially your master, who never chaffered or haggled, but
did just the opposite. Old Graybeard made some trouble, to be sure; but
he was not very bad for a citizen, and without your help I have no doubt
I should have fared worse."

"I believe you," said Arnauld, pocketing the coins.

"But come now," said the archer, "our work isn't all done yet. You see
that I am good pay; and you must stir yourself to point out my third
prize now,--the second noble prisoner to whom we are entitled."

"By the mass!" Arnauld replied, "I have nothing more to say, and you
have only to choose."

"I know that very well; and what I want you to do is to help me choose
among all the men and women, old men and children of noble birth, whom
we may lay our hands upon in this good town."

"What!" asked Arnauld, "do women count too?"

"Indeed they do," said the Englishman, "and better than all; and if you
know one who is young and beautiful as well as noble and rich, we shall
have a pretty plum to divide, for Lord Grey will dispose of her at a
large advance to his brother-in-law, Lord Wentworth, who likes female
prisoners much better than male, so far as one can judge."

"Unfortunately I know of none," said Arnauld du Thill. "And yet! but no,
no, it isn't possible."

"Why so, comrade? Are we not masters and victors here! And besides,
nobody but the admiral was exempted by the terms of the capitulation."

"Very true," said Arnauld; "but the fair damsel whom I have in mind must
not come near my master or even see him again; and to keep them in
captivity in the same town would be but a poor way to keep them apart."

"Bah! do you suppose that my Lord Wentworth won't know enough to keep
his pretty bird out of sight, and for himself alone?" asked the archer.

"Yes, at Calais," said Arnauld, meditating; "but on the way? My master
will have ample opportunity to see her and speak with her."

"Not if I order otherwise," was the response. "We shall travel in two
sections, one of which will be in advance of the other at least two
hours, consequently there will be ample distance between the knight and
his lady, if that will please you."

"Yes, but what will the old constable say?" asked Arnauld, aloud. "If he
knows that I have had a hand in this transaction, he will hang me up at
short notice!"

"Why should he know? Why need any one know?" was the suggestion of the
tempter. "You surely will not be the one to talk about it; and as surely
your money will not tell whence it came--"

"And the money would be forthcoming, eh?" asked Arnauld.

"There will be half of it for you."

"What a pity!" rejoined the squire; "for it would be a handsome sum, I
fancy, and I don't imagine the father would haggle about it."

"Is he a duke or a prince?" asked the archer.

"He is a king, comrade, and is called Henri, the second of that name."

"A daughter of the king here!" cried the Englishman. "Upon my soul, if
you don't tell me at once where I can find the gentle dove, I shall feel
obliged to strangle you, my good fellow! A daughter of the king!"

"And a pearl of beauty too," said Arnauld.

"Oho! My Lord Wentworth will lose his head over her," the archer
replied. "Comrade," he added in a solemn tone, drawing forth his purse,
and opening it before Arnauld's fascinated eyes, "this and its contents
are yours in exchange for the name and abode of the fair one."

"Done!" said Arnauld, unable to resist, and seizing the purse.

"Her name?" asked the archer.

"Diane de Castro, called Sister Bénie."

"And her abode?"

"The Benedictine convent."

"I fly," cried the Englishman, disappearing.

"That's all right," said Arnauld to himself, turning about to seek his
master,--"that's all right; I shall not put this down on the constable's
account."




CHAPTER XXXVII

LORD WENTWORTH


Three days later, on the 1st of September, Lord Wentworth, governor of
Calais, having received final instructions from his brother-in-law, Lord
Grey, and having seen him off for England, mounted his horse and rode
back to his hotel, where Gabriel and Jean Peuquoy were then quartered,
as well as Diane, who was in another part of the house.

Madame de Castro had no idea that her lover was so near; and in
conformity with the promise given to Arnauld by Lord Grey's minion, she
had not had the least opportunity of communicating with him after
leaving St. Quentin.

Lord Wentworth offered a most striking contrast to his brother-in-law;
for the former was as affable and approachable and open-handed as the
latter was arrogant and cold and covetous. He was a tall, fine-looking
man, with most refined manners. He was apparently about forty; a few
white hairs were already scattered here and there among his profuse
black locks, which were naturally curly. But his youthful air and the
eager fire in his gray eyes showed that the impetuous passion of a young
man was still dominant within him; and he led as joyous and active a
life as if he were still only twenty.

He went first into the hall where Vicomte d'Exmès and Jean Peuquoy were
awaiting him, and saluted them affably and smilingly as his guests and
not his prisoners.

"Welcome to my house, Monsieur, and you too, Master," said he. "I am
very much indebted to my dear brother-in-law for having brought you
here, Monsieur le Vicomte; and I have double cause to rejoice in the
taking of St. Quentin. Pardon me; but in this gloomy abode of war, where
I am confined, agreeable distractions are of such rare occurrence, and
society is so limited, that I am very happy to find some one from time
to time whom it is a pleasure to converse with; and I fear that my own
selfishness will lead me to wish that your ransom may be delayed as long
as possible."

