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diff --git a/15763-h/15763-h.htm b/15763-h/15763-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..879206b --- /dev/null +++ b/15763-h/15763-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11057 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Count Hannibal</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Count Hannibal, by Stanley J. Weyman</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Count Hannibal, by Stanley J. Weyman + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Count Hannibal + A Romance of the Court of France + + +Author: Stanley J. Weyman + +Release Date: May 3, 2005 [eBook #15763] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNT HANNIBAL*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>This eBook was prepared by Les Bowler from the 1922 John Murray edition.</p> +<h1>COUNT HANNIBAL<br /> +A ROMANCE OF THE COURT OF FRANCE.<br /> +by Stanley J. Weyman.</h1> +<p>SORORI<br /> +SUÂ CAUSSÂ CARAE<br /> +PRO ERGA MATREM AMORE<br /> +ETIAM CARIORI<br /> +HOC FRATER.</p> +<p>CONTENTS</p> +<p>I. CRIMSON FAVOURS<br /> +II. HANNIBAL DE SAULX, COMTE DE TAVANNES<br /> +III. THE HOUSE NEXT THE GOLDEN MAID<br /> +IV. THE EVE OF THE FEAST<br /> +V. A ROUGH WOOING<br /> +VI. “WHO TOUCHES TAVANNES?”<br /> +VII. IN THE AMPHITHEATRE<br /> +VIII. TWO HENS AND AN EGG<br /> +IX. UNSTABLE<br /> +X. MADAME ST. LO<br /> +XI. A BARGAIN<br /> +XII. IN THE HALL OF THE LOUVRE<br /> +XIII. DIPLOMACY<br /> +XIV. TOO SHORT A SPOON<br /> +XV. THE BROTHER OF ST. MAGLOIRE<br /> +XVI. AT CLOSE QUARTERS<br /> +XVII. THE DUEL<br /> +XVIII. ANDROMEDA, PERSEUS BEING ABSENT<br /> +XIX. IN THE ORLÉANNAIS<br /> +XX. ON THE CASTLE HILL<br /> +XXI. SHE WOULD, AND WOULD NOT<br /> +XXII. PLAYING WITH FIRE<br /> +XXIII. A MIND, AND NOT A MIND<br /> +XXIV. AT THE KING’S INN<br /> +XXV. THE COMPANY OF THE BLEEDING HEART<br /> +XXVI. TEMPER<br /> +XXVII. THE BLACK TOWN<br /> +XXVIII. IN THE LITTLE CHAPTER-HOUSE<br /> +XXIX. THE ESCAPE<br /> +XXX. SACRILEGE!<br /> +XXXI. THE FLIGHT FROM ANGERS<br /> +XXXII. THE ORDEAL BY STEEL<br /> +XXXIII. THE AMBUSH<br /> +XXXIV. “WHICH WILL YOU, MADAME?”<br /> +XXXV. AGAINST THE WALL<br /> +XXXVI. HIS KINGDOM</p> +<h2>CHAPTER I. CRIMSON FAVOURS.</h2> +<p>M. de Tavannes smiled. Mademoiselle averted her eyes, and shivered; +as if the air, even of that close summer night, entering by the door +at her elbow, chilled her. And then came a welcome interruption.</p> +<p>“Tavannes!”</p> +<p>“Sire!”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal rose slowly. The King had called, and he had +no choice but to obey and go. Yet he hung a last moment over his +companion, his hateful breath stirring her hair.</p> +<p>“Our pleasure is cut short too soon, Mademoiselle,” he +said, in the tone, and with the look, she loathed. “But +for a few hours only. We shall meet to-morrow. Or, it may +be—earlier.”</p> +<p>She did not answer, and “Tavannes!” the King repeated +with violence. “Tavannes! Mordieu!” his Majesty +continued, looking round furiously. “Will no one fetch him? +Sacré nom, am I King, or a dog of a—”</p> +<p>“I come, sire!” the Count cried hastily. For Charles, +King of France, Ninth of the name, was none of the most patient; and +scarce another in the Court would have ventured to keep him waiting +so long. “I come, sire; I come!” Tavannes repeated, +as he moved from Mademoiselle’s side.</p> +<p>He shouldered his way through the circle of courtiers, who barred +the road to the presence, and in part hid her from observation. +He pushed past the table at which Charles and the Comte de Rochefoucauld +had been playing primero, and at which the latter still sat, trifling +idly with the cards. Three more paces, and he reached the King, +who stood in the <i>ruelle</i> with Rambouillet and the Italian Marshal. +It was the latter who, a moment before, had summoned his Majesty from +his game.</p> +<p>Mademoiselle, watching him go, saw so much; so much, and the King’s +roving eyes and haggard face, and the four figures, posed apart in the +fuller light of the upper half of the Chamber. Then the circle +of courtiers came together before her, and she sat back on her stool. +A fluttering, long-drawn sigh escaped her. Now, if she could slip +out and make her escape! Now—she looked round. She +was not far from the door; to withdraw seemed easy. But a staring, +whispering knot of gentlemen and pages blocked the way; and the girl, +ignorant of the etiquette of the Court, and with no more than a week’s +experience of Paris, had not the courage to rise and pass alone through +the group.</p> +<p>She had come to the Louvre this Saturday evening under the wing of +Madame d’Yverne, her <i>fiancé’s</i> cousin. +By ill-hap Madame had been summoned to the Princess Dowager’s +closet, and perforce had left her. Still, Mademoiselle had her +betrothed, and in his charge had sat herself down to wait, nothing loth, +in the great gallery, where all was bustle and gaiety and entertainment. +For this, the seventh day of the fêtes, held to celebrate the +marriage of the King of Navarre and Charles’s sister—a marriage +which was to reconcile the two factions of the Huguenots and the Catholics, +so long at war—saw the Louvre as gay, as full, and as lively as +the first of the fête days had found it; and in the humours of +the throng, in the ceaseless passage of masks and maids of honour, guards +and bishops, Swiss in the black, white, and green of Anjou, and Huguenot +nobles in more sombre habits, the country-bred girl had found recreation +and to spare. Until gradually the evening had worn away and she +had begun to feel nervous; and M. de Tignonville, her betrothed, placing +her in the embrasure of a window, had gone to seek Madame.</p> +<p>She had waited for a time without much misgiving; expecting each +moment to see him return. He would be back before she could count +a hundred; he would be back before she could number the leagues that +separated her from her beloved province, and the home by the Biscay +Sea, to which even in that brilliant scene her thoughts turned fondly. +But the minutes had passed, and passed, and he had not returned. +Worse, in his place Tavannes—not the Marshal, but his brother, +Count Hannibal—had found her; he, whose odious court, at once +a menace and an insult, had subtly enveloped her for a week past. +He had sat down beside her, he had taken possession of her, and, profiting +by her inexperience, had played on her fears and smiled at her dislike. +Finally, whether she would or no, he had swept her with him into the +Chamber. The rest had been an obsession, a nightmare, from which +only the King’s voice summoning Tavannes to his side had relieved +her.</p> +<p>Her aim now was to escape before he returned, and before another, +seeing her alone, adopted his <i>rôle</i> and was rude to her. +Already the courtiers about her were beginning to stare, the pages to +turn and titter and whisper. Direct her gaze as she might, she +met some eye watching her, some couple enjoying her confusion. +To make matters worse, she presently discovered that she was the only +woman in the Chamber; and she conceived the notion that she had no right +to be there at that hour. At the thought her cheeks burned, her +eyes dropped; the room seemed to buzz with her name, with gross words +and jests, and gibes at her expense.</p> +<p>At last, when the situation had grown nearly unbearable, the group +before the door parted, and Tignonville appeared. The girl rose +with a cry of relief, and he came to her. The courtiers glanced +at the two and smiled.</p> +<p>He did not conceal his astonishment at finding her there. “But, +Mademoiselle, how is this?” he asked, in a low voice. He +was as conscious of the attention they attracted as she was, and as +uncertain on the point of her right to be there. “I left +you in the gallery. I came back, missed you, and—”</p> +<p>She stopped him by a gesture. “Not here!” she muttered, +with suppressed impatience. “I will tell you outside. +Take me—take me out, if you please, Monsieur, at once!”</p> +<p>He was as glad to be gone as she was to go. The group by the +doorway parted; she passed through it, he followed. In a moment +the two stood in the great gallery, above the Salle des Caryatides. +The crowd which had paraded here an hour before was gone, and the vast +echoing apartment, used at that date as a guard-room, was well-nigh +empty. Only at rare intervals, in the embrasure of a window or +the recess of a door, a couple talked softly. At the farther end, +near the head of the staircase which led to the hall below, and the +courtyard, a group of armed Swiss lounged on guard. Mademoiselle +shot a keen glance up and down, then she turned to her lover, her face +hot with indignation.</p> +<p>“Why did you leave me?” she asked. “Why did +you leave me, if you could not come back at once? Do you understand, +sir,” she continued, “that it was at your instance I came +to Paris, that I came to this Court, and that I look to you for protection?”</p> +<p>“Surely,” he said. “And—”</p> +<p>“And do you think Carlat and his wife fit guardians for me? +Should I have come or thought of coming to this wedding, but for your +promise, and Madame your cousin’s? If I had not deemed myself +almost your wife,” she continued warmly, “and secure of +your protection, should I have come within a hundred miles of this dreadful +city? To which, had I my will, none of our people should have +come.”</p> +<p>“Dreadful? Pardieu, not so dreadful,” he answered, +smiling, and striving to give the dispute a playful turn. “You +have seen more in a week than you would have seen at Vrillac in a lifetime, +Mademoiselle.”</p> +<p>“And I choke!” she retorted; “I choke! Do +you not see how they look at us, at us Huguenots, in the street? +How they, who live here, point at us and curse us? How the very +dogs scent us out and snarl at our heels, and the babes cross themselves +when we go by? Can you see the Place des Gastines and not think +what stood there? Can you pass the Grève at night and not +fill the air above the river with screams and wailings and horrible +cries—the cries of our people murdered on that spot?” +She paused for breath, recovered herself a little, and in a lower tone, +“For me,” she said, “I think of Philippa de Luns by +day and by night! The eaves are a threat to me; the tiles would +fall on us had they their will; the houses nod to—to—”</p> +<p>“To what, Mademoiselle?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders +and assuming a tone of cynicism.</p> +<p>“To crush us! Yes, Monsieur, to crush us!”</p> +<p>“And all this because I left you for a moment?”</p> +<p>“For an hour—or well-nigh an hour,” she answered +more soberly.</p> +<p>“But if I could not help it?”</p> +<p>“You should have thought of that—before you brought me +to Paris, Monsieur. In these troublous times.”</p> +<p>He coloured warmly. “You are unjust, Mademoiselle,” +he said. “There are things you forget; in a Court one is +not always master of one’s self.”</p> +<p>“I know it,” she answered dryly, thinking of that through +which she had gone.</p> +<p>“But you do not know what happened!” he returned with +impatience. “You do not understand that I am not to blame. +Madame d’Yverne, when I reached the Princess Dowager’s closet, +had left to go to the Queen of Navarre. I hurried after her, and +found a score of gentlemen in the King of Navarre’s chamber. +They were holding a council, and they begged, nay, they compelled me +to remain.”</p> +<p>“And it was that which detained you so long?”</p> +<p>“To be sure, Mademoiselle.”</p> +<p>“And not—Madame St. Lo?”</p> +<p>M. de Tignonville’s face turned scarlet. The thrust in +tierce was unexpected. This, then, was the key to Mademoiselle’s +spirt of temper.</p> +<p>“I do not understand you,” he stammered.</p> +<p>“How long were you in the King of Navarre’s chamber, +and how long with Madame St. Lo?” she asked with fine irony. +“Or no, I will not tempt you,” she went on quickly, seeing +him hesitate. “I heard you talking to Madame St. Lo in the +gallery while I sat within. And I know how long you were with +her.”</p> +<p>“I met Madame as I returned,” he stammered, his face +still hot, “and I asked her where you were. I did not know, +Mademoiselle, that I was not to speak to ladies of my acquaintance.”</p> +<p>“I was alone, and I was waiting.”</p> +<p>“I could not know that—for certain,” he answered, +making the best of it. “You were not where I left you. +I thought, I confess—that you had gone. That you had gone +home.”</p> +<p>“With whom? With whom?” she repeated pitilessly. +“Was it likely? With whom was I to go? And yet it +is true, I might have gone home had I pleased—with M. de Tavannes! +Yes,” she continued, in a tone of keen reproach, and with the +blood mounting to her forehead, “it is to that, Monsieur, you +expose me! To be pursued, molested, harassed by a man whose look +terrifies me, and whose touch I—I detest! To be addressed +wherever I go by a man whose every word proves that he thinks me game +for the hunter, and you a thing he may neglect. You are a man +and you do not know, you cannot know what I suffer! What I have suffered +this week past whenever you have left my side!”</p> +<p>Tignonville looked gloomy. “What has he said to you?” +he asked, between his teeth.</p> +<p>“Nothing I can tell you,” she answered, with a shudder. +“It was he who took me into the Chamber.”</p> +<p>“Why did you go?”</p> +<p>“Wait until he bids you do something,” she answered. +“His manner, his smile, his tone, all frighten me. And to-night, +in all these there was a something worse, a hundred times worse than +when I saw him last—on Thursday! He seemed to—to gloat +on me,” the girl stammered, with a flush of shame, “as if +I were his! Oh, Monsieur, I wish we had not left our Poitou! +Shall we ever see Vrillac again, and the fishers’ huts about the +port, and the sea beating blue against the long brown causeway?”</p> +<p>He had listened darkly, almost sullenly; but at this, seeing the +tears gather in her eyes, he forced a laugh.</p> +<p>“Why, you are as bad as M. de Rosny and the Vidame!” +he said. “And they are as full of fears as an egg is of +meat! Since the Admiral was wounded by that scoundrel on Friday, +they think all Paris is in a league against us.”</p> +<p>“And why not?” she asked, her cheek grown pale, her eyes +reading his eyes.</p> +<p>“Why not? Why, because it is a monstrous thing even to +think of!” Tignonville answered, with the confidence of one who +did not use the argument for the first time. “Could they +insult the King more deeply than by such a suspicion? A Borgia +may kill his guests, but it was never a practice of the Kings of France! +Pardieu, I have no patience with them! They may lodge where they +please, across the river, or without the walls if they choose, the Rue +de l’Arbre Sec is good enough for me, and the King’s name +sufficient surety!”</p> +<p>“I know you are not apt to be fearful,” she answered, +smiling; and she looked at him with a woman’s pride in her lover. +“All the same, you will not desert me again, sir, will you?”</p> +<p>He vowed he would not, kissed her hand, looked into her eyes; then +melting to her, stammering, blundering, he named Madame St. Lo. +She stopped him.</p> +<p>“There is no need,” she said, answering his look with +kind eyes, and refusing to hear his protestations. “In a +fortnight will you not be my husband? How should I distrust you? +It was only that while she talked, I waited—I waited; and—and +that Madame St. Lo is Count Hannibal’s cousin. For a moment +I was mad enough to dream that she held you on purpose. You do +not think it was so?”</p> +<p>“She!” he cried sharply; and he winced, as if the thought +hurt him. “Absurd! The truth is, Mademoiselle,” +he continued with a little heat, “you are like so many of our +people! You think a Catholic capable of the worst.”</p> +<p>“We have long thought so at Vrillac,” she answered gravely.</p> +<p>“That’s over now, if people would only understand. +This wedding has put an end to all that. But I’m harking +back,” he continued awkwardly; and he stopped. “Instead, +let me take you home.”</p> +<p>“If you please. Carlat and the servants should be below.”</p> +<p>He took her left hand in his right after the wont of the day, and +with his other hand touching his sword-hilt, he led her down the staircase, +that by a single turn reached the courtyard of the palace. Here +a mob of armed servants, of lacqueys, and footboys, some bearing torches, +and some carrying their masters’ cloaks and <i>galoshes</i>, loitered +to and fro. Had M. de Tignonville been a little more observant, +or a trifle less occupied with his own importance, he might have noted +more than one face which looked darkly on him; he might have caught +more than one overt sneer at his expense. But in the business +of summoning Carlat—Mademoiselle de Vrillac’s steward and +major-domo—he lost the contemptuous “Christaudins!” +that hissed from a footboy’s lips, and the “Southern dogs!” +that died in the moustachios of a bully in the livery of the King’s +brother. He was engaged in finding the steward, and in aiding +him to cloak his mistress; then with a ruffling air, a new acquirement, +which he had picked up since he came to Paris, he made a way for her +through the crowd. A moment, and the three, followed by half a +dozen armed servants, bearing pikes and torches, detached themselves +from the throng, and crossing the courtyard, with its rows of lighted +windows, passed out by the gate between the Tennis Courts, and so into +the Rue des Fosses de St. Germain.</p> +<p>Before them, against a sky in which the last faint glow of evening +still contended with the stars, the spire and pointed arches of the +church of St. Germain rose darkly graceful. It was something after +nine: the heat of the August day brooded over the crowded city, and +dulled the faint distant ring of arms and armour that yet would make +itself heard above the hush; a hush which was not silence so much as +a subdued hum. As Mademoiselle passed the closed house beside +the Cloister of St. Germain, where only the day before Admiral Coligny, +the leader of the Huguenots, had been wounded, she pressed her escort’s +hand, and involuntarily drew nearer to him. But he laughed at +her.</p> +<p>“It was a private blow,” he said, answering her unspoken +thought. “It is like enough the Guises sped it. But +they know now what is the King’s will, and they have taken the +hint and withdrawn themselves. It will not happen again, Mademoiselle. +For proof, see the guards”—they were passing the end of +the Rue Bethizy, in the corner house of which, abutting on the Rue de +l’Arbre Sec, Coligny had his lodgings—“whom the King +has placed for his security. Fifty pikes under Cosseins.”</p> +<p>“Cosseins?” she repeated. “But I thought +Cosseins—”</p> +<p>“Was not wont to love us!” Tignonville answered, with +a confident chuckle. “He was not. But the dogs lick +where the master wills, Mademoiselle. He was not, but he does. +This marriage has altered all.”</p> +<p>“I hope it may not prove an unlucky one!” she murmured. +She felt impelled to say it.</p> +<p>“Not it!” he answered confidently. “Why should +it?”</p> +<p>They stopped, as he spoke, before the last house, at the corner of +the Rue St. Honoré opposite the Croix du Tiroir; which rose shadowy +in the middle of the four ways. He hammered on the door.</p> +<p>“But,” she said softly, looking in his face, “the +change is sudden, is it not? The King was not wont to be so good +to us!”</p> +<p>“The King was not King until now,” he answered warmly. +“That is what I am trying to persuade our people. Believe +me, Mademoiselle, you may sleep without fear; and early in the morning +I will be with you. Carlat, have a care of your mistress until +morning, and let Madame lie in her chamber. She is nervous to-night. +There, sweet, until morning! God keep you, and pleasant dreams!”</p> +<p>He uncovered, and bowing over her hand, kissed it; and the door being +open he would have turned away. But she lingered as if unwilling +to enter.</p> +<p>“There is—do you hear it—a stir in <i>that</i> +quarter?” she said, pointing across the Rue St. Honoré. +“What lies there?”</p> +<p>“Northward? The markets,” he answered. “’Tis +nothing. They say, you know, that Paris never sleeps. Good +night, sweet, and a fair awakening!”</p> +<p>She shivered as she had shivered under Tavannes’ eye. +And still she lingered, keeping him.</p> +<p>“Are you going to your lodging at once?” she asked—for +the sake, it seemed, of saying something.</p> +<p>“I?” he answered a little hurriedly. “No, +I was thinking of paying Rochefoucauld the compliment of seeing him +home. He has taken a new lodging to be near the Admiral; a horrid +bare place in the Rue Bethizy, without furniture, but he would go into +it to-day. And he has a sort of claim on my family, you know.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” she said simply. “Of course. +Then I must not detain you. God keep you safe,” she continued, +with a faint quiver in her tone; and her lip trembled. “Good +night, and fair dreams, Monsieur.”</p> +<p>He echoed the words gallantly. “Of you, sweet!” +he cried; and turning away with a gesture of farewell, he set off on +his return.</p> +<p>He walked briskly, nor did he look back, though she stood awhile +gazing after him. She was not aware that she gave thought to this; +nor that it hurt her. Yet when bolt and bar had shot behind her, +and she had mounted the cold, bare staircase of that day—when +she had heard the dull echoing footsteps of her attendants as they withdrew +to their lairs and sleeping-places, and still more when she had crossed +the threshold of her chamber, and signed to Madame Carlat and her woman +to listen—it is certain she felt a lack of something.</p> +<p>Perhaps the chill that possessed her came of that lack, which she +neither defined nor acknowledged. Or possibly it came of the night +air, August though it was; or of sheer nervousness, or of the remembrance +of Count Hannibal’s smile. Whatever its origin, she took +it to bed with her and long after the house slept round her, long after +the crowded quarter of the Halles had begun to heave and the Sorbonne +to vomit a black-frocked band, long after the tall houses in the gabled +streets, from St. Antoine to Montmartre and from St. Denis on the north +to St. Jacques on the south, had burst into rows of twinkling lights—nay, +long after the Quarter of the Louvre alone remained dark, girdled by +this strange midnight brightness—she lay awake. At length +she too slept, and dreamed of home and the wide skies of Poitou, and +her castle of Vrillac washed day and night by the Biscay tides.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER II. HANNIBAL DE SAULX, COMTE DE TAVANNES.</h2> +<p>“Tavannes!”</p> +<p>“Sire.”</p> +<p>Tavannes, we know, had been slow to obey the summons. Emerging +from the crowd, he found that the King, with Retz and Rambouillet, his +Marshal des Logis, had retired to the farther end of the Chamber; apparently +Charles had forgotten that he had called. His head a little bent—he +was tall and had a natural stoop—the King seemed to be listening +to a low but continuous murmur of voices which proceeded from the door +of his closet. One voice frequently raised was beyond doubt a +woman’s; a foreign accent, smooth and silky, marked another; a +third, that from time to time broke in, wilful and impetuous, was the +voice of Monsieur, the King’s brother, Catherine de Médicis’ +favourite son. Tavannes, waiting respectfully two paces behind +the King, could catch little that was said; but Charles, something more, +it seemed, for on a sudden he laughed, a violent, mirthless laugh. +And he clapped Rambouillet on the shoulder.</p> +<p>“There!” he said, with one of his horrible oaths, “’tis +settled! ’Tis settled! Go, man, and take your orders! +And you, M. de Retz,” he continued, in a tone of savage mockery, +“go, my lord, and give them!”</p> +<p>“I, sire?” the Italian Marshal answered, in accents of +deprecation. There were times when the young King would show his +impatience of the Italian ring, the Retzs and Biragues, the Strozzis +and Gondys, with whom his mother surrounded him.</p> +<p>“Yes, you!” Charles answered. “You and my +lady mother! And in God’s name answer for it at the day!” +he continued vehemently. “You will have it! You will +not let me rest till you have it! Then have it, only see to it, +it be done thoroughly! There shall not be one left to cast it +in the King’s teeth and cry, ‘Et tu, Carole!’ +Swim, swim in blood if you will,” he continued, with growing wildness. +“Oh, ’twill be a merry night! And it’s true +so far, you may kill fleas all day, but burn the coat, and there’s +an end. So burn it, burn it, and—” He broke +off with a start as he discovered Tavannes at his elbow. “God’s +death, man!” he cried roughly, “who sent for you?”</p> +<p>“Your Majesty called me,” Tavannes answered; while, partly +urged by the King’s hand, and partly anxious to escape, the others +slipped into the closet and left them together.</p> +<p>“I sent for you? I called your brother, the Marshal!”</p> +<p>“He is within, sire,” Tavannes answered, indicating the +closet. “A moment ago I heard his voice.”</p> +<p>Charles passed his shaking hand across his eyes. “Is +he?” he muttered. “So he is! I heard it too. +And—and a man cannot be in two places at once!” Then, +while his haggard gaze, passing by Tavannes, roved round the Chamber, +he laid his hand on Count Hannibal’s breast. “They +give me no peace, Madame and the Guises,” he whispered, his face +hectic with excitement. “They will have it. They say +that Coligny—they say that he beards me in my own palace. +And—and, <i>mordieu</i>,” with sudden violence, “it’s +true. It’s true enough! It was but to-day he was for +making terms with me! With me, the King! Making terms! +So it shall be, by God and Devil, it shall! But not six or seven! +No, no. All! All! There shall not be one left to say +to me, ‘You did it!’”</p> +<p>“Softly, sire,” Tavannes answered; for Charles had gradually +raised his voice. “You will be observed.”</p> +<p>For the first time the young King—he was but twenty-two years +old, God pity him!—looked at his companion.</p> +<p>“To be sure,” he whispered; and his eyes grew cunning. +“Besides, and after all, there’s another way, if I choose. +Oh, I’ve thought and thought, I’d have you know.” +And shrugging his shoulders, almost to his ears, he raised and lowered +his open hands alternately, while his back hid the movement from the +Chamber. “See-saw! See-saw!” he muttered. +“And the King between the two, you see. That’s Madame’s +king-craft. She’s shown me that a hundred times. But +look you, it is as easy to lower the one as the other,” with a +cunning glance at Tavannes’ face, “or to cut off the right +as the left. And—and the Admiral’s an old man and +will pass; and for the matter of that I like to hear him talk. +He talks well. While the others, Guise and his kind, are young, +and I’ve thought, oh, yes, I’ve thought—but there,” +with a sudden harsh laugh, “my lady mother will have it her own +way. And for this time she shall, but, All! All! Even +Foucauld, there! Do you mark him. He’s sorting the +cards. Do you see him—as he will be to-morrow, with the +slit in his throat and his teeth showing? Why, God!” his +voice rising almost to a scream, “the candles by him are burning +blue!” And with a shaking hand, his face convulsed, the +young King clutched his companion’s arm, and pinched it.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal shrugged his shoulders, but answered nothing.</p> +<p>“D’you think we shall see them afterwards?” Charles +resumed, in a sharp, eager whisper. “In our dreams, man? +Or when the watchman cries, and we awake, and the monks are singing +lauds at St. Germain, and—and the taper is low?”</p> +<p>Tavannes’ lip curled. “I don’t dream, sire,” +he answered coldly, “and I seldom wake. For the rest, I +fear my enemies neither alive nor dead.”</p> +<p>“Don’t you? By G-d, I wish I didn’t,” +the young man exclaimed. His brow was wet with sweat. “I +wish I didn’t. But there, it’s settled. They’ve +settled it, and I would it were done! What do you think of—of +it, man? What do you think of it, yourself?”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal’s face was inscrutable. “I think +nothing, sire,” he said dryly. “It is for your Majesty +and your council to think. It is enough for me that it is the +King’s will.”</p> +<p>“But you’ll not flinch?” Charles muttered, with +a quick look of suspicion. “But there,” with a monstrous +oath, “I know you’ll not! I believe you’d as +soon kill a monk—though, thank God,” and he crossed himself +devoutly, “there is no question of that—as a man. +And sooner than a maiden.”</p> +<p>“Much sooner, sire,” Tavannes answered grimly. +“If you have any orders in the monkish direction—no? +Then your Majesty must not talk to me longer. M. de Rochefoucauld +is beginning to wonder what is keeping your Majesty from your game. +And others are marking you, sire.”</p> +<p>“By the Lord!” Charles exclaimed, a ring of wonder mingled +with horror in his tone, “if they knew what was in our minds they’d +mark us more! Yet, see Nançay there beside the door? +He is unmoved. He looks to-day as he looked yesterday. Yet +he has charge of the work in the palace—”</p> +<p>For the first time Tavannes allowed a movement of surprise to escape +him.</p> +<p>“In the palace?” he muttered. “Is it to be +done here, too, sire?”</p> +<p>“Would you let some escape, to return by-and-by and cut our +throats?” the King retorted, with a strange spirt of fury; an +incapacity to maintain the same attitude of mind for two minutes together +was the most fatal weakness of his ill-balanced nature. “No. +All! All!” he repeated with vehemence. “Didn’t +Noah people the earth with eight? But I’ll not leave eight! +My cousins, for they are blood-royal, shall live if they will recant. +And my old nurse, whether or no. And Paré, for no one else +understands my complexion. And—”</p> +<p>“And Rochefoucauld, doubtless, sire?”</p> +<p>The King, whose eye had sought his favourite companion, withdrew +it. He darted a glance at Tavannes.</p> +<p>“Foucauld? Who said so?” he muttered jealously. +“Not I! But we shall see. We shall see! And +do you see that you spare no one, M. le Comte, without an order. +That is your business.”</p> +<p>“I understand, sire,” Tavannes answered coolly. +And after a moment’s silence, seeing that the King had done with +him, he bowed low and withdrew; watched by the circle, as all about +a King were watched in the days when a King’s breath meant life +or death, and his smile made the fortunes of men. As he passed +Rochefoucauld, the latter looked up and nodded.</p> +<p>“What keeps brother Charles?” he muttered. “He’s +madder than ever to-night. Is it a masque or a murder he is planning?”</p> +<p>“The vapours,” Tavannes answered, with a sneer. +“Old tales his old nurse has stuffed him withal. He’ll +come by-and-by, and ’twill be well if you can divert him.”</p> +<p>“I will, if he come,” Rochefoucauld answered, shuffling +the cards. “If not ’tis Chicot’s business, and +he should attend to it. I’m tired, and shall to bed.”</p> +<p>“He will come,” Tavannes answered, and moved, as if to +go on. Then he paused for a last word. “He will come,” +he muttered, stooping and speaking under his breath, his eyes on the +other’s face. “But play him lightly. He is in +an ugly mood. Please him, if you can, and it may serve.”</p> +<p>The eyes of the two met an instant, and those of Foucauld—so +the King called his Huguenot favourite—betrayed some surprise; +for Count Hannibal and he were not intimate. But seeing that the +other was in earnest, he raised his brows in acknowledgment. Tavannes +nodded carelessly in return, looked an instant at the cards on the table, +and passed on, pushed his way through the circle, and reached the door. +He was lifting the curtain to go out, when Nançay, the Captain +of the Guard, plucked his sleeve.</p> +<p>“What have you been saying to Foucauld, M. de Tavannes?” +he muttered.</p> +<p>“I?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” with a jealous glance, “you, M. le Comte.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal looked at him with the sudden ferocity that made the +man a proverb at Court.</p> +<p>“What I chose, M. le Capitaine des Suisses!” he hissed. +And his hand closed like a vice on the other’s wrist. “What +I chose, look you! And remember, another time, that I am not a Huguenot, +and say what I please.”</p> +<p>“But there is great need of care,” Nançay protested, +stammering and flinching. “And—and I have orders, +M. le Comte.”</p> +<p>“Your orders are not for me,” Tavannes answered, releasing +his arm with a contemptuous gesture. “And look you, man, +do not cross my path to-night. You know our motto? Who touches +my brother, touches Tavannes! Be warned by it.”</p> +<p>Nançay scowled. “But the priests say, ‘If +your hand offend you, cut it off!’” he muttered.</p> +<p>Tavannes laughed, a sinister laugh. “If you offend me +I’ll cut your throat,” he said; and with no ceremony he +went out, and dropped the curtain behind him.</p> +<p>Nançay looked after him, his face pale with rage. “Curse +him!” he whispered, rubbing his wrist. “If he were +any one else I would teach him! But he would as soon run you through +in the presence as in the Pré aux Clercs! And his brother, +the Marshal, has the King’s ear! And Madame Catherine’s +too, which is worse!”</p> +<p>He was still fuming, when an officer in the colours of Monsieur, +the King’s brother, entered hurriedly, and keeping his hand on +the curtain, looked anxiously round the Chamber. As soon as his +eye found Nançay, his face cleared.</p> +<p>“Have you the reckoning?” he muttered.</p> +<p>“There are seventeen Huguenots in the palace besides their +Highnesses,” Nançay replied, in the same cautious tone. +“Not counting two or three who are neither the one thing nor the +other. In addition, there are the two Montmorencies; but they +are to go safe for fear of their brother, who is not in the trap. +He is too like his father, the old Bench-burner, to be lightly wronged! +And, besides, there is Paré, who is to go to his Majesty’s +closet as soon as the gates are shut. If the King decides to save +any one else, he will send him to his closet. So ’tis all +clear and arranged here. If you are forward outside, it will be +well! Who deals with the gentleman with the tooth-pick?”</p> +<p>“The Admiral? Monsieur, Guise, and the Grand Prior; Cosseins +and Besme have charge. ’Tis to be done first. Then +the Provost will raise the town. He will have a body of stout +fellows ready at three or four rendezvous, so that the fire may blaze +up everywhere at once. Marcel, the ex-provost, has the same commission +south of the river. Orders to light the town as for a frolic have +been given, and the Halles will be ready.”</p> +<p>Nançay nodded, reflected a moment, and then with an involuntary +shudder—</p> +<p>“God!” he exclaimed, “it will shake the world!”</p> +<p>“You think so?”</p> +<p>“Ay, will it not!” His next words showed that he +bore Tavannes’ warning in mind. “For me, my friend, +I go in mail to-night,” he said. “There will be many +a score paid before morning, besides his Majesty’s. And +many a left-handed blow will be struck in the <i>mêlée</i>!”</p> +<p>The other crossed himself. “Grant none light here!” +he said devoutly. And with a last look he nodded and went out.</p> +<p>In the doorway he jostled a person who was in the act of entering. +It was M. de Tignonville, who, seeing Nançay at his elbow, saluted +him, and stood looking round. The young man’s face was flushed, +his eyes were bright with unwonted excitement.</p> +<p>“M. de Rochefoucauld?” he asked eagerly. “He +has not left yet?”</p> +<p>Nançay caught the thrill in his voice, and marked the young +man’s flushed face and altered bearing. He noted, too, the +crumpled paper he carried half-hidden in his hand; and the Captain’s +countenance grew dark. He drew a step nearer, and his hand reached +softly for his dagger. But his voice, when he spoke, was smooth +as the surface of the pleasure-loving Court, smooth as the externals +of all things in Paris that summer evening.</p> +<p>“He is here still,” he said. “Have you news, +M. de Tignonville?”</p> +<p>“News?”</p> +<p>“For M. de Rochefoucauld?”</p> +<p>Tignonville laughed. “No,” he said. “I +am here to see him to his lodging, that is all. News, Captain? +What made you think so?”</p> +<p>“That which you have in your hand,” Nançay answered, +his fears relieved.</p> +<p>The young man blushed to the roots of his hair. “It is +not for him,” he said.</p> +<p>“I can see that, Monsieur,” Nançay answered politely. +“He has his successes, but all the billets-doux do not go one +way.”</p> +<p>The young man laughed, a conscious, flattered laugh. He was +handsome, with such a face as women love, but there was a lack of ease +in the way he wore his Court suit. It was a trifle finer, too, +than accorded with Huguenot taste; or it looked the finer for the way +he wore it, even as Teligny’s and Foucauld’s velvet capes +and stiff brocades lost their richness and became but the adjuncts, +fitting and graceful, of the men. Odder still, as Tignonville +laughed, half hiding and half revealing the dainty scented paper in +his hand, his clothes seemed smarter and he more awkward than usual.</p> +<p>“It is from a lady,” he admitted. “But a +bit of badinage, I assure you, nothing more!”</p> +<p>“Understood!” M. de Nançay murmured politely. +“I congratulate you.”</p> +<p>“But—”</p> +<p>“I say I congratulate you!”</p> +<p>“But it is nothing.”</p> +<p>“Oh, I understand. And see, the King is about to rise. +Go forward, Monsieur,” he continued benevolently. “A +young man should show himself. Besides, his Majesty likes you +well,” he added, with a leer. He had an unpleasant sense +of humour, had his Majesty’s Captain of the Guard; and this evening +somewhat more than ordinary on which to exercise it.</p> +<p>Tignonville held too good an opinion of himself to suspect the other +of badinage; and thus encouraged, he pushed his way to the front of +the circle. During his absence with his betrothed, the crowd in +the Chamber had grown thin, the candles had burned an inch shorter in +the sconces. But though many who had been there had left, the +more select remained, and the King’s return to his seat had given +the company a fillip. An air of feverish gaiety, common in the +unhealthy life of the Court, prevailed. At a table abreast of +the King, Montpensier and Marshal Cossé were dicing and disputing, +with now a yell of glee, and now an oath, that betrayed which way fortune +inclined. At the back of the King’s chair, Chicot, his gentleman-jester, +hung over Charles’s shoulder, now scanning his cards, and now +making hideous faces that threw the on-lookers into fits of laughter. +Farther up the Chamber, at the end of the alcove, Marshal Tavannes—our +Hannibal’s brother—occupied a low stool, which was set opposite +the open door of the closet. Through this doorway a slender foot, +silk-clad, shot now and again into sight; it came, it vanished, it came +again, the gallant Marshal striving at each appearance to rob it of +its slipper, a dainty jewelled thing of crimson velvet. He failed +thrice, a peal of laughter greeting each failure. At the fourth +essay, he upset his stool and fell to the floor, but held the slipper. +And not the slipper only, but the foot. Amid a flutter of silken +skirts and dainty laces—while the hidden beauty shrilly protested—he +dragged first the ankle, and then a shapely leg into sight. The +circle applauded; the lady, feeling herself still drawn on, screamed +loudly and more loudly. All save the King and his opponent turned +to look. And then the sport came to a sudden end. A sinewy +hand appeared, interposed, released; for an instant the dark, handsome +face of Guise looked through the doorway. It was gone as soon +as seen; it was there a second only. But more than one recognised +it, and wondered. For was not the young Duke in evil odour with +the King by reason of the attack on the Admiral? And had he not +been chased from Paris only that morning and forbidden to return?</p> +<p>They were still wondering, still gazing, when abruptly—as he +did all things—Charles thrust back his chair.</p> +<p>“Foucauld, you owe me ten pieces!” he cried with glee, +and he slapped the table. “Pay, my friend; pay!”</p> +<p>“To-morrow, little master; to-morrow!” Rochefoucauld +answered in the same tone. And he rose to his feet.</p> +<p>“To-morrow!” Charles repeated. “To-morrow?” +And on the word his jaw fell. He looked wildly round. His +face was ghastly.</p> +<p>“Well, sire, and why not?” Rochefoucauld answered in +astonishment. And in his turn he looked round, wondering; and +a chill fell on him. “Why not?” he repeated.</p> +<p>For a moment no one answered him: the silence in the Chamber was +intense. Where he looked, wherever he looked, he met solemn, wondering +eyes, such eyes as gaze on men in their coffins.</p> +<p>“What has come to you all?” he cried, with an effort. +“What is the jest, for faith, sire, I don’t see it?”</p> +<p>The King seemed incapable of speech, and it was Chicot who filled +the gap.</p> +<p>“It is pretty apparent,” he said, with a rude laugh. +“The cock will lay and Foucauld will pay—to-morrow!”</p> +<p>The young nobleman’s colour rose; between him and the Gascon +gentleman was no love lost.</p> +<p>“There are some debts I pay to-day,” he cried haughtily. +“For the rest, farewell my little master! When one does +not understand the jest it is time to be gone.”</p> +<p>He was halfway to the door, watched by all, when the King spoke.</p> +<p>“Foucauld!” he cried, in an odd, strangled voice. +“Foucauld!” And the Huguenot favourite turned back, +wondering. “One minute!” the King continued, in the +same forced voice. “Stay till morning—in my closet. +It is late now. We’ll play away the rest of the night!”</p> +<p>“Your Majesty must excuse me,” Rochefoucauld answered +frankly. “I am dead asleep.”</p> +<p>“You can sleep in the Garde-Robe,” the King persisted.</p> +<p>“Thank you for nothing, sire!” was the gay answer. +“I know that bed! I shall sleep longer and better in my +own.”</p> +<p>The King shuddered, but strove to hide the movement under a shrug +of his shoulders. He turned away.</p> +<p>“It is God’s will!” he muttered. He was white +to the lips.</p> +<p>Rochefoucauld did not catch the words. “Good night, sire,” +he cried. “Farewell, little master.” And with +a nod here and there, he passed to the door, followed by Mergey and +Chamont, two gentlemen of his suite.</p> +<p>Nançay raised the curtain with an obsequious gesture. +“Pardon me, M. le Comte,” he said, “do you go to his +Highness’s?”</p> +<p>“For a few minutes, Nançay.”</p> +<p>“Permit me to go with you. The guards may be set.”</p> +<p>“Do so, my friend,” Rochefoucauld answered. “Ah, +Tignonville, is it you?”</p> +<p>“I am come to attend you to your lodging,” the young +man said. And he ranged up beside the other, as, the curtain fallen +behind them, they walked along the gallery.</p> +<p>Rochefoucauld stopped and laid his hand on Tignonville’s sleeve.</p> +<p>“Thanks, dear lad,” he said, “but I am going to +the Princess Dowager’s. Afterwards to his Highness’s. +I may be detained an hour or more. You will not like to wait so +long.”</p> +<p>M. de Tignonville’s face fell ludicrously. “Well, +no,” he said. “I—I don’t think I could +wait so long—to-night.”</p> +<p>“Then come to-morrow night,” Rochefoucauld answered, +with good nature.</p> +<p>“With pleasure,” the other cried heartily, his relief +evident. “Certainly. With pleasure.” And, +nodding good night, they parted.</p> +<p>While Rochefoucauld, with Nançay at his side and his gentlemen +attending him, passed along the echoing and now empty gallery, the younger +man bounded down the stairs to the great hall of the Caryatides, his +face radiant. He for one was not sleepy.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER III. THE HOUSE NEXT THE GOLDEN MAID.</h2> +<p>We have it on record that before the Comte de la Rochefoucauld left +the Louvre that night he received the strongest hints of the peril which +threatened him; and at least one written warning was handed to him by +a stranger in black, and by him in turn was communicated to the King +of Navarre. We are told further that when he took his final leave, +about the hour of eleven, he found the courtyard brilliantly lighted, +and the three companies of guards—Swiss, Scotch, and French—drawn +up in ranked array from the door of the great hall to the gate which +opened on the street. But, the chronicler adds, neither this precaution, +sinister as it appeared to some of his suite, nor the grave farewell +which Rambouillet, from his post at the gate, took of one of his gentlemen, +shook that chivalrous soul or sapped its generous confidence.</p> +<p>M. de Tignonville was young and less versed in danger than the Governor +of Rochelle; with him, had he seen so much, it might have been different. +But he left the Louvre an hour earlier—at a time when the precincts +of the palace, gloomy-seeming to us in the light cast by coming events, +wore their wonted aspect. His thoughts, moreover, as he crossed +the courtyard, were otherwise employed. So much so, indeed, that +though he signed to his two servants to follow him, he seemed barely +conscious what he was doing; nor did he shake off his reverie until +he reached the corner of the Rue Baillet. Here the voices of the +Swiss who stood on guard opposite Coligny’s lodgings, at the end +of the Rue Bethizy, could be plainly heard. They had kindled a +fire in an iron basket set in the middle of the road, and knots of them +were visible in the distance, moving to and fro about their piled arms.</p> +<p>Tignonville paused before he came within the radius of the firelight, +and, turning, bade his servants take their way home. “I +shall follow, but I have business first,” he added curtly.</p> +<p>The elder of the two demurred. “The streets are not too +safe,” he said. “In two hours or less, my lord, it +will be midnight. And then—”</p> +<p>“Go, booby; do you think I am a child?” his master retorted +angrily. “I’ve my sword and can use it. I shall +not be long. And do you hear, men, keep a still tongue, will you?”</p> +<p>The men, country fellows, obeyed reluctantly, and with a full intention +of sneaking after him the moment he had turned his back. But he +suspected them of this, and stood where he was until they had passed +the fire, and could no longer detect his movements. Then he plunged +quickly into the Rue Baillet, gained through it the Rue du Roule, and +traversing that also, turned to the right into the Rue Ferronerie, the +main thoroughfare, east and west, of Paris. Here he halted in +front of the long, dark outer wall of the Cemetery of the Innocents, +in which, across the tombstones and among the sepulchres of dead Paris, +the living Paris of that day, bought and sold, walked, gossiped, and +made love.</p> +<p>About him things were to be seen that would have seemed stranger +to him had he been less strange to the city. From the quarter +of the markets north of him, a quarter which fenced in the cemetery +on two sides, the same dull murmur proceeded, which Mademoiselle de +Vrillac had remarked an hour earlier. The sky above the cemetery +glowed with reflected light, the cause of which was not far to seek, +for every window of the tall houses that overlooked it, and the huddle +of booths about it, contributed a share of the illumination. At +an hour late even for Paris, an hour when honest men should have been +sunk in slumber, this strange brilliance did for a moment perplex him; +but the past week had been so full of fêtes, of masques and frolics, +often devised on the moment and dependent on the King’s whim, +that he set this also down to such a cause, and wondered no more.</p> +<p>The lights in the houses did not serve the purpose he had in his +mind, but beside the closed gate of the cemetery, and between two stalls, +was a votive lamp burning before an image of the Mother and Child. +He crossed to this, and assuring himself by a glance to right and left +that he stood in no danger from prowlers, he drew a note from his breast. +It had been slipped into his hand in the gallery before he saw Mademoiselle +to her lodging; it had been in his possession barely an hour. +But brief as its contents were, and easily committed to memory, he had +perused it thrice already.</p> +<p>“At the house next the Golden Maid, Rue Cinq Diamants, an hour +before midnight, you may find the door open should you desire to talk +farther with C. St. L.”</p> +<p>As he read it for the fourth time the light of the lamp fell athwart +his face; and even as his fine clothes had never seemed to fit him worse +than when he faintly denied the imputations of gallantry launched at +him by Nançay, so his features had never looked less handsome +than they did now. The glow of vanity which warmed his cheek as +he read the message, the smile of conceit which wreathed his lips, bespoke +a nature not of the most noble; or the lamp did him less than justice. +Presently he kissed the note, and hid it. He waited until the +clock of St. Jacques struck the hour before midnight; and then moving +forward, he turned to the right by way of the narrow neck leading to +the Rue Lombard. He walked in the kennel here, his sword in his +hand and his eyes looking to right and left; for the place was notorious +for robberies. But though he saw more than one figure lurking +in a doorway or under the arch that led to a passage, it vanished on +his nearer approach. In less than a minute he reached the southern +end of the street that bore the odd title of the Five Diamonds.