"It is likely to be delayed longer than I supposed, my Lord," Gabriel
replied. "Lord Grey may have told you that my squire, whom I intended to
send to Paris to bring the money, fell into a dispute _en route_, being
drunk at the time, with one of the escort, and received a wound in the
head, slight, it is true, but which I fear will detain him at Calais
longer than I hoped."

"So much the worse for the poor fellow, and so much the better for me,"
said Lord Wentworth.

"You are too kind, my Lord," said Gabriel, with a sad smile.

"No, indeed; upon my word, there's no kindness about it. True kindness,
no doubt, would move me to allow you to start for Paris yourself at
once, on parole. But I tell you again, I am too selfish and too bored to
think of that; and I have no difficulty, although from different
motives, in entering into the suspicious intentions of my
brother-in-law, who made me solemnly promise not to give you your
liberty except in exchange for a bag of crowns. What do you say? Shall
we be prisoners together, and do our best to sweeten the tedium of
captivity for each other?"

Gabriel bowed without saying a word. He would have liked much better
that Lord Wentworth should have accepted his parole and left him free to
go about his task. But could he, a perfect stranger, expect such
confidence?

He comforted himself a little with the thought that Coligny was probably
with Henri II. at that moment. He had enjoined upon him to report to the
king what he had been able to do toward prolonging the resistance of St.
Quentin. Surely his noble friend could not have failed him! And Henri,
true to his royal word, was perhaps waiting but-for the son's return to
fulfil his promise with regard to the father.

It was not surprising that Gabriel was not altogether able to master his
uneasiness, because of its twofold character; he had not even succeeded
in catching a glimpse of another person equally dear to him before
leaving St. Quentin. So he heartily cursed the mishap that had befallen
that incorrigible drunkard, Martin-Guerre, and was far from sharing Jean
Peuquoy's satisfaction on that point; for the worthy burgher was
secretly delighted to find his mysterious schemes forwarded by this very
delay which caused Gabriel so much sorrow.

Meanwhile Lord Wentworth, not choosing to notice his prisoner's gloomy
distraction, continued,--

"Moreover, Monsieur d'Exmès, I shall do my best not to be too harsh a
jailer; and to prove to you at once that my actions are directed by no
insulting suspicion, I will cheerfully give you permission to go in and
out at your will, and to go wherever you please in the town, if you will
give me your parole that you will not attempt to escape."

At this, Jean Peuquoy could not restrain a movement of unequivocal
satisfaction; and to communicate it to Gabriel, he gave a sharp twitch
at the young man's coat-tail, and thereby considerably surprised him.

"I accept gratefully, my Lord," Gabriel replied to the governor's
courteous offer; "and you have my word of honor that I will not think of
any such attempt."

"That is quite satisfactory, Monsieur," said Lord Wentworth; "and if the
hospitality which it is in my power, and which duty and pleasure prompt
me, to offer you (although my temporary quarters are but ill adapted to
your proper entertainment) seems burdensome and perchance tiresome, why,
you must not feel at all constrained to accept it; rest assured I shall
not take it ill of you in the least if you prefer more free and more
convenient quarters, such as you can easily find in Calais, to the poor
accommodations which I can place at your disposal."

"Oh, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Jean Peuquoy, in a tone of entreaty, "if
you would only condescend to accept the best chamber in the house of my
cousin, Pierre Peuquoy the armorer, you would make him very proud, and
you would fill my cup of happiness, I swear to you!"

And the worthy man accompanied these words with a meaning gesture; for
good Peuquoy was all mystery and reticence now, and had become so
obscure as almost to inspire fear.

"Thanks, my friend," said Gabriel; "but really, to take advantage of
such permission would be perhaps to abuse it."

"No, I assure you," said Lord Wentworth, warmly, "you are entirely at
liberty to accept this lodging at Pierre Peuquoy's. He is a rich
bourgeois, energetic and skilful at his trade, and the honestest fellow
imaginable. I know him well, for I have often bought arms of him; and he
has a very pretty creature at his house too,--his daughter or his wife,
I am not very clear which."

"His sister, my Lord," said Jean Peuquoy,--"my cousin Babette. Oh, yes,
she is very comely; and if only I were not so old! But the Peuquoys
won't die out after all; Pierre has lost his wife, but she left him two
sturdy boys, who will amuse you, Monsieur le Vicomte, if you choose to
accept my cousin's very cordial hospitality."

"I not only authorize you to accept it, but engage that you will do so,"
added Lord Wentworth.

Indeed, Gabriel began to think, and not unreasonably, that the handsome
and courtly governor of Calais was very willing to disencumber himself,
for private reasons, of a companion who would be always in his house,
and who, by virtue of the very freedom that he allowed him, might
interfere with his own. In fact, Lord Wentworth did reason thus; for as
Lord Grey had expressed it elegantly to Arnauld, he preferred female
prisoners to male.

Gabriel no longer had any scruples, and said, turning to Jean Peuquoy
with a smile,--

"Since Lord Wentworth permits me, my friend, I will stay at your
cousin's."

Jean Peuquoy almost leaped for joy.

"Upon my word, I really think that you do very wisely," said Lord
Wentworth. "Not that I should not have been delighted to entertain you
as best I could; but in a house guarded night and day by soldiers, and
where my tedious authority requires me to maintain strict rules, you
might not have found yourself always at your ease, as you will with the
brave armorer. And a young man has need to be at his ease, we all know."

"You seem to know it, at all events," said Gabriel, laughing; "and I can
see that you know the full value of independence."

"Yes, indeed I do!" rejoined Lord Wentworth, in the same playful tone;
"I am not yet old enough to despise liberty."

Then, turning to Jean Peuquoy,--

"Do you rely upon your cousin's purse, Master Peuquoy," said he, "in
your own behalf, as you rely upon his house when Monsieur d'Exmès's
welfare is in question? Lord Grey told me that you expected to borrow
the hundred crowns agreed upon for your ransom."

"Whatever Pierre owns belongs to Jean," was the burgher's sententious
reply; "it is always so with the Peuquoys. I was so sure beforehand that
my cousin's house was mine that I have already sent Monsieur d'Exmès's
wounded squire there; and I am so sure too that his purse is as open to
me as his door that I beg you to send one of your people with me to
bring back the sum agreed upon."

"Useless, Master Peuquoy," said Lord Wentworth; "and you also are free
to go on parole. I will come and call upon Vicomte d'Exmès at Pierre
Peuquoy's to-morrow or the next day; and I will select, as an equivalent
of the sum due my brother-in-law, one of the beautiful suits of armor
which your cousin makes so well."

"As you please, my Lord," said Jean.

"Meanwhile, Monsieur d'Exmès," said the governor, "need I say to you
that as often as you choose to knock at my door you will be as welcome
as you are at liberty not to do it at all? I repeat, life is rather dull
at Calais, as you will soon discover, no doubt; and you will enter into
an alliance with me, I trust, against our common enemy, ennui. Your
presence is a very great boon, by which I desire to profit as much as
possible. If you keep away from me, I shall importune you, I give you
fair warning; and remember too, that I only give you a sort of half
liberty, and that the friend ought to bring the prisoner here with him
often."

"Thanks, my Lord," said Gabriel; "I accept with gratitude all your
kindness. By way of revenge," he added, smiling; "for war has its sudden
changes, and the friend of to-day may become the enemy of to-morrow."

"Oh," said Lord Wentworth, "I am safe, too safe, alas! behind these
impregnable walls. If the French were fated to recapture Calais, they
would not have waited two hundred years for it. I am quite tranquil
about it; and if it ever falls to your lot to do the honors of Paris to
me, it will be in time of peace, I fancy."

"Let us leave it in God's hands, my Lord," said Gabriel. "Monsieur de
Coligny, whom I have just left, used to say that man's wisest course was
to wait."

"Very true; and meanwhile to live as happily as possible. Apropos,
Monsieur, it has occurred to me that you must be badly off for funds;
you know that my purse is at your disposal."

"Thanks again, my Lord; my own, though not sufficiently well lined to
allow me to pay my ransom on the spot, is at least amply furnished to
defray the cost of my stay here. My only real anxiety, I confess, is
lest your cousin's house, Master Peuquoy, cannot open its doors thus
unexpectedly to three new guests without inconvenience; and in that case
I should much prefer to go in search of another lodging, where for a few
crowns--"

"You are joking," interrupted Jean, eagerly; "for Pierre's house is
large enough, thank God, to hold three whole families, if necessary. In
the provinces they don't build so stingily and in such narrow places as
in Paris."

"Very true," said Lord Wentworth; "and I promise you, Monsieur d'Exmès,
that the armorer's dwelling is not unworthy of a captain. A more
numerous suite than yours could easily be accommodated there; and two
trades might be carried oil under its roof without inconvenience. Was it
not your intention, Master Peuquoy, to settle there and carry on your
occupation of weaving? Lord Grey said something of such a plan, which I
shall be very glad to see carried out."

"And which very possibly will be carried out," said Jean. "If Calais and
St. Quentin are to belong to the same masters, I should prefer to be
near my family."

"Yes," rejoined Lord Wentworth, who misunderstood the meaning of the
cunning burgher's words; "yes, it may be that St. Quentin will be an
English town before long. But I am keeping you," he added; "and after
the fatigues of the journey, you must be in need of rest, Monsieur
d'Exmès. Once more I tell you both you are free. _Au revoir_; we shall
soon meet again, shall we not?"

He escorted the captain and the burgher to the door, shaking the hand of
one and nodding amicably to the other, and left them to make the best of
their way to the Rue du Martroi. On that street, if our readers
remember, Pierre Peuquoy lived, at the sign of the God Mars, and there
we shall soon find Gabriel and Jean again, if God so wills it.

"Upon my word!" said Lord Wentworth, when he had seen the last of them,
"I believe that I was very shrewd in thus getting rid of having to
entertain Vicomte d'Exmès in my house. He is a gentleman, and has lived
at court; and if he has ever seen the fair prisoner who is in my grasp,
he surely would never cease to remember her. Yes, indeed; for even I,
who have not yet talked with her, was dazzled by her when she merely
passed before me two hours since. How fair she is! I love her! I love
her! Poor heart, so long dumb in this gloomy solitude, how you are
beating now! But this youth, who seems to me so gallant and brave, might
well have interfered unpleasantly, on recognizing his king's daughter,
in the relations which I calculate upon establishing with Madame Diane.
The presence of a fellow-countryman, perhaps a friend, would no doubt
have delayed Madame de Castro's avowals, or encouraged her in her
refusal. Let us have no third party in our affairs. Even if I have no
disposition to have recourse in all this to means unworthy of myself, it
is unnecessary for me to create obstacles."