</p> +<p>Situate in the crowded quarter of the butchers, and almost in the +shadow of their famous church, this street—which farther north +was continued in the Rue Quimcampoix—presented in those days a +not uncommon mingling of poverty and wealth. On one side of the +street a row of lofty gabled houses, built under Francis the First, +sheltered persons of good condition; on the other, divided from these +by the width of the road and a reeking kennel, a row of peat-houses, +the hovels of cobblers and sausage-makers, leaned against shapeless +timber houses which tottered upwards in a medley of sagging roofs and +bulging gutters. Tignonville was strange to the place, and nine +nights out of ten he would have been at a disadvantage. But, thanks +to the tapers that to-night shone in many windows, he made out enough +to see that he need search only the one side; and with a beating heart +he passed along the row of newer houses, looking eagerly for the sign +of the Golden Maid.</p> +<p>He found it at last; and then for a moment he stood puzzled. +The note said, next door to the Golden Maid, but it did not say on which +side. He scrutinised the nearer house, but he saw nothing to determine +him; and he was proceeding to the farther, when he caught sight of two +men, who, ambushed behind a horse-block on the opposite side of the +roadway, seemed to be watching his movements. Their presence flurried +him; but much to his relief his next glance at the houses showed him +that the door of the farther one was unlatched. It stood slightly +ajar, permitting a beam of light to escape into the street.</p> +<p>He stepped quickly to it—the sooner he was within the house +the better—pushed the door open and entered. As soon as +he was inside he tried to close the entrance behind him, but he found +he could not; the door would not shut. After a brief trial he +abandoned the attempt and passed quickly on, through a bare lighted +passage which led to the foot of a staircase, equally bare. He +stood at this point an instant and listened, in the hope that Madame’s +maid would come to him. At first he heard nothing save his own +breathing; then a gruff voice from above startled him.</p> +<p>“This way, Monsieur,” it said. “You are early, +but not too soon!”</p> +<p>So Madame trusted her footman! M. de Tignonville shrugged his +shoulders; but after all, it was no affair of his, and he went up. +Halfway to the top, however, he stood, an oath on his lips. Two +men had entered by the open door below—even as he had entered! +And as quietly!</p> +<p>The imprudence of it! The imprudence of leaving the door so +that it could not be closed! He turned, and descended to meet +them, his teeth set, his hand on his sword, one conjecture after another +whirling in his brain. Was he beset? Was it a trap? +Was it a rival? Was it chance? Two steps he descended; and +then the voice he had heard before cried again, but more imperatively—</p> +<p>“No, Monsieur, this way! Did you not hear me? This +way, and be quick, if you please. By-and-by there will be a crowd, +and then the more we have dealt with the better!”</p> +<p>He knew now that he had made a mistake, that he had entered the wrong +house; and naturally his impulse was to continue his descent and secure +his retreat. But the pause had brought the two men who had entered +face to face with him, and they showed no signs of giving way. +On the contrary.</p> +<p>“The room is above, Monsieur,” the foremost said, in +a matter-of-fact tone, and with a slight salutation. “After +you, if you please,” and he signed to him to return.</p> +<p>He was a burly man, grim and truculent in appearance, and his follower +was like him. Tignonville hesitated, then turned and ascended. +But as soon as he had reached the landing where they could pass him, +he turned again.</p> +<p>“I have made a mistake, I think,” he said. “I +have entered the wrong house.”</p> +<p>“Are you for the house next the Golden Maid, Monsieur?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Rue Cinq Diamants, Quarter of the Boucherie?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“No mistake, then,” the stout man replied firmly. +“You are early, that is all. You have arms, I see. +Maillard!”—to the person whose voice Tignonville had heard +at the head of the stairs—“A white sleeve, and a cross for +Monsieur’s hat, and his name on the register. Come, make +a beginning! Make a beginning, man.”</p> +<p>“To be sure, Monsieur. All is ready.”</p> +<p>“Then lose no time, I say. Here are others, also early +in the good cause. Gentlemen, welcome! Welcome all who are +for the true faith! Death to the heretics! ‘Kill, +and no quarter!’ is the word to-night!”</p> +<p>“Death to the heretics!” the last comers cried in chorus. +“Kill and no quarter! At what hour, M. le Prévot?”</p> +<p>“At daybreak,” the Provost answered importantly. +“But have no fear, the tocsin will sound. The King and our +good man M. de Guise have all in hand. A white sleeve, a white +cross, and a sharp knife shall rid Paris of the vermin! Gentlemen +of the quarter, the word of the night is ‘Kill, and no quarter! +Death to the Huguenots!’”</p> +<p>“Death! Death to the Huguenots! Kill, and no quarter!” +A dozen—the room was beginning to fill—waved their weapons +and echoed the cry.</p> +<p>Tignonville had been fortunate enough to apprehend the position—and +the peril in which he stood—before Maillard advanced to him bearing +a white linen sleeve. In the instant of discovery his heart had +stood a moment, the blood had left his cheeks; but with some faults, +he was no coward, and he managed to hide his emotion. He held +out his left arm, and suffered the beadle to pass the sleeve over it +and to secure the white linen above the elbow. Then at a gesture +he gave up his velvet cap, and saw it decorated with a white cross of +the same material.</p> +<p>“Now the register, Monsieur,” Maillard continued briskly; +and waving him in the direction of a clerk, who sat at the end of the +long table, having a book and a ink-horn before him, he turned to the +next comer.</p> +<p>Tignonville would fain have avoided the ordeal of the register, but +the clerk’s eye was on him. He had been fortunate so far, +but he knew that the least breath of suspicion would destroy him, and +summoning his wits together he gave his name in a steady voice. +“Anne Desmartins.” It was his mother’s maiden +name, and the first that came into his mind.</p> +<p>“Of Paris?”</p> +<p>“Recently; by birth, of the Limousin.”</p> +<p>“Good, Monsieur,” the clerk answered, writing in the +name. And he turned to the next. “And you, my friend?”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV. THE EVE OF THE FEAST.</h2> +<p>It was Tignonville’s salvation that the men who crowded the +long white-walled room, and exchanged vile boasts under the naked flaring +lights, were of all classes. There were butchers, natives of the +surrounding quarter whom the scent of blood had drawn from their lairs; +and there were priests with hatchet faces, who whispered in the butchers’ +ears. There were gentlemen of the robe, and plain mechanics, rich +merchants in their gowns, and bare-armed ragpickers, sleek choristers, +and shabby led-captains; but differ as they might in other points, in +one thing all were alike. From all, gentle or simple, rose the +same cry for blood, the same aspiration to be first equipped for the +fray. In one corner a man of rank stood silent and apart, his +hand on his sword, the working of his face alone betraying the storm +that reigned within. In another, a Norman horse-dealer talked +in low whispers with two thieves. In a third, a gold-wire drawer +addressed an admiring group from the Sorbonne; and meantime the middle +of the floor grew into a seething mass of muttering, scowling men, through +whom the last comers, thrust as they might, had much ado to force their +way.</p> +<p>And from all under the low ceiling rose a ceaseless hum, though none +spoke loud. “Kill! kill! kill!” was the burden; the +accompaniment such profanities and blasphemies as had long disgraced +the Paris pulpits, and day by day had fanned the bigotry—already +at a white heat—of the Parisian populace. Tignonville turned +sick as he listened, and would fain have closed his ears. But +for his life he dared not. And presently a cripple in a beggar’s +garb, a dwarfish, filthy creature with matted hair, twitched his sleeve, +and offered him a whetstone.</p> +<p>“Are you sharp, noble sir?” he asked, with a leer. +“Are you sharp? It’s surprising how the edge goes +on the bone. A cut and thrust? Well, every man to his taste. +But give me a broad butcher’s knife and I’ll ask no help, +be it man, woman, or child!”</p> +<p>A bystander, a lean man in rusty black, chuckled as he listened.</p> +<p>“But the woman or the child for choice, eh, Jehan?” he +said. And he looked to Tignonville to join in the jest.</p> +<p>“Ay, give me a white throat for choice!” the cripple +answered, with horrible zest. “And there’ll be delicate +necks to prick to-night! Lord, I think I hear them squeal! +You don’t need it, sir?” he continued, again proffering +the whetstone. “No? Then I’ll give my blade +another whet, in the name of our Lady, the Saints, and good Father Pezelay!”</p> +<p>“Ay, and give me a turn!” the lean man cried, proffering +his weapon. “May I die if I do not kill one of the accursed +for every finger of my hands!”</p> +<p>“And toe of my feet!” the cripple answered, not to be +outdone. “And toe of my feet! A full score!”</p> +<p>“’Tis according to your sins!” the other, who had +something of the air of a Churchman, answered. “The more +heretics killed, the more sins forgiven. Remember that, brother, +and spare not if your soul be burdened! They blaspheme God and +call Him paste! In the paste of their own blood,” he continued +ferociously, “I will knead them and roll them out, saith the good +Father Pezelay, my master!”</p> +<p>The cripple crossed himself. “Whom God keep,” he +said. “He is a good man. But you are looking ill, +noble sir?” he continued, peering curiously at the young Huguenot.</p> +<p>“’Tis the heat,” Tignonville muttered. “The +night is stifling, and the lights make it worse. I will go nearer +the door.”</p> +<p>He hoped to escape them; he had some hope even of escaping from the +room and giving the alarm. But when he had forced his way to the +threshold, he found it guarded by two pikemen; and glancing back to +see if his movements were observed—for he knew that his agitation +might have awakened suspicion—he found that the taller of the +two whom he had left, the black-garbed man with the hungry face, was +watching him a-tiptoe, over the shoulders of the crowd.</p> +<p>With that, and the sense of his impotence, the lights began to swim +before his eyes. The catastrophe that overhung his party, the +fate so treacherously prepared for all whom he loved and all with whom +his fortunes were bound up, confused his brain almost to delirium. +He strove to think, to calculate chances, to imagine some way in which +he might escape from the room, or from a window might cry the alarm. +But he could not bring his mind to a point. Instead, in lightning +flashes he foresaw what must happen: his betrothed in the hands of the +murderers; the fair face that had smiled on him frozen with terror; +brave men, the fighters of Montauban, the defenders of Angely, strewn +dead through the dark lanes of the city. And now a gust of passion, +and now a shudder of fear, seized him; and in any other assembly his +agitation must have led to detection. But in that room were many +twitching faces and trembling hands. Murder, cruel, midnight, +and most foul, wrung even from the murderers her toll of horror. +While some, to hide the nervousness they felt, babbled of what they +would do, others betrayed by the intentness with which they awaited +the signal, the dreadful anticipations that possessed their souls.</p> +<p>Before he had formed any plan, a movement took place near the door. +The stairs shook beneath the sudden trampling of feet, a voice cried +“De par le Roi! De par le Roi!” and the babel of the +room died down. The throng swayed and fell back on either hand, +and Marshal Tavannes entered, wearing half armour, with a white sash; +he was followed by six or eight gentlemen in like guise. Amid +cries of “Jarnac! Jarnac!”—for to him the credit +of that famous fight, nominally won by the King’s brother, was +popularly given—he advanced up the room, met the Provost of the +merchants, and began to confer with him. Apparently he asked the +latter to select some men who could be trusted on a special mission, +for the Provost looked round and beckoned to his side one or two of +higher rank than the herd, and then one or two of the most truculent +aspect.</p> +<p>Tignonville trembled lest he should be singled out. He had +hidden himself as well as he could at the rear of the crowd by the door; +but his dress, so much above the common, rendered him conspicuous. +He fancied that the Provost’s eye ranged the crowd for him; and +to avoid it and efface himself he moved a pace to his left.</p> +<p>The step was fatal. It saved him from the Provost, but it brought +him face to face and eye to eye with Count Hannibal, who stood in the +first rank at his brother’s elbow. Tavannes stared an instant +as if he doubted his eyesight. Then, as doubt gave slow place +to certainty, and surprise to amazement, he smiled. And after +a moment he looked another way.</p> +<p>Tignonville’s heart gave a great bump and seemed to stand still. +The lights whirled before his eyes, there was a roaring in his ears. +He waited for the word that should denounce him. It did not come. +And still it did not come; and Marshal Tavannes was turning. Yes, +turning, and going; the Provost, bowing low, was attending him to the +door; his suite were opening on either side to let him pass. And +Count Hannibal? Count Hannibal was following also, as if nothing +had occurred. As if he had seen nothing!</p> +<p>The young man caught his breath. Was it possible that he had +imagined the start of recognition, the steady scrutiny, the sinister +smile? No; for as Tavannes followed the others, he hung an instant +on his heel, their eyes met again, and once more he smiled. In +the next breath he was gone through the doorway, his spurs rang on the +stairs; and the babel of the crowd, checked by the great man’s +presence, broke out anew, and louder.</p> +<p>Tignonville shuddered. He was saved as by a miracle; saved, +he did not know how. But the respite, though its strangeness diverted +his thoughts for a while, brought short relief. The horrors which +impended over others surged afresh into his mind, and filled him with +a maddening sense of impotence. To be one hour, only one short +half-hour without! To run through the sleeping streets, and scream +in the dull ears which a King’s flatteries had stopped as with +wool! To go up and down and shake into life the guests whose royal +lodgings daybreak would turn to a shambles reeking with their blood! +They slept, the gentle Teligny, the brave Pardaillan, the gallant Rochefoucauld, +Piles the hero of St. Jean, while the cruel city stirred rustling about +them, and doom crept whispering to the door. They slept, they +and a thousand others, gentle and simple, young and old; while the half-mad +Valois shifted between two opinions, and the Italian woman, accursed +daughter of an accursed race, cried, “Hark!” at her window, +and looked eastwards for the dawn.</p> +<p>And the women? The woman he was to marry? And the others? +In an access of passion he thrust aside those who stood between, he +pushed his way, disregarding complaints, disregarding opposition, to +the door. But the pikes lay across it, and he could not utter +a syllable to save his life. He would have flung himself on the +doorkeepers, for he was losing control of himself; but as he drew back +for the spring, a hand clutched his sleeve, and a voice he loathed hummed +in his ear.</p> +<p>“No, fair play, noble sir; fair play!” the cripple Jehan +muttered, forcibly drawing him aside. “All start together, +and it’s no man’s loss. But if there is any little +business,” he continued, lowering his tone and peering with a +cunning look into the other’s face, “of your own, noble +sir, or your friends’, anything or anybody you want despatched, +count on me. It were better, perhaps, you didn’t appear +in it yourself, and a man you can trust—”</p> +<p>“What do you mean?” the young man cried, recoiling from +him.</p> +<p>“No need to look surprised, noble sir,” the lean man, +who had joined them, answered in a soothing tone. “Who kills +to-night does God service, and who serves God much may serve himself +a little. ‘Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out +the corn,’ says good Father Pezelay.”</p> +<p>“Hear, hear!” the cripple chimed in eagerly, his impatience +such that he danced on his toes. “He preaches as well as +the good father his master! So frankly, noble sir, what is it? +What is it? A woman grown ugly? A rich man grown old, with +perchance a will in his chest? Or a young heir that stands in +my lord’s way? Whichever it be, or whatever it be, trust +me and our friend here, and my butcher’s gully shall cut the knot.”</p> +<p>Tignonville shook his head.</p> +<p>“But something there is,” the lean man persisted obstinately; +and he cast a suspicious glance at Tignonville’s clothes. +It was evident that the two had discussed him, and the motives of his +presence there. “Have the dice proved fickle, my lord, and +are you for the jewellers’ shops on the bridge to fill your purse +again? If so, take my word, it were better to go three than one, +and we’ll enlist.”</p> +<p>“Ay, we know shops on the bridge where you can plunge your +arm elbow-deep in gold,” the cripple muttered, his eyes sparkling +greedily. “There’s Baillet’s, noble sir! +There’s a shop for you! And there’s the man’s +shop who works for the King. He’s lame like me. And +I know the way to all. Oh, it will be a merry night if they ring +before the dawn. It must be near daybreak now. And what’s +that?”</p> +<p>Ay, what was it? A score of voices called for silence; a breathless +hush fell on the crowd. A moment the fiercest listened, with parted +lips and starting eyes. Then, “It was the bell!” cried +one, “let us out!” “It was not!” cried +another. “It was a pistol shot!” “Anyhow +let us out!” the crowd roared in chorus; “let us out!” +And they pressed in a furious mass towards the door, as if they would +force it, signal or no signal.</p> +<p>But the pikemen stood fast, and the throng, checked in their first +rush, turned on one another, and broke into wrangling and disputing; +boasting, and calling Heaven and the saints to witness how thoroughly, +how pitilessly, how remorselessly they would purge Paris of this leprosy +when the signal did sound. Until again above the babel a man cried +“Silence!” and again they listened. And this time, +dulled by walls and distance, but unmistakable by the ears of fear or +hate, the heavy note of a bell came to them on the hot night air. +It was the boom, sullen and menacing, of the death signal.</p> +<p>The doorkeepers lowered their pikes, and with a wild rush, as of +wolves swarming on their prey, the band stormed the door, and thrust +and struggled and battled a way down the narrow staircase, and along +the narrow passage. “A bas les Huguenots! Mort aux +Huguenots!” they shouted; and shrieking, sweating, spurning with +vile hands, viler faces, they poured pell-mell into the street, and +added their clamour to the boom of the tocsin that, as by magic and +in a moment, turned the streets of Paris into a hell of blood and cruelty. +For as it was here, so it was in a dozen other quarters.</p> +<p>Quickly as they streamed out—and to have issued more quickly +would have been impossible—fiercely as they pushed and fought +and clove their way, Tignonville was of the foremost. And for +a moment, seeing the street clear before him and almost empty, the Huguenot +thought that he might do something. He might outstrip the stream +of rapine, he might carry the alarm; at worst he might reach his betrothed +before harm befell her. But when he had sped fifty yards, his +heart sank. True, none passed him; but under the spell of the +alarm-bell the stones themselves seemed to turn to men. Houses, +courts, alleys, the very churches vomited men. In a twinkling +the street was alive with men, roared with them as with a rushing tide, +gleamed with their lights and weapons, thundered with the volume of +their thousand voices. He was no longer ahead, men were running +before him, behind him, on his right hand and on his left. In +every side-street, every passage, men were running; and not men only, +but women, children, furious creatures without age or sex. And +all the time the bell tolled overhead, tolled faster and faster, and +louder and louder; and shots and screams, and the clash of arms, and +the fall of strong doors began to swell the maelstrom of sound.</p> +<p>He was in the Rue St. Honoré now, and speeding westward. +But the flood still rose with him, and roared abreast of him. +Nay, it outstripped him. When he came, panting, within sight of +his goal, and lacked but a hundred paces of it, he found his passage +barred by a dense mass of people moving slowly to meet him. In +the heart of the press the light of a dozen torches shone on half as +many riders mailed and armed; whose eyes, as they moved on, and the +furious gleaming eyes of the rabble about them, never left the gabled +roofs on their right. On these from time to time a white-clad +figure showed itself, and passed from chimney-stack to chimney-stack, +or, stooping low, ran along the parapet. Every time that this +happened, the men on horseback pointed upwards and the mob foamed with +rage.</p> +<p>Tignonville groaned, but he could not help. Unable to go forward, +he turned, and with others hurrying, shouting, and brandishing weapons, +he pressed into the Rue du Roule, passed through it, and gained the +Bethizy. But here, as he might have foreseen, all passage was +barred at the Hôtel Ponthieu by a horde of savages, who danced +and yelled and sang songs round the Admiral’s body, which lay +in the middle of the way; while to right and left men were bursting +into houses and forcing new victims into the street. The worst +had happened there, and he turned panting, regained the Rue St. Honoré, +and, crossing it and turning left-handed, darted through side streets +until he came again into the main thoroughfare a little beyond the Croix +du Tiroir, that marked the corner of Mademoiselle’s house.</p> +<p>Here his last hope left him. The street swarmed with bands +of men hurrying to and fro as in a sacked city. The scum of the +Halles, the rabble of the quarter poured this way and that, here at +random, there swayed and directed by a few knots of men-at-arms, whose +corselets reflected the glare of a hundred torches. At one time +and within sight, three or four houses were being stormed. On +every side rose heart-rending cries, mingled with brutal laughter, with +savage jests, with cries of “To the river!” The most +cruel of cities had burst its bounds and was not to be stayed; nor would +be stayed until the Seine ran red to the sea, and leagues below, in +pleasant Normandy hamlets, men, for fear of the pestilence, pushed the +corpses from the bridges with poles and boat-hooks.</p> +<p>All this Tignonville saw, though his eyes, leaping the turmoil, looked +only to the door at which he had left Mademoiselle a few hours earlier. +There a crowd of men pressed and struggled; but from the spot where +he stood he could see no more. That was enough, however. +Rage nerved him, and despair; his world was dying round him. If +he could not save her he would avenge her. Recklessly he plunged +into the tumult; blade in hand, with vigorous blows he thrust his way +through, his white sleeve and the white cross in his hat gaining him +passage until he reached the fringe of the band who beset the door. +Here his first attempt to pass failed; and he might have remained hampered +by the crowd, if a squad of archers had not ridden up. As they +spurred to the spot, heedless over whom they rode, he clutched a stirrup, +and was borne with them into the heart of the crowd. In a twinkling +he stood on the threshold of the house, face to face and foot to foot +with Count Hannibal, who stood also on the threshold, but with his back +to the door, which, unbarred and unbolted, gaped open behind him.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER V. ROUGH WOOING.</h2> +<p>The young man had caught the delirium that was abroad that night. +The rage of the trapped beast was in his heart, his hand held a sword. +To strike blindly, to strike without question the first who withstood +him was the wild-beast instinct; and if Count Hannibal had not spoken +on the instant, the Marshal’s brother had said his last word in +the world.</p> +<p>Yet as he stood there, a head above the crowd, he seemed unconscious +alike of Tignonville and the point that all but pricked his breast. +Swart and grim-visaged, his harsh features distorted by the glare which +shone upon him, he looked beyond the Huguenot to the sea of tossing +arms and raging faces that surged about the saddles of the horsemen. +It was to these he spoke.</p> +<p>“Begone, dogs!” he cried, in a voice that startled the +nearest, “or I will whip you away with my stirrup-leathers! +Do you hear? Begone! This house is not for you! Burn, +kill, plunder where you will, but go hence!”</p> +<p>“But ’tis on the list!” one of the wretches yelled. +“’Tis on the list!” And he pushed forward until +he stood at Tignonville’s elbow.</p> +<p>“And has no cross!” shrieked another, thrusting himself +forward in his turn. “See you, let us by, whoever you are! +In the King’s name, kill! It has no cross!”</p> +<p>“Then,” Tavannes thundered, “will I nail you for +a cross to the front of it! No cross, say you? I will make +one of you, foul crow!”</p> +<p>And as he spoke, his arm shot out; the man recoiled, his fellow likewise. +But one of the mounted archers took up the matter.</p> +<p>“Nay, but, my lord,” he said—he knew Tavannes—“it +is the King’s will there be no favour shown to-night to any, small +or great. And this house is registered, and is full of heretics.”</p> +<p>“And has no cross!” the rabble urged in chorus. +And they leapt up and down in their impatience, and to see the better. +“And has no cross!” they persisted. They could understand +that. Of what use crosses, if they were not to kill where there +was no cross? Daylight was not plainer. Tavannes’ +face grew dark, and he shook his finger at the archer who had spoken.</p> +<p>“Rogue,” he cried, “does the King’s will +run here only? Are there no other houses to sack or men to kill, +that you must beard me? And favour? You will have little +of mine, if you do not budge and take your vile tail with you! +Off! Or must I cry ‘Tavannes!’ and bid my people sweep +you from the streets?”</p> +<p>The foremost rank hesitated, awed by his manner and his name; while +the rearmost, attracted by the prospect of easier pillage, had gone +off already. The rest wavered; and another and another broke away. +The archer who had put himself forward saw which way the wind was blowing, +and he shrugged his shoulders.</p> +<p>“Well, my lord, as you will,” he said sullenly. +“All the same I would advise you to close the door and bolt and +bar. We shall not be the last to call to-day.” And +he turned his horse in ill-humour, and forced it, snorting and plunging, +through the crowd.</p> +<p>“Bolt and bar?” Tavannes cried after him in fury. +“See you my answer to that!” And turning on the threshold, +“Within there!” he cried. “Open the shutters +and set lights, and the table! Light, I say; light! And +lay on quickly, if you value your lives! And throw open, for I +sup with your mistress to-night, if it rain blood without! Do +you hear me, rogues? Set on!”</p> +<p>He flung the last word at the quaking servants; then he turned again +to the street. He saw that the crowd was melting, and, looking +in Tignonville’s face, he laughed aloud.</p> +<p>“Does Monsieur sup with us?” he said. “To +complete the party? Or will he choose to sup with our friends +yonder? It is for him to say. I confess, for my part,” +with an awful smile, “their hospitality seems a trifle crude, +and boisterous.”</p> +<p>Tignonville looked behind him and shuddered. The same horde +which had so lately pressed about the door had found a victim lower +down the street, and, as Tavannes spoke, came driving back along the +roadway, a mass of tossing lights and leaping, running figures, from +the heart of which rose the screams of a creature in torture. +So terrible were the sounds that Tignonville leant half swooning against +the door-post; and even the iron heart of Tavannes seemed moved for +a moment.</p> +<p>For a moment only: then he looked at his companion, and his lip curled.</p> +<p>“You’ll join us, I think?” he said, with an undisguised +sneer. “Then, after you, Monsieur. They are opening +the shutters. Doubtless the table is laid, and Mademoiselle is +expecting us. After you, Monsieur, if you please. A few +hours ago I should have gone first, for you, in this house”—with +a sinister smile—“were at home! Now, we have changed +places.”</p> +<p>Whatever he meant by the gibe—and some smack of an evil jest +lurked in his tone—he played the host so far as to urge his bewildered +companion along the passage and into the living-chamber on the left, +where he had seen from without that his orders to light and lay were +being executed. A dozen candles shone on the board, and lit up +the apartment. What the house contained of food and wine had been +got together and set on the table; from the low, wide window, beetle-browed +and diamond-paned, which extended the whole length of the room and looked +on the street at the height of a man’s head above the roadway, +the shutters had been removed—doubtless by trembling and reluctant +fingers. To such eyes of passers-by as looked in, from the inferno +of driving crowds and gleaming weapons which prevailed outside—and +not outside only, but throughout Paris—the brilliant room and +the laid table must have seemed strange indeed!</p> +<p>To Tignonville, all that had happened, all that was happening, seemed +a dream: a dream his entrance under the gentle impulsion of this man +who dominated him; a dream Mademoiselle standing behind the table with +blanched face and stony eyes; a dream the cowering servants huddled +in a corner beyond her; a dream his silence, her silence, the moment +of waiting before Count Hannibal spoke.</p> +<p>When he did speak it was to count the servants. “One, +two, three, four, five,” he said. “And two of them +women. Mademoiselle is but poorly attended. Are there not”—and +he turned to her—“some lacking?”</p> +<p>The girl opened her lips twice, but no sound issued. The third +time—</p> +<p>“Two went out,” she muttered in a hoarse, strangled voice, +“and have not returned.”</p> +<p>“And have not returned?” he answered, raising his eyebrows. +“Then I fear we must not wait for them. We might wait long!” +And turning sharply to the panic-stricken servants, “Go you to +your places! Do you not see that Mademoiselle waits to be served?”</p> +<p>The girl shuddered and spoke.</p> +<p>“Do you wish me,” she muttered, in the same strangled +tone, “to play this farce—to the end?”</p> +<p>“The end may be better, Mademoiselle, than you think,” +he answered, bowing. And then to the miserable servants, who hung +back afraid to leave the shelter of their mistress’s skirts, “To +your places!” he cried. “Set Mademoiselle’s +chair. Are you so remiss on other days? If so,” with +a look of terrible meaning, “you will be the less loss! +Now, Mademoiselle, may I have the honour? And when we are at table +we can talk.”</p> +<p>He extended his hand, and, obedient to his gesture, she moved to +the place at the head of the table, but without letting her fingers +come into contact with his. He gave no sign that he noticed this, +but he strode to the place on her right, and signed to Tignonville to +take that on her left.</p> +<p>“Will you not be seated?” he continued. For she +kept her feet.</p> +<p>She turned her head stiffly, until for the first time her eyes looked +into his. A shudder more violent than the last shook her.</p> +<p>“Had you not better—kill us at once?” she whispered. +The blood had forsaken even her lips. Her face was the face of +a statue—white, beautiful, lifeless.</p> +<p>“I think not,” he said gravely. “Be seated, +and let us hope for the best. And you, sir,” he continued, +turning to Carlat, “serve your mistress with wine. She needs +it.”</p> +<p>The steward filled for her, and then for each of the men, his shaking +hand spilling as much as it poured. Nor was this strange. +Above the din and uproar of the street, above the crash of distant doors, +above the tocsin that still rang from the reeling steeple of St. Germain’s, +the great bell of the Palais on the island had just begun to hurl its +note of doom upon the town. A woman crouching at the end of the +chamber burst into hysterical weeping, but, at a glance from Tavannes’ +terrible eye, was mute again.</p> +<p>Tignonville found voice at last. “Have they—killed +the Admiral?” he muttered, his eyes on the table.</p> +<p>“M. Coligny? An hour ago.”</p> +<p>“And Teligny?”</p> +<p>“Him also.”</p> +<p>“M. de Rochefoucauld?”</p> +<p>“They are dealing with M. le Comte now, I believe,” Tavannes +answered. “He had his chance and cast it away.” +And he began to eat.</p> +<p>The man at the table shuddered. The woman continued to look +before her, but her lips moved as if she prayed. Suddenly a rush +of feet, a roar of voices surged past the window; for a moment the glare +of the torches, which danced ruddily on the walls of the room, showed +a severed head borne above the multitude on a pike. Mademoiselle, +with a low cry, made an effort to rise, but Count Hannibal grasped her +wrist, and she sank back half fainting. Then the nearer clamour +sank a little, and the bells, unchallenged, flung their iron tongues +above the maddened city. In the east the dawn was growing; soon +its grey light would fall on cold hearths, on battered doors and shattered +weapons, on hordes of wretches drunk with greed and hate.</p> +<p>When he could be heard, “What are you going to do with us?” +the man asked hoarsely.</p> +<p>“That depends,” Count Hannibal replied, after a moment’s +thought.</p> +<p>“On what?”</p> +<p>“On Mademoiselle de Vrillac.”</p> +<p>The other’s eyes gleamed with passion. He leaned forward.</p> +<p>“What has she to do with it?” he cried. And he +stood up and sat down again in a breath.</p> +<p>Tavannes raised his eyebrows with a blandness that seemed at odds +with his harsh visage.</p> +<p>“I will answer that question by another question,” he +replied. “How many are there in the house, my friend?”</p> +<p>“You can count.”</p> +<p>Tavannes counted again. “Seven?” he said. +Tignonville nodded impatiently.</p> +<p>“Seven lives?”</p> +<p>“Well?”</p> +<p>“Well, Monsieur, you know the King’s will?”</p> +<p>“I can guess it,” the other replied furiously. +And he cursed the King, and the King’s mother, calling her Jezebel.</p> +<p>“You can guess it?” Tavannes answered; and then with +sudden heat, as if that which he had to say could not be said even by +him in cold blood, “Nay, you know it! You heard it from +the archer at the door. You heard him say, ‘No favour, no +quarter for man, for woman, or for child. So says the King.’ +You heard it, but you fence with me. Foucauld, with whom his Majesty +played to-night, hand to hand and face to face—Foucauld is dead! +And you think to live? You?” he continued, lashing himself +into passion. “I know not by what chance you came where +I saw you an hour gone, nor by what chance you came by that and that”—pointing +with accusing finger to the badges the Huguenot wore. “But +this I know! I have but to cry your name from yonder casement, +nay, Monsieur, I have but to stand aside when the mob go their rounds +from house to house, as they will go presently, and you will perish +as certainly as you have hitherto escaped!”</p> +<p>For the second time Mademoiselle turned and looked at him.</p> +<p>“Then,” she whispered, with white lips, “to what +end this—mockery?”</p> +<p>“To the end that seven lives may be saved, Mademoiselle,” +he answered, bowing.</p> +<p>“At a price?” she muttered.</p> +<p>“At a price,” he answered. “A price which +women do not find it hard to pay—at Court. ’Tis paid +every day for pleasure or a whim, for rank or the <i>entrée</i>, +for robes and gewgaws. Few, Mademoiselle, are privileged to buy +a life; still fewer, seven!”</p> +<p>She began to tremble. “I would rather die—seven +times!” she cried, her voice quivering. And she tried to +rise, but sat down again.</p> +<p>“And these?” he said, indicating the servants.</p> +<p>“Far, far rather!” she repeated passionately.</p> +<p>“And Monsieur? And Monsieur?” he urged with stern +persistence, while his eyes passed lightly from her to Tignonville and +back to her again, their depths inscrutable. “If you love +Monsieur, Mademoiselle, and I believe you do—”</p> +<p>“I can die with him!” she cried.</p> +<p>“And he with you?”</p> +<p>She writhed in her chair.</p> +<p>“And he with you?” Count Hannibal repeated, with emphasis; +and he thrust forward his head. “For that is the question. +Think, think, Mademoiselle. It is in my power to save from death +him whom you love; to save you; to save this <i>canaille</i>, if it +so please you. It is in my power to save him, to save you, to +save all; and I will save all—at a price! If, on the other +hand, you deny me that price, I will as certainly leave all to perish, +as perish they will, before the sun that is now rising sets to-night!”</p> +<p>Mademoiselle looked straight before her, the flicker of a dreadful +prescience in her eyes.</p> +<p>“And the price?” she muttered. “The price?”</p> +<p>“You, Mademoiselle.”</p> +<p>“I?”</p> +<p>“Yes, you! Nay, why fence with me?” he continued +gently. “You knew it, you have said it. You have read +it in my eyes these seven days.”</p> +<p>She did not speak, or move, or seem to breathe. As he said, +she had foreseen, she had known the answer. But Tignonville, it +seemed, had not. He sprang to his feet.</p> +<p>“M. de Tavannes,” he cried, “you are a villain!”</p> +<p>“Monsieur?”</p> +<p>“You are a villain! But you shall pay for this!” +the young man continued vehemently. “You shall not leave +this room alive! You shall pay for this insult!”</p> +<p>“Insult?” Tavannes answered in apparent surprise; and +then, as if comprehension broke upon him, “Ah! Monsieur mistakes +me,” he said, with a broad sweep of the hand. “And +Mademoiselle also, perhaps? Oh! be content, she shall have bell, +book, and candle; she shall be tied as tight as Holy Church can tie +her! Or, if she please, and one survive, she shall have a priest +of her own church—you call it a church? She shall have whichever +of the two will serve her better. ’Tis one to me! +But for paying me, Monsieur,” he continued, with irony in voice +and manner; “when, I pray you? In Eternity? For if +you refuse my offer, you have done with time. Now? I have +but to sound this whistle”—he touched a silver whistle which +hung at his breast—“and there are those within hearing will +do your business before you make two passes. Dismiss the notion, +sir, and understand. You are in my power. Paris runs with +blood, as noble as yours, as innocent as hers. If you would not +perish with the rest, decide! And quickly! For what you +have seen are but the forerunners, what you have heard are but the gentle +whispers that predict the gale. Do not parley too long; so long +that even I may no longer save you.”</p> +<p>“I would rather die!” Mademoiselle moaned, her face covered. +“I would rather die!”</p> +<p>“And see him die?” he answered quietly. “And +see these die? Think, think, child!”</p> +<p>“You will not do it!” she gasped. She shook from +head to foot.</p> +<p>“I shall do nothing,” he answered firmly. “I +shall but leave you to your fate, and these to theirs. In the +King’s teeth I dare save my wife and her people; but no others. +You must choose—and quickly.”</p> +<p>One of the frightened women—it was Mademoiselle’s tiring-maid, +a girl called Javette—made a movement, as if to throw herself +at her mistress’s feet. Tignonville drove her to her place +with a word. He turned to Count Hannibal.</p> +<p>“But, M. le Comte,” he said, “you must be mad! +Mad, to wish to marry her in this way! You do not love her. +You do not want her. What is she to you more than other women?”</p> +<p>“What is she to you more than other women?” Tavannes +retorted, in a tone so sharp and incisive that Tignonville started, +and a faint touch of colour crept into the wan cheek of the girl, who +sat between them, the prize of the contest. “What is she +more to you than other women? Is she more? And yet—you +want her!”</p> +<p>“She is more to me,” Tignonville answered.</p> +<p>“Is she?” the other retorted, with a ring of keen meaning. +“Is she? But we bandy words and the storm is rising, as +I warned you it would rise. Enough for you that I <i>do</i> want +her. Enough for you that I <i>will</i> have her. She shall +be the wife, the willing wife, of Hannibal de Tavannes—or I leave +her to her fate, and you to yours!”</p> +<p>“Ah, God!” she moaned. “The willing wife!”</p> +<p>“Ay, Mademoiselle, the willing wife,” he answered sternly. +“Or no man’s wife!”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI. WHO TOUCHES TAVANNES?</h2> +<p>In saying that the storm was rising Count Hannibal had said no more +than the truth. A new mob had a minute before burst from the eastward +into the Rue St. Honoré; and the roar of its thousand voices +swelled louder than the importunate clangour of the bells. Behind +its moving masses the dawn of a new day—Sunday, the 24th of August, +the feast of St. Bartholomew—was breaking over the Bastille, as +if to aid the crowd in its cruel work. The gabled streets, the +lanes, and gothic courts, the stifling wynds, where the work awaited +the workers, still lay in twilight; still the gleam of the torches, +falling on the house-fronts, heralded the coming of the crowd. +But the dawn was growing, the sun was about to rise. Soon the +day would be here, giving up the lurking fugitive whom darkness, more +pitiful, had spared, and stamping with legality the horrors that night +had striven to hide.</p> +<p>And with day, with the full light, killing would grow more easy, +escape more hard. Already they were killing on the bridge where +the rich goldsmiths lived, on the wharves, on the river. They +were killing at the Louvre, in the courtyard under the King’s +eyes, and below the windows of the Médicis. They were killing +in St. Martin and St. Denis and St. Antoine; wherever hate, or bigotry, +or private malice impelled the hand. From the whole city went +up a din of lamentation, and wrath, and foreboding. From the Cour +des Miracles, from the markets, from the Boucherie, from every haunt +of crime and misery, hordes of wretched creatures poured forth; some +to rob on their own account, and where they listed, none gainsaying; +more to join themselves to one of the armed bands whose business it +was to go from street to street, and house to house, quelling resistance, +and executing through Paris the high justice of the King.</p> +<p>It was one of these swollen bands which had entered the street while +Tavannes spoke; nor could he have called to his aid a more powerful +advocate. As the deep “A bas! A bas!” rolled +like thunder along the fronts of the houses, as the more strident “Tuez! +Tuez!” drew nearer and nearer, and the lights of the oncoming +multitude began to flicker on the shuttered gables, the fortitude of +the servants gave way. Madame Carlat, shivering in every limb, +burst into moaning; the tiring-maid, Javette, flung herself in terror +at Mademoiselle’s knees, and, writhing herself about them, shrieked +to her to save her, only to save her! One of the men moved forward +on impulse, as if he would close the shutters; and only old Carlat remained +silent, praying mutely with moving lips and a stern, set face.</p> +<p>And Count Hannibal? As the glare of the links in the street +grew brighter, and ousted the sickly daylight, his form seemed to dilate. +He stilled the shrieking woman by a glance.</p> +<p>“Choose! Mademoiselle, and quickly!” he said. “For +I can only save my wife and her people! Quick, for the pinch is +coming, and ’twill be no boy’s play.”</p> +<p>A shot, a scream from the street, a rush of racing feet before the +window seconded his words.</p> +<p>“Quick, Mademoiselle!” he cried. And his breath +came a little faster. “Quick, before it be too late! +Will you save life, or will you kill?”</p> +<p>She looked at her lover with eyes of agony, dumbly questioning him. +But he made no sign, and only Tavannes marked the look.</p> +<p>“Monsieur has done what he can to save himself,” he said, +with a sneer. “He has donned the livery of the King’s +servants; he has said, ‘Whoever perishes, I will live!’ +But—”</p> +<p>“Curse you!” the young man cried, and, stung to madness, +he tore the cross from his cap and flung it on the ground. He +seized his white sleeve and ripped it from shoulder to elbow. +Then, when it hung by the string only, he held his hand.</p> +<p>“Curse you!” he cried furiously. “I will +not at your bidding! I may save her yet! I <i>will</i> save +her!”</p> +<p>“Fool!” Tavannes answered—but his words were barely +audible above the deafening uproar. “Can you fight a thousand? +Look! Look!” and seizing the other’s wrist he pointed +to the window.</p> +<p>The street glowed like a furnace in the red light of torches, raised +on poles above a sea of heads; an endless sea of heads, and gaping faces, +and tossing arms which swept on and on, and on and by. For a while +it seemed that the torrent would flow past them and would leave them +safe. Then came a check, a confused outcry, a surging this way +and that; the torches reeled to and fro, and finally, with a dull roar +of “Open! Open!” the mob faced about to the house +and the lighted window.</p> +<p>For a second it seemed that even Count Hannibal’s iron nerves +shook a little. He stood between the sullen group that surrounded +the disordered table and the maddened rabble, that gloated on the victims +before they tore them to pieces. “Open! Open!” +the mob howled: and a man dashed in the window with his pike.</p> +<p>In that crisis Mademoiselle’s eyes met Tavannes’ for +the fraction of a second. She did not speak; nor, had she retained +the power to frame the words, would they have been audible. But +something she must have looked, and something of import, though no other +than he marked or understood it. For in a flash he was at the +window and his hand was raised for silence.</p> +<p>“Back!” he thundered. “Back, knaves!” +And he whistled shrilly. “Do what you will,” he went +on in the same tone, “but not here! Pass on! Pass +on!—do you hear?”</p> +<p>But the crowd were not to be lightly diverted. With a persistence +brutal and unquestioning they continued to howl, “Open! +Open!” while the man who had broken the window the moment before, +Jehan, the cripple with the hideous face, seized the lead-work, and +tore away a great piece of it. Then, laying hold of a bar, he +tried to drag it out, setting one foot against the wall below. +Tavannes saw what he did, and his frame seemed to dilate with the fury +and violence of his character.</p> +<p>“Dogs!” he shouted, “must I call out my riders +and scatter you? Must I flog you through the streets with stirrup-leathers? +I am Tavannes; beware of me! I have claws and teeth and I bite!” +he continued, the scorn in his words exceeding even the rage of the +crowd, at which he flung them. “Kill where you please, rob +where you please, but not where I am! Or I will hang you by the +heels on Montfaucon, man by man! I will flay your backs. +Go! Go! I am Tavannes!”</p> +<p>But the mob, cowed for a moment by the thunder of his voice, by his +arrogance and recklessness, showed at this that their patience was exhausted. +With a yell which drowned his tones they swayed forward; a dozen thundered +on the door, crying, “In the King’s name!” As +many more tore out the remainder of the casement, seized the bars of +the window, and strove to pull them out or to climb between them. +Jehan, the cripple, with whom Tignonville had rubbed elbows at the rendezvous, +led the way.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal watched them a moment, his harsh face bent down to +them, his features plain in the glare of the torches. But when +the cripple, raised on the others’ shoulders, and emboldened by +his adversary’s inactivity, began to squeeze himself through the +bars, Tavannes raised a pistol, which he had held unseen behind him, +cocked it at leisure, and levelled it at the foul face which leered +close to his. The dwarf saw the weapon and tried to retreat; but +it was too late. A flash, a scream, and the wretch, shot through +the throat, flung up his hands, and fell back into the arms of a lean +man in black who had lent him his shoulder to ascend.</p> +<p>For a few seconds the smoke of the pistol filled the window and the +room. There was a cry that the Huguenots were escaping, that the +Huguenots were resisting, that it was a plot; and some shouted to guard +the back and some to watch the roof, and some to be gone. But +when the fumes cleared away, the mob saw, with stupor, that all was +as it had been. Count Hannibal stood where he had stood before, +a grim smile on his lips.</p> +<p>“Who comes next?” he cried in a tone of mockery. +“I have more pistols!” And then with a sudden change +to ferocity, “You dogs!” he went on. “You scum +of a filthy city, sweepings of the Halles! Do you think to beard +me? Do you think to frighten me or murder me? I am Tavannes, +and this is my house, and were there a score of Huguenots in it, you +should not touch one, nor harm a hair of his head! Begone, I say +again, while you may! Seek women and children, and kill them. +But not here!”</p> +<p>For an instant the mingled scorn and brutality of his words silenced +them. Then from the rear of the crowd came an answer—the +roar of an arquebuse. The ball whizzed past Count Hannibal’s +head, and, splashing the plaster from the wall within a pace of Tignonville, +dropped to the ground.</p> +<p>Tavannes laughed. “Bungler!” he cried. “Were +you in my troop I would dip your trigger-finger in boiling oil to teach +you to shoot! But you weary me, dogs. I must teach you a +lesson, must I?” And he lifted a pistol and levelled it. +The crowd did not know whether it was the one he had discharged or another, +but they gave back with a sharp gasp. “I must teach you, +must I?” he continued with scorn. “Here, Bigot, Badelon, +drive me these blusterers! Rid the street of them! A Tavannes! +A Tavannes!”</p> +<p>Not by word or look had he before this betrayed that he had supports. +But as he cried the name, a dozen men armed to the teeth, who had stood +motionless under the Croix du Tiroir, fell in a line on the right flank +of the crowd. The surprise for those nearest them was complete. +With the flash of the pikes before their eyes, with the cold steel in +fancy between their ribs, they fled every way, uncertain how many pursued, +or if any pursuit there was. For a moment the mob, which a few +minutes before had seemed so formidable that a regiment might have quailed +before it, bade fair to be routed by a dozen pikes.</p> +<p>And so, had all in the crowd been what he termed them, the rabble +and sweepings of the streets, it would have been. But in the heart +of it, and felt rather than seen, were a handful of another kidney; +Sorbonne students and fierce-eyed priests, with three or four mounted +archers, the nucleus that, moving through the streets, had drawn together +this concourse. And these with threats and curse and gleaming +eyes stood fast, even Tavannes’ dare-devils recoiling before the +tonsure. The check thus caused allowed those who had budged a +breathing space. They rallied behind the black robes, and began +to stone the pikes; who in their turn withdrew until they formed two +groups, standing on their defence, the one before the window, the other +before the door.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal had watched the attack and the check, as a man watches +a play; with smiling interest. In the panic, the torches had been +dropped or extinguished, and now between the house and the sullen crowd +which hung back, yet grew moment by moment more dangerous, the daylight +fell cold on the littered street and the cripple’s huddled form +prone in the gutter. A priest raised on the shoulders of the lean +man in black began to harangue the mob, and the dull roar of assent, +the brandished arms which greeted his appeal, had their effect on Tavannes’ +men. They looked to the window, and muttered among themselves. +It was plain that they had no stomach for a fight with the Church, and +were anxious for the order to withdraw.</p> +<p>But Count Hannibal gave no order, and, much as his people feared +the cowls, they feared him more. Meanwhile the speaker’s +eloquence rose higher; he pointed with frenzied gestures to the house. +The mob groaned, and suddenly a volley of stones fell among the pikemen, +whose corselets rattled under the shower. The priest seized that +moment. He sprang to the ground, and to the front. He caught +up his robe and waved his hand, and the rabble, as if impelled by a +single will, rolled forward in a huge one-fronted thundering wave, before +which the two handfuls of pikemen—afraid to strike, yet afraid +to fly—were swept away like straws upon the tide.</p> +<p>But against the solid walls and oak-barred door of the house the +wave beat, only to fall back again, a broken, seething mass of brandished +arms and ravening faces. One point alone was vulnerable, the window, +and there in the gap stood Tavannes. Quick as thought he fired +two pistols into the crowd; then, while the smoke for a moment hid all, +he whistled.</p> +<p>Whether the signal was a summons to his men to fight their way back—as +they were doing to the best of their power—or he had resources +still unseen, was not to be known. For as the smoke began to rise, +and while the rabble before the window, cowed by the fall of two of +their number, were still pushing backward instead of forward, there +rose behind them strange sounds—yells, and the clatter of hoofs, +mingled with screams of alarm. A second, and into the loose skirts +of the crowd came charging helter-skelter, pell-mell, a score of galloping, +shrieking, cursing horsemen, attended by twice as many footmen, who +clung to their stirrups or to the tails of the horses, and yelled and +whooped, and struck in unison with the maddened riders.</p> +<p>“On! on!” the foremost shrieked, rolling in his saddle, +and foaming at the mouth. “Bleed in August, bleed in May! +Kill!” And he fired a pistol among the rabble, who fled +every way to escape his rearing, plunging charger.</p> +<p>“Kill! Kill!” cried his followers, cutting the air with +their swords, and rolling to and fro on their horses in drunken emulation. +“Bleed in August, bleed in May!”</p> +<p>“On! On!” cried the leader, as the crowd which +beset the house fled every way before his reckless onset. “Bleed +in August, bleed in May!”</p> +<p>The rabble fled, but not so quickly but that one or two were ridden +down, and this for an instant checked the riders. Before they +could pass on—</p> +<p>“Ohé!” cried Count Hannibal from his window. +“Ohé!” with a shout of laughter, “ride over +them, dear brother! Make me a clean street for my wedding!”</p> +<p>Marshal Tavannes—for he, the hero of Jarnac, was the leader +of this wild orgy—turned that way, and strove to rein in his horse.</p> +<p>“What ails them?” he cried, as the maddened animal reared +upright, its iron hoofs striking fire from the slippery pavement.</p> +<p>“They are rearing like thy Bayard!” Count Hannibal answered. +“Whip them, whip them for me! Tavannes! Tavannes!”</p> +<p>“What? This canaille?”</p> +<p>“Ay, that canaille!”</p> +<p>“Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes!” the Marshal +replied, and spurred his horse among the rabble, who had fled to the +sides of the street and now strove hard to efface themselves against +the walls. “Begone, dogs; begone!” he cried, still +hunting them. And then, “You would bite, would you?” +And snatching another pistol from his boot, he fired it among them, +careless whom he hit. “Ha! ha! That stirs you, does +it!” he continued, as the wretches fled headlong. “Who +touches my brother, touches Tavannes! On! On!”</p> +<p>Suddenly, from a doorway near at hand, a sombre figure darted into +the roadway, caught the Marshal’s rein, and for a second checked +his course. The priest—for a priest it was, Father Pezelay, +the same who had addressed the mob—held up a warning hand.</p> +<p>“Halt!” he cried, with burning eyes. “Halt, +my lord! It is written, thou shalt not spare the Canaanitish woman. +’Tis not to spare the King has given command and a sword, but +to kill! ’Tis not to harbour, but to smite! To smite!”</p> +<p>“Then smite I will!” the Marshal retorted, and with the +butt of his pistol struck the zealot down. Then, with as much +indifference as he would have treated a Huguenot, he spurred his horse +over him, with a mad laugh at his jest. “Who touches my +brother, touches Tavannes!” he yelled. “Touches Tavannes! +On! On! Bleed in August, bleed in May!”</p> +<p>“On!” shouted his followers, striking about them in the +same desperate fashion. They were young nobles who had spent the +night feasting at the Palace, and, drunk with wine and mad with excitement, +had left the Louvre at daybreak to rouse the city. “A Jarnac! +A Jarnac!” they cried, and some saluted Count Hannibal as they +passed. And so, shouting and spurring and following their leader, +they swept away down the now empty street, carrying terror and a flame +wherever their horses bore them that morning.</p> +<p>Tavannes, his hands on the ledge of the shattered window, leaned +out laughing, and followed them with his eyes. A moment, and the +mob was gone, the street was empty; and one by one, with sheepish faces, +his pikemen emerged from the doorways and alleys in which they had taken +refuge. They gathered about the three huddled forms which lay +prone and still in the gutter: or, not three—two. For even +as they approached them, one, the priest, rose slowly and giddily to +his feet. He turned a face bleeding, lean, and relentless towards +the window at which Tavannes stood. Solemnly, with the sign of +the cross, and with uplifted hands, he cursed him in bed and at board, +by day and by night, in walking, in riding, in standing, in the day +of battle, and at the hour of death. The pikemen fell back appalled, +and hid their eyes; and those who were of the north crossed themselves, +and those who came from the south bent two fingers horse-shoe fashion. +But Hannibal de Tavannes laughed; laughed in his moustache, his teeth +showing, and bade them move that carrion to a distance, for it would +smell when the sun was high. Then he turned his back on the street, +and looked into the room.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII. IN THE AMPHITHEATRE.</h2> +<p>The movements of the women had overturned two of the candles; a third +had guttered out. The three which still burned, contending pallidly +with the daylight that each moment grew stronger, imparted to the scene +the air of a debauch too long sustained. The disordered board, +the wan faces of the servants cowering in their corner, Mademoiselle’s +frozen look of misery, all increased the likeness; which a common exhaustion +so far strengthened that when Tavannes turned from the window, and, +flushed with his triumph, met the others’ eyes, his seemed the +only vigour, and he the only man in the company. True, beneath +the exhaustion, beneath the collapse of his victims, there burned passions, +hatreds, repulsions, as fierce as the hidden fires of the volcano; but +for the time they smouldered ash-choked and inert.</p> +<p>He flung the discharged pistols on the table. “If yonder +raven speak truth,” he said, “I am like to pay dearly for +my wife, and have short time to call her wife. The more need, +Mademoiselle, for speed, therefore. You know the old saying, ‘Short +signing, long seisin’? Shall it be my priest, or your minister?”</p> +<p>M. de Tignonville started forward. “She promised nothing!” +he cried. And he struck his hand on the table.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal smiled, his lip curling. “That,” +he replied, “is for Mademoiselle to say.”</p> +<p>“But if she says it? If she says it, Monsieur? +What then?”</p> +<p>Tavannes drew forth a comfit-box, such as it was the fashion of the +day to carry, as men of a later time carried a snuff-box. He slowly +chose a prune.</p> +<p>“If she says it?” he answered. “Then M. de +Tignonville has regained his sweetheart. And M. de Tavannes has +lost his bride.”</p> +<p>“You say so?”</p> +<p>“Yes. But—”</p> +<p>“But what?”</p> +<p>“But she will not say it,” Tavannes replied coolly.</p> +<p>“Why not?”</p> +<p>“Why not?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Monsieur, why not?” the younger man repeated, trembling.</p> +<p>“Because, M. de Tignonville, it is not true.”</p> +<p>“But she did not speak!” Tignonville retorted, with passion—the +futile passion of the bird which beats its wings against a cage. +“She did not speak. She could not promise, therefore.”</p> +<p>Tavannes ate the prune slowly, seemed to give a little thought to +its flavour, approved it a true Agen plum, and at last spoke.</p> +<p>“It is not for you to say whether she promised,” he returned +dryly, “nor for me. It is for Mademoiselle.”</p> +<p>“You leave it to her?”</p> +<p>“I leave it to her to say whether she promised.”</p> +<p>“Then she must say No!” Tignonville cried in a tone of +triumph and relief. “For she did not speak. Mademoiselle, +listen!” he continued, turning with outstretched hands and appealing +to her with passion. “Do you hear? Do you understand? +You have but to speak to be free! You have but to say the word, +and Monsieur lets you go! In God’s name, speak! Speak +then, Clotilde! Oh!” with a gesture of despair, as she did +not answer, but continued to sit stony and hopeless, looking straight +before her, her hands picking convulsively at the fringe of her girdle. +“She does not understand! Fright has stunned her! +Be merciful, Monsieur. Give her time to recover, to know what +she does. Fright has turned her brain.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal smiled. “I knew her father and her uncle,” +he said, “and in their time the Vrillacs were not wont to be cowards. +Monsieur forgets, too,” he continued with fine irony, “that +he speaks of my betrothed.”</p> +<p>“It is a lie!”</p> +<p>Tavannes raised his eyebrows. “You are in my power,” +he said. “For the rest, if it be a lie, Mademoiselle has +but to say so.”</p> +<p>“You hear him?” Tignonville cried. “Then +speak, Mademoiselle! Clotilde, speak! Say you never spoke, +you never promised him!”</p> +<p>The young man’s voice quivered with indignation, with rage, +with pain; but most, if the truth be told, with shame—the shame +of a position strange and unparalleled. For in proportion as the fear +of death instant and violent was lifted from him, reflection awoke, +and the situation in which he stood took uglier shape. It was +not so much love that cried to her, love that suffered, anguished by +the prospect of love lost; as in the highest natures it might have been. +Rather it was the man’s pride which suffered: the pride of a high +spirit which found itself helpless between the hammer and the anvil, +in a position so false that hereafter men might say of the unfortunate +that he had bartered his mistress for his life. He had not! +But he had perforce to stand by; he had to be passive under stress of +circumstances, and by the sacrifice, if she consummated it, he would +in fact be saved.</p> +<p>There was the pinch. No wonder that he cried to her in a voice +which roused even the servants from their lethargy of fear.</p> +<p>“Say it!” he cried. “Say it, before it be +too late. Say, you did not promise!”</p> +<p>Slowly she turned her face to him. “I cannot,” +she whispered; “I cannot. Go,” she continued, a spasm +distorting her features. “Go, Monsieur. Leave me. +It is over.”</p> +<p>“What?” he exclaimed. “You promised him?”</p> +<p>She bowed her head.</p> +<p>“Then,” the young man cried, in a transport of resentment, +“I will be no part of the price. See! There! +And there!” He tore the white sleeve wholly from his arm, +and, rending it in twain, flung it on the floor and trampled on it. +“It shall never be said that I stood by and let you buy my life! +I go into the street and I take my chance.” And he turned +to the door.</p> +<p>But Tavannes was before him. “No!” he said; “you +will stay here, M. de Tignonville!” And he set his back +against the door.</p> +<p>The young man looked at him, his face convulsed with passion.</p> +<p>“I shall stay here?” he cried. “And why, +Monsieur? What is it to you if I choose to perish?”</p> +<p>“Only this,” Tavannes retorted. “I am answerable +to Mademoiselle now, in an hour I shall be answerable to my wife—for +your life. Live, then, Monsieur; you have no choice. In +a month you will thank me—and her.”</p> +<p>“I am your prisoner?”</p> +<p>“Precisely.”</p> +<p>“And I must stay here—to be tortured?” Tignonville +cried.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal’s eyes sparkled. Sudden stormy changes, +from indifference to ferocity, from irony to invective, were characteristic +of the man.</p> +<p>“Tortured!” he repeated grimly. “You talk +of torture while Piles and Pardaillan, Teligny and Rochefoucauld lie +dead in the street! While your cause sinks withered in a night, +like a gourd! While your servants fall butchered, and France rises +round you in a tide of blood! Bah!”—with a gesture +of disdain—“you make me also talk, and I have no love for +talk, and small time. Mademoiselle, you at least act and do not +talk. By your leave I return in an hour, and I bring with me—shall +it be my priest, or your minister?”</p> +<p>She looked at him with the face of one who awakes slowly to the full +horror, the full dread, of her position. For a moment she did +not answer. Then—</p> +<p>“A minister,” she muttered, her voice scarcely audible.</p> +<p>He nodded. “A minister,” he said lightly. +“Very well, if I can find one.” And walking to the +shattered, gaping casement—through which the cool morning air +blew into the room and gently stirred the hair of the unhappy girl—he +said some words to the man on guard outside. Then he turned to +the door, but on the threshold he paused, looked with a strange expression +at the pair, and signed to Carlat and the servants to go out before +him.</p> +<p>“Up, and lie close above!” he growled. “Open +a window or look out, and you will pay dearly for it! Do you hear? +Up! Up! You, too, old crop-ears. What! would you?”—with +a sudden glare as Carlat hesitated—“that is better! +Mademoiselle, until my return.”</p> +<p>He saw them all out, followed them, and closed the door on the two; +who, left together, alone with the gaping window and the disordered +feast, maintained a strange silence. The girl, gripping one hand +in the other as if to quell her rising horror, sat looking before her, +and seemed barely to breathe. The man, leaning against the wall +at a little distance, bent his eyes, not on her, but on the floor, his +face gloomy and distorted.</p> +<p>His first thought should have been of her and for her; his first +impulse to console, if he could not save her. His it should have +been to soften, were that possible, the fate before her; to prove to +her by words of farewell, the purest and most sacred, that the sacrifice +she was making, not to save her own life but the lives of others, was +appreciated by him who paid with her the price.</p> +<p>And all these things, and more, may have been in M. de Tignonville’s +mind; they may even have been uppermost in it, but they found no expression. +The man remained sunk in a sombre reverie. He had the appearance +of thinking of himself, not of her; of his own position, not of hers. +Otherwise he must have looked at her, he must have turned to her; he +must have owned the subtle attraction of her unspoken appeal when she +drew a deep breath and slowly turned her eyes on him, mute, asking, +waiting what he should offer.</p> +<p>Surely he should have! Yet it was long before he responded. +He sat buried in thought of himself, and his position, the vile, the +unworthy position in which her act had placed him. At length the +constraint of her gaze wrought on him, or his thoughts became unbearable; +and he looked up and met her eyes, and with an oath he sprang to his +feet.</p> +<p>“It shall not be!” he cried, in a tone low, but full +of fury. “You shall not do it! I will kill him first! +I will kill him with this hand! Or—” a step took him +to the window, a step brought him back—ay, brought him back exultant, +and with a changed face. “Or better, we will thwart him +yet. See, Mademoiselle, do you see? Heaven is merciful! +For a moment the cage is open!” His eye shone with excitement, +the sweat of sudden hope stood on his brow as he pointed to the unguarded +casement. “Come! it is our one chance!” And +he caught her by her arm and strove to draw her to the window.</p> +<p>But she hung back, staring at him. “Oh no, no!” +she cried.</p> +<p>“Yes, yes! I say!” he responded. “You do +not understand. The way is open! We can escape, Clotilde, +we can escape!”</p> +<p>“I cannot! I cannot!” she wailed, still resisting +him.</p> +<p>“You are afraid?”</p> +<p>“Afraid?” she repeated the word in a tone of wonder. +“No, but I cannot. I promised him. I cannot. +And, O God!” she continued, in a sudden outburst of grief, as +the sense of general loss, of the great common tragedy broke on her +and whelmed for the moment her private misery. “Why should +we think of ourselves? They are dead, they are dying, who were +ours, whom we loved! Why should we think to live? What does +it matter how it fares with us? We cannot be happy. Happy?” +she continued wildly. “Are any happy now? Or is the +world all changed in a night? No, we could not be happy. +And at least you will live, Tignonville. I have that to console +me.”</p> +<p>“Live!” he responded vehemently. “I live? +I would rather die a thousand times. A thousand times rather than +live shamed! Than see you sacrificed to that devil! Than +go out with a brand on my brow, for every man to point at me! +I would rather die a thousand times!”</p> +<p>“And do you think that I would not?” she answered, shivering. +“Better, far better die than—than live with him!”</p> +<p>“Then why not die?”</p> +<p>She stared at him, wide-eyed, and a sudden stillness possessed her. +“How?” she whispered. “What do you mean?”</p> +<p>“That!” he said. As he spoke, he raised his hand +and signed to her to listen. A sullen murmur, distant as yet, +but borne to the ear on the fresh morning air, foretold the rising of +another storm. The sound grew in intensity, even while she listened; +and yet for a moment she misunderstood him. “O God!” +she cried, out of the agony of nerves overwrought, “will that +bell never stop? Will it never stop? Will no one stop it?”</p> +<p>“’Tis not the bell!” he cried, seizing her hand +as if to focus her attention. “It is the mob you hear. +They are returning. We have but to stand a moment at this open +window, we have but to show ourselves to them, and we need live no longer! +Mademoiselle! Clotilde!—if you mean what you say, if you +are in earnest, the way is open!”</p> +<p>“And we shall die—together!”</p> +<p>“Yes, together. But have you the courage?”</p> +<p>“The courage?” she cried, a brave smile lighting the +whiteness of her face. “The courage were needed to live. +The courage were needed to do that. I am ready, quite ready. +It can be no sin! To live with that in front of me were the sin! +Come!” For the moment she had forgotten her people, her +promise, all! It seemed to her that death would absolve her from +all. “Come!”</p> +<p>He moved with her under the impulse of her hand until they stood +at the gaping window. The murmur, which he had heard indistinctly +a moment before, had grown to a roar of voices. The mob, on its +return eastward along the Rue St. Honoré, was nearing the house. +He stood, his arm supporting her, and they waited, a little within the +window. Suddenly he stooped, his face hardly less white than hers: +their eyes met; he would have kissed her.</p> +<p>She did not withdraw from his arm, but she drew back her face, her +eyes half shut.</p> +<p>“No!” she murmured. “No! While I live +I am his. But we die together, Tignonville! We die together. +It will not last long, will it? And afterwards—”</p> +<p>She did not finish the sentence, but her lips moved in prayer, and +over her features came a far-away look; such a look as that which on +the face of another Huguenot lady, Philippa de Luns—vilely done +to death in the Place Maubert fourteen years before—silenced the +ribald jests of the lowest rabble in the world. An hour or two +earlier, awed by the abruptness of the outburst, Mademoiselle had shrunk +from her fate; she had known fear. Now that she stood out voluntarily +to meet it, she, like many a woman before and since, feared no longer. +She was lifted out of and above herself.</p> +<p>But death was long in coming. Some cause beyond their knowledge +stayed the onrush of the mob along the street. The din, indeed, +persisted, deafened, shook them; but the crowd seemed to be at a stand +a few doors down the Rue St. Honoré. For a half-minute, +a long half-minute, which appeared an age, it drew no nearer. +Would it draw nearer? Would it come on? Or would it turn +again?</p> +<p>The doubt, so much worse than despair, began to sap that courage +of the man which is always better fitted to do than to suffer. +The sweat rose on Tignonville’s brow as he stood listening, his +arm round the girl—as he stood listening and waiting. It +is possible that when he had said a minute or two earlier that he would +rather die a thousand times than live thus shamed, he had spoken beyond +the mark. Or it is possible that he had meant his words to the +full. But in this case he had not pictured what was to come, he +had not gauged correctly his power of passive endurance. He was +as brave as the ordinary man, as the ordinary soldier; but martyrdom, +the apotheosis of resignation, comes more naturally to women than to +men, more hardly to men than to women. Yet had the crisis come +quickly he might have met it. But he had to wait, and to wait +with that howling of wild beasts in his ears; and for this he was not +prepared. A woman might be content to die after this fashion; +but a man? His colour went and came, his eyes began to rove hither +and thither. Was it even now too late to escape? Too late +to avoid the consequences of the girl’s silly persistence? +Too late to—? Her eyes were closed, she hung half lifeless +on his arm. She would not know, she need not know until afterwards. +And afterwards she would thank him! Afterwards—meantime +the window was open, the street was empty, and still the crowd hung +back and did not come.</p> +<p>He remembered that two doors away was a narrow passage, which leaving +the Rue St. Honoré turned at right angles under a beetling archway, +to emerge in the Rue du Roule. If he could gain that passage unseen +by the mob! He <i>would</i> gain it. With a swift movement, +his mind made up, he took a step forward. He tightened his grasp +of the girl’s waist, and, seizing with his left hand the end of +the bar which the assailants had torn from its setting in the window +jamb, he turned to lower himself. One long step would land him +in the street.</p> +<p>At that moment she awoke from the stupor of exaltation. She +opened her eyes with a startled movement; and her eyes met his.</p> +<p>He was in the act of stepping backwards and downwards, dragging her +after him. But it was not this betrayed him. It was his +face, which in an instant told her all, and that he sought not death, +but life! She struggled upright and strove to free herself. +But he had the purchase of the bar, and by this time he was furious +as well as determined. Whether she would or no, he would save +her, he would drag her out. Then, as consciousness fully returned, +she, too, took fire.</p> +<p>“No!” she cried, “I will not!” and she struggled +more violently.</p> +<p>“You shall!” he retorted between his teeth. “You +shall not perish here.”</p> +<p>But she had her hands free, and as he spoke she thrust him from her +passionately, desperately, with all her strength. He had his one +foot in the air at the moment, and in a flash it was done. With +a cry of rage he lost his balance, and, still holding the bar, reeled +backwards through the window; while Mademoiselle, panting and half fainting, +recoiled—recoiled into the arms of Hannibal de Tavannes, who, +unseen by either, had entered the room a long minute before. From +the threshold, and with a smile, all his own, he had watched the contest +and the result.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII. TWO HENS AND AN EGG.</h2> +<p>M. de Tignonville was shaken by the fall, and in the usual course +of things he would have lain where he was, and groaned. But when +a man has once turned his back on death he is apt to fancy it at his +shoulder. He has small stomach for surprises, and is in haste +to set as great a distance as possible between the ugly thing and himself. +So it was with the Huguenot. Shot suddenly into the full publicity +of the street, he knew that at any instant danger might take him by +the nape; and he was on his legs and glancing up and down before the +clatter of his fall had travelled the length of three houses.</p> +<p>The rabble were still a hundred paces away, piled up and pressed +about a house where men were being hunted as men hunt rats. He +saw that he was unnoted, and apprehension gave place to rage. +His thoughts turned back hissing hot to the thing that had happened, +and in a paroxysm of shame he shook his fist at the gaping casement +and the sneering face of his rival, dimly seen in the background. +If a look would have killed Tavannes—and her—it had not +been wanting.</p> +<p>For it was not only the man M. de Tignonville hated at this moment; +he hated Mademoiselle also, the unwitting agent of the other’s +triumph. She had thrust him from her; she had refused to be guided +by him; she had resisted, thwarted, shamed him. Then let her take +the consequences. She willed to perish: let her perish!</p> +<p>He did not acknowledge even to himself the real cause of offence, +the proof to which she had put his courage, and the failure of that +courage to stand the test. Yet it was this, though he had himself +provoked the trial, which burned up his chivalry, as the smuggler’s +fire burns up the dwarf heath upon the Landes. It was the discovery +that in an heroic hour he was no hero that gave force to his passionate +gesture, and next moment sent him storming down the beetling passage +to the Rue du Roule, his heart a maelstrom of fierce vows and fiercer +menaces.</p> +<p>He had reached the further end of the alley and was on the point +of entering the street before he remembered that he had nowhere to go. +His lodgings were no longer his, since his landlord knew him to be a +Huguenot, and would doubtless betray him. To approach those of +his faith whom he had frequented was to expose them to danger; and, +beyond the religion, he had few acquaintances and those of the newest. +Yet the streets were impossible. He walked them on the utmost +edge of peril; he lurked in them under the blade of an impending axe. +And, whether he walked or lurked, he went at the mercy of the first +comers bold enough to take his life.</p> +<p>The sweat stood on his brow as he paused under the low arch of the +alley-end, tasting the bitter forlornness of the dog banned and set +for death in that sunlit city. In every window of the gable end +which faced his hiding-place he fancied an eye watching his movements; +in every distant step he heard the footfall of doom coming that way +to his discovery. And while he trembled, he had to reflect, to +think, to form some plan.</p> +<p>In the town was no place for him, and short of the open country no +safety. And how could he gain the open country? If he succeeded +in reaching one of the gates—St. Antoine, or St. Denis, in itself +a task of difficulty—it would only be to find the gate closed, +and the guard on the alert. At last it flashed on him that he +might cross the river; and at the notion hope awoke. It was possible +that the massacre had not extended to the southern suburb; possible, +that if it had, the Huguenots who lay there—Frontenay, and Montgomery, +and Chartres, with the men of the North—might be strong enough +to check it, and even to turn the tables on the Parisians.</p> +<p>His colour returned. He was no coward, as soldiers go; if it +came to fighting he had courage enough. He could not hope to cross +the river by the bridge, for there, where the goldsmiths lived, the +mob were like to be most busy. But if he could reach the bank +he might procure a boat at some deserted point, or, at the worst, he +might swim across.</p> +<p>From the Louvre at his back came the sound of gunshots; from every +quarter the murmur of distant crowds, or the faint lamentable cries +of victims. But the empty street before him promised an easy passage, +and he ventured into it and passed quickly through it. He met +no one, and no one molested him; but as he went he had glimpses of pale +faces that from behind the casements watched him come and turned to +watch him go; and so heavy on his nerves was the pressure of this silent +ominous attention, that he blundered at the end of the street. +He should have taken the southerly turning; instead he held on, found +himself in the Rue Ferronerie, and a moment later was all but in the +arms of a band of city guards, who were making a house-to-house visitation.</p> +<p>He owed his safety rather to the condition of the street than to +his presence of mind. The Rue Ferronerie, narrow in itself, was +so choked at this date by stalls and bulkheads, that an edict directing +the removal of those which abutted on the cemetery had been issued a +little before. Nothing had been done on it, however, and this +neck of Paris, this main thoroughfare between the east and the west, +between the fashionable quarter of the Marais and the fashionable quarter +of the Louvre, was still a devious huddle of sheds and pent-houses. +Tignonville slid behind one of these, found that it masked the mouth +of an alley, and, heedless whither the passage led, ran hurriedly along +it. Every instant he expected to hear the hue and cry behind him, +and he did not halt or draw breath until he had left the soldiers far +in the rear, and found himself astray at the junction of four noisome +lanes, over two of which the projecting gables fairly met. Above +the two others a scrap of sky appeared, but this was too small to indicate +in which direction the river lay.</p> +<p>Tignonville hesitated, but not for long; a burst of voices heralded +a new danger, and he shrank into a doorway. Along one of the lanes +a troop of children, the biggest not twelve years old, came dancing +and leaping round something which they dragged by a string. Now +one of the hindmost would burl it onward with a kick, now another, amid +screams of childish laughter, tripped headlong over the cord; now at +the crossways they stopped to wrangle and question which way they should +go, or whose turn it was to pull and whose to follow. At last +they started afresh with a whoop, the leader singing and all plucking +the string to the cadence of the air. Their plaything leapt and +dropped, sprang forward, and lingered like a thing of life. But +it was no thing of life, as Tignonville saw with a shudder when they +passed him. The object of their sport was the naked body of a +child, an infant!</p> +<p>His gorge rose at the sight. Fear such as he had not before +experienced chilled his marrow. This was hate indeed, a hate before +which the strong man quailed; the hate of which Mademoiselle had spoken +when she said that the babes crossed themselves at her passing, and +the houses tottered to fall upon her!</p> +<p>He paused a minute to recover himself, so deeply had the sight moved +him; and as he stood, he wondered if that hate already had its cold +eye fixed on him. Instinctively his gaze searched the opposite +wall, but save for two small double-grated windows it was blind; time-stained +and stone-built, dark with the ordure of the city lane, it seemed but +the back of a house, which looked another way. The outer gates +of an arched doorway were open, and a loaded haycart, touching either +side and brushing the arch above, blocked the passage. His gaze, +leaving the windows, dropped to this—he scanned it a moment; and +on a sudden he stiffened. Between the hay and the arch a hand +flickered an instant, then vanished.</p> +<p>Tignonville stared. At first he thought his eyes had tricked +him. Then the hand appeared again, and this time it conveyed an +unmistakable invitation. It is not from the unknown or the hidden +that the fugitive has aught to fear, and Tignonville, after casting +a glance down the lane—which revealed a single man standing with +his face the other way—slipped across and pushed between the hay +and the wall. He coughed.</p> +<p>A voice whispered to him to climb up; a friendly hand clutched him +in the act, and aided him. In a second he was lying on his face, +tight squeezed between the hay and the roof of the arch. Beside +him lay a man whose features his eyes, unaccustomed to the gloom, could +not discern. But the man knew him and whispered his name.</p> +<p>“You know me?” Tignonville muttered in astonishment.</p> +<p>“I marked you, M. de Tignonville, at the preaching last Sunday,” +the stranger answered placidly.</p> +<p>“You were there?”</p> +<p>“I preached.”</p> +<p>“Then you are M. la Tribe!”</p> +<p>“I am,” the clergyman answered quietly. “They +seized me on my threshold, but I left my cloak in their hands and fled. +One tore my stocking with his point, another my doublet, but not a hair +of my head was injured. They hunted me to the end of the next +street, but I lived and still live, and shall live to lift up my voice +against this wicked city.”</p> +<p>The sympathy between the Huguenot by faith and the Huguenot by politics +was imperfect. Tignonville, like most men of rank of the younger +generation, was a Huguenot by politics; and he was in a bitter humour. +He felt, perhaps, that it was men such as this who had driven the other +side to excesses such as these; and he hardly repressed a sneer.</p> +<p>“I wish I felt as sure!” he muttered bluntly. “You +know that all our people are dead?”</p> +<p>“He can save by few or by many,” the preacher answered +devoutly. “We are of the few, blessed be God, and shall +see Israel victorious, and our people as a flock of sheep!”</p> +<p>“I see small chance of it,” Tignonville answered contemptuously.</p> +<p>“I know it as certainly as I knew before you came, M. de Tignonville, +that you would come!”</p> +<p>“That <i>I</i> should come?”</p> +<p>“That some one would come,” La Tribe answered, correcting +himself. “I knew not who it would be until you appeared +and placed yourself in the doorway over against me, even as Obadiah +in the Holy Book passed before the hiding-place of Elijah.”</p> +<p>The two lay on their faces side by side, the rafters of the archway +low on their heads. Tignonville lifted himself a little, and peered +anew at the other. He fancied that La Tribe’s mind, shaken +by the horrors of the morning and his narrow escape, had given way.</p> +<p>“You rave, man,” he said. “This is no time +for visions.”</p> +<p>“I said naught of visions,” the other answered.</p> +<p>“Then why so sure that we shall escape?”</p> +<p>“I am certified of it,” La Tribe replied. “And +more than that, I know that we shall lie here some days. The time +has not been revealed to me, but it will be days and a day. Then +we shall leave this place unharmed, as we entered it, and, whatever +betide others, we shall live.”</p> +<p>Tignonville shrugged his shoulders. “I tell you, you +rave, M. la Tribe,” he said petulantly. “At any moment +we may be discovered. Even now I hear footsteps.”</p> +<p>“They tracked me well-nigh to this place,” the minister +answered placidly.</p> +<p>“The deuce they did!” Tignonville muttered, with irritation. +He dared not raise his voice. “I would you had told me that +before I joined you, Monsieur, and I had found some safer hiding-place! +When we are discovered—”</p> +<p>“Then,” the other continued calmly, “you will see.”</p> +<p>“In any case we shall be better farther back,” Tignonville +retorted. “Here, we are within an ace of being seen from +the lane.” And he began to wriggle himself backwards.</p> +<p>The minister laid his hand on him. “Have a care!” +he muttered. “And do not move, but listen. And you +will understand. When I reached this place—it would be about +five o’clock this morning—breathless, and expecting each +minute to be dragged forth to make my confession before men, I despaired +as you despair now. Like Elijah under the juniper tree, I said, +‘It is enough, O Lord! Take my soul also, for I am no better +than my fellows!’ All the sky was black before my eyes, +and my ears were filled with the wailings of the little ones and the +lamentations of women. ‘O Lord, it is enough,’ I prayed. +‘Take my soul, or, if it be Thy will, then, as the angel was sent +to take the cakes to Elijah, give me also a sign that I shall live.’”</p> +<p>For a moment he paused, struggling with overpowering emotion. +Even his impatient listener, hitherto incredulous, caught the infection, +and in a tone of awe murmured—</p> +<p>“Yes? And then, M. la Tribe!”</p> +<p>“The sign was given me. The words were scarcely out of +my mouth when a hen flew up, and, scratching a nest in the hay at my +feet, presently laid an egg.”</p> +<p>Tignonville stared. “It was timely, I admit,” he +said. “But it is no uncommon thing. Probably it has +its nest here and lays daily.”</p> +<p>“Young man, this is new-mown hay,” the minister answered +solemnly. “This cart was brought here no further back than +yesterday. It smells of the meadow, and the flowers hold their +colour. No, the fowl was sent. To-morrow it will return, +and the next, and the next, until the plague be stayed and I go hence. +But that is not all. A while later a second hen appeared, and +I thought it would lay in the same nest. But it made a new one, +on the side on which you lie and not far from your foot. Then +I knew that I was to have a companion, and that God had laid also for +him a table in the wilderness.”</p> +<p>“It did lay, then?”</p> +<p>“It is still on the nest, beside your foot.”</p> +<p>Tignonville was about to reply when the preacher grasped his arm +and by a sign enjoined silence. He did so not a moment too soon. +Preoccupied by the story, narrator and listener had paid no heed to +what was passing in the lane, and the voices of men speaking close at +hand took them by surprise. From the first words which reached +them, it was clear that the speakers were the same who had chased La +Tribe as far as the meeting of the four ways, and, losing him there, +had spent the morning in other business. Now they had returned +to hunt him down; and but for a wrangle which arose among them and detained +them, they had stolen on their quarry before their coming was suspected.</p> +<p>“’Twas this way he ran!” “No, ’twas +the other!” they contended; and their words, winged with vile +threats and oaths, grew noisy and hot. The two listeners dared +scarcely to breathe. The danger was so near, it was so certain +that if the men came three paces farther, they would observe and search +the haycart, that Tignonville fancied the steel already at his throat. +He felt the hay rustle under his slightest movement, and gripped one +hand with the other to restrain the tremor of overpowering excitement. +Yet when he glanced at the minister he found him unmoved, a smile on +his face. And M. de Tignonville could have cursed him for his +folly.</p> +<p>For the men were coming on! An instant, and they perceived +the cart, and the ruffian who had advised this route pounced on it in +triumph.</p> +<p>“There! Did I not say so?” he cried. “He +is curled up in that hay, for the Satan’s grub he is! That +is where he is, see you!”</p> +<p>“Maybe,” another answered grudgingly, as they gathered +before it. “And maybe not, Simon!”</p> +<p>“To hell with your maybe not!” the first replied. +And he drove his pike deep into the hay and turned it viciously.</p> +<p>The two on the top controlled themselves. Tignonville’s +face was livid; of himself he would have slid down amongst them and +taken his chance, preferring to die fighting, to die in the open, rather +than to perish like a rat in a stack. But La Tribe had gripped +his arm and held him fast.</p> +<p>The man whom the others called Simon thrust again, but too low and +without result. He was for trying a third time, when one of his +comrades who had gone to the other side of the lane announced that the +men were on the top of the hay.</p> +<p>“Can you see them?”</p> +<p>“No, but there’s room and to spare.”</p> +<p>“Oh, a curse on your room!” Simon retorted. “Well, +you can look.”</p> +<p>“If that’s all, I’ll soon look!” was the +answer. And the rogue, forcing himself between the hay and the +side of the gateway, found the wheel of the cart, and began to raise +himself on it.</p> +<p>Tignonville, who lay on that hand, heard, though he could not see +his movements. He knew what they meant, he knew that in a twinkling +he must be discovered; and with a last prayer he gathered himself for +a spring.</p> +<p>It seemed an age before the intruder’s head appeared on a level +with the hay; and then the alarm came from another quarter. The +hen which had made its nest at Tignonville’s feet, disturbed by +the movement or by the newcomer’s hand, flew out with a rush and +flutter as of a great firework. Upsetting the startled Simon, +who slipped swearing to the ground, it swooped scolding and clucking +over the heads of the other men, and reaching the street in safety, +scuttled off at speed, its outspread wings sweeping the earth in its +rage.</p> +<p>They laughed uproariously as Simon emerged, rubbing his elbow.</p> +<p>“There’s for you! There’s your preacher!” +his opponent jeered.</p> +<p>“D---n her! she gives tongue as fast as any of them!” +gibed a second. “Will you try again, Simon? You may +find another love-letter there!”</p> +<p>“Have done!” a third cried impatiently. “He’ll +not be where the hen is! Let’s back! Let’s back! +I said before that it wasn’t this way he turned! He’s +made for the river.”</p> +<p>“The plague in his vitals!” Simon replied furiously. +“Wherever he is, I’ll find him!” And, reluctant +to confess himself wrong, he lingered, casting vengeful glances at the +hay.</p> +<p>But one of the other men cursed him for a fool; and presently, forced +to accept his defeat or be left alone, he rejoined his fellows. +Slowly the footsteps and voices receded along the lane; slowly, until +silence swallowed them, and on the quivering strained senses of the +two who remained behind, descended the gentle influence of twilight +and the sweet scent of the new-mown hay on which they lay.</p> +<p>La Tribe turned to his companion, his eyes shining. “Our +soul is escaped,” he murmured, “even as a bird out of the +snare of the fowler. The snare is broken and we are delivered!” +His voice shook as he whispered the ancient words of triumph.</p> +<p>But when they came to look in the nest at Tignonville’s feet +there was no egg!</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX. UNSTABLE.</h2> +<p>And that troubled M. la Tribe no little, although he did not impart +his thoughts to his companion. Instead they talked in whispers +of the things which had happened; of the Admiral, of Teligny, whom all +loved, of Rochefoucauld the accomplished, the King’s friend; of +the princes in the Louvre whom they gave up for lost, and of the Huguenot +nobles on the farther side of the river, of whose safety there seemed +some hope. Tignonville—he best knew why—said nothing +of the fate of his betrothed, or of his own adventures in that connection. +But each told the other how the alarm had reached him, and painted in +broken words his reluctance to believe in treachery so black. +Thence they passed to the future of the cause, and of that took views +as opposite as light and darkness, as Papegot and Huguenot. The +one was confident, the other in despair. And some time in the +afternoon, worn out by the awful experiences of the last twelve hours, +they fell asleep, their heads on their arms, the hay tickling their +faces; and, with death stalking the lane beside them, slept soundly +until after sundown.</p> +<p>When they awoke hunger awoke with them, and urged on La Tribe’s +mind the question of the missing egg. It was not altogether the +prick of appetite which troubled him, but regarding the hiding-place +in which they lay as an ark of refuge providentially supplied, protected +and victualled, he could not refrain from asking reverently what the +deficiency meant. It was not as if one hen only had appeared; +as if no farther prospect had been extended. But up to a certain +point the message was clear. Then when the Hand of Providence +had shown itself most plainly, and in a manner to melt the heart with +awe and thankfulness, the message had been blurred. Seriously +the Huguenot asked himself what it portended.</p> +<p>To Tignonville, if he thought of it at all, the matter was the matter +of an egg, and stopped there. An egg might alleviate the growing +pangs of hunger; its non-appearance was a disappointment, but he traced +the matter no farther. It must be confessed, too, that the haycart +was to him only a haycart—and not an ark; and the sooner he was +safely away from it the better he would be pleased. While La Tribe, +lying snug and warm beside him, thanked God for a lot so different from +that of such of his fellows as had escaped—whom he pictured crouching +in dank cellars, or on roof-trees exposed to the heat by day and the +dews by night—the young man grew more and more restive.</p> +<p>Hunger pricked him, and the meanness of the part he had played moved +him to action. About midnight, resisting the dissuasions of his +companion, he would have sallied out in search of food if the passage +of a turbulent crowd had not warned him that the work of murder was +still proceeding. He curbed himself after that and lay until daylight. +But, ill content with his own conduct, on fire when he thought of his +betrothed, he was in no temper to bear hardship cheerfully or long; +and gradually there rose before his mind the picture of Madame St. Lo’s +smiling face, and the fair hair which curled low on the white of her +neck.