He struck a peculiar stroke upon a bell. In a moment a lady's maid
appeared.

"Jane," said Lord Wentworth, in English, "have you offered your services
to this lady, as I told you?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"How is she now, Jane?"

"She appears sad, my Lord, but not overwhelmed. She has a proud look,
and speaks firmly, and gives her orders mildly, but as if she were used
to being obeyed."

"Very well," said the governor. "Has she partaken of the refreshment
which you put before her?"

"She has scarcely touched a piece of fruit, my Lord; under the confident
air that she affects, it is not difficult to detect a good deal of
anxiety and suffering."

"That will do, Jane," said Lord Wentworth. "Go you back to the lady, and
ask her in my name--in the name of Lord Wentworth, governor of Calais,
on whom Lord Grey's rights have devolved--if she is willing to receive
me. Go, and come back at once."

In a few minutes, which seemed ages to Lord Wentworth, the maid
reappeared.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, my Lord," Jane replied, "the lady not only consents, but desires
to see you at once."

"Indeed! everything goes as well as possible," said Lord Wentworth to
himself.

"But she has kept old Mary with her," added Jane, "and told me to come
right back again."

"Very well, Jane, go. She must be obeyed in everything, you understand.
Go, and say that I am but a moment behind you."

Jane went out; and Lord Wentworth, with his heart beating like a lover
of twenty, began to mount the stairs which led to Diane de Castro's
apartments.

"Oh, what bliss!" he said. "I love her! And she whom I love, a king's
daughter too, is in my power!"




CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE AMOROUS JAILER


Diane de Castro received Lord Wentworth with the calm and modest dignity
which lent an irresistible potency and charm to her angelic expression
and her lovely features. Beneath her apparent calmness there was,
however, much anguish of mind; and the poor girl trembled inwardly as
she acknowledged the governor's salutation, and with a queenly gesture
motioned him to take his seat on a couch a few paces away from her.

Then she signed to the two maids, who were apparently preparing to
withdraw, to remain in the room; and as Lord Wentworth, lost in
admiration, said nothing, she determined to break the silence herself.

"It is to Lord Wentworth, governor of Calais, that I am speaking, I
believe?" said she.

"Lord Wentworth, Madame, your obedient servant, awaits your commands."

"My commands!" She repeated his words bitterly. "Oh, my Lord, do not say
so, or I must think that you mock me! If my prayers and my
supplications, in no sense commands, had been listened to, I should not
be here. You know who I am, my Lord, and of what family?"

"I know, Madame, that you are Madame de Castro, the beloved daughter of
King Henri II."

"Why, then, have I been made a prisoner?" asked Diane, whose voice
faltered rather than became stronger as she put the question.

"For the very reason that you were a king's daughter, Madame," Wentworth
replied; "because by the terms of the capitulation agreed to by Admiral
de Coligny, it was stipulated that fifty prisoners should be placed in
the hands of the victors, to be selected by them from all ranks, and of
any age or either sex, and because they very naturally chose the most
illustrious, the most dangerous, and if you will permit me to say so,
those who could afford to pay the heaviest ransom."

"But how was it known," Diane rejoined, "that I was in hiding at St.
Quentin under the name and in the garb of a Benedictine nun? Besides the
superior of the convent, only one person in the whole town knew my
secret."

"Very well! then it must have been that person who betrayed you,--that's
all," said Lord Wentworth.

"Oh, no, indeed; I am sure it was not!" cried Diane, with such earnest
conviction that Lord Wentworth felt stung to the heart by jealousy, and
could find nothing to say in reply.

"It was the day after the capitulation of St. Quentin," continued Diane,
with renewed animation. "I had fled for refuge, trembling and afraid, to
the inmost corner of my cell. Some one in the parlor asked for Sister
Bénie, which was my name as a novice, my Lord. It was an English
soldier who inquired for me. I dreaded some misfortune, some terrible
news. Nevertheless, I went down to the parlor, a prey to that dreadful
curiosity which makes us even in our suffering so anxious to ascertain
what causes our tears to flow. The archer, whom I had never seen before,
announced that I was his prisoner. I was indignant and resisted; but
what could I do against force? There were three of them; yes, my Lord,
three soldiers to arrest one poor woman. I ask your pardon if this hurts
you; but I am simply telling you what happened. These men seized me, and
called upon me to confess that I was Diane de Castro, daughter of the
King of France. I denied it at first; but as they were dragging me away,
despite my denials, I asked to be taken to Monsieur l'Amiral de Coligny;
and as the admiral did not know Sister Bénie, I avowed that I was she
whom they named. Perhaps you believe, my Lord, that upon my avowal they
yielded to my prayer and granted me the very simple favor of being taken
to Monsieur l'Amiral, who would have recognized me and demanded my
freedom! By no means! They simply exulted over their capture, pushed and
dragged me along more quickly, and put me, or rather threw me, weeping
and in despair, into a closed litter; and when, almost suffocated with
sobs, and utterly overcome with grief, I nevertheless made an effort to
learn whither I was being taken, I had already left St. Quentin and was
on the road to Calais. Then Lord Grey, who, I was told, was in command
of the escort, refused to listen to me; and I learned from a common
soldier that I was his master's prisoner, and was being taken to Calais
pending the payment of my ransom. Without any further information than
that, I was brought here, my Lord."