</p> +<p>He would, and he would not. Death that had stalked so near +him preached its solemn sermon. But death and pleasure are never +far apart; and at no time and nowhere have they jostled one another +more familiarly than in that age, wherever the influence of Italy and +Italian art and Italian hopelessness extended. Again, on the one +side, La Tribe’s example went for something with his comrade in +misfortune; but in the other scale hung relief from discomfort, with +the prospect of a woman’s smiles and a woman’s flatteries, +of dainty dishes, luxury, and passion. If he went now, he went +to her from the jaws of death, with the glamour of adventure and peril +about him; and the very going into her presence was a lure. Moreover, +if he had been willing while his betrothed was still his, why not now +when he had lost her?</p> +<p>It was this last reflection—and one other thing which came +on a sudden into his mind—which turned the scale. About +noon he sat up in the hay, and, abruptly and sullenly, “I’ll +lie here no longer,” he said; and he dropped his legs over the +side. “I shall go.”</p> +<p>The movement was so unexpected that La Tribe stared at him in silence. +Then, “You will run a great risk, M. de Tignonville,” he +said gravely, “if you do. You may go as far under cover +of night as the river, or you may reach one of the gates. But +as to crossing the one or passing the other, I reckon it a thing impossible.”</p> +<p>“I shall not wait until night,” Tignonville answered +curtly, a ring of defiance in his tone. “I shall go now! +I’ll lie here no longer!”</p> +<p>“Now?”</p> +<p>“Yes, now.”</p> +<p>“You will be mad if you do,” the other replied. +He thought it the petulant outcry of youth tired of inaction; a protest, +and nothing more.</p> +<p>He was speedily undeceived. “Mad or not, I am going!” +Tignonville retorted. And he slid to the ground, and from the +covert of the hanging fringe of hay looked warily up and down the lane. +“It is clear, I think,” he said. “Good-bye.” +And with no more, without one upward glance or a gesture of the hand, +with no further adieu or word of gratitude, he walked out into the lane, +turned briskly to the left, and vanished.</p> +<p>The minister uttered a cry of surprise, and made as if he would descend +also.</p> +<p>“Come back, sir!” he called, as loudly as he dared. +“M. de Tignonville, come back! This is folly or worse!”</p> +<p>But M. de Tignonville was gone.</p> +<p>La Tribe listened a while, unable to believe it, and still expecting +his return. At last, hearing nothing, he slid, greatly excited, +to the ground and looked out. It was not until he had peered up +and down the lane and made sure that it was empty that he could persuade +himself that the other had gone for good. Then he climbed slowly +and seriously to his place again, and sighed as he settled himself.</p> +<p>“Unstable as water thou shalt not excel!” he muttered. +“Now I know why there was only one egg.”</p> +<p>Meanwhile Tignonville, after putting a hundred yards between himself +and his bedfellow, plunged into the first dark entry which presented +itself. Hurriedly, and with a frowning face, he cut off his left +sleeve from shoulder to wrist; and this act, by disclosing his linen, +put him in possession of the white sleeve which he had once involuntarily +donned, and once discarded. The white cross on the cap he could +not assume, for he was bareheaded. But he had little doubt that +the sleeve would suffice, and with a bold demeanour he made his way +northward until he reached again the Rue Ferronerie.</p> +<p>Excited groups were wandering up and down the street, and, fearing +to traverse its crowded narrows, he went by lanes parallel with it as +far as the Rue St. Denis, which he crossed. Everywhere he saw +houses gutted and doors burst in, and traces of a cruelty and a fanaticism +almost incredible. Near the Rue des Lombards he saw a dead child, +stripped stark and hanged on the hook of a cobbler’s shutter. +A little farther on in the same street he stepped over the body of a +handsome young woman, distinguished by the length and beauty of her +hair. To obtain her bracelets, her captors had cut off her hands; +afterwards—but God knows how long afterwards—a passer-by, +more pitiful than his fellows, had put her out of her misery with a +spit, which still remained plunged in her body.</p> +<p>M. de Tignonville shuddered at the sight, and at others like it. +He loathed the symbol he wore, and himself for wearing it; and more +than once his better nature bade him return and play the nobler part. +Once he did turn with that intention. But he had set his mind +on comfort and pleasure, and the value of these things is raised, not +lowered, by danger and uncertainty. Quickly his stoicism oozed +away; he turned again. Barely avoiding the rush of a crowd of +wretches who were bearing a swooning victim to the river, he hurried +through the Rue des Lombards, and reached in safety the house beside +the Golden Maid.</p> +<p>He had no doubt now on which side of the Maid Madame St. Lo lived; +the house was plain before him. He had only to knock. But +in proportion as he approached his haven, his anxiety grew. To +lose all, with all in his grasp, to fail upon the threshold, was a thing +which bore no looking at; and it was with a nervous hand and eyes cast +fearfully behind him that he plied the heavy iron knocker which adorned +the door.</p> +<p>He could not turn his gaze from a knot of ruffians, who were gathered +under one of the tottering gables on the farther side of the street. +They seemed to be watching him, and he fancied—though the distance +rendered this impossible—that he could see suspicion growing in +their eyes. At any moment they might cross the roadway, they might +approach, they might challenge him. And at the thought he knocked +and knocked again. Why did not the porter come?</p> +<p>Ay, why? For now a score of contingencies came into the young +man’s mind and tortured him. Had Madame St. Lo withdrawn +to safer quarters and closed the house? Or, good Catholic as she +was, had she given way to panic, and determined to open to no one? +Or was she ill? Or had she perished in the general disorder? +Or—</p> +<p>And then, even as the men began to slink towards him, his heart leapt. +He heard a footstep heavy and slow move through the house. It +came nearer and nearer. A moment, and an iron-grated Judas-hole +in the door slid open, and a servant, an elderly man, sleek and respectable, +looked out at him.</p> +<p>Tignonville could scarcely speak for excitement. “Madame +St. Lo?” he muttered tremulously. “I come to her from +her cousin the Comte de Tavannes. Quick! quick! if you please. +Open to me!”</p> +<p>“Monsieur is alone?”</p> +<p>“Yes! Yes!”</p> +<p>The man nodded gravely and slid back the bolts. He allowed +M. de Tignonville to enter, then with care he secured the door, and +led the way across a small square court, paved with red tiles and enclosed +by the house, but open above to the sunshine and the blue sky. +A gallery which ran round the upper floor looked on this court, in which +a great quiet reigned, broken only by the music of a fountain. +A vine climbed on the wooden pillars which supported the gallery, and, +aspiring higher, embraced the wide carved eaves, and even tapestried +with green the three gables that on each side of the court broke the +skyline. The grapes hung nearly ripe, and amid their clusters +and the green lattice of their foliage Tignonville’s gaze sought +eagerly but in vain the laughing eyes and piquant face of his new mistress. +For with the closing of the door, and the passing from him of the horrors +of the streets, he had entered, as by magic, a new and smiling world; +a world of tennis and roses, of tinkling voices and women’s wiles, +a world which smacked of Florence and the South, and love and life; +a world which his late experiences had set so far away from him, his +memory of it seemed a dream. Now, as he drank in its stillness +and its fragrance, as he felt its safety and its luxury lap him round +once more, he sighed. And with that breath he rid himself of much.</p> +<p>The servant led him to a parlour, a cool shady room on the farther +side of the tiny quadrangle, and, muttering something inaudible, withdrew. +A moment later a frolicsome laugh, and the light flutter of a woman’s +skirt as she tripped across the court, brought the blood to his cheeks. +He went a step nearer to the door, and his eyes grew bright.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER X. MADAME ST. LO.</h2> +<p>So far excitement had supported Tignonville in his escape. +It was only when he knew himself safe, when he heard Madame St. Lo’s +footstep in the courtyard and knew that in a moment he would see her, +that he knew also that he was failing for want of food. The room +seemed to go round with him; the window to shift, the light to flicker. +And then again, with equal abruptness, he grew strong and steady and +perfectly master of himself. Nay, never had he felt a confidence +in himself so overwhelming or a capacity so complete. The triumph +of that which he had done, the knowledge that of so many he, almost +alone, had escaped, filled his brain with a delicious and intoxicating +vanity. When the door opened, and Madame St. Lo appeared on the +threshold, he advanced holding out his arms. He expected that +she would fall into them.</p> +<p>But Madame only backed and curtseyed, a mischievous light in her +eyes.</p> +<p>“A thousand thanks, Monsieur!” she said, “but you +are more ready than I!” And she remained by the door.</p> +<p>“I have come to you through all!” he cried, speaking +loudly because of a humming in his ears. “They are lying +in the streets! They are dying, are dead, are hunted, are pursued, +are perishing! But I have come through all to you!”</p> +<p>She curtseyed anew. “So I see, Monsieur!” she answered. +“I am flattered!” But she did not advance, and gradually, +light-headed as he was, he began to see that she looked at him with +an odd closeness. And he took offence.</p> +<p>“I say, Madame, I have come to you!” he repeated. +“And you do not seem pleased!”</p> +<p>She came forward a step and looked at him still more oddly.</p> +<p>“Oh yes,” she said. “I am pleased, M. de +Tignonville. It is what I intended. But tell me how you +have fared. You are not hurt?”</p> +<p>“Not a hair!” he cried boastfully. And he told +her in a dozen windy sentences of the adventure of the haycart and his +narrow escape. He wound up with a foolish meaningless laugh.</p> +<p>“Then you have not eaten for thirty-six hours?” she said. +And when he did not answer, “I understand,” she continued, +nodding and speaking as to a child. And she rang a silver handbell +and gave an order.</p> +<p>She addressed the servant in her usual tone, but to Tignonville’s +ear her voice seemed to fall to a whisper. Her figure—she +was small and fairy-like—began to sway before him; and then in +a moment, as it seemed to him, she was gone, and he was seated at a +table, his trembling fingers grasping a cup of wine which the elderly +servant who had admitted him was holding to his lips. On the table +before him were a spit of partridges and a cake of white bread. +When he had swallowed a second mouthful of wine—which cleared +his eyes as by magic—the man urged him to eat. And he fell +to with an appetite that grew as he ate.</p> +<p>By-and-by, feeling himself again, he became aware that two of Madame’s +women were peering at him through the open doorway. He looked +that way and they fled giggling into the court; but in a moment they +were back again, and the sound of their tittering drew his eyes anew +to the door. It was the custom of the day for ladies of rank to +wait on their favourites at table; and he wondered if Madame were with +them, and why she did not come and serve him herself.</p> +<p>But for a while longer the savour of the roasted game took up the +major part of his thoughts; and when prudence warned him to desist, +and he sat back, satisfied after his long fast, he was in no mood to +be critical. Perhaps—for somewhere in the house he heard +a lute—Madame was entertaining those whom she could not leave? +Or deluding some who might betray him if they discovered him?</p> +<p>From that his mind turned back to the streets and the horrors through +which he had passed; but for a moment and no more. A shudder, +an emotion of prayerful pity, and he recalled his thoughts. In +the quiet of the cool room, looking on the sunny, vine-clad court, with +the tinkle of the lute and the murmurous sound of women’s voices +in his ears, it was hard to believe that the things from which he had +emerged were real. It was still more unpleasant, and as futile, +to dwell on them. A day of reckoning would come, and, if La Tribe +were right, the cause would rally, bristling with pikes and snorting +with war-horses, and the blood spilled in this wicked city would cry +aloud for vengeance. But the hour was not yet. He had lost +his mistress, and for that atonement must be exacted. But in the +present another mistress awaited him, and as a man could only die once, +and might die at any minute, so he could only live once, and in the +present. Then <i>vogue la galère</i>!</p> +<p>As he roused himself from this brief reverie and fell to wondering +how long he was to be left to himself, a rosebud tossed by an unseen +hand struck him on the breast and dropped to his knees. To seize +it and kiss it gallantly, to spring to his feet and look about him were +instinctive movements. But he could see no one; and, in the hope +of surprising the giver, he stole to the window. The sound of +the lute and the distant tinkle of laughter persisted. The court, +save for a page, who lay asleep on a bench in the gallery, was empty. +Tignonville scanned the boy suspiciously; a male disguise was often +adopted by the court ladies, and if Madame would play a prank on him, +this was a thing to be reckoned with. But a boy it seemed to be, +and after a while the young man went back to his seat.</p> +<p>Even as he sat down, a second flower struck him more sharply in the +face, and this time he darted not to the window but to the door. +He opened it quickly and looked out, but again he was too late.</p> +<p>“I shall catch you presently, <i>ma reine</i>!” he murmured +tenderly, with intent to be heard. And he closed the door. +But, wiser this time, he waited with his hand on the latch until he +heard the rustling of a skirt, and saw the line of light at the foot +of the door darkened by a shadow. That moment he flung the door +wide, and, clasping the wearer of the skirt in his arms, kissed her +lips before she had time to resist.</p> +<p>Then he fell back as if he had been shot! For the wearer of +the skirt, she whom he had kissed, was Madame St. Lo’s woman, +and behind her stood Madame herself, laughing, laughing, laughing with +all the gay abandonment of her light little heart.</p> +<p>“Oh, the gallant gentleman!” she cried, and clapped her +hands effusively. “Was ever recovery so rapid? Or +triumph so speedy? Suzanne, my child; you surpass Venus. +Your charms conquer before they are seen!”</p> +<p>M. de Tignonville had put poor Suzanne from him as if she burned; +and hot and embarrassed, cursing his haste, he stood looking awkwardly +at them.</p> +<p>“Madame,” he stammered at last, “you know quite +well that—”</p> +<p>“Seeing is believing!”</p> +<p>“That I thought it was you!”</p> +<p>“Oh, what I have lost!” she replied. And she looked +archly at Suzanne, who giggled and tossed her head.</p> +<p>He was growing angry. “But, Madame,” he protested, +“you know—”</p> +<p>“I know what I know, and I have seen what I have seen!” +Madame answered merrily. And she hummed,</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘Ce fut le plus grand jour d’esté<br /> +Que m’embrassa la belle Suzanne!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Oh yes, I know what I know!” she repeated. And she fell +again to laughing immoderately; while the pretty piece of mischief beside +her hung her head, and, putting a finger in her mouth, mocked him with +an affectation of modesty.</p> +<p>The young man glowered at them between rage and embarrassment. +This was not the reception, nor this the hero’s return to which +he had looked forward. And a doubt began to take form in his mind. +The mistress he had pictured would not laugh at kisses given to another; +nor forget in a twinkling the straits through which he had come to her, +the hell from which he had plucked himself! Possibly the court +ladies held love as cheap as this, and lovers but as playthings, butts +for their wit, and pegs on which to hang their laughter. But—but +he began to doubt, and, perplexed and irritated, he showed his feelings.</p> +<p>“Madame,” he said stiffly, “a jest is an excellent +thing. But pardon me if I say that it is ill played on a fasting +man.”</p> +<p>Madame desisted from laughter that she might speak. “A +fasting man?” she cried. “And he has eaten two partridges!”</p> +<p>“Fasting from love, Madame.”</p> +<p>Madame St. Lo held up her hands. “And it’s not +two minutes since he took a kiss!”</p> +<p>He winced, was silent a moment, and then seeing that he got nothing +by the tone he had adopted he cried for quarter.</p> +<p>“A little mercy, Madame, as you are beautiful,” he said, +wooing her with his eyes. “Do not plague me beyond what +a man can bear. Dismiss, I pray you, this good creature—whose +charms do but set off yours as the star leads the eye to the moon—and +make me the happiest man in the world by so much of your company as +you will vouchsafe to give me.”</p> +<p>“That may be but a very little,” she answered, letting +her eyes fall coyly, and affecting to handle the tucker of her low ruff. +But he saw that her lip twitched; and he could have sworn that she mocked +him to Suzanne, for the girl giggled.</p> +<p>Still by an effort he controlled his feelings. “Why so +cruel?” he murmured, in a tone meant for her alone, and with a +look to match. “You were not so hard when I spoke with you +in the gallery, two evenings ago, Madame.”</p> +<p>“Was I not?” she asked. “Did I look like +this? And this?” And, languishing, she looked at him +very sweetly after two fashions.</p> +<p>“Something.”</p> +<p>“Oh, then I meant nothing!” she retorted with sudden +vivacity. And she made a face at him, laughing under his nose. +“I do that when I mean nothing, Monsieur! Do you see? +But you are Gascon, and given, I fear, to flatter yourself.”</p> +<p>Then he saw clearly that she played with him: and resentment, chagrin, +pique got the better of his courtesy.</p> +<p>“I flatter myself?” he cried, his voice choked with rage. +“It may be I do now, Madame, but did I flatter myself when you +wrote me this note?” And he drew it out and flourished it +in her face. “Did I imagine when I read this? Or is +it not in your hand? It is a forgery, perhaps,” he continued +bitterly. “Or it means nothing? Nothing, this note +bidding me be at Madame St. Lo’s at an hour before midnight—it +means nothing? At an hour before midnight, Madame!”</p> +<p>“On Saturday night? The night before last night?”</p> +<p>“On Saturday night, the night before last night! But +Madame knows nothing of it? Nothing, I suppose?”</p> +<p>She shrugged her shoulders and smiled cheerfully on him. “Oh +yes, I wrote it,” she said. “But what of that, M. +de Tignonville?”</p> +<p>“What of that?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Monsieur, what of that? Did you think it was written +out of love for you?”</p> +<p>He was staggered for the moment by her coolness. “Out +of what, then?” he cried hoarsely. “Out of what, then, +if not out of love?”</p> +<p>“Why, out of pity, my little gentleman!” she answered +sharply. “And trouble thrown away, it seems. Love!” +And she laughed so merrily and spontaneously it cut him to the heart. +“No; but you said a dainty thing or two, and smiled a smile; and +like a fool, and like a woman, I was sorry for the innocent calf that +bleated so prettily on its way to the butcher’s! And I would +lock you up, and save your life, I thought, until the blood-letting +was over. Now you have it, M. de Tignonville, and I hope you like +it.”</p> +<p>Like it, when every word she uttered stripped him of the selfish +illusions in which he had wrapped himself against the blasts of ill-fortune? +Like it, when the prospect of her charms had bribed him from the path +of fortitude, when for her sake he had been false to his mistress, to +his friends, to his faith, to his cause? Like it, when he knew +as he listened that all was lost, and nothing gained, not even this +poor, unworthy, shameful compensation? Like it? No wonder +that words failed him, and he glared at her in rage, in misery, in shame.</p> +<p>“Oh, if you don’t like it,” she continued, tossing +her head after a momentary pause, “then you should not have come! +It is of no profit to glower at me, Monsieur. You do not frighten +me.”</p> +<p>“I would—I would to God I had not come!” he groaned.</p> +<p>“And, I dare say, that you had never seen me—since you +cannot win me!”</p> +<p>“That too,” he exclaimed.</p> +<p>She was of an extraordinary levity, and at that, after staring at +him a moment, she broke into shrill laughter.</p> +<p>“A little more, and I’ll send you to my cousin Hannibal!” +she said. “You do not know how anxious he is to see you. +Have you a mind,” with a waggish look, “to play bride’s +man, M. de Tignonville? Or will you give away the bride? +It is not too late, though soon it will be!”</p> +<p>He winced, and from red grew pale. “What do you mean?” +he stammered; and, averting his eyes in shame, seeing now all the littleness, +all the baseness of his position, “Has he—married her?” +he continued.</p> +<p>“Ho, ho!” she cried in triumph. “I’ve +hit you now, have I, Monsieur? I’ve hit you!” +And mocking him, “Has he—married her?” she lisped. +“No; but he will marry her, have no fear of that! He will +marry her. He waits but to get a priest. Would you like +to see what he says?” she continued, playing with him as a cat +plays with a mouse. “I had a note from him yesterday. +Would you like to see how welcome you’ll be at the wedding?” +And she flaunted a piece of paper before his eyes.</p> +<p>“Give it me,” he said.</p> +<p>She let him seize it the while she shrugged her shoulders. +“It’s your affair, not mine,” she said. “See +it if you like, and keep it if you like. Cousin Hannibal wastes +few words.”</p> +<p>That was true, for the paper contained but a dozen or fifteen words, +and an initial by way of signature.</p> +<p>“I may need your shaveling to-morrow afternoon. Send +him, and Tignonville in safeguard if he come.—H.”</p> +<p>“I can guess what use he has for a priest,” she said. +“It is not to confess him, I warrant. It’s long, I +fear, since Hannibal told his beads.”</p> +<p>M. de Tignonville swore. “I would I had the confessing +of him!” he said between his teeth.</p> +<p>She clapped her hands in glee. “Why should you not?” +she cried. “Why should you not? ’Tis time yet, +since I am to send to-day and have not sent. Will you be the shaveling +to go confess or marry him?” And she laughed recklessly. +“Will you, M. de Tignonville? The cowl will mask you as +well as another, and pass you through the streets better than a cut +sleeve. He will have both his wishes, lover and clerk in one then. +And it will be pull monk, pull Hannibal with a vengeance.”</p> +<p>Tignonville gazed at her, and as he gazed courage and hope awoke +in his eyes. What if, after all, he could undo the past? +What if, after all, he could retrace the false step he had taken, and +place himself again where he had been—by <i>her</i> side?</p> +<p>“If you meant it!” he exclaimed, his breath coming fast. +“If you only meant what you say, Madame.”</p> +<p>“If?” she answered, opening her eyes. “And +why should I not mean it?”</p> +<p>“Because,” he replied slowly, “cowl or no cowl, +when I meet your cousin—”</p> +<p>“’Twill go hard with him?” she cried, with a mocking +laugh. “And you think I fear for him. That is it, +is it?”</p> +<p>He nodded.</p> +<p>“I fear just <i>so much</i> for him!” she retorted with +contempt. “Just so much!” And coming a step +nearer to Tignonville she snapped her small white fingers under his +nose. “Do you see? No, M. de Tignonville,” she +continued, “you do not know Count Hannibal if you think that he +fears, or that any fear for him. If you will beard the lion in +his den, the risk will be yours, not his!”</p> +<p>The young man’s face glowed. “I take the risk!” +he cried. “And I thank you for the chance; that, Madame, +whatever betide. But—”</p> +<p>“But what?” she asked, seeing that he hesitated and that +his face fell.</p> +<p>“If he afterwards learn that you have played him a trick,” +he said, “will he not punish you?”</p> +<p>“Punish me?”</p> +<p>He nodded.</p> +<p>Madame laughed her high disdain. “You do not yet know +Hannibal de Tavannes,” she said. “He does not war +with women.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI. A BARGAIN.</h2> +<p>It is the wont of the sex to snatch at an ell where an inch is offered, +and to press an advantage in circumstances in which a man, acknowledging +the claims of generosity, scruples to ask for more. The habit, +now ingrained, may have sprung from long dependence on the male, and +is one which a hundred instances, from the time of Judith downwards, +prove to be at its strongest where the need is greatest.</p> +<p>When Mademoiselle de Vrillac came out of the hour-long swoon into +which her lover’s defection had cast her, the expectation of the +worst was so strong upon her that she could not at once credit the respite +which Madame Carlat hastened to announce. She could not believe +that she still lay safe, in her own room above stairs; that she was +in the care of her own servants, and that the chamber held no presence +more hateful than that of the good woman who sat weeping beside her.</p> +<p>As was to be expected, she came to herself sighing and shuddering, +trembling with nervous exhaustion. She looked for <i>him</i>, +as soon as she looked for any; and even when she had seen the door locked +and double-locked, she doubted—doubted, and shook and hid herself +in the hangings of the bed. The noise of the riot and rapine which +prevailed in the city, and which reached the ear even in that locked +room—and although the window, of paper, with an upper pane of +glass, looked into a courtyard—was enough to drive the blood from +a woman’s cheeks. But it was fear of the house, not of the +street, fear from within, not from without, which impelled the girl +into the darkest corner and shook her wits. She could not believe +that even this short respite was hers, until she had repeatedly heard +the fact confirmed at Madame Carlat’s mouth.</p> +<p>“You are deceiving me!” she cried more than once. +And each time she started up in fresh terror. “He never +said that he would not return until to-morrow!”</p> +<p>“He did, my lamb, he did!” the old woman answered with +tears. “Would I deceive you?”</p> +<p>“He said he would not return?”</p> +<p>“He said he would not return until to-morrow. You had +until to-morrow, he said.”</p> +<p>“And then?”</p> +<p>“He would come and bring the priest with him,” Madame +Carlat replied sorrowfully.</p> +<p>“The priest? To-morrow!” Mademoiselle cried. +“The priest!” and she crouched anew with hot eyes behind +the hangings of the bed, and, shivering, hid her face.</p> +<p>But this for a time only. As soon as she had made certain of +the respite, and that she had until the morrow, her courage rose, and +with it the instinct of which mention has been made. Count Hannibal +had granted a respite; short as it was, and no more than the barest +humanity required, to grant one at all was not the act of the mere butcher +who holds the trembling lamb, unresisting, in his hands. It was +an act—no more, again be it said, than humanity required—and +yet an act which bespoke an expectation of some return, of some correlative +advantage. It was not in the part of the mere brigand. Something +had been granted. Something short of the utmost in the captor’s +power had been exacted. He had shown that there were things he +would not do.</p> +<p>Then might not something more be won from him? A further delay, +another point; something, no matter what, which could be turned to advantage? +With the brigand it is not possible to bargain. But who gives +a little may give more; who gives a day may give a week; who gives a +week may give a month. And a month? Her heart leapt up. +A month seemed a lifetime, an eternity, to her who had but until to-morrow!</p> +<p>Yet there was one consideration which might have daunted a spirit +less brave. To obtain aught from Tavannes it was needful to ask +him, and to ask him it was needful to see him; and to see him <i>before</i> +that to-morrow which meant so much to her. It was necessary, in +a word, to run some risk; but without risk the card could not be played, +and she did not hesitate. It might turn out that she was wrong, +that the man was not only pitiless and without bowels of mercy, but +lacked also the shred of decency for which she gave him credit, and +on which she counted. In that case, if she sent for him—but +she would not consider that case.</p> +<p>The position of the window, while it increased the women’s +safety, debarred them from all knowledge of what was going forward, +except that which their ears afforded them. They had no means +of judging whether Tavannes remained in the house or had sallied forth +to play his part in the work of murder. Madame Carlat, indeed, +had no desire to know anything. In that room above stairs, with +the door double-locked, lay a hope of safety in the present, and of +ultimate deliverance; there she had a respite from terror, as long as +she kept the world outside. To her, therefore, the notion of sending +for Tavannes, or communicating with him, came as a thunderbolt. +Was her mistress mad? Did she wish to court her fate? To +reach Tavannes they must apply to his riders, for Carlat and the men-servants +were confined above. Those riders were grim, brutal men, who might +resort to rudeness on their own account. And Madame, clinging +in a paroxysm of terror to her mistress, suggested all manner of horrors, +one on top of the other, until she increased her own terror tenfold. +And yet, to do her justice, nothing that even her frenzied imagination +suggested exceeded the things which the streets of Paris, fruitful mother +of horrors, were witnessing at that very hour. As we now know.</p> +<p>For it was noon—or a little more—of Sunday, August the +twenty-fourth, “a holiday, and therefore the people could more +conveniently find leisure to kill and plunder.” From the +bridges, and particularly from the stone bridge of Notre Dame—while +they lay safe in that locked room, and Tignonville crouched in his haymow—Huguenots +less fortunate were being cast, bound hand and foot, into the Seine. +On the river bank Spire Niquet, the bookman, was being burnt over a +slow fire, fed with his own books. In their houses, Ramus the +scholar and Goujon the sculptor—than whom Paris has neither seen +nor deserved a greater—were being butchered like sheep; and in +the Valley of Misery, now the Quai de la Megisserie, seven hundred persons +who had sought refuge in the prisons were being beaten to death with +bludgeons. Nay, at this hour—a little sooner or a little +later, what matters it?—M. de Tignonville’s own cousin, +Madame d’Yverne, the darling of the Louvre the day before, perished +in the hands of the mob; and the sister of M. de Taverny, equally ill-fated, +died in the same fashion, after being dragged through the streets.</p> +<p>Madame Carlat, then, went not a whit beyond the mark in her argument. +But Mademoiselle had made up her mind, and was not to be dissuaded.</p> +<p>“If I am to be Monsieur’s wife,” she said with +quivering nostrils, “shall I fear his servants?”</p> +<p>And opening the door herself, for the others would not, she called. +The man who answered was a Norman; and short of stature, and wrinkled +and low-browed of feature, with a thatch of hair and a full beard, he +seemed the embodiment of the women’s apprehensions. Moreover, +his <i>patois</i> of the cider-land was little better than German to +them; their southern, softer tongue was sheer Italian to him. +But he seemed not ill-disposed, or Mademoiselle’s air overawed +him; and presently she made him understand, and with a nod he descended +to carry her message.</p> +<p>Then Mademoiselle’s heart began to beat; and beat more quickly +when she heard <i>his</i> step—alas! she knew it already, knew +it from all others—on the stairs. The table was set, the +card must be played, to win or lose. It might be that with the +low opinion he held of women he would think her reconciled to her lot; +he would think this an overture, a step towards kinder treatment, one +more proof of the inconstancy of the lower and the weaker sex, made +to be men’s playthings. And at that thought her eyes grew +hot with rage. But if it were so, she must still put up with it. +She must still put up with it! She had sent for him, and he was +coming—he was at the door!</p> +<p>He entered, and she breathed more freely. For once his face +lacked the sneer, the look of smiling possession, which she had come +to know and hate. It was grave, expectant, even suspicious; still +harsh and dark, akin, as she now observed, to the low-browed, furrowed +face of the rider who had summoned him. But the offensive look +was gone, and she could breathe.</p> +<p>He closed the door behind him, but he did not advance into the room.</p> +<p>“At your pleasure, Mademoiselle?” he said simply. +“You sent for me, I think.”</p> +<p>She was on her feet, standing before him with something of the submissiveness +of Roxana before her conqueror.</p> +<p>“I did,” she said; and stopped at that, her hand to her +side as if she could not continue. But presently in a low voice, +“I have heard,” she went on, “what you said, Monsieur, +after I lost consciousness.”</p> +<p>“Yes?” he said; and was silent. Nor did he lose +his watchful look.</p> +<p>“I am obliged to you for your thought of me,” she continued +in a faint voice, “and I shall be still further obliged—I +speak to you thus quickly and thus early—if you will grant me +a somewhat longer time.”</p> +<p>“Do you mean—if I will postpone our marriage?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Monsieur.”</p> +<p>“It is impossible!”</p> +<p>“Do not say that,” she cried, raising her voice impulsively. +“I appeal to your generosity. And for a short, a very short, +time only.”</p> +<p>“It is impossible,” he answered quietly. “And +for reasons, Mademoiselle. In the first place, I can more easily +protect my wife. In the second, I am even now summoned to the +Louvre, and should be on my way thither. By to-morrow evening, +unless I am mistaken in the business on which I am required, I shall +be on my way to a distant province with royal letters. It is essential +that our marriage take place before I go.”</p> +<p>“Why?” she asked stubbornly.</p> +<p>He shrugged his shoulders. “Why?” he repeated. +“Can you ask, Mademoiselle, after the events of last night? +Because, if you please, I do not wish to share the fate of M. de Tignonville. +Because in these days life is uncertain, and death too certain. +Because it was our turn last night, and it may be the turn of your friends—to-morrow +night!”</p> +<p>“Then some have escaped?” she cried.</p> +<p>He smiled. “I am glad to find you so shrewd,” he +replied. “In an honest wife it is an excellent quality. +Yes, Mademoiselle; one or two.”</p> +<p>“Who? Who? I pray you tell me.”</p> +<p>“M. de Montgomery, who slept beyond the river, for one; and +the Vidame, and some with him. M. de Biron, whom I count a Huguenot, +and who holds the Arsenal in the King’s teeth, for another. +And a few more. Enough, in a word, Mademoiselle, to keep us wakeful. +It is impossible, therefore, for me to postpone the fulfilment of your +promise.”</p> +<p>“A promise on conditions!” she retorted, in rage that +she could win no more. And every line of her splendid figure, +every tone of her voice flamed sudden, hot rebellion. “I +do not go for nothing! You gave me the lives of all in the house, +Monsieur! Of all!” she repeated with passion. “And +all are not here! Before I marry you, you must show me M. de Tignonville +alive and safe!”</p> +<p>He shrugged his shoulders. “He has taken himself off,” +he said. “It is naught to me what happens to him now.”</p> +<p>“It is all to me!” she retorted.</p> +<p>At that he glared at her, the veins of his forehead swelling suddenly. +But after a seeming struggle with himself he put the insult by, perhaps +for future reckoning and account.</p> +<p>“I did what I could,” he said sullenly. “Had +I willed it he had died there and then in the room below. I gave +him his life. If he has risked it anew and lost it, it is naught +to me.”</p> +<p>“It was his life you gave me,” she repeated stubbornly. +“His life—and the others. But that is not all,” +she continued; “you promised me a minister.”</p> +<p>He nodded, smiling sourly to himself, as if this confirmed a suspicion +he had entertained.</p> +<p>“Or a priest,” he said.</p> +<p>“No, a minister.”</p> +<p>“If one could be obtained. If not, a priest.”</p> +<p>“No, it was to be at my will; and I will a minister! +I will a minister!” she cried passionately. “Show +me M. de Tignonville alive, and bring me a minister of my faith, and +I will keep my promise, M. de Tavannes. Have no fear of that. +But otherwise, I will not.”</p> +<p>“You will not?” he cried. “You will not?”</p> +<p>“No!”</p> +<p>“You will not marry me?”</p> +<p>“No!”</p> +<p>The moment she had said it fear seized her, and she could have fled +from him, screaming. The flash of his eyes, the sudden passion +of his face, burned themselves into her memory. She thought for +a second that he would spring on her and strike her down. Yet +though the women behind her held their breath, she faced him, and did +not quail; and to that, she fancied, she owed it that he controlled +himself.</p> +<p>“You will not?” he repeated, as if he could not understand +such resistance to his will—as if he could not credit his ears. +“You will not?” But after that, when he had said it +three times, he laughed; a laugh, however, with a snarl in it that chilled +her blood.</p> +<p>“You bargain, do you?” he said. “You will +have the last tittle of the price, will you? And have thought +of this and that to put me off, and to gain time until your lover, who +is all to you, comes to save you? Oh, clever girl! clever! +But have you thought where you stand—woman? Do you know +that if I gave the word to my people they would treat you as the commonest +baggage that tramps the Froidmantel? Do you know that it rests +with me to save you, or to throw you to the wolves whose ravening you +hear?” And he pointed to the window. “Minister? +Priest?” he continued grimly. “<i>Mon Dieu</i>, Mademoiselle, +I stand astonished at my moderation. You chatter to me of ministers +and priests, and the one or the other, when it might be neither! +When you are as much and as hopelessly in my power to-day as the wench +in my kitchen! You! You flout me, and make terms with me! +You!”</p> +<p>And he came so near her with his dark harsh face, his tone rose so +menacing on the last word, that her nerves, shattered before, gave way, +and, unable to control herself, she flinched with a low cry, thinking +he would strike her.</p> +<p>He did not follow, nor move to follow; but he laughed a low laugh +of content. And his eyes devoured her.</p> +<p>“Ho! ho!” he said. “We are not so brave as +we pretend to be, it seems. And yet you dared to chaffer with +me? You thought to thwart me—Tavannes! <i>Mon Dieu</i>, +Mademoiselle, to what did you trust? To what did you trust? +Ay, and to what do you trust?”</p> +<p>She knew that by the movement which fear had forced from her she +had jeopardized everything. That she stood to lose all and more +than all which she had thought to win by a bold front. A woman +less brave, of a spirit less firm, would have given up the contest, +and have been glad to escape so. But this woman, though her bloodless +face showed that she knew what cause she had for fear, and though her +heart was indeed sick with terror, held her ground at the point to which +she had retreated. She played her last card.</p> +<p>“To what do I trust?” she muttered with trembling lips.</p> +<p>“Yes, Mademoiselle,” he answered between his teeth. +“To what do you trust—that you play with Tavannes?”</p> +<p>“To his honour, Monsieur,” she answered faintly. +“And to your promise.”</p> +<p>He looked at her with his mocking smile. “And yet,” +he sneered, “you thought a moment ago that I should strike you. +You thought that I should beat you! And now it is my honour and +my promise! Oh, clever, clever, Mademoiselle! ’Tis +so that women make fools of men. I knew that something of this +kind was on foot when you sent for me, for I know women and their ways. +But, let me tell you, it is an ill time to speak of honour when the +streets are red! And of promises when the King’s word is +‘No faith with a heretic!’”</p> +<p>“Yet you will keep yours,” she said bravely.</p> +<p>He did not answer at once, and hope which was almost dead in her +breast began to recover; nay, presently sprang up erect. For the +man hesitated, it was evident; he brooded with a puckered brow and gloomy +eyes; an observer might have fancied that he traced pain as well as +doubt in his face. At last—</p> +<p>“There is a thing,” he said slowly and with a sort of +glare at her, “which, it may be, you have not reckoned. +You press me now, and will stand on your terms and your conditions, +your <i>ifs</i> and your <i>unlesses</i>! You will have the most +from me, and the bargain and a little beside the bargain! But +I would have you think if you are wise. Bethink you how it will +be between us when you are my wife—if you press me so now, Mademoiselle. +How will it sweeten things then? How will it soften them? +And to what, I pray you, will you trust for fair treatment then, if +you will be so against me now?”</p> +<p>She shuddered. “To the mercy of my husband,” she +said in a low voice. And her chin sank on her breast.</p> +<p>“You will be content to trust to that?” he answered grimly. +And his tone and the lifting of his brow promised little clemency. +“Bethink you! ’Tis your rights now, and your terms, +Mademoiselle! And then it will be only my mercy—Madame.”</p> +<p>“I am content,” she muttered faintly.</p> +<p>“And the Lord have mercy on my soul, is what you would add,” +he retorted, “so much trust have you in my mercy! And you +are right! You are right, since you have played this trick on +me. But as you will. If you will have it so, have it so! +You shall stand on your conditions now; you shall have your pennyweight +and full advantage, and the rigour of the pact. But afterwards—afterwards, +Madame de Tavannes—”</p> +<p>He did not finish his sentence, for at the first word which granted +her petition, Mademoiselle had sunk down on the low wooden window-seat +beside which she stood, and, cowering into its farthest corner, her +face hidden on her arms, had burst into violent weeping. Her hair, +hastily knotted up in the hurry of the previous night, hung in a thick +plait to the curve of her waist; the nape of her neck showed beside +it milk-white. The man stood awhile contemplating her in silence, +his gloomy eyes watching the pitiful movement of her shoulders, the +convulsive heaving of her figure. But he did not offer to touch +her, and at length he turned about. First one and then the other +of her women quailed and shrank under his gaze; he seemed about to add +something. But he did not speak. The sentence he had left +unfinished, the long look he bent on the weeping girl as he turned from +her, spoke more eloquently of the future than a score of orations.</p> +<p>“<i>Afterwards, Madame de Tavannes</i>!”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII. IN THE HALL OF THE LOUVRE.</h2> +<p>It is a strange thing that love—or passion, if the sudden fancy +for Mademoiselle which had seized Count Hannibal be deemed unworthy +of the higher name—should so entirely possess the souls of those +who harbour it that the greatest events and the most astounding catastrophes, +even measures which set their mark for all time on a nation, are to +them of importance only so far as they affect the pursuit of the fair +one.</p> +<p>As Tavannes, after leaving Mademoiselle, rode through the paved lanes, +beneath the gabled houses, and under the shadow of the Gothic spires +of his day, he saw a score of sights, moving to pity, or wrath, or wonder. +He saw Paris as a city sacked; a slaughter-house, where for a week a +masque had moved to stately music; blood on the nailed doors and the +close-set window bars; and at the corners of the ways strewn garments, +broken weapons, the livid dead in heaps. But he saw all with eyes +which in all and everywhere, among living and dead, sought only Tignonville; +Tignonville first, and next a heretic minister, with enough of life +in him to do his office.</p> +<p>Probably it was to this that one man hunted through Paris owed his +escape that day. He sprang from a narrow passage full in Tavannes’ +view, and, hair on end, his eyes starting from his head, ran blindly—as +a hare will run when chased—along the street to meet Count Hannibal’s +company. The man’s face was wet with the dews of death, +his lungs seemed cracking, his breath hissed from him as he ran. +His pursuers were hard on him, and, seeing him headed by Count Hannibal’s +party, yelled in triumph, holding him for dead. And dead he would +have been within thirty seconds had Tavannes played his part. +But his thoughts were elsewhere. Either he took the poor wretch +for Tignonville, or for the minister on whom his mind was running; anyway +he suffered him to slip under the belly of his horse; then, to make +matters worse, he wheeled to follow him in so untimely and clumsy a +fashion that his horse blocked the way and stopped the pursuers in their +tracks. The quarry slipped into an alley and vanished. The +hunters stood and blasphemed, and even for a moment seemed inclined +to resent the mistake. But Tavannes smiled; a broader smile lightened +the faces of the six iron-clad men behind him; and for some reason the +gang of ruffians thought better of it and slunk aside.</p> +<p>There are hard men, who feel scorn of the things which in the breasts +of others excite pity. Tavannes’ lip curled as he rode on +through the streets, looking this way and that, and seeing what a King +twenty-two years old had made of his capital. His lip curled most +of all when he came, passing between the two tennis-courts, to the east +gate of the Louvre, and found the entrance locked and guarded, and all +communication between city and palace cut off. Such a proof of +unkingly panic, in a crisis wrought by the King himself, astonished +him less a few minutes later, when, the keys having been brought and +the door opened, he entered the courtyard of the fortress.</p> +<p>Within and about the door of the gatehouse some three-score archers +and arquebusiers stood to their arms; not in array, but in disorderly +groups, from which the babble of voices, of feverish laughter, and strained +jests rose without ceasing. The weltering sun, of which the beams +just topped the farther side of the quadrangle, fell slantwise on their +armour, and heightened their exaggerated and restless movements. +To a calm eye they seemed like men acting in a nightmare. Their +fitful talk and disjointed gestures, their sweating brows and damp hair, +no less than the sullen, brooding silence of one here and there, bespoke +the abnormal and the terrible. There were livid faces among them, +and twitching cheeks, and some who swallowed much; and some again who +bared their crimson arms and bragged insanely of the part they had played. +But perhaps the most striking thing was the thirst, the desire, the +demand for news, and for fresh excitement. In the space of time +it took him to pass through them, Count Hannibal heard a dozen rumours +of what was passing in the city; that Montgomery and the gentlemen who +had slept beyond the river had escaped on horseback in their shirts; +that Guise had been shot in the pursuit; that he had captured the Vidame +de Chartres and all the fugitives; that he had never left the city; +that he was even then entering by the Porte de Bucy. Again that +Biron had surrendered the Arsenal, that he had threatened to fire on +the city, that he was dead, that with the Huguenots who had escaped +he was marching on the Louvre, that—</p> +<p>And then Tavannes passed out of the blinding sunshine, and out of +earshot of their babble, and had plain in his sight across the quadrangle, +the new façade, Italian, graceful, of the Renaissance; which +rose in smiling contrast with the three dark Gothic sides that now, +the central tower removed, frowned unimpeded at one another. But +what was this which lay along the foot of the new Italian wall? +This, round which some stood, gazing curiously, while others strewed +fresh sand about it, or after long downward-looking glanced up to answer +the question of a person at a window?</p> +<p>Death; and over death—death in its most cruel aspect—a +cloud of buzzing, whirling flies, and the smell, never to be forgotten, +of much spilled blood. From a doorway hard by came shrill bursts +of hysterical laughter; and with the laughter plumped out, even as Tavannes +crossed the court, a young girl, thrust forth it seemed by her fellows, +for she turned about and struggled as she came. Once outside she +hung back, giggling and protesting, half willing, half unwilling; and +meeting Tavannes’ eye thrust her way in again with a whirl of +her petticoats, and a shriek. But before he had taken four paces +she was out again.