"Unfortunately I can add nothing more, Madame," responded Lord
Wentworth, thoughtfully.

"Nothing, my Lord!" continued Diane. "You cannot tell me why I was not
allowed to speak to the superior of the Benedictines, nor to Monsieur
l'Amiral! You cannot tell me for what purpose I am wanted, pray, when I
was not allowed to go near those who might have announced my captivity
to the king, and have sent the amount of the ransom you demand from
Paris! Why this sort of secret abduction! Why was I not allowed even to
see Lord Grey, who gave orders for all this, as I was informed?"

"You did see Lord Grey, Madame, a short time ago, when you passed us. It
was he with whom I was talking, and who saluted you when I did."

"Pardon me, my Lord; I knew not in whose presence I was," said Diane.
"But since you have talked with Lord Grey, who is your kinsman, so this
maid informs me, he must have informed you of his intentions toward me."

"In fact, Madame, before taking ship for England, he did explain them to
me,--indeed, he was just doing so when you were being escorted to this
house. He informed me that you had been mentioned to him at St. Quentin
as being the king's daughter; and that having three prisoners allotted
to him for his share, he had eagerly seized upon so valuable a prize
without notifying a soul, thus avoiding all dispute. His simple object
was to get the largest possible ransom for you, Madame; and I was
jokingly applauding my covetous brother-in-law when you passed through
the room where we were talking. I saw you, Madame; and I at once
realized that if you were the king's daughter by right of birth, you
were a very queen by right of loveliness. From that moment, to my shame
be it said, I entirely changed my opinion as to Lord Grey's plans for
the future at least, if not as to what he had already done. Yes; and I
no longer approved his design of holding you to ransom. I urged upon him
that we might hope for much greater things,--that England and France
being at war, you might be very useful as an exchange for some important
prisoner, and that you might even be worth a town. In short, I at last
persuaded him not to abandon so rich a prize for a few paltry crowns.
You are at Calais,--a town that belongs to us, and is impregnable; we
must therefore keep you in our hands and wait."

"What!" exclaimed Diane. "You gave Lord Grey such advice as that, and
boast about it to my face! Oh, my Lord, why did you thus set yourself
against my being set at liberty? What had I ever done to you? You had
seen me only for a moment. Did you hate me, pray?"

"I had seen you for but one moment, and I loved you, Madame," said Lord
Wentworth, desperately.

Diane recoiled, shuddering and turning pale.

"Jane! Mary!" she cried, calling the two attendants, who were standing
apart in the embrasure of a window.

But Wentworth made an imperious sign to them, and they did not stir.
Then he continued, sighing sadly,--

"Be not alarmed, Madame. I am a gentleman; and it is not you, but I, who
should fear and tremble. Yes, I love you, and could no longer refrain
from telling you so; yes, when I saw you pass, so sweet and lovely, and
so like a goddess, my whole heart went out to you. Yes, besides, you are
in my power here; and I have but to raise my hand to be obeyed. But
never mind; fear nothing, for I am more in your power, alas! than you
are in mine; and of the two, you are not the real prisoner. You are the
queen, Madame, and I your faithful slave. Command, and I obey."

"Then, Monsieur," said Diane, with palpitating heart, "send me back to
Paris, whence I will send you such sum by way of ransom as you choose to
name."

Lord Wentworth hesitated a moment before he replied,--

"Anything but that, Madame: for I feel that sacrifice is beyond my
strength. I tell you that one glance from your eyes has bound my life to
yours forever! Here, in this place of banishment where I am caged up, it
is long since my ardent heart has entertained a passion worthy of
itself. As soon as I saw you, so beautiful and noble and proud, I felt
that all the stored-up energy of ray soul had henceforth an object and
an end. I have loved you for but two hours; but if you knew me, you
would know that it is as if I had loved you ten years."

"But in Heaven's name, what is your wish, my Lord?" said Diane. "What do
you hope for? What do you expect? What is your purpose?"

"I wish to see you, Madame, and to revel in your lovely and fascinating
presence,--that is all. Do not for a moment suspect me of designs
unworthy a gentleman. But it is my right, my blessed right, to keep you
near me; and I profit by it."

"And do you suppose, my Lord," said Madame de Castro, "that such
violence will drive my heart into responding to yours?"

"I do not suppose so," said Lord Wentworth, gently; "but when you see
from day to day how submissive I am, and how respectful, and how eagerly
I come to learn of your welfare, and to be able to feast my eyes upon
you for a moment, perhaps you will be touched by the resignation of one
who begs where he might command."

"And then the daughter of France, moved to pity, would become the
mistress of Lord Wentworth?" was Diane's rejoinder, with a contemptuous
smile.