</p> +<p>He paused to see who she was, and his thoughts involuntarily went +back to the woman he had left weeping in the upper room. Then +he turned about again and stood to count the dead. He identified +Piles, identified Pardaillan, identified Soubise—whose corpse +the murderers had robbed of the last rag—and Touchet and St. Galais. +He made his reckoning with an unmoved face, and with the same face stopped +and stared, and moved from one to another; had he not seen the slaughter +about “<i>le petit homme</i>” at Jarnac, and the dead of +three pitched fields? But when a bystander, smirking obsequiously, +passed him a jest on Soubise, and with his finger pointed the jest, +he had the same hard unmoved face for the gibe as for the dead. +And the jester shrank away, abashed and perplexed by his stare and his +reticence.</p> +<p>Halfway up the staircase to the great gallery or guard-room above, +Count Hannibal found his brother, the Marshal, huddled together in drunken +slumber on a seat in a recess. In the gallery to which he passed +on without awakening him, a crowd of courtiers and ladies, with arquebusiers +and captains of the quarters, walked to and fro, talking in whispers; +or peeped over shoulders towards the inner end of the hall, where the +querulous voice of the King rose now and again above the hum. +As Tavannes moved that way, Nançay, in the act of passing out, +booted and armed for the road, met him and almost jostled him.</p> +<p>“Ah, well met, M. le Comte,” he sneered, with as much +hostility as he dared betray. “The King has asked for you +twice.”</p> +<p>“I am going to him. And you? Whither in such a +hurry, M. Nançay?”</p> +<p>“To Chatillon.”</p> +<p>“On pleasant business?”</p> +<p>“Enough that it is on the King’s!” Nançay +replied, with unexpected temper. “I hope that you may find +yours as pleasant!” he added with a grin. And he went on.</p> +<p>The gleam of malice in the man’s eye warned Tavannes to pause. +He looked round for some one who might be in the secret, saw the Provost +of the Merchants, and approached him.</p> +<p>“What’s amiss, M. le Charron?” he asked. +“Is not the affair going as it should?”</p> +<p>“’Tis about the Arsenal, M. le Comte,” the Provost +answered busily. “M. de Biron is harbouring the vermin there. +He has lowered the portcullis and pointed his culverins over the gate +and will not yield it or listen to reason. The King would bring +him to terms, but no one will venture himself inside with the message. +Rats in a trap, you know, bite hard, and care little whom they bite.”</p> +<p>“I begin to understand.”</p> +<p>“Precisely, M. le Comte. His Majesty would have sent +M. de Nançay. But he elected to go to Chatillon, to seize +the young brood there. The Admiral’s children, you comprehend.”</p> +<p>“Whose teeth are not yet grown! He was wise.”</p> +<p>“To be sure, M. de Tavannes, to be sure. But the King +was annoyed, and on top of that came a priest with complaints, and if +I may make so bold as to advise you, you will not—”</p> +<p>But Tavannes fancied that he had caught the gist of the difficulty, +and with a nod he moved on; and so he missed the warning which the other +had it in his mind to give. A moment and he reached the inner +circle, and there halted, disconcerted, nay taken aback. For as +soon as he showed his face, the King, who was pacing to and fro like +a caged beast, before a table at which three clerks knelt on cushions, +espied him, and stood still. With a glare of something like madness +in his eyes, Charles raised his hand, and with a shaking finger singled +him out.</p> +<p>“So, by G-d, you are there!” he cried, with a volley +of blasphemy. And he signed to those about Count Hannibal to stand +away from him. “You are there, are you? And you are +not afraid to show your face? I tell you, it’s you and such +as you bring us into contempt! so that it is said everywhere Guise does +all and serves God, and we follow because we must! It’s +you, and such as you, are stumbling-blocks to our good folk of Paris! +Are you traitor, sirrah?” he continued with passion, “or +are you of our brother Alençon’s opinions, that you traverse +our orders to the damnation of your soul and our discredit? Are +you traitor? Or are you heretic? Or what are you? +God in heaven, will you answer me, man, or shall I send you where you +will find your tongue?”</p> +<p>“I know not of what your Majesty accuses me,” Count Hannibal +answered, with a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders.</p> +<p>“I? ’Tis not I,” the King retorted. +His hair hung damp on his brow, and he dried his hands continually; +while his gestures had the ill-measured and eccentric violence of an +epileptic. “Here, you! Speak, father, and confound +him!”</p> +<p>Then Tavannes discovered on the farther side of the circle the priest +whom his brother had ridden down that morning. Father Pezelay’s +pale hatchet-face gleamed paler than ordinary; and a great bandage hid +one temple and part of his face. But below the bandage the flame +of his eyes was not lessened, nor the venom of his tongue. To +the King he had come—for no other would deal with his violent +opponent; to the King’s presence! and, as he prepared to blast +his adversary, now his chance was come, his long lean frame, in its +narrow black cassock, seemed to grow longer, leaner, more baleful, more +snake-like. He stood there a fitting representative of the dark +fanaticism of Paris, which Charles and his successor—the last +of a doomed line—alternately used as tool or feared as master; +and to which the most debased and the most immoral of courts paid, in +its sober hours, a vile and slavish homage. Even in the midst +of the drunken, shameless courtiers—who stood, if they stood for +anything, for that other influence of the day, the Renaissance—he +was to be reckoned with; and Count Hannibal knew it. He knew that +in the eyes not of Charles only, but of nine out of ten who listened +to him, a priest was more sacred than a virgin, and a tonsure than all +the virtues of spotless innocence.</p> +<p>“Shall the King give with one hand and withdraw with the other?” +the priest began, in a voice hoarse yet strident, a voice borne high +above the crowd on the wings of passion. “Shall he spare +of the best of the men and the maidens whom God hath doomed, whom the +Church hath devoted, whom the King hath given? Is the King’s +hand shortened or his word annulled that a man does as he forbiddeth +and leaves undone what he commandeth? Is God mocked? Woe, +woe unto you,” he continued, turning swiftly, arms uplifted, towards +Tavannes, “who please yourself with the red and white of their +maidens and take of the best of the spoil, sparing where the King’s +word is ‘Spare not’! Who strike at Holy Church with +the sword! Who—”</p> +<p>“Answer, sirrah!” Charles cried, spurning the floor in +his fury. He could not listen long to any man. “Is +it so? Is it so? Do you do these things?”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal shrugged his shoulders and was about to answer, when +a thick, drunken voice rose from the crowd behind him.</p> +<p>“Is it what? Eh! Is it what?” it droned. +And a figure with bloodshot eyes, disordered beard, and rich clothes +awry, forced its way through the obsequious circle. It was Marshal +Tavannes. “Eh, what? You’d beard the King, would +you?” he hiccoughed truculently, his eyes on Father Pezelay, his +hand on his sword. “Were you a priest ten times—”</p> +<p>“Silence!” Charles cried, almost foaming with rage at +this fresh interruption. “It’s not he, fool! +’Tis your pestilent brother.”</p> +<p>“Who touches my brother touches Tavannes!” the Marshal +answered with a menacing gesture. He was sober enough, it appeared, +to hear what was said, but not to comprehend its drift; and this caused +a titter, which immediately excited his rage. He turned and seized +the nearest laugher by the ear. “Insolent!” he cried. +“I will teach you to laugh when the King speaks! Puppy! +Who laughs at his Majesty or touches my brother has to do with Tavannes!”</p> +<p>The King, in a rage that almost deprived him of speech, stamped the +floor twice.</p> +<p>“Idiot!” he cried. “Imbecile! Let the +man go! ’Tis not he! ’Tis your heretic brother, +I tell you! By all the Saints! By the body of—” +and he poured forth a flood of oaths. “Will you listen to +me and be silent! Will you—your brother—”</p> +<p>“If he be not your Majesty’s servant, I will kill him +with this sword!” the irrepressible Marshal struck in. “As +I have killed ten to-day! Ten!” And, staggering back, +he only saved himself from falling by clutching Chicot about the neck.</p> +<p>“Steady, my pretty Maréchale!” the jester cried, +chucking him under the chin with one hand, while with some difficulty +he supported him with the other—for he, too, was far from sober—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Pretty Margot, toy with me,<br /> +Maiden bashful—”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Silence!” Charles cried, darting forth his long arms +in a fury of impatience. “God, have I killed every man of +sense? Are you all gone mad? Silence! Do you hear? +Silence! And let me hear what he has to say,” with a movement +towards Count Hannibal. “And look you, sirrah,” he +continued with a curse, “see that it be to the purpose!”</p> +<p>“If it be a question of your Majesty’s service,” +Tavannes answered, “and obedience to your Majesty’s orders, +I am deeper in it than he who stands there!” with a sign towards +the priest. “I give my word for that. And I will prove +it.”</p> +<p>“How, sir?” Charles cried. “How, how, how? +How will you prove it?”</p> +<p>“By doing for you, sire, what he will not do!” Tavannes +answered scornfully. “Let him stand out, and if he will +serve his Church as I will serve my King—”</p> +<p>“Blaspheme not!” cried the priest.</p> +<p>“Chatter not!” Tavannes retorted hardily, “but +do! Better is he,” he continued, “who takes a city +than he who slays women! Nay, sire,” he went on hurriedly, +seeing the King start, “be not angry, but hear me! You would +send to Biron, to the Arsenal? You seek a messenger, sire? +Then let the good father be the man. Let him take your Majesty’s +will to Biron, and let him see the Grand Master face to face, and bring +him to reason. Or, if he will not, I will! Let that be the +test!”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay!” cried Marshal de Tavannes, “you say well, +brother! Let him!”</p> +<p>“And if he will not, I will!” Tavannes repeated. +“Let that be the test, sire.”</p> +<p>The King wheeled suddenly to Father Pezelay. “You hear, +father?” he said. “What say you?”</p> +<p>The priest’s face grew sallow, and more sallow. He knew +that the walls of the Arsenal sheltered men whose hands no convention +and no order of Biron’s would keep from his throat, were the grim +gate and frowning culverins once passed; men who had seen their women +and children, their wives and sisters immolated at his word, and now +asked naught but to stand face to face and eye to eye with him and tear +him limb from limb before they died! The challenge, therefore, +was one-sided and unfair; but for that very reason it shook him. +The astuteness of the man who, taken by surprise, had conceived this +snare filled him with dread. He dared not accept, and he scarcely +dared to refuse the offer. And meantime the eyes of the courtiers, +who grinned in their beards, were on him. At length he spoke, +but it was in a voice which had lost its boldness and assurance.</p> +<p>“It is not for me to clear myself,” he cried, shrill +and violent, “but for those who are accused, for those who have +belied the King’s word, and set at nought his Christian orders. +For you, Count Hannibal, heretic, or no better than heretic, it is easy +to say ‘I go.’ For you go but to your own, and your +own will receive you!”</p> +<p>“Then you will not go?” with a jeer.</p> +<p>“At your command? No!” the priest shrieked with +passion. “His Majesty knows whether I serve him.”</p> +<p>“I know,” Charles cried, stamping his foot in a fury, +“that you all serve me when it pleases you! That you are +all sticks of the same faggot, wood of the same bundle, hell-babes in +your own business, and sluggards in mine! You kill to-day and +you’ll lay it to me to-morrow! Ay, you will! you will!” +he repeated frantically, and drove home the asseveration with a fearful +oath. “The dead are as good servants as you! Foucauld +was better! Foucauld? Foucauld? Ah, my God!”</p> +<p>And abruptly in presence of them all, with the sacred name, which +he so often defiled, on his lips, Charles turned, and covering his face +burst into childish weeping; while a great silence fell on all—on +Bussy with the blood of his cousin Resnel on his point, on Fervacques, +the betrayer of his friend, on Chicot, the slayer of his rival, on Cocconnas +the cruel—on men with hands unwashed from the slaughter, and on +the shameless women who lined the walls; on all who used this sobbing +man for their stepping-stone, and, to attain their ends and gain their +purposes, trampled his dull soul in blood and mire.</p> +<p>One looked at another in consternation. Fear grew in eyes that +a moment before were bold; cheeks turned pale that a moment before were +hectic. If <i>he</i> changed as rapidly as this, if so little +dependence could be placed on his moods or his resolutions, who was +safe? Whose turn might it not be to-morrow? Or who might +not be held accountable for the deeds done this day? Many, from +whom remorse had seemed far distant a while before, shuddered and glanced +behind them. It was as if the dead who lay stark without the doors, +ay, and the countless dead of Paris, with whose shrieks the air was +laden, had flocked in shadowy shape into the hall; and there, standing +beside their murderers, had whispered with their cold breath in the +living ears, “A reckoning! A reckoning! As I am, thou +shalt be!”</p> +<p>It was Count Hannibal who broke the spell and the silence, and with +his hand on his brother’s shoulder stood forward.</p> +<p>“Nay, sire,” he cried, in a voice which rang defiant +in the roof, and seemed to challenge alike the living and the dead, +“if all deny the deed, yet will not I! What we have done +we have done! So be it! The dead are dead! So be it! +For the rest, your Majesty has still one servant who will do your will, +one soldier whose life is at your disposition! I have said I will +go, and I go, sire. And you, churchman,” he continued, turning +in bitter scorn to the priest, “do you go too—to church! +To church, shaveling! Go, watch and pray for us! Fast and +flog for us! Whip those shoulders, whip them till the blood runs +down! For it is all, it seems, you will do for your King!”</p> +<p>Charles turned. “Silence, railer!” he said in a +broken voice. “Sow no more troubles! Already,” +a shudder shook his tall ungainly form, “I see blood, blood, blood +everywhere! Blood? Ah, God, shall I from this time see anything +else? But there is no turning back. There is no undoing. +So, do you go to Biron. And do you,” he went on, sullenly +addressing Marshal Tavannes, “take him and tell him what it is +needful he should know.”</p> +<p>“’Tis done, sire!” the Marshal cried, with a hiccough. +“Come, brother!”</p> +<p>But when the two, the courtiers making quick way for them, had passed +down the hall to the door, the Marshal tapped Hannibal’s sleeve.</p> +<p>“It was touch and go,” he muttered; it was plain he had +been more sober than he seemed. “Mind you, it does not do +to thwart our little master in his fits! Remember that another +time, or worse will come of it, brother. As it is, you came out +of it finely and tripped that black devil’s heels to a marvel! +But you won’t be so mad as to go to Biron?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” Count Hannibal answered coldly. “I +shall go.”</p> +<p>“Better not! Better not!” the Marshal answered. +“’Twill be easier to go in than to come out—with a +whole throat! Have you taken wild cats in the hollow of a tree? +The young first, and then the she-cat? Well, it will be that! +Take my advice, brother. Have after Montgomery, if you please, +ride with Nançay to Chatillon—he is mounting now—go +where you please out of Paris, but don’t go there! Biron +hates us, hates me. And for the King, if he do not see you for +a few days, ’twill blow over in a week.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal shrugged his shoulders. “No,” he +said, “I shall go.”</p> +<p>The Marshal stared a moment. “Morbleu!” he said, +“why? ’Tis not to please the King, I know. What +do you think to find there, brother?”</p> +<p>“A minister,” Hannibal answered gently. “I +want one with life in him, and they are scarce in the open. So +I must to covert after him.” And, twitching his sword-belt +a little nearer to his hand, he passed across the court to the gate, +and to his horses.</p> +<p>The Marshal went back laughing, and, slapping his thigh as he entered +the hall, jostled by accident a gentleman who was passing out.</p> +<p>“What is it?” the Gascon cried hotly; for it was Chicot +he had jostled.</p> +<p>“Who touches my brother touches Tavannes!” the Marshal +hiccoughed. And, smiting his thigh anew, he went off into another +fit of laughter.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII. DIPLOMACY.</h2> +<p>Where the old wall of Paris, of which no vestige remains, ran down +on the east to the north bank of the river, the space in the angle between +the Seine and the ramparts beyond the Rue St. Pol wore at this date +an aspect typical of the troubles of the time. Along the waterside +the gloomy old Palace of St. Pol, once the residence of the mad King +Charles the Sixth—and his wife, the abandoned Isabeau de Bavière—sprawled +its maze of mouldering courts and ruined galleries; a dreary monument +of the Gothic days which were passing from France. Its spacious +curtilage and dark pleasaunces covered all the ground between the river +and the Rue St. Antoine; and north of this, under the shadow of the +eight great towers of the Bastille, which looked, four outward to check +the stranger, four inward to bridle the town, a second palace, beginning +where St. Pol ended, carried the realm of decay to the city wall.</p> +<p>This second palace was the Hôtel des Tournelles, a fantastic +medley of turrets, spires, and gables, that equally with its neighbour +recalled the days of the English domination; it had been the abode of +the Regent Bedford. From his time it had remained for a hundred +years the town residence of the kings of France; but the death of Henry +II., slain in its lists by the lance of the same Montgomery who was +this day fleeing for his life before Guise, had given his widow a distaste +for it. Catherine de Médicis, her sons, and the Court had +abandoned it; already its gardens lay a tangled wilderness, its roofs +let in the rain, rats played where kings had slept; and in “our +palace of the Tournelles” reigned only silence and decay. +Unless, indeed, as was whispered abroad, the grim shade of the eleventh +Louis sometimes walked in its desolate precincts.</p> +<p>In the innermost angle between the ramparts and the river, shut off +from the rest of Paris by the decaying courts and enceintes of these +forsaken palaces, stood the Arsenal. Destroyed in great part by +the explosion of a powder-mill a few years earlier, it was in the main +new; and by reason of its river frontage, which terminated at the ruined +tower of Billy, and its proximity to the Bastille, it was esteemed one +of the keys of Paris. It was the appanage of the Master of the +Ordnance, and within its walls M. de Biron, a Huguenot in politics, +if not in creed, who held the office at this time, had secured himself +on the first alarm. During the day he had admitted a number of +refugees, whose courage or good luck had led them to his gate; and as +night fell—on such a carnage as the hapless city had not beheld +since the great slaughter of the Armagnacs, one hundred and fifty-four +years earlier—the glow of his matches through the dusk, and the +sullen tramp of his watchmen as they paced the walls, indicated that +there was still one place in Paris where the King’s will did not +run.</p> +<p>In comparison of the disorder which prevailed in the city, a deadly +quiet reigned here; a stillness so chill that a timid man must have +stood and hesitated to approach. But a stranger who about nightfall +rode down the street towards the entrance, a single footman running +at his stirrup, only nodded a stern approval of the preparations. +As he drew nearer he cast an attentive eye this way and that; nor stayed +until a hoarse challenge brought him up when he had come within six +horses’ lengths of the Arsenal gate. He reined up then, +and raising his voice, asked in clear tones for M. de Biron.</p> +<p>“Go,” he continued boldly, “tell the Grand Master +that one from the King is here, and would speak with him.”</p> +<p>“From the King of France?” the officer on the gate asked.</p> +<p>“Surely! Is there more than one king in France?”</p> +<p>A curse and a bitter cry of “King? King Herod!” +were followed by a muttered discussion that, in the ears of one of the +two who waited in the gloom below, boded little good. The two +could descry figures moving to and fro before the faint red light of +the smouldering matches; and presently a man on the gate kindled a torch, +and held it so as to fling its light downward. The stranger’s +attendant cowered behind the horse.</p> +<p>“Have a care, my lord!” he whispered. “They +are aiming at us!”</p> +<p>If so the rider’s bold front and unmoved demeanour gave them +pause. Presently, “I will send for the Grand Master” +the man who had spoken before announced. “In whose name, +monsieur?”</p> +<p>“No matter,” the stranger answered. “Say, +one from the King.”</p> +<p>“You are alone?”</p> +<p>“I shall enter alone.”</p> +<p>The assurance seemed to be satisfactory, for the man answered “Good!” +and after a brief delay a wicket in the gate was opened, the portcullis +creaked upward, and a plank was thrust across the ditch. The horseman +waited until the preparations were complete; then he slid to the ground, +threw his rein to the servant, and boldly walked across. In an +instant he left behind him the dark street, the river, and the sounds +of outrage, which the night breeze bore from the farther bank, and found +himself within the vaulted gateway, in a bright glare of light, the +centre of a ring of gleaming eyes and angry faces.</p> +<p>The light blinded him for a few seconds; but the guards, on their +side, were in no better case. For the stranger was masked; and +in their ignorance who it was looked at them through the slits in the +black velvet they stared, disconcerted, and at a loss. There were +some there with naked weapons in their hands who would have struck him +through had they known who he was; and more who would have stood aside +while the deed was done. But the uncertainty—that and the +masked man’s tone paralyzed them. For they reflected that +he might be anyone. Condé, indeed, stood too small, but +Navarre, if he lived, might fill that cloak; or Guise, or Anjou, or +the King himself. And while some would not have scrupled to strike +the blood royal, more would have been quick to protect and avenge it. +And so before the dark uncertainty of the mask, before the riddle of +the smiling eyes which glittered through the slits, they stared irresolute; +until a hand, the hand of one bolder than his fellows, was raised to +pluck away the screen.</p> +<p>The unknown dealt the fellow a buffet with his fist. “Down, +rascal!” he said hoarsely. “And you”—to +the officer—“show me instantly to M. de Biron!”</p> +<p>But the lieutenant, who stood in fear of his men, looked at him doubtfully.</p> +<p>“Nay,” he said, “not so fast!” And +one of the others, taking the lead, cried, “No! We may have +no need of M. de Biron. Your name, monsieur, first.”</p> +<p>With a quick movement the stranger gripped the officer’s wrist.</p> +<p>“Tell your master,” he said, “that he who clasped +his wrist <i>thus</i> on the night of Pentecost is here, and would speak +with him! And say, mark you, that I will come to him, not he to +me!”</p> +<p>The sign and the tone imposed upon the boldest. Two-thirds +of the watch were Huguenots, who burned to avenge the blood of their +fellows; and these, overriding their officer, had agreed to deal with +the intruder, if a Papegot, without recourse to the Grand Master, whose +moderation they dreaded. A knife-thrust in the ribs, and another +body in the ditch—why not, when such things were done outside? +But even these doubted now; and M. Peridol, the lieutenant, reading +in the eyes of his men the suspicions which he had himself conceived, +was only anxious to obey, if they would let him. So gravely was +he impressed, indeed, by the bearing of the unknown that he turned when +he had withdrawn, and came back to assure himself that the men meditated +no harm in his absence; nor until he had exchanged a whisper with one +of them would he leave them and go.</p> +<p>While he was gone on his errand the envoy leaned against the wall +of the gateway, and, with his chin sunk on his breast and his mind fallen +into reverie, seemed unconscious of the dark glances of which he was +the target. He remained in this position until the officer came +back, followed by a man with a lanthorn. Their coming roused the +unknown, who, invited to follow Peridol, traversed two courts without +remark, and in the same silence entered a building in the extreme eastern +corner of the enceinte abutting on the ruined Tour de Billy. Here, +in an upper floor, the Governor of the Arsenal had established his temporary +lodging.</p> +<p>The chamber into which the stranger was introduced betrayed the haste +in which it had been prepared for its occupant. Two silver lamps +which hung from the beams of the unceiled roof shed light on a medley +of arms and inlaid armour, of parchments, books and steel caskets, which +encumbered not the tables only, but the stools and chests that, after +the fashion of that day, stood formally along the arras. In the +midst of the disorder, on the bare floor, walked the man who, more than +any other, had been instrumental in drawing the Huguenots to Paris—and +to their doom. It was no marvel that the events of the day, the +surprise and horror, still rode his mind; nor wonderful that even he, +who passed for a model of stiffness and reticence, betrayed for once +the indignation which filled his breast. Until the officer had +withdrawn and closed the door he did, indeed, keep silence; standing +beside the table and eyeing his visitor with a lofty porte and a stern +glance. But the moment he was assured that they were alone he +spoke.</p> +<p>“Your Highness may unmask now,” he said, making no effort +to hide his contempt. “Yet were you well advised to take +the precaution, since you had hardly come at me in safety without it. +Had those who keep the gate seen you, I would not have answered for +your Highness’s life. The more shame,” he continued +vehemently, “on the deeds of this day which have compelled the +brother of a king of France to hide his face in his own capital and +in his own fortress. For I dare to say, Monsieur, what no other +will say, now the Admiral is dead. You have brought back the days +of the Armagnacs. You have brought bloody days and an evil name +on France, and I pray God that you may not pay in your turn what you +have exacted. But if you continue to be advised by M. de Guise, +this I will say, Monsieur”—and his voice fell low and stern. +“Burgundy slew Orleans, indeed; but he came in his turn to the +Bridge of Montereau.”</p> +<p>“You take me for Monsieur?” the unknown asked. +And it was plain that he smiled under his mask.</p> +<p>Biron’s face altered. “I take you,” he answered +sharply, “for him whose sign you sent me.”</p> +<p>“The wisest are sometimes astray,” the other answered +with a low laugh. And he took off his mask.</p> +<p>The Grand Master started back, his eyes sparkling with anger.</p> +<p>“M. de Tavannes?” he cried, and for a moment he was silent +in sheer astonishment. Then, striking his hand on the table, “What +means this trickery?” he asked.</p> +<p>“It is of the simplest,” Tavannes answered coolly. +“And yet, as you just now said, I had hardly come at you without +it. And I had to come at you. No, M. de Biron,” he +added quickly, as Biron in a rage laid his hand on a bell which stood +beside him on the table, “you cannot that way undo what is done.”</p> +<p>“I can at least deliver you,” the Grand Master answered, +in heat, “to those who will deal with you as you have dealt with +us and ours.”</p> +<p>“It will avail you nothing,” Count Hannibal replied soberly. +“For see here, Grand Master, I come from the King. If you +are at war with him, and hold his fortress in his teeth, I am his ambassador +and sacrosanct. If you are at peace with him and hold it at his +will, I am his servant, and safe also.”</p> +<p>“At peace and safe?” Biron cried, his voice trembling +with indignation. “And are those safe or at peace who came +here trusting to <i>his</i> word, who lay in his palace and slept in +his beds? Where are they, and how have they fared, that you dare +appeal to the law of nations, or he to the loyalty of Biron? And +for you to beard me, whose brother to-day hounded the dogs of this vile +city on the noblest in France, who have leagued yourself with a crew +of foreigners to do a deed which will make our country stink in the +nostrils of the world when we are dust! You, to come here and +talk of peace and safety! M. de Tavannes”—and he struck +his hand on the table—“you are a bold man. I know +why the King had a will to send you, but I know not why you had the +will to come.”</p> +<p>“That I will tell you later,” Count Hannibal answered +coolly. “For the King, first. My message is brief, +M. de Biron. Have you a mind to hold the scales in France?”</p> +<p>“Between?” Biron asked contemptuously.</p> +<p>“Between the Lorrainers and the Huguenots.”</p> +<p>The Grand Master scowled fiercely. “I have played the +go-between once too often,” he growled.</p> +<p>“It is no question of going between, it is a question of holding +between,” Tavannes answered coolly. “It is a question—but, +in a word, have you a mind, M. de Biron, to be Governor of Rochelle? +The King, having dealt the blow that has been struck to-day, looks to +follow up severity, as a wise ruler should, with indulgence. And +to quiet the minds of the Rochellois he would set over them a ruler +at once acceptable to them—or war must come of it—and faithful +to his Majesty. Such a man, M. de Biron, will in such a post be +Master of the Kingdom; for he will hold the doors of Janus, and as he +bridles his sea-dogs, or unchains them, there will be peace or war in +France.”</p> +<p>“Is all that from the King’s mouth?” Biron asked +with sarcasm. But his passion had died down. He was grown +thoughtful, suspicious; he eyed the other intently as if he would read +his heart.</p> +<p>“The offer is his, and the reflections are mine,” Tavannes +answered dryly. “Let me add one more. The Admiral +is dead. The King of Navarre and the Prince of Condé are +prisoners. Who is now to balance the Italians and the Guises? +The Grand Master—if he be wise and content to give the law to +France from the citadel of Rochelle.”</p> +<p>Biron stared at the speaker in astonishment at his frankness.</p> +<p>“You are a bold man,” he cried at last. “But +<i>timeo Danaos et dona ferentes</i>,” he continued bitterly. +“You offer, sir, too much.”</p> +<p>“The offer is the King’s.”</p> +<p>“And the conditions? The price?”</p> +<p>“That you remain quiet, M. de Biron.”</p> +<p>“In the Arsenal?”</p> +<p>“In the Arsenal. And do not too openly counteract the +King’s will. That is all.”</p> +<p>The Grand Master looked puzzled. “I will give up no one,” +he said. “No one! Let that be understood.”</p> +<p>“The King requires no one.”</p> +<p>A pause. Then, “Does M. de Guise know of the offer?” +Biron inquired; and his eye grew bright. He hated the Guises and +was hated by them. It was <i>there</i> he was a Huguenot.</p> +<p>“He has gone far to-day,” Count Hannibal answered dryly. +“And if no worse come of it should be content. Madame Catherine +knows of it.”</p> +<p>The Grand Master was aware that Marshal Tavannes depended on the +Queen-mother; and he shrugged his shoulders.</p> +<p>“Ay, ’tis like her policy,” he muttered. +“’Tis like her!” And pointing his guest to a +cushioned chest which stood against the wall, he sat down in a chair +beside the table and thought awhile, his brow wrinkled, his eyes dreaming. +By-and-by he laughed sourly. “You have lighted the fire,” +he said, “and would fain I put it out.”</p> +<p>“We would have you hinder it spreading.”</p> +<p>“You have done the deed and are loth to pay the blood-money. +That is it, is it?</p> +<p>“We prefer to pay it to M. de Biron,” Count Hannibal +answered civilly.</p> +<p>Again the Grand Master was silent awhile. At length he looked +up and fixed Tavannes with eyes keen as steel.</p> +<p>“What is behind?” he growled. “Say, man, +what is it? What is behind?”</p> +<p>“If there be aught behind, I do not know it,” Tavannes +answered steadfastly.</p> +<p>M. de Biron relaxed the fixity of his gaze. “But you +said that you had an object?” he returned.</p> +<p>“I had—in being the bearer of the message.”</p> +<p>“What was it?”</p> +<p>“My object? To learn two things.”</p> +<p>“The first, if it please you?” The Grand Master’s +chin stuck out a little, as he spoke.</p> +<p>“Have you in the Arsenal a M. de Tignonville, a gentleman of +Poitou?”</p> +<p>“I have not,” Biron answered curtly. “The +second?”</p> +<p>“Have you here a Huguenot minister?”</p> +<p>“I have not. And if I had I should not give him up,” +he added firmly.</p> +<p>Tavannes shrugged his shoulders. “I have a use for one,” +he said carelessly. “But it need not harm him.”</p> +<p>“For what, then, do you need him?”</p> +<p>“To marry me.”</p> +<p>The other stared. “But you are a Catholic,” he +said.</p> +<p>“But she is a Huguenot,” Tavannes answered.</p> +<p>The Grand Master did not attempt to hide his astonishment.</p> +<p>“And she sticks on that?” he exclaimed. “To-day?”</p> +<p>“She sticks on that. To-day.”</p> +<p>“To-day? <i>Nom de Dieu</i>! To-day! Well,” +brushing the matter aside after a pause of bewilderment, “any +way, I cannot help her. I have no minister here. If there +be aught else I can do for her—”</p> +<p>“Nothing, I thank you,” Tavannes answered. “Then +it only remains for me to take your answer to the King?” +And he rose politely, and taking his mask from the table prepared to +assume it.</p> +<p>M. de Biron gazed at him a moment without speaking, as if he pondered +on the answer he should give. At length he nodded, and rang the +bell which stood beside him.</p> +<p>“The mask!” he muttered in a low voice as footsteps sounded +without. And, obedient to the hint, Tavannes disguised himself. +A second later the officer who had introduced him opened the door and +entered.</p> +<p>“Peridol,” M. de Biron said—he had risen to his +feet—“I have received a message which needs confirmation; +and to obtain this I must leave the Arsenal. I am going to the +house—you will remember this—of Marshal Tavannes, who will +be responsible for my person; in the mean time this gentleman will remain +under strict guard in the south chamber upstairs. You will treat +him as a hostage, with all respect, and will allow him to preserve his +<i>incognito</i>. But if I do not return by noon to-morrow, you +will deliver him to the men below, who will know how to deal with him.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal made no attempt to interrupt him, nor did he betray +the discomfiture which he undoubtedly felt. But as the Grand Master +paused—</p> +<p>“M. de Biron,” he said, in a voice harsh and low, “you +will answer to me for this!” And his eyes glittered through +the slits in the mask.</p> +<p>“Possibly, but not to-day or to-morrow!” Biron replied, +shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. “Peridol! see the +gentleman bestowed as I have ordered, and then return to me. Monsieur,” +with a bow, half courteous, half ironical, “let me commend to +you the advantages of silence and your mask.” And he waved +his hand in the direction of the door.</p> +<p>A moment Count Hannibal hesitated. He was in the heart of a +hostile fortress where the resistance of a single man armed to the teeth +must have been futile; and he was unarmed, save for a poniard. +Nevertheless, for a moment the impulse to spring on Biron, and with +the dagger at his throat to make his life the price of a safe passage, +was strong. Then—for with the warp of a harsh and passionate +character were interwrought an odd shrewdness and some things little +suspected—he resigned himself. Bowing gravely, he turned +with dignity, and in silence followed the officer from the room.</p> +<p>Peridol had two men in waiting at the door. From one of these +the lieutenant took a lanthorn, and, with an air at once sullen and +deferential, led the way up the stone staircase to the floor over that +in which M. de Biron had his lodging. Tavannes followed; the two +guards came last, carrying a second lanthorn. At the head of the +staircase, whence a bare passage ran, north and south, the procession +turned right-handed, and, passing two doors, halted before the third +and last, which faced them at the end of the passage. The lieutenant +unlocked it with a key which he took from a hook beside the doorpost. +Then, holding up his light, he invited his charge to enter.</p> +<p>The room was not small, but it was low in the roof, and prison-like, +it had bare walls and smoke-marks on the ceiling. The window, +set in a deep recess, the floor of which rose a foot above that of the +room, was unglazed; and through the gloomy orifice the night wind blew +in, laden even on that August evening with the dank mist of the river +flats. A table, two stools, and a truckle bed without straw or +covering made up the furniture; but Peridol, after glancing round, ordered +one of the men to fetch a truss of straw and the other to bring up a +pitcher of wine. While they were gone Tavannes and he stood silently +waiting, until, observing that the captive’s eyes sought the window, +the lieutenant laughed.</p> +<p>“No bars?” he said. “No, Monsieur, and no +need of them. You will not go by that road, bars or no bars.”</p> +<p>“What is below?” Count Hannibal asked carelessly. +“The river?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Monsieur,” with a grin; “but not water. +Mud, and six feet of it, soft as Christmas porridge, but not so sweet. +I’ve known two puppies thrown in under this window that did not +weigh more than a fat pullet apiece. One was gone before you could +count fifty, and the other did not live thrice as long—nor would +have lasted that time, but that it fell on the first and clung to it.”</p> +<p>Tavannes dismissed the matter with a shrug, and, drawing his cloak +about him, set a stool against the wall and sat down. The men +who brought in the wine and the bundle of straw were inquisitive, and +would have loitered, scanning him stealthily; but Peridol hurried them +away. The lieutenant himself stayed only to cast a glance round +the room, and to mutter that he would return when his lord returned; +then, with a “Good night” which said more for his manners +than his good will, he followed them out. A moment later the grating +of the key in the lock and the sound of the bolts as they sped home +told Tavannes that he was a prisoner.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV. TOO SHORT A SPOON.</h2> +<p>Count Hannibal remained seated, his chin sunk on his breast, until +his ear assured him that the three men had descended the stairs to the +floor below. Then he rose, and, taking the lanthorn from the table, +on which Peridol had placed it, he went softly to the door, which, like +the window, stood in a recess—in this case the prolongation of +the passage. A brief scrutiny satisfied him that escape that way +was impossible, and he turned, after a cursory glance at the floor and +ceiling, to the dark, windy aperture which yawned at the end of the +apartment. Placing the lanthorn on the table, and covering it +with his cloak, he mounted the window recess, and, stepping to the unguarded +edge, looked out.</p> +<p>He knew, rather than saw, that Peridol had told the truth. +The smell of the aguish flats which fringed that part of Paris rose +strong in his nostrils. He guessed that the sluggish arm of the +Seine which divided the Arsenal from the Île des Louviers crawled +below; but the night was dark, and it was impossible to discern land +from water. He fancied that he could trace the outline of the +island—an uninhabited place, given up to wood piles; but the lights +of the college quarter beyond it, which rose feebly twinkling to the +crown of St. Genevieve, confused his sight and rendered the nearer gloom +more opaque. From that direction and from the Cité to his +right came sounds which told of a city still heaving in its blood-stained +sleep, and even in its dreams planning further excesses. Now a +distant shot, and now a faint murmur on one of the bridges, or a far-off +cry, raucous, sudden, curdled the blood. But even of what was +passing under cover of the darkness, he could learn little; and after +standing awhile with a hand on either side of the window he found the +night air chill. He stepped back, and, descending to the floor, +uncovered the lanthorn and set it on the table. His thoughts travelled +back to the preparations he had made the night before with a view to +securing Mademoiselle’s person, and he considered, with a grim +smile, how little he had foreseen that within twenty-four hours he would +himself be a prisoner. Presently, finding his mask oppressive, +he removed it, and, laying it on the table before him, sat scowling +at the light.</p> +<p>Biron had jockeyed him cleverly. Well, the worse for Armand +de Gontaut de Biron if after this adventure the luck went against him! +But in the mean time? In the mean time his fate was sealed if +harm befell Biron. And what the King’s real mind in Biron’s +case was, and what the Queen-Mother’s, he could not say; just +as it was impossible to predict how far, when they had the Grand Master +at their mercy, they would resist the temptation to add him to the victims. +If Biron placed himself at once in Marshal Tavannes’ hands, all +might be well. But if he ventured within the long arm of the Guises, +or went directly to the Louvre, the fact that with the Grand Master’s +fate Count Hannibal’s was bound up, would not weigh a straw. +In such crises the great sacrificed the less great, the less great the +small, without a scruple. And the Guises did not love Count Hannibal; +he was not loved by many. Even the strength of his brother the +Marshal stood rather in the favour of the King’s heir, for whom +he had won the battle of Jarnac, than intrinsically; and, durable in +ordinary times, might snap in the clash of forces and interests which +the desperate madness of this day had let loose on Paris.</p> +<p>It was not the peril in which he stood, however—though, with +the cold clear eye of the man who had often faced peril, he appreciated +it to a nicety—that Count Hannibal found least bearable, but his +enforced inactivity. He had thought to ride the whirlwind and +direct the storm, and out of the danger of others to compact his own +success. Instead he lay here, not only powerless to guide his +destiny, which hung on the discretion of another, but unable to stretch +forth a finger to further his plans.</p> +<p>As he sat looking darkly at the lanthorn, his mind followed Biron +and his riders through the midnight streets along St. Antoine and La +Verrerie, through the gloomy narrows of the Rue la Ferronerie, and so +past the house in the Rue St. Honoré where Mademoiselle sat awaiting +the morrow—sat awaiting Tignonville, the minister, the marriage! +Doubtless there were still bands of plunderers roaming to and fro; at +the barriers troops of archers stopping the suspected; at the windows +pale faces gazing down; at the gates of the Temple, and of the walled +enclosures which largely made up the city, strong guards set to prevent +invasion. Biron would go with sufficient to secure himself; and +unless he encountered the bodyguard of Guise his passage would quiet +the town. But was it so certain that <i>she</i> was safe? +He knew his men, and while he had been free he had not hesitated to +leave her in their care. But now that he could not go, now that +he could not raise a hand to help, the confidence which had not failed +him in straits more dangerous grew weak. He pictured the things +which might happen, at which, in his normal frame of mind, he would +have laughed. Now they troubled him so that he started at a shadow, +so that he quailed at a thought. He, who last night, when free +to act, had timed his coming and her rescue to a minute! Who had +rejoiced in the peril, since with the glamour of such things foolish +women were taken! Who had not flinched when the crowd roared most +fiercely for her blood!</p> +<p>Why had he suffered himself to be trapped? Why indeed? +And thrice in passion he paced the room. Long ago the famous Nostradamus +had told him that he would live to be a king, but of the smallest kingdom +in the world. “Every man is a king in his coffin,” +he had answered. “The grave is cold and your kingdom shall +be warm,” the wizard had rejoined. On which the courtiers +had laughed, promising him a Moorish island and a black queen. +And he had gibed with the rest, but secretly had taken note of the sovereign +counties of France, their rulers and their heirs. Now he held +the thought in horror, foreseeing no county, but the cage under the +stifling tiles at Loches, in which Cardinal Balue and many another had +worn out their hearts.</p> +<p>He came to that thought not by way of his own peril, but of Mademoiselle’s; +which affected him in so novel a fashion that he wondered at his folly. +At last, tired of watching the shadows which the draught set dancing +on the wall, he drew his cloak about him and lay down on the straw. +He had kept vigil the previous night, and in a few minutes, with a campaigner’s +ease, he was asleep.</p> +<p>Midnight had struck. About two the light in the lanthorn burned +low in the socket, and with a soft sputtering went out. For an +hour after that the room lay still, silent, dark; then slowly the grey +dawn, the greyer for the river mist which wrapped the neighbourhood +in a clammy shroud, began to creep into the room and discover the vague +shapes of things. Again an hour passed, and the sun was rising +above Montreuil, and here and there the river began to shimmer through +the fog. But in the room it was barely daylight when the sleeper +awoke, and sat up, his face expectant. Something had roused him. +He listened.</p> +<p>His ear, and the habit of vigilance which a life of danger instils, +had not deceived him. There were men moving in the passage; men +who shuffled their feet impatiently. Had Biron returned? +Or had aught happened to him, and were these men come to avenge him? +Count Hannibal rose and stole across the boards to the door, and, setting +his ear to it, listened.</p> +<p>He listened while a man might count a hundred and fifty, counting +slowly. Then, for the third part of a second, he turned his head, +and his eyes travelled the room. He stooped again and listened +more closely, scarcely breathing. There were voices as well as +feet to be heard now; one voice—he thought it was Peridol’s—which +held on long, now low, now rising into violence. Others were audible +at intervals, but only in a growl or a bitter exclamation, that told +of minds made up and hands which would not be restrained. He caught +his own name, <i>Tavannes</i>—the mask was useless, then! +And once a noisy movement which came to nothing, foiled, he fancied, +by Peridol.</p> +<p>He knew enough. He rose to his full height, and his eyes seemed +a little closer together; an ugly smile curved his lips. His gaze +travelled over the objects in the room, the bare stools and table, the +lanthorn, the wine-pitcher; beyond these, in a corner, the cloak and +straw on the low bed. The light, cold and grey, fell cheerlessly +on the dull chamber, and showed it in harmony with the ominous whisper +which grew in the gallery; with the stern-faced listener who stood, +his one hand on the door. He looked, but he found nothing to his +purpose, nothing to serve his end, whatever his end was; and with a +quick light step he left the door, mounted the window recess, and, poised +on the very edge, looked down.</p> +<p>If he thought to escape that way his hope was desperate. The +depth to the water-level was not, he judged, twelve feet. But +Peridol had told the truth. Below lay not water, but a smooth +surface of viscid slime, here luminous with the florescence of rottenness, +there furrowed by a tiny runnel of moisture which sluggishly crept across +it to the slow stream beyond. This quicksand, vile and treacherous, +lapped the wall below the window, and more than accounted for the absence +of bars or fastenings. But, leaning far out, he saw that it ended +at the angle of the building, at a point twenty feet or so to the right +of his position.</p> +<p>He sprang to the floor again, and listened an instant; then, with +guarded movements—for there was fear in the air, fear in the silent +room, and at any moment the rush might be made, the door burst in—he +set the lanthorn and wine-pitcher on the floor, and took up the table +in his arms. He began to carry it to the window, but, halfway +thither, his eye told him that it would not pass through the opening, +and he set it down again and glided to the bed. Again he was thwarted; +the bed was screwed to the floor. Another might have despaired +at that, but he rose with no sign of dismay, and listening, always listening, +he spread his cloak on the floor, and deftly, with as little noise and +rustling as might be, be piled the straw in it, compressed the bundle, +and, cutting the bed-cords with his dagger, bound all together with +them. In three steps he was in the embrasure of the window, and, +even as the men in the passage thrust the lieutenant aside and with +a sudden uproar came down to the door, he flung the bundle lightly and +carefully to the right—so lightly and carefully, and with so nice +and deliberate a calculation, that it seemed odd it fell beyond the +reach of an ordinary leap.</p> +<p>An instant and he was on the floor again. The men had to unlock, +to draw back the bolts, to draw back the door which opened outwards; +their numbers, as well as their savage haste, impeded them. When +they burst in at last, with a roar of “To the river! To +the river!”—burst in a rush of struggling shoulders and +lowered pikes, they found him standing, a solitary figure, on the further +side of the table, his arms folded. And the sight of the passive +figure for a moment stayed them.</p> +<p>“Say your prayers, child of Satan!” cried the leader, +waving his weapon. “We give you one minute!”</p> +<p>“Ay, one minute!” his followers chimed in. “Be +ready!”</p> +<p>“You would murder me?” he said with dignity. And +when they shouted assent, “Good!” he answered. “It +is between you and M. de Biron, whose guest I am. But”—with +a glance which passed round the ring of glaring eyes and working features—“I +would leave a last word for some one. Is there any one here who +values a safe-conduct from the King? ’Tis for two men coming +and going for a fortnight.” And he held up a slip of paper.</p> +<p>The leader cried, “To hell with his safe-conduct! Say +your prayers!”</p> +<p>But all were not of his mind. On one or two of the savage faces—the +faces, for the most part, of honest men maddened by their wrongs—flashed +an avaricious gleam. A safe-conduct? To avenge, to slay, +to kill—and to go safe! For some minds such a thing has +an invincible fascination. A man thrust himself forward.</p> +<p>“Ay, I’ll have it!” he cried. “Give +it here!”</p> +<p>“It is yours,” Count Hannibal answered, “if you +will carry ten words to Marshal Tavannes—when I am gone.”</p> +<p>The man’s neighbour laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.</p> +<p>“And Marshal Tavannes will pay you finely,” he said.</p> +<p>But Maudron, the man who had offered, shook off the hand.</p> +<p>“If I take the message!” he muttered in a grim aside. +“Do you think me mad?” And then aloud he cried, “Ay, +I’ll take your message! Give me the paper.”</p> +<p>“You swear you will take it?”</p> +<p>The man had no intention of taking it, but he perjured himself and +went forward. The others would have pressed round too, half in +envy, half in scorn; but Tavannes by a gesture stayed them.</p> +<p>“Gentlemen, I ask a minute only,” he said. “A +minute for a dying man is not much. Your friends had as much.”</p> +<p>And the fellows, acknowledging the claim and assured that their victim +could not escape, let Maudron go round the table to him.</p> +<p>The man was in haste and ill at ease, conscious of his evil intentions +and the fraud he was practising; and at once greedy to have, yet ashamed +of the bargain he was making. His attention was divided between +the slip of paper, on which his eyes fixed themselves, and the attitude +of his comrades; he paid little heed to Count Hannibal, whom he knew +to be unarmed. Only when Tavannes seemed to ponder on his message, +and to be fain to delay, “Go on,” he muttered with brutal +frankness; “your time is up!”</p> +<p>Tavannes started, the paper slipped from his fingers. Maudron +saw a chance of getting it without committing himself, and quick as +the thought leapt up in his mind he stooped, and grasped the paper, +and would have leapt back with it! But quick as he, and quicker, +Tavannes too stooped, gripped him by the waist, and with a prodigious +effort, and a yell in which all the man’s stormy nature, restrained +to a part during the last few minutes, broke forth, he flung the ill-fated +wretch head first through the window.</p> +<p>The movement carried Tavannes himself—even while his victim’s +scream rang through the chamber—into the embrasure. An instant +he hung on the verge; then, as the men, a moment thunderstruck, sprang +forward to avenge their comrade, he leapt out, jumping for the struggling +body that had struck the mud, and now lay in it face downwards.</p> +<p>He alighted on it, and drove it deep into the quaking slime; but +he himself bounded off right-handed. The peril was appalling, +the possibility untried, the chance one which only a doomed man would +have taken. But he reached the straw-bale, and it gave him a momentary, +a precarious footing. He could not regain his balance, he could +not even for an instant stand upright on it. But from its support +he leapt on convulsively, and, as a pike, flung from above, wounded +him in the shoulder, he fell his length in the slough—but forward, +with his outstretched hands resting on soil of a harder nature. +They sank, it is true, to the elbow, but he dragged his body forward +on them, and forward, and freeing one by a last effort of strength—he +could not free both, and, as it was, half his face was submerged—he +reached out another yard, and gripped a balk of wood, which projected +from the corner of the building for the purpose of fending off the stream +in flood-time.</p> +<p>The men at the window shrieked with rage as he slowly drew himself +from the slough, and stood from head to foot a pillar of mud. +Shout as they might, they had no firearms, and, crowded together in +the narrow embrasure, they could take no aim with their pikes. +They could only look on in furious impotence, flinging curses at him +until he passed from their view, behind the angle of the building.</p> +<p>Here for a score of yards a strip of hard foreshore ran between mud +and wall. He struggled along it until he reached the end of the +wall; then with a shuddering glance at the black heaving pit from which +he had escaped, and which yet gurgled above the body of the hapless +Maudron—a tribute to horror which even his fierce nature could +not withhold—he turned and painfully climbed the river-bank. +The pike-wound in his shoulder was slight, but the effort had been supreme; +the sweat poured from his brow, his visage was grey and drawn. +Nevertheless, when he had put fifty paces between himself and the buildings +of the Arsenal he paused, and turned. He saw that the men had +run to other windows which looked that way; and his face lightened and +his form dilated with triumph.</p> +<p>He shook his fist at them. “Ho, fools!” he cried, +“you kill not Tavannes so! Till our next meeting at Montfaucon, +fare you well!”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XV. THE BROTHER OF ST. MAGLOIRE.</h2> +<p>As the exertion of power is for the most part pleasing, so the exercise +of that which a woman possesses over a man is especially pleasant. +When in addition a risk of no ordinary kind has been run, and the happy +issue has been barely expected—above all when the momentary gain +seems an augury of final victory—it is impossible that a feeling +akin to exultation should not arise in the mind, however black the horizon, +and however distant the fair haven.</p> +<p>The situation in which Count Hannibal left Mademoiselle de Vrillac +will be remembered. She had prevailed over him; but in return +he had bowed her to the earth, partly by subtle threats, and partly +by sheer savagery. He had left her weeping, with the words “Madame +de Tavannes” ringing doom in her ears, and the dark phantom of +his will pointing onward to an inevitable future. Had she abandoned +hope, it would have been natural.</p> +<p>But the girl was of a spirit not long nor easily cowed; and Tavannes +had not left her half an hour before the reflection, that so far the +honours of the day were hers, rose up to console her. In spite +of his power and her impotence, she had imposed her will upon his; she +had established an influence over him, she had discovered a scruple +which stayed him, and a limit beyond which he would not pass. +In the result she might escape; for the conditions which he had accepted +with an ill grace might prove beyond his fulfilling. She might +escape! True, many in her place would have feared a worse fate +and harsher handling. But there lay half the merit of her victory. +It had left her not only in a better position, but with a new confidence +in her power over her adversary. He would insist on the bargain +struck between them; within its four corners she could look for no indulgence. +But if the conditions proved to be beyond his power, she believed that +he would spare her: with an ill grace, indeed, with such ferocity and +coarse reviling as her woman’s pride might scarcely support. +But he would spare her.</p> +<p>And if the worst befell her? She would still have the consolation +of knowing that from the cataclysm which had overwhelmed her friends +she had ransomed those most dear to her. Owing to the position +of her chamber, she saw nothing of the excesses to which Paris gave +itself up during the remainder of that day, and to which it returned +with unabated zest on the following morning. But the Carlats and +her women learned from the guards below what was passing; and quaking +and cowering in their corners fixed frightened eyes on her, who was +their stay and hope. How could she prove false to them? +How doom them to perish, had there been no question of her lover?</p> +<p>Of him she sat thinking by the hour together. She recalled +with solemn tenderness the moment in which he had devoted himself to +the death which came but halfway to seize them; nor was she slow to +forgive his subsequent withdrawal, and his attempt to rescue her in +spite of herself. She found the impulse to die glorious; the withdrawal—for +the actor was her lover—a thing done for her, which he would not +have done for himself, and which she quickly forgave him. The +revulsion of feeling which had conquered her at the time, and led her +to tear herself from him, no longer moved her much while all in his +action that might have seemed in other eyes less than heroic, all in +his conduct—in a crisis demanding the highest—that smacked +of common or mean, vanished, for she still clung to him. Clung +to him, not so much with the passion of the mature woman, as with the +maiden and sentimental affection of one who has now no hope of possessing, +and for whom love no longer spells life, but sacrifice.</p> +<p>She had leisure for these musings, for she was left to herself all +that day, and until late on the following day. Her own servants +waited on her, and it was known that below stairs Count Hannibal’s +riders kept sullen ward behind barred doors and shuttered windows, refusing +admission to all who came. Now and again echoes of the riot which +filled the streets with bloodshed reached her ears: or word of the more +striking occurrences was brought to her by Madame Carlat. And +early on this second day, Monday, it was whispered that M. de Tavannes +had not returned, and that the men below were growing uneasy.</p> +<p>At last, when the suspense below and above was growing tense, it +was broken. Footsteps and voices were heard ascending the stairs, +the trampling and hubbub were followed by a heavy knock; perforce the +door was opened. While Mademoiselle, who had risen, awaited with +a beating heart she knew not what, a cowled father, in the dress of +the monks of St. Magloire, stood on the threshold, and, crossing himself, +muttered the words of benediction. He entered slowly.</p> +<p>No sight could have been more dreadful to Mademoiselle; for it set +at naught the conditions which she had so hardly exacted. What +if Count Hannibal were behind, were even now mounting the stairs, prepared +to force her to a marriage before this shaveling? Or ready to +proceed, if she refused, to the last extremity? Sudden terror +taking her by the throat choked her; her colour fled, her hand flew +to her breast. Yet, before the door had closed on Bigot, she had +recovered herself.</p> +<p>“This intrusion is not by M. de Tavannes’ orders!” +she cried, stepping forward haughtily. “This person has +no business here. How dare you admit him?”</p> +<p>The Norman showed his bearded visage a moment at the door.</p> +<p>“My lord’s orders,” he muttered sullenly. +And he closed the door on them.</p> +<p>She had a Huguenot’s hatred of a cowl; and, in this crisis, +her reasons for fearing it. Her eyes blazed with indignation.</p> +<p>“Enough!” she cried, pointing, with a gesture of dismissal, +to the door. “Go back to him who sent you! If he will +insult me, let him do it to my face! If he will perjure himself, +let him forswear himself in person. Or, if you come on your own +account,” she continued, flinging prudence to the winds, “as +your brethren came to Philippa de Luns, to offer me the choice you offered +her, I give you her answer! If I had thought of myself only, I +had not lived so long! And rather than bear your presence or hear +your arguments—”</p> +<p>She came to a sudden, odd, quavering pause on the word; her lips +remained parted, she swayed an instant on her feet. The next moment +Madame Carlat, to whom the visitor had turned his shoulder, doubted +her eyes, for Mademoiselle was in the monk’s arms!</p> +<p>“Clotilde! Clotilde!” he cried, and held her to +him.</p> +<p>For the monk was M. de Tignonville! Under the cowl was the +lover with whom Mademoiselle’s thoughts had been engaged. +In this disguise, and armed with Tavannes’ note to Madame St. +Lo—which the guards below knew for Count Hannibal’s hand, +though they were unable to decipher the contents—he had found +no difficulty in making his way to her.</p> +<p>He had learned before he entered that Tavannes was abroad, and was +aware, therefore, that he ran little risk. But his betrothed, +who knew nothing of his adventures in the interval, saw in him one who +came to her at the greatest risk, across unnumbered perils, through +streets swimming with blood. And though she had never embraced +him save in the crisis of the massacre, though she had never called +him by his Christian name, in the joy of this meeting she abandoned +herself to him, she clung to him weeping, she forgot for the time his +defection, and thought only of him who had returned to her so gallantly, +who brought into the room a breath of Poitou, and the sea, and the old +days, and the old life; and at the sight of whom the horrors of the +last two days fell from her—for the moment.</p> +<p>And Madame Carlat wept also, and in the room was a sound of weeping. +The least moved was, for a certainty, M. de Tignonville himself, who, +as we know, had gone through much that day. But even his heart +swelled, partly with pride, partly with thankfulness that he had returned +to one who loved him so well. Fate had been kinder to him than +he deserved; but he need not confess that now. When he had brought +off the <i>coup</i> which he had in his mind, he would hasten to forget +that he had entertained other ideas.</p> +<p>Mademoiselle had been the first to be carried away; she was also +the first to recover herself.</p> +<p>“I had forgotten,” she cried suddenly, “I had forgotten,” +and she wrested herself from his embrace with violence, and stood panting, +her face white, her eyes affrighted. “I must not! +And you—I had forgotten that too! To be here, Monsieur, +is the worst office you can do me. You must go! Go, Monsieur, +in mercy I beg of you, while it is possible. Every moment you +are here, every moment you spend in this house, I shudder.”</p> +<p>“You need not fear for me,” he said, in a tone of bravado. +He did not understand.</p> +<p>“I fear for myself!” she answered. And then, wringing +her hands, divided between her love for him and her fear for herself, +“Oh, forgive me!” she said. “You do not know +that he has promised to spare me, if he cannot produce you, and—and—a +minister? He has granted me that; but I thought when you entered +that he had gone back on his word, and sent a priest, and it maddened +me! I could not bear to think that I had gained nothing. +Now you understand, and you will pardon me, Monsieur? If he cannot +produce you I am saved. Go then, leave me, I beg, without a moment’s +delay.”</p> +<p>He laughed derisively as he turned back his cowl and squared his +shoulders.</p> +<p>“All that is over!” he said, “over and done with, +sweet! M. de Tavannes is at this moment a prisoner in the Arsenal. +On my way hither I fell in with M. de Biron, and he told me. The +Grand Master, who would have had me join his company, had been all night +at Marshal Tavannes’ hotel, where he had been detained longer +than he expected. He stood pledged to release Count Hannibal on +his return, but at my request he consented to hold him one hour, and +to do also a little thing for me.”</p> +<p>The glow of hope which had transfigured her face faded slowly.</p> +<p>“It will not help,” she said, “if he find you here.”</p> +<p>“He will not! Nor you!”</p> +<p>“How, Monsieur?”</p> +<p>“In a few minutes,” he explained—he could not hide +his exultation, “a message will come from the Arsenal in the name +of Tavannes, bidding the monk he sent to you bring you to him. +A spoken message, corroborated by my presence, should suffice: ‘<i>Bid +the monk who is now with Mademoiselle</i>,’ it will run, ‘<i>bring +her to me at the Arsenal, and let four pikes guard them hither</i>.’ +When I begged M. de Biron to do this, he laughed. ‘I can +do better,’ he said. ‘They shall bring one of Count +Hannibal’s gloves, which he left on my table. Always supposing +my rascals have done him no harm, which God forbid, for I am answerable.’”</p> +<p>Tignonville, delighted with the stratagem which the meeting with +Biron had suggested, could see no flaw in it. She could, and though +she heard him to the end, no second glow of hope softened the lines +of her features. With a gesture full of dignity, which took in +not only Madame Carlat and the waiting-woman who stood at the door, +but the absent servants—</p> +<p>“And what of these?” she said. “What of these? +You forget them, Monsieur. You do not think, you cannot have thought, +that I would abandon them? That I would leave them to such mercy +as he, defeated, might extend to them? No, you forgot them.”</p> +<p>He did not know what to answer, for the jealous eyes of the frightened +waiting-woman, fierce with the fierceness of a hunted animal, were on +him. The Carlat and she had heard, could hear. At last—</p> +<p>“Better one than none!” he muttered, in a voice so low +that if the servants caught his meaning it was but indistinctly. +“I have to think of you.”</p> +<p>“And I of them,” she answered firmly. “Nor +is that all. Were they not here, it could not be. My word +is passed—though a moment ago, Monsieur, in the joy of seeing +you I forgot it. And how,” she continued, “if I keep +not my word, can I expect him to keep his? Or how, if I am ready +to break the bond, on this happening which I never expected, can I hold +him to conditions which he loves as little—as little as I love +him?”</p> +<p>Her voice dropped piteously on the last words; her eyes, craving +her lover’s pardon, sought his. But rage, not pity or admiration, +was the feeling roused in Tignonville’s breast. He stood +staring at her, struck dumb by folly so immense. At last—</p> +<p>“You cannot mean this,” he blurted out. “You +cannot mean, Mademoiselle, that you intend to stand on that! To +keep a promise wrung from you by force, by treachery, in the midst of +such horrors as he and his have brought upon us! It is inconceivable!”</p> +<p>She shook her head. “I promised,” she said.</p> +<p>“You were forced to it.”</p> +<p>“But the promise saved our lives.”</p> +<p>“From murderers! From assassins!” he protested.</p> +<p>She shook her head. “I cannot go back,” she said +firmly; “I cannot.”</p> +<p>“Then you are willing to marry him,” he cried in ignoble +anger. “That is it! Nay, you must wish to marry him! +For, as for his conditions, Mademoiselle,” the young man continued, +with an insulting laugh, “you cannot think seriously of them. +<i>He</i> keep conditions and you in his power! He, Count Hannibal! +But for the matter of that, and were he in the mind to keep them, what +are they? There are plenty of ministers. I left one only +this morning. I could lay my hand on one in five minutes. +He has only to find one, therefore—and to find me!”</p> +<p>“Yes, Monsieur,” she cried, trembling with wounded pride, +“it is for that reason I implore you to go. The sooner you +leave me, the sooner you place yourself in a position of security, the +happier for me! Every moment that you spend here, you endanger +both yourself and me!”</p> +<p>“If you will not be persuaded—”</p> +<p>“I shall not be persuaded,” she answered firmly, “and +you do but”—alas! her pride began to break down, her voice +to quiver, she looked piteously at him—“by staying here +make it harder for me to—to—”</p> +<p>“Hush!” cried Madame Carlat. “Hush!” +And as they started and turned towards her—she was at the end +of the chamber by the door, almost out of earshot—she raised a +warning hand. “Listen!” she muttered, “some +one has entered the house.”</p> +<p>“’Tis my messenger from Biron,” Tignonville answered +sullenly. And he drew his cowl over his face, and, hiding his +hands in his sleeves, moved towards the door. But on the threshold +he turned and held out his arms. He could not go thus. “Mademoiselle! +Clotilde!” he cried with passion, “for the last time, listen +to me, come with me. Be persuaded!”</p> +<p>“Hush!” Madame Carlat interposed again, and turned a +scared face on them. “It is no messenger! It is Tavannes +himself: I know his voice.” And she wrung her hands. +“<i>Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu</i>, what are we to do?” she +continued, panic-stricken. And she looked all ways about the room.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI. AT CLOSE QUARTERS.</h2> +<p>Fear leapt into Mademoiselle’s eyes, but she commanded herself. +She signed to Madame Carlat to be silent, and they listened, gazing +at one another, hoping against hope that the woman was mistaken. +A long moment they waited, and some were beginning to breathe again, +when the strident tones of Count Hannibal’s voice rolled up the +staircase, and put an end to doubt. Mademoiselle grasped the table +and stood supporting herself by it.</p> +<p>“What are we to do?” she muttered. “What +are we to do?” and she turned distractedly towards the women. +The courage which had supported her in her lover’s absence had +abandoned her now. “If he finds him here I am lost! +I am lost!”</p> +<p>“He will not know me,” Tignonville muttered. But +he spoke uncertainly; and his gaze, shifting hither and thither, belied +the boldness of his words.</p> +<p>Madame Carlat’s eyes flew round the room; on her for once the +burden seemed to rest. Alas! the room had no second door, and +the windows looked on a courtyard guarded by Tavannes’ people. +And even now Count Hannibal’s step rang on the stair! his hand +was almost on the latch. The woman wrung her hands; then, a thought +striking her, she darted to a corner where Mademoiselle’s robes +hung on pegs against the wall.</p> +<p>“Here!” she cried, raising them. “Behind +these! He may not be seen here! Quick, Monsieur, quick! +Hide yourself!”</p> +<p>It was a forlorn hope—the suggestion of one who had not thought +out the position; and, whatever its promise, Mademoiselle’s pride +revolted against it.</p> +<p>“No,” she cried. “Not there!” while +Tignonville, who knew that the step was useless, since Count Hannibal +must have learned that a monk had entered, held his ground.</p> +<p>“You could not deny yourself?” he muttered hurriedly.</p> +<p>“And a priest with me?” she answered; and she shook her +head.</p> +<p>There was no time for more, and even as Mademoiselle spoke Count +Hannibal’s knuckles tapped the door. She cast a last look +at her lover. He had turned his back on the window; the light +no longer fell on his face. It was possible that he might pass +unrecognized, if Tavannes’ stay was brief; at any rate, the risk +must be run. In a half stifled voice she bade her woman, Javette, +open the door. Count Hannibal bowed low as he entered; and he +deceived the others. But he did not deceive her. He had +not crossed the threshold before she repented that she had not acted +on Tignonville’s suggestion, and denied herself. For what +could escape those hard keen eyes, which swept the room, saw all, and +seemed to see nothing—those eyes in which there dwelt even now +a glint of cruel humour? He might deceive others, but she who +panted within his grasp, as the wild bird palpitates in the hand of +the fowler, was not deceived! He saw, he knew! although, as he +bowed, and smiling, stood upright, he looked only at her.</p> +<p>“I expected to be with you before this,” he said courteously, +“but I have been detained. First, Mademoiselle, by some +of your friends, who were reluctant to part with me; then by some of +your enemies, who, finding me in no handsome case, took me for a Huguenot +escaped from the river, and drove me to shifts to get clear of them. +However, now I am come, I have news.”</p> +<p>“News?” she muttered with dry lips. It could hardly +be good news.</p> +<p>“Yes, Mademoiselle, of M. de Tignonville,” he answered. +“I have little doubt that I shall be able to produce him this +evening, and so to satisfy one of your scruples. And as I trust +that this good father,” he went on, turning to the ecclesiastic, +and speaking with the sneer from which he seldom refrained, Catholic +as he was, when he mentioned a priest, “has by this time succeeded +in removing the other, and persuading you to accept his ministrations—”</p> +<p>“No!” she cried impulsively.</p> +<p>“No?” with a dubious smile, and a glance from one to +the other. “Oh, I had hoped better things. But he +still may? He still may. I am sure he may. In which +case, Mademoiselle, your modesty must pardon me if I plead urgency, +and fix the hour after supper this evening for the fulfilment of your +promise.”</p> +<p>She turned white to the lips. “After supper?” she +gasped.</p> +<p>“Yes, Mademoiselle, this evening. Shall I say—at +eight o’clock?”</p> +<p>In horror of the thing which menaced her, of the thing from which +only two hours separated her, she could find no words but those which +she had already used. The worst was upon her; worse than the worst +could not befall her.</p> +<p>“But he has not persuaded me!” she cried, clenching her +hands in passion. “He has not persuaded me!”</p> +<p>“Still he may, Mademoiselle.”</p> +<p>“He will not!” she cried wildly. “He will +not!”</p> +<p>The room was going round with her. The precipice yawned at +her feet; its naked terrors turned her brain. She had been pushed +nearer, and nearer, and nearer; struggle as she might, she was on the +verge. A mist rose before her eyes, and though they thought she +listened she understood nothing of what was passing. When she +came to herself, after the lapse of a minute, Count Hannibal was speaking.</p> +<p>“Permit him another trial,” he was saying in a tone of +bland irony. “A short time longer, Mademoiselle! One +more assault, father! The weapons of the Church could not be better +directed or to a more worthy object; and, successful, shall not fail +of due recognition and an earthly reward.”</p> +<p>And while she listened, half fainting, with a humming in her ears, +he was gone. The door closed on him, and the three—Mademoiselle’s +woman had withdrawn when she opened to him—looked at one another. +The girl parted her lips to speak, but she only smiled piteously; and +it was M. de Tignonville who broke the silence, in a tone which betrayed +rather relief than any other feeling.</p> +<p>“Come, all is not lost yet,” he said briskly. “If +I can escape from the house—”</p> +<p>“He knows you,” she answered.</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“He knows you,” Mademoiselle repeated in a tone almost +apathetic. “I read it in his eyes. He knew you at +once: and knew, too,” she added bitterly, “that he had here +under his hand one of the two things he required.”</p> +<p>“Then why did he hide his knowledge?” the young man retorted +sharply.</p> +<p>“Why?” she answered. “To induce me to waive +the other condition in the hope of saving you. Oh!” she +continued in a tone of bitter raillery, “he has the cunning of +hell, of the priests! You are no match for him, Monsieur. +Nor I; nor any of us. And”—with a gesture of despair—“he +will be my master! He will break me to his will and to his hand! +I shall be his! His, body and soul, body and soul!” she +continued drearily, as she sank into a chair and, rocking herself to +and fro, covered her face. “I shall be his! His till +I die!”</p> +<p>The man’s eyes burned, and the pulse in his temples beat wildly.</p> +<p>“But you shall not!” he exclaimed. “I may +be no match for him in cunning, you say well. But I can kill him. +And I will!” He paced up and down. “I will!”</p> +<p>“You should have done it when he was here,” she answered, +half in scorn, half in earnest.</p> +<p>“It is not too late,” he cried; and then he stopped, +silenced by the opening door. It was Javette who entered. +They looked at her, and before she spoke were on their feet. Her +face, white and eager, marking something besides fear, announced that +she brought news. She closed the door behind her, and in a moment +it was told.</p> +<p>“Monsieur can escape, if he is quick,” she cried in a +low tone; and they saw that she trembled with excitement. “They +are at supper. But he must be quick! He must be quick!”</p> +<p>“Is not the door guarded?”</p> +<p>“It is, but—”</p> +<p>“And he knows! Your mistress says that he knows that +I am here.”</p> +<p>For a moment Javette looked startled. “It is possible,” +she muttered. “But he has gone out.”</p> +<p>Madame Carlat clapped her hands. “I heard the door close,” +she said, “three minutes ago.”</p> +<p>“And if Monsieur can reach the room in which he supped last +night, the window that was broken is only blocked”—she swallowed +once or twice in her excitement—“with something he can move. +And then Monsieur is in the street, where his cowl will protect him.”</p> +<p>“But Count Hannibal’s men?” he asked eagerly.</p> +<p>“They are eating in the lodge by the door.”</p> +<p>“Ha! And they cannot see the other room from there?”</p> +<p>Javette nodded. Her tale told, she seemed to be unable to add +a word. Mademoiselle, who knew her for a craven, wondered that +she had found courage either to note what she had or to bring the news. +But as Providence had been so good to them as to put it into this woman’s +head to act as she had, it behoved them to use the opportunity—the +last, the very last opportunity they might have.</p> +<p>She turned to Tignonville. “Oh, go!” she cried +feverishly. “Go, I beg! Go now, Monsieur! The +greatest kindness you can do me is to place yourself as quickly as possible +beyond his reach.” A faint colour, the flush of hope, had +returned to her cheeks. Her eyes glittered.</p> +<p>“Right, Mademoiselle!” he cried, obedient for once, “I +go! And do you be of good courage.”</p> +<p>He held her hand: an instant, then, moving to the door, he opened +it and listened. They all pressed behind him to hear. A +murmur of voices, low and distant, mounted the staircase and bore out +the girl’s tale; apart from this the house was silent. Tignonville +cast a last look at Mademoiselle, and, with a gesture of farewell, glided +a-tiptoe to the stairs and began to descend, his face hidden in his +cowl. They watched him reach the angle of the staircase, they +watched him vanish beyond it; and still they listened, looking at one +another when a board creaked or the voices below were hushed for a moment.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII. THE DUEL.</h2> +<p>At the foot of the staircase Tignonville paused. The droning +Norman voices of the men on guard issued from an open door a few paces +before him on the left. He caught a jest, the coarse chuckling +laughter which attended it, and the gurgle of applause which followed; +and he knew that at any moment one of the men might step out and discover +him. Fortunately the door of the room with the shattered window +was almost within reach of his hand on the right side of the passage, +and he stepped softly to it. He stood an instant hesitating, his +hand on the latch; then, alarmed by a movement in the guard-room, as +if some were rising, he pushed the door in a panic, slid into the room, +and shut the door behind him. He was safe, and he had made no +noise; but at the table, at supper, with his back to him and his face +to the partly closed window, sat Count Hannibal!</p> +<p>The young man’s heart stood still. For a long minute +he gazed at the Count’s back, spellbound and unable to stir. +Then, as Tavannes ate on without looking round, he began to take courage. +Possibly he had entered so quietly that he had not been heard, or possibly +his entrance was taken for that of a servant. In either case, +there was a chance that he might retire after the same fashion; and +he had actually raised the latch, and was drawing the door to him with +infinite precaution, when Tavannes’ voice struck him, as it were, +in the face.</p> +<p>“Pray do not admit the draught, M. de Tignonville,” he +said, without looking round. “In your cowl you do not feel +it, but it is otherwise with me.”</p> +<p>The unfortunate Tignonville stood transfixed, glaring at the back +of the other’s head. For an instant he could not find his +voice. At last—</p> +<p>“Curse you!” he hissed in a transport of rage. +“Curse you! You did know, then? And she was right.”</p> +<p>“If you mean that I expected you, to be sure, Monsieur,” +Count Hannibal answered. “See, your place is laid. +You will not feel the air from without there. The very becoming +dress which you have adopted secures you from cold. But—do +you not find it somewhat oppressive this summer weather?”</p> +<p>“Curse you!” the young man cried, trembling.</p> +<p>Tavannes turned and looked at him with a dark smile. “The +curse may fall,” he said, “but I fancy it will not be in +consequence of your petitions, Monsieur. And now, were it not +better you played the man?”</p> +<p>“If I were armed,” the other cried passionately, “you +would not insult me!”</p> +<p>“Sit down, sir, sit down,” Count Hannibal answered sternly. +“We will talk of that presently. In the mean time I have +something to say to you. Will you not eat?”</p> +<p>But Tignonville would not.</p> +<p>“Very well,” Count Hannibal answered; and he went on +with his supper. “I am indifferent whether you eat or not. +It is enough for me that you are one of the two things I lacked an hour +ago; and that I have you, M. de Tignonville. And through you I +look to obtain the other.”</p> +<p>“What other?” Tignonville cried.</p> +<p>“A minister,” Tavannes answered, smiling. “A +minister. There are not many left in Paris—of your faith. +But you met one this morning, I know.”</p> +<p>“I? I met one?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Monsieur, you! And can lay your hand on him in +five minutes, you know.”</p> +<p>M. de Tignonville gasped. His face turned a shade paler.</p> +<p>“You have a spy,” he cried. “You have a spy +upstairs!”</p> +<p>Tavannes raised his cup to his lips, and drank. When he had +set it down—</p> +<p>“It may be,” he said, and he shrugged his shoulders. +“I know, it boots not how I know. It is my business to make +the most of my knowledge—and of yours!”</p> +<p>M. de Tignonville laughed rudely. “Make the most of your +own,” he said; “you will have none of mine.”</p> +<p>“That remains to be seen,” Count Hannibal answered. +“Carry your mind back two days, M. de Tignonville. Had I +gone to Mademoiselle de Vrillac last Saturday and said to her ‘Marry +me, or promise to marry me,’ what answer would she have given?”</p> +<p>“She would have called you an insolent!” the young man +replied hotly. “And I—”</p> +<p>“No matter what you would have done!” Tavannes said. +“Suffice it that she would have answered as you suggest. +Yet to-day she has given me her promise.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” the young man retorted, “in circumstances +in which no man of honour—”</p> +<p>“Let us say in peculiar circumstances.”</p> +<p>“Well?”</p> +<p>“Which still exist! Mark me, M. de Tignonville,” +Count Hannibal continued, leaning forward and eyeing the young man with +meaning, “<i>which still exist</i>! And may have the same +effect on another’s will as on hers! Listen! Do you +hear?” And rising from his seat with a darkening face, he +pointed to the partly shuttered window, through which the measured tramp +of a body of men came heavily to the ear. “Do you hear, +Monsieur? Do you understand? As it was yesterday it is to-day! +They killed the President La Place this morning! And they are +searching! They are still searching! The river is not yet +full, nor the gibbet glutted! I have but to open that window and +denounce you, and your life would hang by no stronger thread than the +life of a mad dog which they chase through the streets!”</p> +<p>The younger man had risen also. He stood confronting Tavannes, +the cowl fallen back from his face, his eyes dilated.</p> +<p>“You think to frighten me!” he cried. “You +think that I am craven enough to sacrifice her to save myself. +You—”</p> +<p>“You were craven enough to draw back yesterday, when you stood +at this window and waited for death!” Count Hannibal answered +brutally. “You flinched then, and may flinch again!”</p> +<p>“Try me!” Tignonville retorted, trembling with passion. +“Try me!” And then, as the other stared at him and +made no movement, “But you dare not!” he cried. “You +dare not!”</p> +<p>“No?”</p> +<p>“No! For if I die you lose her!” Tignonville replied +in a voice of triumph. “Ha, ha! I touch you there!” +he continued. “You dare not, for my safety is part of the +price, and is more to you than it is to myself! You may threaten, +M. de Tavannes, you may bluster, and shout and point to the window”—and +he mocked, with a disdainful mimicry, the other’s gesture—“but +my safety is more to you than to me! And ’twill end there!”</p> +<p>“You believe that?”</p> +<p>“I know it!”</p> +<p>In two strides Count Hannibal was at the window. He seized +a great piece of the boarding which closed one-half of the opening; +he wrenched it away. A flood of evening light burst in through +the aperture, and fell on and heightened the flushed passion of his +features, as he turned again to his opponent.</p> +<p>“Then if you know it,” he cried vehemently, “in +God’s name act upon it!” And he pointed to the window.</p> +<p>“Act upon it?”</p> +<p>“Ay, act upon it!” Tavannes repeated, with a glance of +flame. “The road is open! If you would save your mistress, +behold the way! If you would save her from the embrace she abhors, +from the eyes under which she trembles, from the hand of a master, there +lies the way! And it is not her glove only you will save, but +herself, her soul, her body! So,” he continued, with a certain +wildness, and in a tone wherein contempt and bitterness were mingled, +“to the lions, brave lover! Will you your life for her honour? +Will you death that she may live a maid? Will you your head to +save her finger? Then, leap down! leap down! The lists are +open, the sand is strewed! Out of your own mouth I have it that +if you perish she is saved! Then out, Monsieur! Cry ‘I +am a Huguenot!’ And God’s will be done!”</p> +<p>Tignonville was livid. “Rather, your will!” he +panted. “Your will, you devil! Nevertheless—”</p> +<p>“You will go! Ha! ha! You will go!”</p> +<p>For an instant it seemed that he would go. Stung by the challenge, +wrought on by the contempt in which Tavannes held him, he shot a look +of hate at the tempter; he caught his breath, and laid his hand on the +edge of the shuttering as if he would leap out.</p> +<p>But it goes hard with him who has once turned back from the foe. +The evening light, glancing cold on the burnished pike-points of a group +of archers who stood near, caught his eye and went chill to his heart. +Death, not in the arena, not in the sight of shouting thousands, but +in this darkening street, with an enemy laughing from the window, death +with no revenge to follow, with no certainty that after all she would +be safe, such a death could be compassed only by pure love—the +love of a child for a parent, of a parent for a child, of a man for +the one woman in the world!</p> +<p>He recoiled. “You would not spare her!” he cried, +his face damp with sweat—for he knew now that he would not go. +“You want to be rid of me! You would fool me, and then—”</p> +<p>“Out of your own mouth you are convict!” Count Hannibal +retorted gravely. “It was you who said it! But still +I swear it! Shall I swear it to you?”</p> +<p>But Tignonville recoiled another step and was silent.</p> +<p>“No? O <i>preux chevalier</i>, O gallant knight! +I knew it! Do you think that I did not know with whom I had to +deal?” And Count Hannibal burst into harsh laughter, turning +his back on the other, as if he no longer counted. “You +will neither die with her nor for her! You were better in her +petticoats and she in your breeches! Or no, you are best as you +are, good father! Take my advice, M. de Tignonville, have done +with arms; and with a string of beads, and soft words, and talk of Holy +Mother Church, you will fool the women as surely as the best of them! +They are not all like my cousin, a flouting, gibing, jeering woman—you +had poor fortune there, I fear?”</p> +<p>“If I had a sword!” Tignonville hissed, his face livid +with rage. “You call me coward, because I will not die to +please you. But give me a sword, and I will show you if I am a +coward!”</p> +<p>Tavannes stood still. “You are there, are you?” +he said in an altered tone. “I—”</p> +<p>“Give me a sword,” Tignonville repeated, holding out +his open trembling hands. “A sword! A sword! +’Tis easy taunting an unarmed man, but—”</p> +<p>“You wish to fight?”</p> +<p>“I ask no more! No more! Give me a sword,” +he urged, his voice quivering with eagerness. “It is you +who are the coward!”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal stared at him. “And what am I to get by +fighting you?” he reasoned slowly. “You are in my +power. I can do with you as I please. I can call from this +window and denounce you, or I can summon my men—”</p> +<p>“Coward! Coward!”</p> +<p>“Ay? Well, I will tell you what I will do,” with +a subtle smile. “I will give you a sword, M. de Tignonville, +and I will meet you foot to foot here, in this room, on a condition.”</p> +<p>“What is it? What is it?” the young man cried with +incredible eagerness. “Name your condition!”</p> +<p>“That if I get the better of you, you find me a minister.”</p> +<p>“I find you a—”</p> +<p>“A minister. Yes, that is it. Or tell me where +I can find one.”</p> +<p>The young man recoiled. “Never!” he said.</p> +<p>“You know where to find one.”</p> +<p>“Never! Never!”</p> +<p>“You can lay your hand on one in five minutes, you know.”</p> +<p>“I will not.”</p> +<p>“Then I shall not fight you!” Count Hannibal answered +coolly; and he turned from him, and back again. “You will +pardon me if I say, M. de Tignonville, that you are in as many minds +about fighting as about dying! I do not think that you would have +made your fortune at Court. Moreover, there is a thing which I +fancy you have not considered. If we fight you may kill me, in +which case the condition will not help me much. Or I—which +is more likely—” he added, with a harsh smile, “may +kill you, and again I am no better placed.”</p> +<p>The young man’s pallid features betrayed the conflict in his +breast. To do him justice, his hand itched for the sword-hilt—he +was brave enough for that; he hated, and only so could he avenge himself. +But the penalty if he had the worse! And yet what of it? +He was in hell now, in a hell of humiliation, shame, defeat, tormented +by this fiend! ’Twas only to risk a lower hell.</p> +<p>At last, “I will do it!” he cried hoarsely. “Give +me a sword and look to yourself.”</p> +<p>“You promise?”</p> +<p>“Yes, yes, I promise!”</p> +<p>“Good,” Count Hannibal answered suavely, “but we +cannot fight so, we must have more light.”</p> +<p>And striding to the door he opened it, and calling the Norman bade +him move the table and bring candles—a dozen candles; for in the +narrow streets the light was waning, and in the half-shuttered room +it was growing dusk. Tignonville, listening with a throbbing brain, +wondered that the attendant expressed no surprise and said no word—until +Tavannes added to his orders one for a pair of swords.</p> +<p>Then, “Monsieur’s sword is here,” Bigot answered +in his half-intelligible patois. “He left it here yester +morning.”</p> +<p>“You are a good fellow, Bigot,” Tavannes answered, with +a gaiety and good-humour which astonished Tignonville. “And +one of these days you shall marry Suzanne.”</p> +<p>The Norman smiled sourly and went in search of the weapon.</p> +<p>“You have a poniard?” Count Hannibal continued in the +same tone of unusual good temper, which had already struck Tignonville. +“Excellent! Will you strip, then, or—as we are? +Very good, Monsieur; in the unlikely event of fortune declaring for +you, you will be in a better condition to take care of yourself. +A man running through the streets in his shirt is exposed to inconveniences!” +And he laughed gaily.</p> +<p>While he laughed the other listened; and his rage began to give place +to wonder. A man who regarded as a pastime a sword and dagger +conflict between four walls, who, having his adversary in his power, +was ready to discard the advantage, to descend into the lists, and to +risk life for a whim, a fancy—such a man was outside his experience, +though in Poitou in those days of war were men reckoned brave. +For what, he asked himself as he waited, had Tavannes to gain by fighting? +The possession of Mademoiselle? But Mademoiselle, if his passion +for her overwhelmed him, was in his power; and if his promise were a +barrier—which seemed inconceivable in the light of his reputation—he +had only to wait, and to-morrow, or the next day, or the next, a minister +would be found, and without risk he could gain that for which he was +now risking all.</p> +<p>Tignonville did not know that it was in the other’s nature +to find pleasure in such utmost ventures. Nevertheless the recklessness +to which Tavannes’ action bore witness had its effect upon him. +By the time the young man’s sword arrived something of his passion +for the conflict had evaporated; and though the touch of the hilt restored +his determination, the locked door, the confined space, and the unaccustomed +light went a certain distance towards substituting despair for courage.</p> +<p>The use of the dagger in the duels of that day, however, rendered +despair itself formidable. And Tignonville, when he took his place, +appeared anything but a mean antagonist. He had removed his robe +and cowl, and lithe and active as a cat he stood as it were on springs, +throwing his weight now on this foot and now on that, and was continually +in motion. The table bearing the candles had been pushed against +the window, the boarding of which had been replaced by Bigot before +he left the room. Tignonville had this, and consequently the lights, +on his dagger hand; and he plumed himself on the advantage, considering +his point the more difficult to follow.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal did not seem to notice this, however. “Are +you ready?” he asked. And then—</p> +<p>“On guard!” he cried, and he stamped the echo to the +word. But, that done, instead of bearing the other down with a +headlong rush characteristic of the man—as Tignonville feared—he +held off warily, stooping low; and when his slow opening was met by +one as cautious, he began to taunt his antagonist.</p> +<p>“Come!” he cried, and feinted half-heartedly. “Come, +Monsieur, are we going to fight, or play at fighting?”</p> +<p>“Fight yourself, then!” Tignonville answered, his breath +quickened by excitement and growing hope. “’Tis not +I hold back!” And he lunged, but was put aside.</p> +<p>“Ça! ça!” Tavannes retorted; and he lunged +and parried in his turn, but loosely and at a distance.</p> +<p>After which the two moved nearer the door, their eyes glittering +as they watched one another, their knees bent, the sinews of their backs +straining for the leap. Suddenly Tavannes thrust, and leapt away, +and as his antagonist thrust in return the Count swept the blade aside +with a strong parry, and for a moment seemed to be on the point of falling +on Tignonville with the poniard. But Tignonville retired his right +foot nimbly, which brought them front to front again. And the +younger man laughed.</p> +<p>“Try again, M. le Comte!” he said. And, with the +word, he dashed in himself quick as light; for a second the blades ground +on one another, the daggers hovered, the two suffused faces glared into +one another; then the pair disengaged again.