"Then," responded the governor, "Lord Wentworth, the last scion of one
of the wealthiest and most illustrious families in England, on his knees
will offer his name and his life to Madame de Castro. My passion, you
see, is as honorable as it is sincere."

"Is he ambitious, I wonder?" thought Diane.

"Listen, my Lord," she rejoined aloud, trying to force a smile. "I
advise you to let me go, and send me to my father the king; and I will
not consider myself out of your debt by the mere payment of a ransom.
When the war between the two countries is at an end, as it must be
sooner or later, if I cannot give you myself, I will at least obtain for
you,--I give you my word,--as many, yes, more and greater, honors and
dignities than you could hope for if you were my husband. Be generous,
my Lord, and my gratitude shall be yours."

"I divine your thoughts, Madame," said Wentworth, bitterly; "but I am
more disinterested than you think, and more ambitious as well. Of all
the treasures in the whole universe, I hope only for you."

"One word more, then, my Lord, which you will perhaps understand
better," said Diane, embarrassed but proud at the same time. "I am
beloved by another, my Lord."

"And do you suppose I am going to deliver you to this rival by letting
you go?" cried Wentworth, fairly beside himself. "No! he shall at least
be as wretched as I,--more wretched, indeed, for he cannot see you,
Madame. From this day only three events can deliver you: either my
death,--and I am still young and vigorous; or peace between France and
England,--but wars between those countries usually last a hundred years,
as you know; or the taking of Calais,--but Calais is impregnable. In
default of the occurrence of one of these three almost hopeless events,
I fancy you will be my prisoner for a long time; for I have purchased
all Lord Grey's rights over you, and I would not receive a ransom for
you, even though it were an empire! As for flight, it will be better for
you not to think of it; for I shall watch you, and you will see what a
careful and cautious jailer a man makes who is in love."

With these words Lord Wentworth bowed low and withdrew, leaving Diane a
prey to bitter despair.

Her only consolation, and that but a slight one, lay in the reflection
that death was a sure refuge, which was always open for the unfortunate
when danger was at its height.




CHAPTER XXXIX

THE ARMORER'S HOUSE


Pierre Peuquoy's house was located at the corner of the Rue du Martroi
and the market-place. On both sides it stood upon broad wooden pillars,
such as are still to be seen in the Central Market at Paris. It had two
stories, besides one in the roof. On its front wood and brick and stone
were arranged in curious arabesques which were symmetrical, though they
seemed to have been formed at hazard. In addition the supports of the
windows and the great beams showed extraordinary figures of animals
twisted into all sorts of amusing shapes. The whole was homely and
unpretentious, but not devoid of invention and taste. The broad, high
roof projected sufficiently to afford a covering for an outside gallery
with a railing, which extended around the whole second floor as in Swiss
châlets.

Above the glass door of the shop hung the sign, a sort of wooden banner,
so to speak, upon which was a warrior, painted in all the panoply of
war, to represent the God Mars, in which undertaking he was assisted no
doubt by the following inscription: "Au Dieu Mars. Pierre Peuquoy,
Armurier."

On the doorstep stood a complete suit of armor, helmet, breastplate,
armlets, and leggings, which served as a realistic sign to such
customers as were unable to read.

Moreover, through the leaded panes of the shop-front, other outfits and
arms of all sorts, offensive and defensive, could be distinguished,
notwithstanding the darkness of the interior. The display of swords,
above all, was remarkable for the number and variety and magnificence of
the specimens.

Two apprentices, seated under the pillars, were hailing the passers-by,
and making most enticing offers of their wares.

Pierre Peuquoy himself was commonly to be found in all his majesty
either in his back shop, which looked out on the courtyard, or at his
forge, which was set up in a shed at the end of the courtyard. He only
appeared when some customer of importance, attracted by the cries of the
apprentices, or it may be by Peuquoy's reputation, asked to see the
master.

The back shop, which was better lighted than the one in front, served as
parlor and dining-room in one. It was wainscoted in oak throughout, and
had for furniture a square table with twisted feet, chairs covered with
tapestry, and a superb chest of drawers on which was Pierre Peuquoy's
chef d'œuvre, executed by himself under his father's eye, when he had
served his apprenticeship; it was a beautiful miniature suit of armor,
all inlaid with gold, and of the finest and most delicate workmanship.
No one could imagine the amount of skill and patience necessary to
perfect such a work of art.

Opposite the chest, in a niche in the wainscot, stood a plaster image of
the Virgin with a consecrated box. Thus the thought of God was always on
guard in the family's living-room.

Another room at right angles to this was almost wholly occupied by a
straight wooden stairway which led to the floors above.

Pierre Peuquoy, delighted beyond measure to receive Vicomte d'Exmès and
Jean beneath his roof, had actually given up the whole first floor to
Gabriel and his cousin; so that there were the guest-chambers. He
himself occupied the second floor with his young sister Babette and his
children. The wounded squire, Arnauld du Thill, was also accommodated on
the second floor; while the apprentices lodged in the attic. In all the
rooms, which were convenient and snug, there was an air, if not of
wealth, at least of comfort and modest abundance suited to the
old-fashioned citizen of every age.

It is at table that we renew our acquaintance with Gabriel and Jean
Peuquoy, just as their worthy host has finished doing the honors of a
bountiful supper. Babette was waiting upon the guests; and the children
were seated at a respectful distance from their elders.

"Great Heaven, Monseigneur," said the armorer, "how little you eat, if
you will allow me to say so! You are all anxiety, and Jean is lost in
thought; but if the repast is but modest, the heart that offers it is in
the right place. At least, have a few of these grapes, for they are very
scarce in our country. I learned from my grand-father, who had it from
his, that in old days, when the French were masters here, the vineyards
of Calais yielded bountifully, and the grapes were golden; but alas!
since the town has been English, the grape deceives itself by fancying
that it is in England, where it isn't accustomed to grow ripe."

Gabriel could but smile at the strange reasoning in which brave Pierre's
patriotism found vent.

"Come," said he, raising his glass, "I drink to the ripening of the
grapes of Calais!"

We may readily believe that the Peuquoys responded warmly to such a
toast! Supper at an end, Pierre offered thanks while his guests
listened, standing bareheaded. Then the children were sent to bed.

"Now you may retire, Babette," said the armorer to his sister. "See that
the apprentices don't make too much noise; and before you go to your
room, go with Gertrude and inquire if Monsieur le Vicomte's squire is in
need of aught."

Pretty Babette blushed, and left the room with a courtesy.

"Now, my dear friend and cousin," said Pierre to Jean, "here we are
alone, we three; and if you have any private communication to make to
me, I am ready to hear it."

Gabriel looked at Jean in amazement, but he replied with his most
serious expression,--

"I did tell you, Pierre, that I had some matters of importance to talk
over with you."

"I will withdraw," said Gabriel.

"Pardon me, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Jean, "your presence at our
interview is not only useful, but necessary; for without your
concurrence the projects which I am about to confide to Pierre will have
no chance of success."

"I will listen to you in that case, my friend," said Gabriel, relapsing
into his dreamy melancholy.

"Yes, Monseigneur," said the bourgeois, "yes, listen to us; and as you
listen, you will raise your head once more with hope, and perhaps (who
knows?) with joy."

Gabriel smiled mournfully at the thought that joy would be an unknown
friend to him while he remained powerless to do aught to obtain his
father's liberty or to make clear his right to Diane's love.
Nevertheless, the brave youth turned toward Jean, and motioned to him to
proceed.

Then Jean looked gravely at Pierre.

"Cousin," said he, "and more than cousin,--brother,--it is for you to
speak first, in order to show Monsieur d'Exmès what reliance may be
placed upon your patriotism. So tell us, Pierre, in what sentiments
toward France your father brought you up, and was himself reared by his
father. Tell us whether you have ever become English at heart, even
though you have been English by force of events for above two hundred
years. Tell us, last of all, whether if the emergency should arise, you
would consider that you owed your blood and your assistance to the old
country of your ancestors, or to the new allegiance which has been
forced upon you."

"Jean," replied the other bourgeois, with as solemn a mien as his
cousin, "I do not know what I should think or how I should feel if I
bore an English name, and came of English stock; but I do know by
experience that when a family has once been French, whether for a moment
only or for more than two centuries, every other domination becomes
insupportable to the members of that family, and seems to them as hard
and bitter as slavery or banishment; furthermore, that one of my
forefathers, Jean, who saw Calais fall into English hands, never spoke
of France before his son without weeping, or of England without bitter
hate. His son did the same with his own son; and this twofold sentiment
of regret and detestation has been handed down from generation to
generation without losing any of its strength or changing its form. The
air of our old bourgeois houses is a great preservative. The Pierre
Peuquoy of two centuries ago lives again in the Pierre Peuquoy of
to-day; and with the same French name, I have the same French heart,
Jean. The insult as well as the grief is as of yesterday. Say not that I
have two countries, Jean; there is, and there can ever be, but one! And
if the time comes when I must choose between the country to which men
have made me submit and the country which God has given me, be sure that
I shall not hesitate."

"You hear, Monseigneur!" cried Jean, turning to Vicomte d'Exmès.

"Yes, my friend, yes, I hear; and it is grand, it is noble!" was
Gabriel's reply, albeit he seemed still a little distraught.

"One word, Pierre," said Jean; "unfortunately all our fellow-countrymen
here do not think with you, do they? No doubt you are the only child of
France to be found in Calais at the end of two hundred years, who has
not turned his back upon his mother-country."

"You are wrong, Jean," replied the armorer; "I spoke in general, and not
for myself alone. I do not say that every one who bears a French name,
as I do, has not forgotten his origin; but many bourgeois families never
have ceased to love France, and deeply regret their separation from her;
and it is among these families that the Peuquoys like to select their
wives. In the civic guard, of which I am a member against my will, there
is many a citizen who would break his halberd in twain rather than turn
it against a French soldier."

"That's a very good thing to know," muttered Jean Peuquoy, rubbing his
hands; "and you must hold some rank in this same civic guard? So well
thought of and respected as you are, that goes without saying."

"No, Jean; I have persistently refused all rank, so as to avoid all
responsibility."