</p> +<p>The blood trickled from a scratch on Count Hannibal’s neck; +half an inch to the right and the point had found his throat. +And Tignonville, elated, laughed anew, and swaying from side to side +on his hips, watched with growing confidence for a second chance. +Lithe as one of the leopards Charles kept at the Louvre, he stooped +lower and lower, and more and more with each moment took the attitude +of the assailant, watching for an opening; while Count Hannibal, his +face dark and his eyes vigilant, stood increasingly on the defence. +The light was waning a little, the wicks of the candles were burning +long; but neither noticed it or dared to remove his eyes from the other’s. +Their laboured breathing found an echo on the farther side of the door, +but this again neither observed.</p> +<p>“Well?” Count Hannibal said at last. “Are +you coming?”</p> +<p>“When I please,” Tignonville answered; and he feinted +but drew back.</p> +<p>The other did the same, and again they watched one another, their +eyes seeming to grow smaller and smaller. Gradually a smile had +birth on Tignonville’s lips. He thrust! It was parried! +He thrust again—parried! Tavannes, grown still more cautious, +gave a yard. Tignonville pushed on, but did not allow confidence +to master caution. He began, indeed, to taunt his adversary; to +flout and jeer him. But it was with a motive.</p> +<p>For suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he repeated the peculiar +thrust which had been successful before. This time, however, Tavannes +was ready. He put aside the blade with a quick parade, and instead +of making a riposte sprang within the other’s guard. The +two came face to face and breast to shoulder, and struck furiously with +their daggers. Count Hannibal was outside his opponent’s +sword and had the advantage. Tignonville’s dagger fell, +but glanced off the metalwork of the other’s hilt; Tavannes’ +fell swift and hard between the young man’s eyes. The Huguenot +flung up his hands and staggered back, falling his length on the floor.</p> +<p>In an instant Count Hannibal was on his breast, and had knocked away +his dagger. Then—</p> +<p>“You own yourself vanquished?” he cried.</p> +<p>The young man, blinded by the blood which trickled down his face, +made a sign with his hands. Count Hannibal rose to his feet again, +and stood a moment looking at his foe without speaking. Presently +he seemed to be satisfied. He nodded, and going to the table dipped +a napkin in water. He brought it, and carefully supporting Tignonville’s +head, laved his brow.</p> +<p>“It is as I thought,” he said, when he had stanched the +blood. “You are not hurt, man. You are stunned. +It is no more than a bruise.”</p> +<p>The young man was coming to himself. “But I thought—” +he muttered, and broke off to pass his hand over his face. Then +he got up slowly, reeling a little, “I thought it was the point,” +he muttered.</p> +<p>“No, it was the pommel,” Tavannes answered dryly. +“It would not have served me to kill you. I could have done +that ten times.”</p> +<p>Tignonville groaned, and, sitting down at the table, held the napkin +to his aching head. One of the candles had been overturned in +the struggle and lay on the floor, flaring in a little pool of grease. +Tavannes set his heel upon it; then, striding to the farther end of +the room, he picked up Tignonville’s dagger and placed it beside +his sword on the table. He looked about to see if aught else remained +to do, and, finding nothing, he returned to Tignonville’s side.</p> +<p>“Now, Monsieur,” he said in a voice hard and constrained, +“I must ask you to perform your part of the bargain.”</p> +<p>A groan of anguish broke from the unhappy man. And yet he had +set his life on the cast; what more could he have done?</p> +<p>“You will not harm him?” he muttered.</p> +<p>“He shall go safe,” Count Hannibal replied gravely.</p> +<p>“And—” he fought a moment with his pride, then +blurted out the words, “you will not tell her—that it was +through me—you found him?”</p> +<p>“I will not,” Tavannes answered in the same tone. +He stooped and picked up the other’s robe and cowl, which had +fallen from a chair—so that as he spoke his eyes were averted. +“She shall never know through me,” he said.</p> +<p>And Tignonville, his face hidden in his hands, told him.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII. ANDROMEDA, PERSEUS BEING ABSENT.</h2> +<p>Little by little—while they fought below—the gloom had +thickened, and night had fallen in the room above. But Mademoiselle +would not have candles brought. Seated in the darkness, on the +uppermost step of the stairs, her hands clasped about her knees, she +listened and listened, as if by that action she could avert misfortune; +or as if, by going so far forward to meet it, she could turn aside the +worst. The women shivering in the darkness about her would fain +have struck a light and drawn her back into the room, for they felt +safer there. But she was not to be moved. The laughter and +chatter of the men in the guard-room, the coming and going of Bigot +as he passed, below but out of sight, had no terrors for her; nay, she +breathed more freely on the bare open landing of the staircase than +in the close confines of a room which her fears made hateful to her. +Here at least she could listen, her face unseen; and listening she bore +the suspense more easily.</p> +<p>A turn in the staircase, with the noise which proceeded from the +guard-room, rendered it difficult to hear what happened in the closed +room below. But she thought that if an alarm were raised there +she must hear it; and as the moments passed and nothing happened, she +began to feel confident that her lover had made good his escape by the +window.</p> +<p>Presently she got a fright. Three or four men came from the +guard-room and went, as it seemed to her, to the door of the room with +the shattered casement. She told herself that she had rejoiced +too soon, and her heart stood still. She waited for a rush of +feet, a cry, a struggle. But except an uncertain muffled sound +which lasted for some minutes, and was followed by a dull shock, she +heard nothing more. And presently the men went back whispering, +the noise in the guard-room which had been partially hushed broke forth +anew, and perplexed but relieved she breathed again. Surely he +had escaped by this time. Surely by this time he was far away, +in the Arsenal, or in some place of refuge! And she might take +courage, and feel that for this day the peril was overpast.</p> +<p>“Mademoiselle will have the lights now?” one of the women +ventured.</p> +<p>“No! no!” she answered feverishly, and she continued +to crouch where she was on the stairs, bathing herself and her burning +face in the darkness and coolness of the stairway. The air entered +freely through a window at her elbow, and the place was fresher, were +that all, than the room she had left. Javette began to whimper, +but she paid no heed to her; a man came and went along the passage below, +and she heard the outer door unbarred, and the jarring tread of three +or four men who passed through it. But all without disturbance; +and afterwards the house was quiet again. And as on this Monday +evening the prime virulence of the massacre had begun to abate—though +it held after a fashion to the end of the week—Paris without was +quiet also. The sounds which had chilled her heart at intervals +during two days were no longer heard. A feeling almost of peace, +almost of comfort—a drowsy feeling, that was three parts a reaction +from excitement—took possession of her. In the darkness +her head sank lower and lower on her knees. And half an hour passed, +while Javette whimpered, and Madame Carlat slumbered, her broad back +propped against the wall.</p> +<p>Suddenly Mademoiselle opened her eyes, and saw, three steps below +her, a strange man whose upward way she barred. Behind him came +Carlat, and behind him Bigot, lighting both; and in the confusion of +her thoughts as she rose to her feet the three, all staring at her in +a common amazement, seemed a company. The air entering through +the open window beside her blew the flame of the candle this way and +that, and added to the nightmare character of the scene; for by the +shifting light the men seemed to laugh one moment and scowl the next, +and their shadows were now high and now low on the wall. In truth, +they were as much amazed at coming on her in that place as she at their +appearance; but they were awake, and she newly roused from sleep; and +the advantage was with them.</p> +<p>“What is it?” she cried in a panic. “What +is it?”</p> +<p>“If Mademoiselle will return to her room?” one of the +men said courteously.</p> +<p>“But—what is it?” She was frightened.</p> +<p>“If Mademoiselle—”</p> +<p>Then she turned without more and went back into the room, and the +three followed, and her woman and Madame Carlat. She stood resting +one hand on the table while Javette with shaking fingers lighted the +candles. Then—</p> +<p>“Now, Monsieur,” she said in a hard voice, “if +you will tell me your business?”</p> +<p>“You do not know me?” The stranger’s eyes +dwelt kindly and pitifully on her.</p> +<p>She looked at him steadily, crushing down the fears which knocked +at her heart.</p> +<p>“No,” she said. “And yet I think I have seen +you.”</p> +<p>“You saw me a week last Sunday,” the stranger answered +sorrowfully. “My name is La Tribe. I preached that +day, Mademoiselle, before the King of Navarre. I believe that +you were there.”</p> +<p>For a moment she stared at him in silence, her lips parted. +Then she laughed, a laugh which set the teeth on edge.</p> +<p>“Oh, he is clever!” she cried. “He has the +wit of the priests! Or the devil! But you come too late, +Monsieur! You come too late! The bird has flown.”</p> +<p>“Mademoiselle—”</p> +<p>“I tell you the bird has flown!” she repeated vehemently. +And her laugh of joyless triumph rang through the room. “He +is clever, but I have outwitted him! I have—”</p> +<p>She paused and stared about her wildly, struck by the silence; struck +too by something solemn, something pitiful in the faces that were turned +on her. And her lip began to quiver.</p> +<p>“What?” she muttered. “Why do you look at +me so? He has not”—she turned from one to another—“he +has not been taken?”</p> +<p>“M. Tignonville?”</p> +<p>She nodded.</p> +<p>“He is below.”</p> +<p>“Ah!” she said.</p> +<p>They expected to see her break down, perhaps to see her fall. +But she only groped blindly for a chair and sat. And for a moment +there was silence in the room. It was the Huguenot minister who +broke it in a tone formal and solemn.</p> +<p>“Listen, all present!” he said slowly. “The +ways of God are past finding out. For two days in the midst of +great perils I have been preserved by His hand and fed by His bounty, +and I am told that I shall live if, in this matter, I do the will of +those who hold me in their power. But be assured—and hearken +all,” he continued, lowering his voice to a sterner note. +“Rather than marry this woman to this man against her will—if +indeed in His sight such marriage can be—rather than save my life +by such base compliance, I will die not once but ten times! See. +I am ready! I will make no defence!” And he opened +his arms as if to welcome the stroke. “If there be trickery +here, if there has been practising below, where they told me this and +that, it shall not avail! Until I hear from Mademoiselle’s +own lips that she is willing, I will not say over her so much as Yea, +yea, or Nay, nay!”</p> +<p>“She is willing!”</p> +<p>La Tribe turned sharply, and beheld the speaker. It was Count +Hannibal, who had entered a few seconds earlier, and had taken his stand +within the door.</p> +<p>“She is willing!” Tavannes repeated quietly. And +if, in this moment of the fruition of his schemes, he felt his triumph, +he masked it under a face of sombre purpose. “Do you doubt +me, man?”</p> +<p>“From her own lips!” the other replied, undaunted—and +few could say as much—by that harsh presence. “From +no other’s!”</p> +<p>“Sirrah, you—”</p> +<p>“I can die. And you can no more, my lord!” the +minister answered bravely. “You have no threat can move +me.”</p> +<p>“I am not sure of that,” Tavannes answered, more blandly. +“But had you listened to me and been less anxious to be brave, +M. La Tribe, where no danger is, you had learned that here is no call +for heroics! Mademoiselle is willing, and will tell you so.”</p> +<p>“With her own lips?”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal raised his eyebrows. “With her own lips, +if you will,” he said. And then, advancing a step and addressing +her, with unusual gravity, “Mademoiselle de Vrillac,” he +said, “you hear what this gentleman requires. Will you be +pleased to confirm what I have said?”</p> +<p>She did not answer, and in the intense silence which held the room +in its freezing grasp a woman choked, another broke into weeping. +The colour ebbed from the cheeks of more than one; the men fidgeted +on their feet.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal looked round, his head high. “There is +no call for tears,” he said; and whether he spoke in irony or +in a strange obtuseness was known only to himself. “Mademoiselle +is in no hurry—and rightly—to answer a question so momentous. +Under the pressure of utmost peril, she passed her word; the more reason +that, now the time has come to redeem it, she should do so at leisure +and after thought. Since she gave her promise, Monsieur, she has +had more than one opportunity of evading its fulfilment. But she +is a Vrillac, and I know that nothing is farther from her thoughts.”</p> +<p>He was silent a moment; and then, “Mademoiselle,” he +said, “I would not hurry you.”</p> +<p>Her eyes were closed, but at that her lips moved. “I +am—willing,” she whispered. And a fluttering sigh, +of relief, of pity, of God knows what, filled the room.</p> +<p>“You are satisfied, M. La Tribe?”</p> +<p>“I do not—”</p> +<p>“Man!” With a growl as of a tiger, Count Hannibal +dropped the mask. In two strides he was at the minister’s +side, his hand gripped his shoulder; his face, flushed with passion, +glared into his. “Will you play with lives?” he hissed. +“If you do not value your own, have you no thought of others? +Of these? Look and count! Have you no bowels? If she +will save them, will not you?”</p> +<p>“My own I do not value.”</p> +<p>“Curse your own!” Tavannes cried in furious scorn. +And he shook the other to and fro. “Who thought of your +life? Will you doom these? Will you give them to the butcher?”</p> +<p>“My lord,” La Tribe answered, shaken in spite of himself, +“if she be willing—”</p> +<p>“She is willing.”</p> +<p>“I have nought to say. But I caught her words indistinctly. +And without her consent—”</p> +<p>“She shall speak more plainly. Mademoiselle—”</p> +<p>She anticipated him. She had risen, and stood looking straight +before her, seeing nothing.</p> +<p>“I am willing,” she muttered with a strange gesture, +“if it must be.”</p> +<p>He did not answer.</p> +<p>“If it must be,” she repeated slowly, and with a heavy +sigh. And her chin dropped on her breast. Then, abruptly, +suddenly—it was a strange thing to see—she looked up. +A change as complete as the change which had come over Count Hannibal +a minute before came over her. She sprang to his side; she clutched +his arm and devoured his face with her eyes. “You are not +deceiving me?” she cried. “You have Tignonville below? +You—oh, no, no!” And she fell back from him, her eyes +distended, her voice grown suddenly shrill and defiant, “You have +not! You are deceiving me! He has escaped, and you have +lied to me!”</p> +<p>“I?”</p> +<p>“Yes, you have lied to me!” It was the last fierce +flicker of hope when hope seemed dead: the last clutch of the drowning +at the straw that floated before the eyes.</p> +<p>He laughed harshly. “You will be my wife in five minutes,” +he said, “and you give me the lie? A week, and you will +know me better! A month, and—but we will talk of that another +time. For the present,” he continued, turning to La Tribe, +“do you, sir, tell her that the gentleman is below. Perhaps +she will believe you. For you know him.”</p> +<p>La Tribe looked at her sorrowfully; his heart bled for her. +“I have seen M. de Tignonville,” he said. “And +M. le Comte says truly. He is in the same case with ourselves, +a prisoner.”</p> +<p>“You have seen him?” she wailed.</p> +<p>“I left him in the room below, when I mounted the stairs.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal laughed, the grim mocking laugh which seemed to revel +in the pain it inflicted.</p> +<p>“Will you have him for a witness?” he cried. “There +could not be a better, for he will not forget. Shall I fetch him?”</p> +<p>She bowed her head, shivering. “Spare me that,” +she said. And she pressed her hands to her eyes while an uncontrollable +shudder passed over her frame. Then she stepped forward: “I +am ready,” she whispered. “Do with me as you will!”</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>When they had all gone out and closed the door behind them, and the +two whom the minister had joined were left together, Count Hannibal +continued for a time to pace the room, his hands clasped at his back, +and his head sunk somewhat on his chest. His thoughts appeared +to run in a new channel, and one, strange to say, widely diverted from +his bride and from that which he had just done. For he did not +look her way, or, for a time, speak to her. He stood once to snuff +a candle, doing it with an absent face: and once to look, but still +absently, and as if he read no word of it, at the marriage writing which +lay, the ink still wet, upon the table. After each of these interruptions +he resumed his steady pacing to and fro, to and fro, nor did his eye +wander once in the direction of her chair.</p> +<p>And she waited. The conflict of emotions, the strife between +hope and fear, the final defeat had stunned her; had left her exhausted, +almost apathetic. Yet not quite, nor wholly. For when in +his walk he came a little nearer to her, a chill perspiration broke +out on her brow, and shudderings crept over her; and when he passed +farther from her—and then only, it seemed—she breathed again. +But the change lay beneath the surface, and cheated the eye. Into +her attitude, as she sat, her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes fixed, +came no apparent change or shadow of movement.</p> +<p>Suddenly, with a dull shock, she became aware that he was speaking.</p> +<p>“There was need of haste,” he said, his tone strangely +low and free from emotion, “for I am under bond to leave Paris +to-morrow for Angers, whither I bear letters from the King. And +as matters stood, there was no one with whom I could leave you. +I trust Bigot; he is faithful, and you may trust him, Madame, fair or +foul! But he is not quick-witted. Badelon, also, you may +trust. Bear it in mind. Your woman Javette is not faithful; +but as her life is guaranteed she must stay with us until she can be +securely placed. Indeed, I must take all with me—with one +exception—for the priests and monks rule Paris, and they do not +love me, nor would spare aught at my word.”</p> +<p>He was silent a few moments. Then he resumed in the same tone, +“You ought to know how we, Tavannes, stand. It is by Monsieur +and the Queen-Mother; and <i>contra</i> the Guises. We have all +been in this matter; but the latter push and we are pushed, and the +old crack will reopen. As it is, I cannot answer for much beyond +the reach of my arm. Therefore, we take all with us except M. +de Tignonville, who desires to be conducted to the Arsenal.”</p> +<p>She had begun to listen with averted eyes. But as he continued +to speak surprise awoke in her, and something stronger than surprise—amazement, +stupefaction. Slowly her eyes came to him, and when he ceased +to speak—</p> +<p>“Why do you tell me these things?” she muttered, her +dry lips framing the words with difficulty.</p> +<p>“Because it behoves you to know them,” he answered, thoughtfully +tapping the table. “I have no one, save my brother, whom +I can trust.”</p> +<p>She would not ask him why he trusted her, nor why he thought he could +trust her. For a moment or two she watched him, while he, with +his eyes lowered, stood in deep thought. At last he looked up +and his eyes met hers.</p> +<p>“Come!” he said abruptly, and in a different tone, “we +must end this! Is it to be a kiss or a blow between us?”</p> +<p>She rose, though her knees shook under her; and they stood face to +face, her face white as paper.</p> +<p>“What—do you mean?” she whispered.</p> +<p>“Is it to be a kiss or a blow?” he repeated. “A +husband must be a lover, Madame, or a master, or both! I am content +to be the one or the other, or both, as it shall please you. But +the one I will be.”</p> +<p>“Then, a thousand times, a blow,” she cried, her eyes +flaming, “from you!”</p> +<p>He wondered at her courage, but he hid his wonder. “So +be it!” he answered. And before she knew what he would be +at, he struck her sharply across the cheek with the glove which he held +in his hand. She recoiled with a low cry, and her cheek blazed +scarlet where he had struck it.</p> +<p>“So be it!” he continued sombrely. “The choice +shall be yours, but you will come to me daily for the one or the other. +If I cannot be lover, Madame, I will be master. And by this sign +I will have you know it, daily, and daily remember it.”</p> +<p>She stared at him, her bosom rising and falling, in an astonishment +too deep for words. But he did not heed her. He did not +look at her again. He had already turned to the door, and while +she looked he passed through it, he closed it behind him. And +she was alone.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX. IN THE ORLÉANNAIS.</h2> +<p>“But you fear him?”</p> +<p>“Fear him?” Madame St. Lo answered; and, to the surprise +of the Countess, she made a little face of contempt. “No; +why should I fear him? I fear him no more than the puppy leaping +at old Sancho’s bridle fears his tall playfellow! Or than +the cloud you see above us fears the wind before which it flies!” +She pointed to a white patch, the size of a man’s hand, which +hung above the hill on their left hand and formed the only speck in +the blue summer sky. “Fear him? Not I!” +And, laughing gaily, she put her horse at a narrow rivulet which crossed +the grassy track on which they rode.</p> +<p>“But he is hard?” the Countess murmured in a low voice, +as she regained her companion’s side.</p> +<p>“Hard?” Madame St. Lo rejoined with a gesture of pride. +“Ay, hard as the stones in my jewelled ring! Hard as flint, +or the nether millstone—to his enemies! But to women? +Bah! Who ever heard that he hurt a woman?”</p> +<p>“Why, then, is he so feared?” the Countess asked, her +eyes on the subject of their discussion—a solitary figure riding +some fifty paces in front of them.</p> +<p>“Because he counts no cost!” her companion answered. +“Because he killed Savillon in the court of the Louvre, though +he knew his life the forfeit. He would have paid the forfeit too, +or lost his right hand, if Monsieur, for his brother the Marshal’s +sake, had not intervened. But Savillon had whipped his dog, you +see. Then he killed the Chevalier de Millaud, but ’twas +in fair fight, in the snow, in their shirts. For that, Millaud’s +son lay in wait for him with two, in the passage under the Châtelet; +but Hannibal wounded one, and the others saved themselves. Undoubtedly +he is feared!” she added with the same note of pride in her voice.</p> +<p>The two who talked, rode at the rear of the little company which +had left Paris at daybreak two days before, by the Porte St. Jacques. +Moving steadily south-westward by the lesser roads and bridle-tracks—for +Count Hannibal seemed averse from the great road—they had lain +the second night in a village three leagues from Bonneval. A journey +of two days on fresh horses is apt to change scenery and eye alike; +but seldom has an alteration—in themselves and all about them—as +great as that which blessed this little company, been wrought in so +short a time. From the stifling wynds and evil-smelling lanes +of Paris, they had passed to the green uplands, the breezy woods and +babbling streams of the upper Orléannais; from sights and sounds +the most appalling, to the solitude of the sandy heath, haunt of the +great bustard, or the sunshine of the hillside, vibrating with the songs +of larks; from an atmosphere of terror and gloom to the freedom of God’s +earth and sky. Numerous enough—they numbered a score of +armed men—to defy the lawless bands which had their lairs in the +huge forest of Orleans, they halted where they pleased: at mid-day under +a grove of chestnut-trees, or among the willows beside a brook; at night, +if they willed it, under God’s heaven. Far, not only from +Paris, but from the great road, with its gibbets and pillories—the +great road which at that date ran through a waste, no peasant living +willingly within sight of it—they rode in the morning and in the +evening, resting in the heat of the day. And though they had left +Paris with much talk of haste, they rode more at leisure with every +league.</p> +<p>For whatever Tavannes’ motive, it was plain that he was in +no hurry to reach his destination. Nor for that matter were any +of his company. Madame St. Lo, who had seized the opportunity +of escaping from the capital under her cousin’s escort, was in +an ill-humour with cities, and declaimed much on the joys of a cell +in the woods. For the time the coarsest nature and the dullest +rider had had enough of alarums and conflicts.</p> +<p>The whole company, indeed, though it moved in some fashion of array +with an avant and a rear-guard, the ladies riding together, and Count +Hannibal proceeding solitary in the midst, formed as peaceful a band, +and one as innocently diverted, as if no man of them had ever grasped +pike or blown a match. There was an old rider among them who had +seen the sack of Rome, and the dead face of the great Constable the +idol of the Free Companies. But he had a taste for simples and +much skill in them; and when Madame had once seen Badelon on his knees +in the grass searching for plants, she lost her fear of him. Bigot, +with his low brow and matted hair, was the abject slave of Suzanne, +Madame St. Lo’s woman, who twitted him mercilessly on his Norman +<i>patois</i>, and poured the vials of her scorn on him a dozen times +a day. In all, with La Tribe and the Carlats, Madame St. Lo’s +servants, and the Countess’s following, they numbered not far +short of two score; and when they halted at noon, and under the shadow +of some leafy tree, ate their mid-day meal, or drowsed to the tinkle +of Madame St. Lo’s lute, it was difficult to believe that Paris +existed, or that these same people had so lately left its blood-stained +pavements.</p> +<p>They halted this morning a little earlier than usual. Madame +St. Lo had barely answered her companion’s question before the +subject of their discussion swung himself from old Sancho’s back, +and stood waiting to assist them to dismount. Behind him, where +the green valley through which the road passed narrowed to a rocky gate, +an old mill stood among willows at the foot of a mound. On the +mound behind it a ruined castle which had stood siege in the Hundred +Years’ War raised its grey walls; and beyond this the stream which +turned the mill poured over rocks with a cool rushing sound that proved +irresistible. The men, their horses watered and hobbled, went +off, shouting like boys, to bathe below the falls; and after a moment’s +hesitation Count Hannibal rose from the grass on which he had flung +himself.</p> +<p>“Guard that for me, Madame,” he said. And he dropped +a packet, bravely sealed and tied with a silk thread, into the Countess’s +lap. “’Twill be safer than leaving it in my clothes. +Ohé!” And he turned to Madame St. Lo. “Would +you fancy a life that was all gipsying, cousin?” And if +there was irony in his voice, there was desire in his eyes.</p> +<p>“There is only one happy man in the world,” she answered, +with conviction.</p> +<p>“By name?”</p> +<p>“The hermit of Compiégne.”</p> +<p>“And in a week you would be wild for a masque!” he said +cynically. And turning on his heel he followed the men.</p> +<p>Madame St. Lo sighed complacently. “Heigho!” she +said. “He’s right! We are never content, <i>ma +mie</i>! When I am trifling in the Gallery my heart is in the +greenwood. And when I have eaten black bread and drank spring +water for a fortnight I do nothing but dream of Zamet’s, and white +mulberry tarts! And you are in the same case. You have saved +your round white neck, or it has been saved for you, by not so much +as the thickness of Zamet’s pie-crust—I declare my mouth +is beginning to water for it!—and instead of being thankful and +making the best of things, you are thinking of poor Madame d’Yverne, +or dreaming of your calf-love!”</p> +<p>The girl’s face—for a girl she was, though they called +her Madame—began to work. She struggled a moment with her +emotion, and then broke down, and fell to weeping silently. For +two days she had sat in public and not given way. But the reference +to her lover was too much for her strength.</p> +<p>Madame St. Lo looked at her with eyes which were not unkindly.</p> +<p>“Sits the wind in that quarter?” she murmured. +“I thought so! But there, my dear, if you don’t put +that packet in your gown you’ll wash out the address! Moreover, +if you ask me, I don’t think the young man is worth it. +It is only that what we have not got—we want!”</p> +<p>But the young Countess had borne to the limit of her powers. +With an incoherent word she rose to her feet, and walked hurriedly away. +The thought of what was and of what might have been, the thought of +the lover who still—though he no longer seemed, even to her, the +perfect hero—held a place in her heart, filled her breast to overflowing. +She longed for some spot where she could weep unseen; where the sunshine +and the blue sky would not mock her grief; and seeing in front of her +a little clump of alders, which grew beside the stream, in a bend that +in winter was marshy, she hastened towards it.</p> +<p>Madame St. Lo saw her figure blend with the shadow of the trees.</p> +<p>“Quite <i>à la</i> Ronsard, I give my word!” she +murmured. “And now she is out of sight! <i>La, la</i>! +I could play at the game myself, and carve sweet sorrow on the barks +of trees, if it were not so lonesome! And if I had a man!”</p> +<p>And gazing pensively at the stream and the willows, my lady tried +to work herself into a proper frame of mind; now murmuring the name +of one gallant, and now, finding it unsuited, the name of another. +But the soft inflection would break into a giggle, and finally into +a yawn; and, tired of the attempt, she began to pluck grass and throw +it from her. By-and-by she discovered that Madame Carlat and the +women, who had their place a little apart, had disappeared; and affrighted +by the solitude and silence—for neither of which she was made—she +sprang up and stared about her, hoping to discern them. Right +and left, however, the sweep of hillside curved upward to the skyline, +lonely and untenanted; behind her the castled rock frowned down on the +rugged gorge and filled it with dispiriting shadow. Madame St. +Lo stamped her foot on the turf.</p> +<p>“The little fool!” she murmured pettishly. “Does +she think that I am to be murdered that she may fatten on sighs? +Oh, come up, Madame, you must be dragged out of this!” And +she started briskly towards the alders, intent on gaining company as +quickly as possible.</p> +<p>She had gone about fifty yards, and had as many more to traverse +when she halted. A man, bent double, was moving stealthily along +the farther side of the brook, a little in front of her. Now she +saw him, now she lost him; now she caught a glimpse of him again, through +a screen of willow branches. He moved with the utmost caution, +as a man moves who is pursued or in danger; and for a moment she deemed +him a peasant whom the bathers had disturbed and who was bent on escaping. +But when he came opposite to the alder-bed she saw that that was his +point, for he crouched down, sheltered by a willow, and gazed eagerly +among the trees, always with his back to her; and then he waved his +hand to some one in the wood.</p> +<p>Madame St. Lo drew in her breath. As if he had heard the sound—which +was impossible—the man dropped down where he stood, crawled a +yard or two on his face, and disappeared.</p> +<p>Madame stared a moment, expecting to see him or hear him. Then, +as nothing happened, she screamed. She was a woman of quick impulses, +essentially feminine; and she screamed three or four times, standing +where she was, her eyes on the edge of the wood. “If that +does not bring her out, nothing will!” she thought.</p> +<p>It brought her. An instant, and the Countess appeared, and +hurried in dismay to her side.</p> +<p>“What is it?” the younger woman asked, glancing over +her shoulder; for all the valley, all the hills were peaceful, and behind +Madame St. Lo—but the lady had not discovered it—the servants +who had returned were laying the meal. “What is it?” +she repeated anxiously.</p> +<p>“Who was it?” Madame St. Lo asked curtly. She was +quite calm now.</p> +<p>“Who was—who?”</p> +<p>“The man in the wood?”</p> +<p>The Countess stared a moment, then laughed. “Only the +old soldier they call Badelon, gathering simples. Did you think +that he would harm me?”</p> +<p>“It was not old Badelon whom I saw!” Madame St. Lo retorted. +“It was a younger man, who crept along the other side of the brook, +keeping under cover. When I first saw him he was there,” +she continued, pointing to the place. “And he crept on and +on until he came opposite to you. Then he waved his hand.”</p> +<p>“To me?”</p> +<p>Madame nodded.</p> +<p>“But if you saw him, who was he?” the Countess asked.</p> +<p>“I did not see his face,” Madame St. Lo answered. +“But he waved to you. That I saw.”</p> +<p>The Countess had a thought which slowly flooded her face with crimson. +Madame St. Lo saw the change, saw the tender light which on a sudden +softened the other’s eyes; and the same thought occurred to her. +And having a mind to punish her companion for her reticence—for +she did not doubt that the girl knew more than she acknowledged—she +proposed that they should return and find Badelon, and learn if he had +seen the man.</p> +<p>“Why?” Madame Tavannes asked. And she stood stubbornly, +her head high. “Why should we?”</p> +<p>“To clear it up,” the elder woman answered mischievously. +“But perhaps, it were better to tell your husband and let his +men search the coppice.”</p> +<p>The colour left the Countess’s face as quickly as it had come. +For a moment she was tongue-tied. Then—</p> +<p>“Have we not had enough of seeking and being sought?” +she cried, more bitterly than befitted the occasion. “Why +should we hunt him? I am not timid, and he did me no harm. +I beg, Madame, that you will do me the favour of being silent on the +matter.”</p> +<p>“Oh, if you insist? But what a pother—”</p> +<p>“I did not see him, and he did not see me,” Madame de +Tavannes answered vehemently. “I fail, therefore, to understand +why we should harass him, whoever he be. Besides, M. de Tavannes +is waiting for us.”</p> +<p>“And M. de Tignonville—is following us!” Madame +St. Lo muttered under her breath. And she made a face at the other’s +back.</p> +<p>She was silent, however. They returned to the others and nothing +of import, it would seem, had happened. The soft summer air played +on the meal laid under the willows as it had played on the meal of yesterday +laid under the chestnut-trees. The horses grazed within sight, +moving now and again, with a jingle of trappings or a jealous neigh: +the women’s chatter vied with the unceasing sound of the mill-stream. +After dinner, Madame St. Lo touched the lute, and Badelon—Badelon +who had seen the sack of the Colonna’s Palace, and been served +by cardinals on the knee—fed a water-rat, which had its home in +one of the willow-stumps, with carrot-parings. One by one the +men laid themselves to sleep with their faces on their arms; and to +the eyes all was as all had been yesterday in this camp of armed men +living peacefully.</p> +<p>But not to the Countess! She had accepted her life, she had +resigned herself, she had marvelled that it was no worse. After +the horrors of Paris the calm of the last two days had fallen on her +as balm on a wound. Worn out in body and mind, she had rested, +and only rested; without thought, almost without emotion, save for the +feeling, half fear, half curiosity, which stirred her in regard to the +strange man, her husband. Who on his side left her alone.</p> +<p>But the last hour had wrought a change. Her eyes were grown +restless, her colour came and went. The past stirred in its shallow—ah, +so shallow—grave; and dead hopes and dead forebodings, strive +as she might, thrust out hands to plague and torment her. If the +man who sought to speak with her by stealth, who dogged her footsteps +and hung on the skirts of her party, were Tignonville—her lover, +who at his own request had been escorted to the Arsenal before their +departure from Paris—then her plight was a sorry one. For +what woman, wedded as she had been wedded, could think otherwise than +indulgently of his persistence? And yet, lover and husband! +What peril, what shame the words had often spelled! At the thought +only she trembled and her colour ebbed. She saw, as one who stands +on the brink of a precipice, the depth which yawned before her. +She asked herself, shivering, if she would ever sink to <i>that</i>.</p> +<p>All the loyalty of a strong nature, all the virtue of a good woman, +revolted against the thought. True, her husband—husband +she must call him—had not deserved her love; but his bizarre magnanimity, +the gloomy, disdainful kindness with which he had crowned possession, +even the unity of their interests, which he had impressed upon her in +so strange a fashion, claimed a return in honour.</p> +<p>To be paid—how? how? That was the crux which perplexed, +which frightened, which harassed her. For, if she told her suspicions, +she exposed her lover to capture by one who had no longer a reason to +be merciful. And if she sought occasion to see Tignonville and +so to dissuade him, she did it at deadly risk to herself. Yet +what other course lay open to her if she would not stand by? If +she would not play the traitor? If she—</p> +<p>“Madame,”—it was her husband, and he spoke to her +suddenly,—“are you not well?” And, looking up +guiltily, she found his eyes fixed curiously on hers.</p> +<p>Her face turned red and white and red again, and she faltered something +and looked from him, but only to meet Madame St. Lo’s eyes. +My lady laughed softly in sheer mischief.</p> +<p>“What is it?” Count Hannibal asked sharply.</p> +<p>But Madame St. Lo’s answer was a line of Ronsard.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XX. ON THE CASTLE HILL.</h2> +<p>Thrice she hummed it, bland and smiling. Then from the neighbouring +group came an interruption. The wine he had drunk had put it into +Bigot’s head to snatch a kiss from Suzanne; and Suzanne’s +modesty, which was very nice in company, obliged her to squeal. +The uproar which ensued, the men backing the man and the women the woman, +brought Tavannes to his feet. He did not speak, but a glance from +his eyes was enough. There was not one who failed to see that +something was amiss with him, and a sudden silence fell on the party.</p> +<p>He turned to the Countess. “You wished to see the castle?” +he said. “You had better go now, but not alone.” +He cast his eyes over the company, and summoned La Tribe, who was seated +with the Carlats. “Go with Madame,” he said curtly. +“She has a mind to climb the hill. Bear in mind, we start +at three, and do not venture out of hearing.”</p> +<p>“I understand, M. le Comte,” the minister answered. +He spoke quietly, but there was a strange light in his face as he turned +to go with her.</p> +<p>None the less he was silent until Madame’s lagging feet—for +all her interest in the expedition was gone—had borne her a hundred +paces from the company. Then—</p> +<p>“Who knoweth our thoughts and forerunneth all our desires,” +he murmured. And when she turned to him, astonished, “Madame,” +he continued, “I have prayed, ah, how I have prayed, for this +opportunity of speaking to you! And it has come. I would +it had come this morning, but it has come. Do not start or look +round; many eyes are on us, and, alas! I have that to say to you which +it will move you to hear, and that to ask of you which it must task +your courage to perform.”</p> +<p>She began to tremble, and stood looking up the green slope to the +broken grey wall which crowned its summit.</p> +<p>“What is it?” she whispered, commanding herself with +an effort. “What is it? If it have aught to do with +M. Tignonville—”</p> +<p>“It has not!”</p> +<p>In her surprise—for although she had put the question she had +felt no doubt of the answer—she started and turned to him.</p> +<p>“It has not?” she exclaimed almost incredulously.</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Then what is it, Monsieur?” she replied, a little haughtily. +“What can there be that should move me so?”</p> +<p>“Life or death, Madame,” he answered solemnly. +“Nay, more; for since Providence has given me this chance of speaking +to you, a thing of which I despaired, I know that the burden is laid +on us, and that it is guilt or it is innocence, according as we refuse +the burden or bear it.”</p> +<p>“What is it, then?” she cried impatiently. “What +is it?”</p> +<p>“I tried to speak to you this morning.”</p> +<p>“Was it you, then, whom Madame St. Lo saw stalking me before +dinner?</p> +<p>“It was.”</p> +<p>She clasped her hands and heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank +God, Monsieur!” she replied. “You have lifted a weight +from me. I fear nothing in comparison of that. Nothing!”</p> +<p>“Alas!” he answered sombrely, “there is much to +fear, for others if not for ourselves! Do you know what that is +which M. de Tavannes bears always in his belt? What it is he carries +with such care? What it was he handed to you to keep while he +bathed to-day?”</p> +<p>“Letters from the King.”</p> +<p>“Yes, but the import of those letters?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“And yet, should they be written in letters of blood!” +the minister exclaimed, his face kindling. “They should +scorch the hands that hold them and blister the eyes that read them. +They are the fire and the sword! They are the King’s order +to do at Angers as they have done in Paris. To slay all of the +religion who are found there—and they are many! To spare +none, to have mercy neither on the old man nor the unborn child! +See yonder hawk!” he continued, pointing with a shaking hand to +a falcon which hung light and graceful above the valley, the movement +of its wings invisible. “How it disports itself in the face +of the sun! How easy its way, how smooth its flight! But +see, it drops upon its prey in the rushes beside the brook, and the +end of its beauty is slaughter! So is it with yonder company!” +His finger sank until it indicated the little camp seated toy-like in +the green meadow four hundred feet below them, with every man and horse, +and the very camp-kettle, clear-cut and visible, though diminished by +distance to fairy-like proportions. “So it is with yonder +company!” he repeated sternly. “They play and are +merry, and one fishes and another sleeps! But at the end of the +journey is death. Death for their victims, and for them the judgment!”</p> +<p>She stood, as he spoke, in the ruined gateway, a walled grass-plot +behind her, and at her feet the stream, the smiling valley, the alders, +and the little camp. The sky was cloudless, the scene drowsy with +the stillness of an August afternoon. But his words went home +so truly that the sunlit landscape before the eyes added one more horror +to the picture he called up before the mind.</p> +<p>The Countess turned white and sick. “Are you sure?” +she whispered at last.</p> +<p>“Quite sure.”</p> +<p>“Ah, God!” she cried, “are we never to have peace?” +And turning from the valley, she walked some distance into the grass +court, and stood. After a time, she turned to him; he had followed +her doggedly, pace for pace. “What do you want me to do?” +she cried, despair in her voice. “What can I do?”</p> +<p>“Were the letters he bears destroyed—”</p> +<p>“The letters?”</p> +<p>“Yes, were the letters destroyed,” La Tribe answered +relentlessly, “he could do nothing! Nothing! Without +that authority the magistrates of Angers would not move. He could +do nothing. And men and women and children—men and women +and children whose blood will otherwise cry for vengeance, perhaps for +vengeance on us who might have saved them—will live! Will +live!” he repeated, with a softening eye. And with an all-embracing +gesture he seemed to call to witness the open heavens, the sunshine +and the summer breeze which wrapped them round. “Will live!”</p> +<p>She drew a deep breath. “And you have brought me here,” +she said, “to ask me to do this?”</p> +<p>“I was sent here to ask you to do this.”</p> +<p>“Why me? Why me?” she wailed, and she held out +her open hands to him, her face wan and colourless. “You +come to me, a woman! Why to me?”</p> +<p>“You are his wife!”</p> +<p>“And he is my husband!”</p> +<p>“Therefore he trusts you,” was the unyielding, the pitiless +answer. “You, and you alone, have the opportunity of doing +this.”</p> +<p>She gazed at him in astonishment. “And it is you who +say that?” she faltered, after a pause. “You who made +us one, who now bid me betray him, whom I have sworn to love? +To ruin him whom I have sworn to honour?”</p> +<p>“I do!” he answered solemnly. “On my head +be the guilt, and on yours the merit.”</p> +<p>“Nay, but—” she cried quickly, and her eyes glittered +with passion—“do you take both guilt and merit! You +are a man,” she continued, her words coming quickly in her excitement, +“he is but a man! Why do you not call him aside, trick him +apart on some pretence or other, and when there are but you two, man +to man, wrench the warrant from him? Staking your life against +his, with all those lives for prize? And save them or perish? +Why I, even I, a woman, could find it in my heart to do that, were he +not my husband! Surely you, you who are a man, and young—”</p> +<p>“Am no match for him in strength or arms,” the minister +answered sadly. “Else would I do it! Else would I +stake my life, Heaven knows, as gladly to save their lives as I sit +down to meat! But I should fail, and if I failed all were lost. +Moreover,” he continued solemnly, “I am certified that this +task has been set for you. It was not for nothing, Madame, nor +to save one poor household that you were joined to this man; but to +ransom all these lives and this great city. To be the Judith of +our faith, the saviour of Angers, the—”</p> +<p>“Fool! Fool!” she cried. “Will you +be silent?” And she stamped the turf passionately, while +her eyes blazed in her white face. “I am no Judith, and +no madwoman as you are fain to make me. Mad?” she continued, +overwhelmed with agitation, “My God, I would I were, and I should +be free from this!” And, turning, she walked a little way +from him with the gesture of one under a crushing burden.</p> +<p>He waited a minute, two minutes, three minutes, and still she did +not return. At length she came back, her bearing more composed; +she looked at him, and her eyes seized his and seemed as if they would +read his soul.</p> +<p>“Are you sure,” she said, “of what you have told +me? Will you swear that the contents of these letters are as you +say?”</p> +<p>“As I live,” he answered gravely. “As God +lives.”</p> +<p>“And you know—of no other way, Monsieur? Of no +other way?” she repeated slowly and piteously.</p> +<p>“Of none, Madame, of none, I swear.”</p> +<p>She sighed deeply, and stood sunk in thought. Then, “When +do we reach Angers?” she asked heavily.</p> +<p>“The day after to-morrow.”</p> +<p>“I have—until the day after to-morrow?”</p> +<p>“Yes. To-night we lie near Vendôme.”</p> +<p>“And to-morrow night?”</p> +<p>“Near a place called La Flèche. It is possible,” +he went on with hesitation—for he did not understand her—“that +he may bathe to-morrow, and may hand the packet to you, as he did to-day +when I vainly sought speech with you. If he does that—”</p> +<p>“Yes?” she said, her eyes on his face.</p> +<p>“The taking will be easy. But when he finds you have +it not”—he faltered anew—“it may go hard with +you.”</p> +<p>She did not speak.</p> +<p>“And there, I think, I can help you. If you will stray +from the party, I will meet you and destroy the letter. That done—and +would God it were done already—I will take to flight as best I +can, and you will raise the alarm and say that I robbed you of it! +And if you tear your dress—”</p> +<p>“No,” she said.</p> +<p>He looked a question.</p> +<p>“No!” she repeated in a low voice. “If I +betray him I will not lie to him! And no other shall pay the price! +If I ruin him it shall be between him and me, and no other shall have +part in it!”</p> +<p>He shook his head. “I do not know,” he murmured, +“what he may do to you!”</p> +<p>“Nor I,” she said proudly. “That will be +for him.”</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Curious eyes had watched the two as they climbed the hill. +For the path ran up the slope to the gap which served for gate, much +as the path leads up to the Castle Beautiful in old prints of the Pilgrim’s +journey, and Madame St. Lo had marked the first halt and the second, +and, noting every gesture, had lost nothing of the interview save the +words. But until the two, after pausing a moment, passed out of +sight she made no sign. Then she laughed. And as Count Hannibal, +at whom the laugh was aimed, did not heed her, she laughed again. +And she hummed the line of Ronsard.