"So much the worse, and yet so much the better! Is the duty you have to
perform a hard one, Pierre? And does your turn come often?"

"Well, yes," said Pierre, "the service is both frequent and hard,
because in a place like Calais, the garrison is never large enough. My
turn comes the 5th of every month."

"The 5th of every month regularly, Pierre? It seems to me that the
English are not prudent to fix every man's day of service in advance."

"Oh," said the armorer, shaking his head, "there is not much danger
after holding the place for two centuries. Besides, they can't help
being a little suspicious at all times of the civic guard, and take care
to station them only at points which are naturally impregnable; for
instance, I always do sentry duty on the platform of the Octagonal
Tower, which is much more efficiently protected by the sea than by me,
and where none but sea-gulls can approach, I think."

"Aha! so you are always on sentry duty on the platform of the
Octagonal Tower on the 5th of the month, Pierre?"

"Yes; from four to six in the morning. I was allowed to select my own
time, and I prefer that because during three fourths of the year I can
see the sun rise out of the ocean at that hour; and that is a divine
spectacle even for a poor trader like myself."

"A spectacle so divine, in fact, Pierre," said Jean Peuquoy, lowering
his voice, "that if, despite the strength of the position, some bold
adventurer should try to scale the side of your Octagonal Tower, you
would not see him, I'll wager, so deeply absorbed would you be in
contemplating it."

Pierre looked wonderingly at his cousin.

"I should not see him, to be sure," he replied after a moment's
hesitation, "for I should know that no one but a Frenchman could have
any interest in getting into the city; and since I am under constraint,
I have no duty toward those who constrain me,--in tact, rather than
repulse the assailant, I might perhaps assist him to get in."

"Well said, Pierre!" cried Jean. "You see, Monseigneur, that Pierre is a
devoted Frenchman," he added, addressing Gabriel.

"Yes, indeed I do, Master," replied the latter, still paying little heed
in spite of himself to an interview which seemed to him of no use. "I
see that he is; but alas! what is the good of his devotion?"

"What good? I am going to tell you," was Jean's response; "for I think
it is my turn now to speak. Well, then, Monsieur le Vicomte, if you
choose, we can take our revenge for St. Quentin here at Calais. The
English, relying upon their two centuries of possession, are slumbering
in false security; this sleepy confidence will be their ruin.
Monseigneur can see that we have auxiliaries within the town always
ready. Let us carefully mature plans; let your intervention with the
powers that he come to our aid, and my reason, even more surely than my
instinct, tells me that a bold stroke will make us masters of the town.
You understand me, do you not, Monseigneur?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure!" Gabriel replied, having actually heard nothing,
but being aroused by this direct appeal from his revery. "Yes, your
cousin wishes to return, does he not, to our fair kingdom of France,--to
be transferred to some French town, Amiens, for instance? Very well; I
will speak to my Lord Wentworth about it, and to Monsieur de Guise as
well. The thing may easily be arranged; and my assistance, which you
request, shall not fail you. Go on, my friend; I am quite at your
service. Certainly I am listening."

And again he relapsed into his omnipotent distraction. For the voice he
was listening to at that moment was not, in truth, Jean Peuquoy's; no,
it was the voice of King Henri in his own heart, giving the order, upon
hearing the admiral's account of the siege of St. Quentin, to release
the Comte de Montgommery on the spot. Again, it was the voice of his
father, proving to him (for he was still gloomy and jealous) that Diane
was indeed the daughter of his becrowned rival. Finally, it was the
voice of Diane herself, which, after so many bitter trials, was able to
say to him, and which he could hear give forth those divine words of
sweetest meaning, "Truly I love you!"

It is easy to understand that while dreaming such delightful dreams as
these, he could hardly listen to the daring and confident schemes of the
worthy Jean.

The solemn burgher appeared somewhat hurt that Gabriel had vouchsafed so
little attention to a scheme which certainly did not lack grandeur and
courage, and it was with some chagrin that he rejoined.

"If Monseigneur had condescended to lend a somewhat less preoccupied ear
to what I was saying, he would have noticed that our ideas, Pierre's and
mine, were not so personal and less contemptible than he seems to think
them."

Gabriel made no response.

"He does not hear us, Jean," said Pierre Peuquoy, calling his cousin's
attention to the fresh absorption of his guest. "Perhaps he has some
plan, some personal passion of his own."

"At all events, his cannot be less selfish than ours," retorted Jean, in
a tone not free from bitterness. "I should even say that this gentleman
was indeed selfish had I not seen him defying danger with a sort of
fury, and actually exposing his life too, to save mine; still, he ought
to have listened when I was earnestly looking for the glory and welfare
of our common country. Without him, however, with all our zealous ardor,
we shall be only helpless tools, Pierre. So far we possess the right
feeling! We lack brain and power."

"Never mind! the sentiment is a good one, for I heard it and understood
it, brother," said the armorer.

And the two cousins solemnly grasped each other's hands.

"Meanwhile, we must give up our idea, or at least postpone trying to
carry it out," said Jean; "for what can the arm do without the head, or
the people without the nobility?"

And then this burgher of the olden time added with a meaning smile,--

"Until the day when the people shall be the arm and the head at once!"




END OF VOL. I.



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