</p> +<p>Still he would not be roused, and, piqued, she had recourse to words.</p> +<p>“I wonder what you would do,” she said, “if the +old lover followed us, and she went off with him!”</p> +<p>“She would not go,” he answered coldly, and without looking +up.</p> +<p>“But if he rode off with her?”</p> +<p>“She would come back on her feet!”</p> +<p>Madame St. Lo’s prudence was not proof against that. +She had the woman’s inclination to hide a woman’s secret; +and she had not intended, when she laughed, to do more than play with +the formidable man with whom so few dared to play. Now, stung +by his tone and his assurance, she must needs show him that his trustfulness +had no base. And, as so often happens in the circumstances, she +went a little farther than the facts bore her.</p> +<p>“Any way, he has followed us so far!” she cried viciously.</p> +<p>“M. de Tignonville?”</p> +<p>“Yes. I saw him this morning while you were bathing. +She left me and went into the little coppice. He came down the +other side of the brook, stooping and running, and went to join her.”</p> +<p>“How did he cross the brook?”</p> +<p>Madame St. Lo blushed. “Old Badelon was there, gathering +simples,” she said. “He scared him. And he crawled +away.”</p> +<p>“Then he did not cross?”</p> +<p>“No. I did not say he did!”</p> +<p>“Nor speak to her?”</p> +<p>“No. But if you think it will pass so next time—you +do not know much of women!”</p> +<p>“Of women generally, not much,” he answered, grimly polite. +“Of this woman a great deal!”</p> +<p>“You looked in her big eyes, I suppose!” Madame +St. Lo cried with heat. “And straightway fell down and worshipped +her!” She liked rather than disliked the Countess; but she +was of the lightest, and the least opposition drove her out of her course. +“And you think you know her! And she, if she could save +you from death by opening an eye, would go with a patch on it till her +dying day! Take my word for it, Monsieur, between her and her +lover you will come to harm.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal’s swarthy face darkened a tone, and his eyes +grew a very little smaller.</p> +<p>“I fancy that he runs the greater risk,” he muttered.</p> +<p>“You may deal with him, but, for her—”</p> +<p>“I can deal with her. You deal with some women with a +whip—”</p> +<p>“You would whip me, I suppose?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” he said quietly. “It would do you +good, Madame. And with other women otherwise. There are +women who, if they are well frightened, will not deceive you. +And there are others who will not deceive you though they are frightened. +Madame de Tavannes is of the latter kind.”</p> +<p>“Wait! Wait and see!” Madame cried in scorn.</p> +<p>“I am waiting.”</p> +<p>“Yes! And whereas if you had come to me I could have +told her that about M. de Tignonville which would have surprised her, +you will go on waiting and waiting and waiting until one fine day you’ll +wake up and find Madame gone, and—”</p> +<p>“Then I’ll take a wife I can whip!” he answered, +with a look which apprised her how far she had carried it. “But +it will not be you, sweet cousin. For I have no whip heavy enough +for your case.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI. SHE WOULD, AND WOULD NOT.</h2> +<p>We noted some way back the ease with which women use one concession +as a stepping-stone to a second; and the lack of magnanimity, amounting +almost to unscrupulousness, which the best display in their dealings +with a retiring foe. But there are concessions which touch even +a good woman’s conscience; and Madame de Tavannes, free by the +tenure of a blow, and with that exception treated from hour to hour +with rugged courtesy, shrank appalled before the task which confronted +her.</p> +<p>To ignore what La Tribe had told her, to remain passive when a movement +on her part might save men, women, and children from death, and a whole +city from massacre—this was a line of conduct so craven, so selfish, +that from the first she knew herself incapable of it. But to take +the only other course open to her, to betray her husband and rob him +of that, the loss of which might ruin him, this needed not courage only, +not devotion only, but a hardness proof against reproaches as well as +against punishment. And the Countess was no fanatic. No +haze of bigotry glorified the thing she contemplated, or dressed it +in colours other than its own. Even while she acknowledged the +necessity of the act and its ultimate righteousness, even while she +owned the obligation which lay upon her to perform it, she saw it as +he would see it, and saw herself as he would see her.</p> +<p>True, he had done her a great wrong; and this in the eyes of some +might pass for punishment. But he had saved her life where many +had perished; and, the wrong done, he had behaved to her with fantastic +generosity. In return for which she was to ruin him? It +was not hard to imagine what he would say of her, and of the reward +with which she had requited him.</p> +<p>She pondered over it as they rode that evening, with the weltering +sun in their eyes and the lengthening shadows of the oaks falling athwart +the bracken which fringed the track. Across breezy heaths and +over downs, through green bottoms and by hamlets, from which every human +creature fled at their approach, they ambled on by twos and threes; +riding in a world of their own, so remote, so different from the real +world—from which they came and to which they must return—that +she could have wept in anguish, cursing God for the wickedness of man +which lay so heavy on creation. The gaunt troopers riding at ease +with swinging legs and swaying stirrups—and singing now a refrain +from Ronsard, and now one of those verses of Marot’s psalms which +all the world had sung three decades before—wore their most lamb-like +aspect. Behind them Madame St. Lo chattered to Suzanne of a riding +mask which had not been brought, or planned expedients, if nothing sufficiently +in the mode could be found at Angers. And the other women talked +and giggled, screamed when they came to fords, and made much of steep +places, where the men must help them. In time of war death’s +shadow covers but a day, and sorrow out of sight is out of mind. +Of all the troop whom the sinking sun left within sight of the lofty +towers and vine-clad hills of Vendôme, three only wore faces attuned +to the cruel August week just ending; three only, like dark beads strung +far apart on a gay nun’s rosary, rode, brooding and silent, in +their places. The Countess was one—the others were the two +men whose thoughts she filled, and whose eyes now and again sought her, +La Tribe’s with sombre fire in their depths, Count Hannibal’s +fraught with a gloomy speculation, which belied his brave words to Madame +St. Lo.</p> +<p>He, moreover, as he rode, had other thoughts; dark ones, which did +not touch her. And she, too, had other thoughts at times, dreams +of her young lover, spasms of regret, a wild revolt of heart, a cry +out of the darkness which had suddenly whelmed her. So that of +the three only La Tribe was single-minded.</p> +<p>This day they rode a long league after sunset, through a scattered +oak-wood, where the rabbits sprang up under their horses’ heads +and the squirrels made angry faces at them from the lower branches. +Night was hard upon them when they reached the southern edge of the +forest, and looked across the dusky open slopes to a distant light or +two which marked where Vendôme stood.</p> +<p>“Another league,” Count Hannibal muttered; and he bade +the men light fires where they were, and unload the packhorses. +“’Tis pure and dry here,” he said. “Set +a watch, Bigot, and let two men go down for water. I hear frogs +below. You do not fear to be moonstruck, Madame?”</p> +<p>“I prefer this,” she answered in a low voice.</p> +<p>“Houses are for monks and nuns!” he rejoined heartily. +“Give me God’s heaven.”</p> +<p>“The earth is His, but we deface it,” she murmured, reverting +to her thoughts, and unconscious that it was to him she spoke.</p> +<p>He looked at her sharply, but the fire was not yet kindled; and in +the gloaming her face was a pale blot undecipherable. He stood +a moment, but she did not speak again; and Madame St. Lo bustling up, +he moved away to give an order. By-and-by the fires burned up, +and showed the pillared aisle in which they sat, small groups dotted +here and there on the floor of Nature’s cathedral. Through +the shadowy Gothic vaulting, the groining of many boughs which met overhead, +a rare star twinkled, as through some clerestory window; and from the +dell below rose in the night, now the monotonous chanting of the frogs, +and now, as some great bull-frog took the note, a diapason worthy of +a Brescian organ. The darkness walled all in; the night was still; +a falling caterpillar sounded. Even the rude men at the farthest +fire stilled their voices at times; awed, they knew not why, by the +silence and vastness of the night.</p> +<p>The Countess long remembered that vigil—for she lay late awake; +the cool gloom, the faint wood-rustlings, the distant cry of fox or +wolf, the soft glow of the expiring fires that at last left the world +to darkness and the stars; above all, the silent wheeling of the planets, +which spoke indeed of a supreme Ruler, but crushed the heart under a +sense of its insignificance, and of the insignificance of all human +revolutions.</p> +<p>“Yet, I believe!” she cried, wrestling upwards, wrestling +with herself. “Though I have seen what I have seen, yet +I believe!”</p> +<p>And though she had to bear what she had to bear, and do that from +which her soul shrank! The woman, indeed, within her continued +to cry out against this tragedy ever renewed in her path, against this +necessity for choosing evil, or good, ease for herself or life for others. +But the moving heavens, pointing onward to a time when good and evil +alike should be past, strengthened a nature essentially noble; and before +she slept no shame and no suffering seemed—for the moment at least—too +great a price to pay for the lives of little children. Love had +been taken from her life; the pride which would fain answer generosity +with generosity—that must go, too!</p> +<p>She felt no otherwise when the day came, and the bustle of the start +and the common round of the journey put to flight the ideals of the +night. But things fell out in a manner she had not pictured. +They halted before noon on the north bank of the Loir, in a level meadow +with lines of poplars running this way and that, and filling all the +place with the soft shimmer of leaves. Blue succory, tiny mirrors +of the summer sky, flecked the long grass, and the women picked bunches +of them, or, Italian fashion, twined the blossoms in their hair. +A road ran across the meadow to a ferry, but the ferryman, alarmed by +the aspect of the party, had conveyed his boat to the other side and +hidden himself.</p> +<p>Presently Madame St. Lo espied the boat, clapped her hands and must +have it. The poplars threw no shade, the flies teased her, the +life of a hermit—in a meadow—was no longer to her taste.</p> +<p>“Let us go on the water!” she cried. “Presently +you will go to bathe, Monsieur, and leave us to grill!”</p> +<p>“Two livres to the man who will fetch the boat!” Count +Hannibal cried.</p> +<p>In less than half a minute three men had thrown off their boots, +and were swimming across, amid the laughter and shouts of their fellows. +In five minutes the boat was brought.</p> +<p>It was not large and would hold no more than four. Tavannes’ +eye fell on Carlat.</p> +<p>“You understand a boat,” he said. “Go with +Madame St. Lo. And you, M. La Tribe.”</p> +<p>“But you are coming?” Madame St. Lo cried, turning to +the Countess. “Oh, Madame,” with a curtsey, “you +are not? You—”</p> +<p>“Yes, I will come,” the Countess answered.</p> +<p>“I shall bathe a short distance up the stream,” Count +Hannibal said. He took from his belt the packet of letters, and +as Carlat held the boat for Madame St. Lo to enter, he gave it to the +Countess, as he had given it to her yesterday. “Have a care +of it, Madame,” he said in a low voice, “and do not let +it pass out of your hands. To lose it may be to lose my head.”</p> +<p>The colour ebbed from her cheeks. In spite of herself her shaking +hand put back the packet. “Had you not better then—give +it to Bigot?” she faltered.</p> +<p>“He is bathing.”</p> +<p>“Let him bathe afterwards.”</p> +<p>“No,” he answered almost harshly; he found a species +of pleasure in showing her that, strange as their relations were, he +trusted her. “No; take it, Madame. Only have a care +of it.”</p> +<p>She took it then, hid it in her dress, and he turned away; and she +turned towards the boat. La Tribe stood beside the stern, holding +it for her to enter, and as her fingers rested an instant on his arm +their eyes met. His were alight, his arm even quivered; and she +shuddered.</p> +<p>She avoided looking at him a second time, and this was easy, since +he took his seat in the bows beyond Carlat, who handled the oars. +Silently the boat glided out on the surface of the stream, and floated +downwards, Carlat now and again touching an oar, and Madame St. Lo chattering +gaily in a voice which carried far on the water. Now it was a +flowering rush she must have, now a green bough to shield her face from +the sun’s reflection; and now they must lie in some cool, shadowy +pool under fern-clad banks, where the fish rose heavily, and the trickle +of a rivulet fell down over stones.</p> +<p>It was idyllic. But not to the Countess. Her face burned, +her temples throbbed, her fingers gripped the side of the boat in the +vain attempt to steady her pulses. The packet within her dress +scorched her. The great city and its danger, Tavannes and his +faith in her, the need of action, the irrevocableness of action hurried +through her brain. The knowledge that she must act now—or +never—pressed upon her with distracting force. Her hand +felt the packet, and fell again nerveless.</p> +<p>“The sun has caught you, <i>ma mie</i>,” Madame St. Lo +said. “You should ride in a mask as I do.”</p> +<p>“I have not one with me,” she muttered, her eyes on the +water.</p> +<p>“And I but an old one. But at Angers—”</p> +<p>The Countess heard no more; on that word she caught La Tribe’s +eye. He was beckoning to her behind Carlat’s back, pointing +imperiously to the water, making signs to her to drop the packet over +the side. When she did not obey—she felt sick and faint—she +saw through a mist his brow grow dark. He menaced her secretly. +And still the packet scorched her; and twice her hand went to it, and +dropped again empty.</p> +<p>On a sudden Madame St. Lo cried out. The bank on one side of +the stream was beginning to rise more boldly above the water, and at +the head of the steep thus formed she had espied a late rosebush in +bloom; nothing would now serve but she must land at once and plunder +it. The boat was put in therefore, she jumped ashore, and began +to scale the bank.</p> +<p>“Go with Madame!” La Tribe cried, roughly nudging Carlat +in the back. “Do you not see that she cannot climb the bank? +Up, man, up!”</p> +<p>The Countess opened her mouth to cry “No!” but the word +died half-born on her lips; and when the steward looked at her, uncertain +what she had said, she nodded.</p> +<p>“Yes, go!” she muttered. She was pale.</p> +<p>“Yes, man, go!” cried the minister, his eyes burning. +And he almost pushed the other out of the boat.</p> +<p>The next second the craft floated from the bank, and began to drift +downwards. La Tribe waited until a tree interposed and hid them +from the two whom they had left; then he leaned forward.</p> +<p>“Now, Madame!” he cried imperiously. “In +God’s name, now!”</p> +<p>“Oh!” she cried. “Wait! Wait! +I want to think.”</p> +<p>“To think?”</p> +<p>“He trusted me!” she wailed. “He trusted +me! How can I do it?” Nevertheless, and even while +she spoke, she drew forth the packet.</p> +<p>“Heaven has given you the opportunity!”</p> +<p>“If I could have stolen it!” she answered.</p> +<p>“Fool!” he returned, rocking himself to and fro, and +fairly beside himself with impatience. “Why steal it? +It is in your hands! You have it! It is Heaven’s own +opportunity, it is God’s opportunity given to you!”</p> +<p>For he could not read her mind nor comprehend the scruple which held +her hand. He was single-minded. He had but one aim, one +object. He saw the haggard faces of brave men hopeless; he heard +the dying cries of women and children. Such an opportunity of +saving God’s elect, of redeeming the innocent, was in his eyes +a gift from Heaven. And having these thoughts and seeing her hesitate—hesitate +when every movement caused him agony, so imperative was haste, so precious +the opportunity—he could bear the suspense no longer. When +she did not answer he stooped forward, until his knees touched the thwart +on which Carlat had sat; then, without a word, he flung himself forward, +and, with one hand far extended, grasped the packet.</p> +<p>Had he not moved, she would have done his will; almost certainly +she would have done it. But, thus attacked, she resisted instinctively; +she clung to the letters.</p> +<p>“No!” she cried. “No! Let go, Monsieur!” +And she tried to drag the packet from him.</p> +<p>“Give it me!”</p> +<p>“Let go, Monsieur! Do you hear?” she repeated. +And, with a vigorous jerk, she forced it from him—he had caught +it by the edge only—and held it behind her. “Go back, +and—”</p> +<p>“Give it me!” he panted.</p> +<p>“I will not!”</p> +<p>“Then throw it overboard!”</p> +<p>“I will not!” she cried again, though his face, dark +with passion, glared into hers, and it was clear that the man, possessed +by one idea only, was no longer master of himself. “Go back +to your place!”</p> +<p>“Give it me,” he gasped, “or I will upset the boat!” +And, seizing her by the shoulder, he reached over her, striving to take +hold of the packet which she held behind her. The boat rocked; +and, as much in rage as fear, she screamed.</p> +<p>A cry uttered wholly in rage answered hers; it came from Carlat. +La Tribe, however, whose whole mind was fixed on the packet, did not +heed, nor would have heeded, the steward. But the next moment +a second cry, fierce as that of a wild beast, clove the air from the +lower and farther bank; and the Huguenot, recognizing Count Hannibal’s +voice, involuntarily desisted and stood erect. A moment the boat +rocked perilously under him; then—for unheeded it had been drifting +that way—it softly touched the bank on which Carlat stood staring +and aghast.</p> +<p>La Tribe’s chance was gone; he saw that the steward must reach +him before he could succeed in a second attempt. On the other +hand, the undergrowth on the bank was thick, he could touch it with +his hand, and if he fled at once he might escape.</p> +<p>He hung an instant irresolute; then, with a look which went to the +Countess’s heart, he sprang ashore, plunged among the alders, +and in a moment was gone.</p> +<p>“After him! After him!” thundered Count Hannibal. +“After him, man!” and Carlat, stumbling down the steep slope +and through the rough briars, did his best to obey. But in vain. +Before he reached the water’s edge, the noise of the fugitive’s +retreat had grown faint. A few seconds and it died away.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII. PLAYING WITH FIRE.</h2> +<p>The impulse of La Tribe’s foot as he landed had driven the +boat into the stream. It drifted slowly downward, and if naught +intervened, would take the ground on Count Hannibal’s side, a +hundred and fifty yards below him. He saw this, and walked along +the bank, keeping pace with it, while the Countess sat motionless, crouching +in the stern of the craft, her fingers strained about the fatal packet. +The slow glide of the boat, as almost imperceptibly it approached the +low bank; the stillness of the mirror-like surface on which it moved, +leaving only the faintest ripple behind it; the silence—for under +the influence of emotion Count Hannibal too was mute—all were +in tremendous contrast with the storm which raged in her breast.</p> +<p>Should she—should she even now, with his eyes on her, drop +the letters over the side? It needed but a movement. She +had only to extend her hand, to relax the tension of her fingers, and +the deed was done. It needed only that; but the golden sands of +opportunity were running out—were running out fast. Slowly +and more slowly, silently and more silently, the boat slid in towards +the bank on which he stood, and still she hesitated. The stillness, +and the waiting figure, and the watching eyes now but a few feet distant, +weighed on her and seemed to paralyze her will. A foot, another +foot! A moment and it would be too late, the last of the sands +would have run out. The bow of the boat rustled softly through +the rushes; it kissed the bank. And her hand still held the letters.</p> +<p>“You are not hurt?” he asked curtly. “The +scoundrel might have drowned you. Was he mad?”</p> +<p>She was silent. He held out his hand, and she gave him the +packet.</p> +<p>“I owe you much,” he said, a ring of gaiety, almost of +triumph, in his tone. “More than you guess, Madame. +God made you for a soldier’s wife, and a mother of soldiers. +What? You are not well, I am afraid?”</p> +<p>“If I could sit down a minute,” she faltered. She +was swaying on her feet.</p> +<p>He supported her across the belt of meadow which fringed the bank, +and made her recline against a tree. Then as his men began to +come up—for the alarm had reached them—he would have sent +two of them in the boat to fetch Madame St. Lo to her. But she +would not let him.</p> +<p>“Your maid, then?” he said.</p> +<p>“No, Monsieur, I need only to be alone a little! Only +to be alone,” she repeated, her face averted; and believing this +he sent the men away, and, taking the boat himself, he crossed over, +took in Madame St. Lo and Carlat, and rowed them to the ferry. +Here the wildest rumours were current. One held that the Huguenot +had gone out of his senses; another, that he had watched for this opportunity +of avenging his brethren; a third, that his intention had been to carry +off the Countess and hold her to ransom. Only Tavannes himself, +from his position on the farther bank, had seen the packet of letters, +and the hand which withheld them; and he said nothing. Nay, when +some of the men would have crossed to search for the fugitive, he forbade +them, he scarcely knew why, save that it might please her; and when +the women would have hurried to join her and hear the tale from her +lips he forbade them also.</p> +<p>“She wishes to be alone,” he said curtly.</p> +<p>“Alone?” Madame St. Lo cried, in a fever of curiosity. +“You’ll find her dead, or worse! What? Leave +a woman alone after such a fright as that!”</p> +<p>“She wishes it.”</p> +<p>Madame laughed cynically; and the laugh brought a tinge of colour +to his brow.</p> +<p>“Oh, does she?” she sneered. “Then I understand! +Have a care, have a care, or one of these days, Monsieur, when you leave +her alone, you’ll find them together!”</p> +<p>“Be silent!”</p> +<p>“With pleasure,” she returned. “Only when +it happens don’t say that you were not warned. You think +that she does not hear from him—”</p> +<p>“How can she hear?” The words were wrung from him.</p> +<p>Madame St. Lo’s contempt passed all limits. “How +can she!” she retorted. “You trail a woman across +France, and let her sit by herself, and lie by herself, and all but +drown by herself, and you ask how she hears from her lover? You +leave her old servants about her, and you ask how she communicates with +him?”</p> +<p>“You know nothing!” he snarled.</p> +<p>“I know this,” she retorted. “I saw her sitting +this morning, and smiling and weeping at the same time! Was she +thinking of you, Monsieur? Or of him? She was looking at +the hills through tears; a blue mist hung over them, and I’ll +wager she saw some one’s eyes gazing and some one’s hand +beckoning out of the blue!”</p> +<p>“Curse you!” he cried, tormented in spite of himself. +“You love to make mischief!”</p> +<p>“No!” she answered swiftly. “For ’twas +not I made the match. But go your way, go your way, Monsieur, +and see what kind of a welcome you’ll get!”</p> +<p>“I will,” Count Hannibal growled. And he started +along the bank to rejoin his wife.</p> +<p>The light in his eyes had died down. Yet would they have been +more sombre, and his face more harsh, had he known the mind of the woman +to whom he was hastening. The Countess had begged to be left alone; +alone, she found the solitude she had craved a cruel gift. She +had saved the packet. She had fulfilled her trust. But only +to experience, the moment the deed was done, the full poignancy of remorse. +Before the act, while the choice had lain with her, the betrayal of +her husband had loomed large; now she saw that to treat him as she had +treated him was the true betrayal, and that even for his own sake, and +to save him from a fearful sin, it had become her to destroy the letters.</p> +<p>Now, it was no longer her duty to him which loomed large, but her +duty to the innocent, to the victims of the massacre which she might +have stayed, to the people of her faith whom she had abandoned, to the +women and children whose death-warrant she had preserved. Now, +she perceived that a part more divine had never fallen to woman, nor +a responsibility so heavy been laid upon woman. Nor guilt more +dread!</p> +<p>She writhed in misery, thinking of it. What had she done? +She could hear afar off the sounds of the camp; an occasional outcry, +a snatch of laughter. And the cry and the laughter rang in her +ears, a bitter mockery. This summer camp, to what was it the prelude? +This forbearance on her husband’s part, in what would it end? +Were not the one and the other cruel make-believes? Two days, +and the men who laughed beside the water would slay and torture with +equal zest. A little, and the husband who now chose to be generous +would show himself in his true colours. And it was for the sake +of such as these that she had played the coward. That she had +laid up for herself endless remorse. That henceforth the cries +of the innocent would haunt her dreams.</p> +<p>Racked by such thoughts she did not hear his step, and it was his +shadow falling across her feet which first warned her of his presence. +She looked up, saw him, and involuntarily recoiled. Then, seeing +the change in his face—</p> +<p>“Oh! Monsieur,” she stammered, affrighted, her hand pressed +to her side, “I ask your pardon! You startled me!”</p> +<p>“So it seems,” he answered. And he stood over her +regarding her dryly.</p> +<p>“I am not quite—myself yet,” she murmured. +His look told her that her start had betrayed her feelings.</p> +<p>Alas! the plan of taking a woman by force has drawbacks, and among +others this one: that he must be a sanguine husband who deems her heart +his, and a husband without jealousy, whose suspicions are not aroused +by the faintest flush or the lightest word. He knows that she +is his unwillingly, a victim, not a mistress; and behind every bush +beside the road and behind every mask in the crowd he espies a rival.</p> +<p>Moreover, where women are in question, who is always strong? +Or who can say how long he will pursue this plan or that? A man +of sternest temper, Count Hannibal had set out on a path of conduct +carefully and deliberately chosen; knowing—and he still knew—that +if he abandoned it he had little to hope, if the less to fear. +But the proof of fidelity which the Countess had just given him had +blown to a white heat the smouldering flame in his heart, and Madame +St. Lo’s gibes, which should have fallen as cold water alike on +his hopes and his passion, had but fed the desire to know the best. +For all that, he might not have spoken now, if he had not caught her +look of affright; strange as it sounds, that look, which of all things +should have silenced him and warned him that the time was not yet, stung +him out of patience. Suddenly the man in him carried him away.</p> +<p>“You still fear me, then?” he said, in a voice hoarse +and unnatural. “Is it for what I do or for what I leave +undone that you hate me, Madame? Tell me, I beg, for—”</p> +<p>“For neither!” she said, trembling. His eyes, hot +and passionate, were on her, and the blood had mounted to his brow. +“For neither! I do not hate you, Monsieur!”</p> +<p>“You fear me then? I am right in that.”</p> +<p>“I fear—that which you carry with you,” she stammered, +speaking on impulse and scarcely knowing what she said.</p> +<p>He started, and his expression changed. “So?” he +exclaimed. “So? You know what I carry, do you? +And from whom? From whom,” he continued in a tone of menace, +“if you please, did you get that knowledge?”</p> +<p>“From M. La Tribe,” she muttered. She had not meant +to tell him. Why had she told him?</p> +<p>He nodded. “I might have known it,” he said. +“I more than suspected it. Therefore I should be the more +beholden to you for saving the letters. But”—he paused +and laughed harshly—“it was out of no love for me you saved +them. That too I know.”</p> +<p>She did not answer or protest; and when he had waited a moment in +vain expectation of her protest, a cruel look crept into his eyes.</p> +<p>“Madame,” he said slowly, “do you never reflect +that you may push the part you play too far? That the patience, +even of the worst of men, does not endure for ever?”</p> +<p>“I have your word!” she answered.</p> +<p>“And you do not fear?”</p> +<p>“I have your word,” she repeated. And now she looked +him bravely in the face, her eyes full of the courage of her race.</p> +<p>The lines of his mouth hardened as he met her look. “And +what have I of yours?” he said in a low voice. “What +have I of yours?”</p> +<p>Her face began to burn at that, her eyes fell and she faltered.</p> +<p>“My gratitude,” she murmured, with an upward look that +prayed for pity. “God knows, Monsieur, you have that!”</p> +<p>“God knows I do not want it!” he answered. And +he laughed derisively. “Your gratitude!” And +he mocked her tone rudely and coarsely. “Your gratitude!” +Then for a minute—for so long a time that she began to wonder +and to quake—he was silent. At last, “A fig for your +gratitude,” he said. “I want your love! I suppose—cold +as you are, and a Huguenot—you can love like other women!”</p> +<p>It was the first, the very first time he had used the word to her; +and though it fell from his lips like a threat, though he used it as +a man presents a pistol, she flushed anew from throat to brow. +But she did not quail.</p> +<p>“It is not mine to give,” she said.</p> +<p>“It is his?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Monsieur,” she answered, wondering at her courage, +at her audacity, her madness. “It is his.”</p> +<p>“And it cannot be mine—at any time?”</p> +<p>She shook her head, trembling.</p> +<p>“Never?” And, suddenly reaching forward, he gripped +her wrist in an iron grasp. There was passion in his tone. +His eyes burned her.</p> +<p>Whether it was that set her on another track, or pure despair, or +the cry in her ears of little children and of helpless women, something +in a moment inspired her, flashed in her eyes and altered her voice. +She raised her head and looked him firmly in the face.</p> +<p>“What,” she said, “do you mean by love?”</p> +<p>“You!” he answered brutally.</p> +<p>“Then—it may be, Monsieur,” she returned. +“There is a way if you will.”</p> +<p>“A way!”</p> +<p>“If you will!”</p> +<p>As she spoke she rose slowly to her feet; for in his surprise he +had released her wrist. He rose with her, and they stood confronting +one another on the strip of grass between the river and the poplars.</p> +<p>“If I will?” His form seemed to dilate, his eyes +devoured her. “If I will?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” she replied. “If you will give me +the letters that are in your belt, the packet which I saved to-day—that +I may destroy them—I will be yours freely and willingly.”</p> +<p>He drew a deep breath, still devouring her with his eyes.</p> +<p>“You mean it?” he said at last.</p> +<p>“I do.” She looked him in the face as she spoke, +and her cheeks were white, not red. “Only—the letters! +Give me the letters.”</p> +<p>“And for them you will give me your love?”</p> +<p>Her eyes flickered, and involuntarily she shivered. A faint +blush rose and dyed her cheeks.</p> +<p>“Only God can give love,” she said, her tone low.</p> +<p>“And yours is given?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“To another?”</p> +<p>“I have said it.”</p> +<p>“It is his. And yet for these letters—”</p> +<p>“For these lives!” she cried proudly.</p> +<p>“You will give yourself?”</p> +<p>“I swear it,” she answered, “if you will give them +to me! If you will give them to me,” she repeated. +And she held out her hands; her face, full of passion, was bright with +a strange light. A close observer might have thought her distraught; +still excited by the struggle in the boat, and barely mistress of herself.</p> +<p>But the man whom she tempted, the man who held her price at his belt, +after one searching look at her turned from her; perhaps because he +could not trust himself to gaze on her. Count Hannibal walked +a dozen paces from her and returned, and again a dozen paces and returned; +and again a third time, with something fierce and passionate in his +gait. At last he stopped before her.</p> +<p>“You have nothing to offer for them,” he said, in a cold, +hard tone. “Nothing that is not mine already, nothing that +is not my right, nothing that I cannot take at my will. My word?” +he continued, seeing her about to interrupt him. “True, +Madame, you have it, you had it. But why need I keep my word to +you, who tempt me to break my word to the King?”</p> +<p>She made a weak gesture with her hands. Her head had sunk on +her breast—she seemed dazed by the shock of his contempt, dazed +by his reception of her offer.</p> +<p>“You saved the letters?” he continued, interpreting her +action. “True, but the letters are mine, and that which +you offer for them is mine also. You have nothing to offer. +For the rest, Madame,” he went on, eyeing her cynically, “you +surprise me! You, whose modesty and virtue are so great, would +corrupt your husband, would sell yourself, would dishonour the love +of which you boast so loudly, the love that only God gives!” +He laughed derisively as he quoted her words. “Ay, and, +after showing at how low a price you hold yourself, you still look, +I doubt not, to me to respect you, and to keep my word. Madame!” +in a terrible voice, “do not play with fire! You saved my +letters, it is true! And for that, for this time, you shall go +free, if God will help me to let you go! But tempt me not! +Tempt me not!” he repeated, turning from her and turning back +again with a gesture of despair, as if he mistrusted the strength of +the restraint which he put upon himself. “I am no more than +other men! Perhaps I am less. And you—you who prate +of love, and know not what love is—could love! could love!”</p> +<p>He stopped on that word as if the word choked him—stopped, +struggling with his passion. At last, with a half-stifled oath, +he flung away from her, halted and hung a moment, then, with a swing +of rage, went off again violently. His feet as he strode along +the river-bank trampled the flowers, and slew the pale water forget-me-not, +which grew among the grasses.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII. A MIND, AND NOT A MIND.</h2> +<p>La Tribe tore through the thicket, imagining Carlat and Count Hannibal +hot on his heels. He dared not pause even to listen. The +underwood tripped him, the lissom branches of the alders whipped his +face and blinded him; once he fell headlong over a moss-grown stone, +and picked himself up groaning. But the hare hard-pushed takes +no account of the briars, nor does the fox heed the mud through which +it draws itself into covert. And for the time he was naught but +a hunted beast. With elbows pinned to his sides, or with hands +extended to ward off the boughs, with bursting lungs and crimson face, +he plunged through the tangle, now slipping downwards, now leaping upwards, +now all but prostrate, now breasting a mass of thorns. On and +on he ran, until he came to the verge of the wood, saw before him an +open meadow devoid of shelter or hiding-place, and with a groan of despair +cast himself flat. He listened. How far were they behind +him?</p> +<p>He heard nothing—nothing, save the common noises of the wood, +the angry chatter of a disturbed blackbird as it flew low into hiding, +or the harsh notes of a flock of starlings as they rose from the meadow. +The hum of bees filled the air, and the August flies buzzed about his +sweating brow, for he had lost his cap. But behind him—nothing. +Already the stillness of the wood had closed upon his track.</p> +<p>He was not the less panic-stricken. He supposed that Tavannes’ +people were getting to horse, and calculated that, if they surrounded +and beat the wood, he must be taken. At the thought, though he +had barely got his breath, he rose, and keeping within the coppice crawled +down the slope towards the river. Gently, when he reached it, +he slipped into the water, and stooping below the level of the bank, +his head and shoulders hidden by the bushes, he waded down stream until +he had put another hundred and fifty yards between himself and pursuit. +Then he paused and listened. Still he heard nothing, and he waded +on again, until the water grew deep. At this point he marked a +little below him a clump of trees on the farther side; and reflecting +that that side—if he could reach it unseen—would be less +suspect, he swam across, aiming for a thorn bush which grew low to the +water. Under its shelter he crawled out, and, worming himself +like a snake across the few yards of grass which intervened, he stood +at length within the shadow of the trees. A moment he paused to +shake himself, and then, remembering that he was still within a mile +of the camp, he set off, now walking, and now running in the direction +of the hills which his party had crossed that morning.</p> +<p>For a time he hurried on, thinking only of escape. But when +he had covered a mile or two, and escape seemed probable, there began +to mingle with his thankfulness a bitter—a something which grew +more bitter with each moment. Why had he fled and left the work +undone? Why had he given way to unworthy fear, when the letters +were within his grasp? True, if he had lingered a few seconds +longer, he would have failed to make good his escape; but what of that +if in those seconds he had destroyed the letters, he had saved Angers, +he had saved his brethren? Alas! he had played the coward. +The terror of Tavannes’ voice had unmanned him. He had saved +himself and left the flock to perish; he, whom God had set apart by +many and great signs for this work!</p> +<p>He had commonly courage enough. He could have died at the stake +for his convictions. But he had not the presence of mind which +is proof against a shock, nor the cool judgment which, in the face of +death, sees to the end of two roads. He was no coward, but now +he deemed himself one, and in an agony of remorse he flung himself on +his face in the long grass. He had known trials and temptations, +but hitherto he had held himself erect; now, like Peter, he had betrayed +his Lord.</p> +<p>He lay an hour groaning in the misery of his heart, and then he fell +on the text “Thou art Peter, and on this rock—” and +he sat up. Peter had betrayed his trust through cowardice—as +he had. But Peter had not been held unworthy. Might it not +be so with him? He rose to his feet, a new light in his eyes. +He would return! He would return, and at all costs, even at the +cost of surrendering himself, he would obtain access to the letters. +And then—not the fear of Count Hannibal, not the fear of instant +death, should turn him from his duty.</p> +<p>He had cast himself down in a woodland glade which lay near the path +along which he had ridden that morning. But the mental conflict +from which he rose had shaken him so violently that he could not recall +the side on which he had entered the clearing, and he turned himself +about, endeavouring to remember. At that moment the light jingle +of a bridle struck his ear; he caught through the green bushes the flash +and sparkle of harness. They had tracked him then, they were here! +So had he clear proof that this second chance was to be his. In +a happy fervour he stood forward where the pursuers could not fail to +see him.</p> +<p>Or so he thought. Yet the first horseman, riding carelessly +with his face averted and his feet dangling, would have gone by and +seen nothing if his horse, more watchful, had not shied. The man +turned then; and for a moment the two stared at one another between +the pricked ears of the horse. At last—</p> +<p>“M. de Tignonville!” the minister ejaculated.</p> +<p>“La Tribe!”</p> +<p>“It is truly you?”</p> +<p>“Well—I think so,” the young man answered.</p> +<p>The minister lifted up his eyes and seemed to call the trees and +the clouds and the birds to witness.</p> +<p>“Now,” he cried, “I know that I am chosen! +And that we were instruments to do this thing from the day when the +hen saved us in the haycart in Paris! Now I know that all is forgiven +and all is ordained, and that the faithful of Angers shall to-morrow +live and not die!” And with a face radiant, yet solemn, +he walked to the young man’s stirrup.</p> +<p>An instant Tignonville looked sharply before him. “How +far ahead are they?” he asked. His tone, hard and matter-of-fact, +was little in harmony with the other’s enthusiasm.</p> +<p>“They are resting a league before you, at the ferry. +You are in pursuit of them?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Not alone?”</p> +<p>“No.” The young man’s look as he spoke was +grim. “I have five behind me—of your kidney, M. la +Tribe. They are from the Arsenal. They have lost one his +wife, and one his son. The three others—”</p> +<p>“Yes?”</p> +<p>“Sweethearts,” Tignonville answered dryly. And +he cast a singular look at the minister.</p> +<p>But La Tribe’s mind was so full of one matter, he could think +only of that.</p> +<p>“How did you hear of the letters?” he asked.</p> +<p>“The letters?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“I do not know what you mean.”</p> +<p>La Tribe stared. “Then why are you following him?” +he asked.</p> +<p>“Why?” Tignonville echoed, a look of hate darkening his +face. “Do you ask why we follow—” But +on the name he seemed to choke and was silent.</p> +<p>By this time his men had come up, and one answered for him.</p> +<p>“Why are we following Hannibal de Tavannes?” he said +sternly. “To do to him as he has done to us! To rob +him as he has robbed us—of more than gold! To kill him as +he has killed ours, foully and by surprise! In his bed if we can! +In the arms of his wife if God wills it!”</p> +<p>The speaker’s face was haggard from brooding and lack of sleep, +but his eyes glowed and burned, as his fellows growled assent.</p> +<p>“’Tis simple why we follow,” a second put in. +“Is there a man of our faith who will not, when he hears the tale, +rise up and stab the nearest of this black brood—though it be +his brother? If so, God’s curse on him!”</p> +<p>“Amen! Amen!”</p> +<p>“So, and so only,” cried the first, “shall there +be faith in our land! And our children, our little maids, shall +lie safe in their beds!”</p> +<p>“Amen! Amen!”</p> +<p>The speaker’s chin sank on his breast, and with his last word +the light died out of his eyes. La Tribe looked at him curiously, +then at the others. Last of all at Tignonville, on whose face +he fancied that he surprised a faint smile. Yet Tignonville’s +tone when he spoke was grave enough.</p> +<p>“You have heard,” he said. “Do you blame +us?”</p> +<p>“I cannot,” the minister answered, shivering. “I +cannot.” He had been for a while beyond the range of these +feelings; and in the greenwood, under God’s heaven, with the sunshine +about him, they jarred on him. Yet he could not blame men who +had suffered as these had suffered; who were maddened, as these were +maddened, by the gravest wrongs which it is possible for one man to +inflict on another. “I dare not,” he continued sorrowfully. +“But in God’s name I offer you a higher and a nobler errand.”</p> +<p>“We need none,” Tignonville muttered impatiently.</p> +<p>“Yet many others need you,” La Tribe answered in a tone +of rebuke. “You are not aware that the man you follow bears +a packet from the King for the hands of the magistrates of Angers?”</p> +<p>“Ha! Does he?”</p> +<p>“Bidding them do at Angers as his Majesty has done in Paris?”</p> +<p>The men broke into cries of execration. “But he shall +not see Angers!” they swore. “The blood that he has +shed shall choke him by the way! And as he would do to others +it shall be done to him.”</p> +<p>La Tribe shuddered as he listened, as he looked. Try as he +would, the thirst of these men for vengeance appalled him.</p> +<p>“How?” he said. “He has a score and more +with him and you are only six.”</p> +<p>“Seven now,” Tignonville answered with a smile.</p> +<p>“True, but—”</p> +<p>“And he lies to-night at La Flèche? That is so?”</p> +<p>“It was his intention this morning.”</p> +<p>“At the old King’s Inn at the meeting of the great roads?”</p> +<p>“It was mentioned,” La Tribe admitted, with a reluctance +he did not comprehend. “But if the night be fair he is as +like as not to lie in the fields.”</p> +<p>One of the men pointed to the sky. A dark bank of cloud fresh +risen from the ocean, and big with tempest, hung low in the west.</p> +<p>“See! God will deliver him into our hands!” he +cried.</p> +<p>Tignonville nodded. “If he lie there,” he said, +“He will.” And then to one of his followers, as he +dismounted, “Do you ride on,” he said, “and stand +guard that we be not surprised. And do you, Perrot, tell Monsieur. +Perrot here, as God wills it,” he added, with the faint smile +which did not escape the minister’s eye, “married his wife +from the great inn at La Flèche, and he knows the place.”</p> +<p>“None better,” the man growled. He was a sullen, +brooding knave, whose eyes when he looked up surprised by their savage +fire.</p> +<p>La Tribe shook his head. “I know it, too,” he said. +“’Tis strong as a fortress, with a walled court, and all +the windows look inwards. The gates are closed an hour after sunset, +no matter who is without. If you think, M. de Tignonville, to +take him there—”</p> +<p>“Patience, Monsieur, you have not heard me,” Perrot interposed. +“I know it after another fashion. Do you remember a rill +of water which runs through the great yard and the stables?”</p> +<p>La Tribe nodded.</p> +<p>“Grated with iron at either end and no passage for so much +as a dog? You do? Well, Monsieur, I have hunted rats there, +and where the water passes under the wall is a culvert, a man’s +height in length. In it is a stone, one of those which frame the +grating at the entrance, which a strong man can remove—and the +man is in!”</p> +<p>“Ay, in! But where?” La Tribe asked, his eyebrows +drawn together.</p> +<p>“Well said, Monsieur, where?” Perrot rejoined in a tone +of triumph. “There lies the point. In the stables, +where will be sleeping men, and a snorer on every truss? No, but +in a fairway between two stables where the water at its entrance runs +clear in a stone channel; a channel deepened in one place that they +may draw for the chambers above with a rope and a bucket. The +rooms above are the best in the house, four in one row, opening all +on the gallery; which was uncovered, in the common fashion until Queen-Mother +Jezebel, passing that way to Nantes, two years back, found the chambers +draughty; and that end of the gallery was closed in against her return. +Now, Monsieur, he and his Madame will lie there; and he will feel safe, +for there is but one way to those four rooms—through the door +which shuts off the covered gallery from the open part. But—” +he glanced up an instant and La Tribe caught the smouldering fire in +his eyes—“we shall not go in by the door.”</p> +<p>“The bucket rises through a trap?”</p> +<p>“In the gallery? To be sure, monsieur. In the corner +beyond the fourth door. There shall he fall into the pit which +he dug for others, and the evil that he planned rebound on his own head!”</p> +<p>La Tribe was silent.</p> +<p>“What think you of it?” Tignonville asked.</p> +<p>“That it is cleverly planned,” the minister answered.</p> +<p>“No more than that?”</p> +<p>“No more until I have eaten.”</p> +<p>“Get him something!” Tignonville replied in a surly tone. +“And we may as well eat, ourselves. Lead the horses into +the wood. And do you, Perrot, call Tuez-les-Moines, who is forward. +Two hours’ riding should bring us to La Flèche. We +need not leave here, therefore, until the sun is low. To dinner! +To dinner!”</p> +<p>Probably he did not feel the indifference he affected, for his face +as he ate grew darker, and from time to time he shot a glance, barbed +with suspicion, at the minister. La Tribe on his side remained +silent, although the men ate apart. He was in doubt, indeed, as +to his own feelings. His instinct and his reason were at odds. +Through all, however, a single purpose, the rescue of Angers, held good, +and gradually other things fell into their places. When the meal +was at an end, and Tignonville challenged him, he was ready.</p> +<p>“Your enthusiasm seems to have waned,” the younger man +said with a sneer, “since we met, monsieur! May I ask now +if you find any fault with the plan?”</p> +<p>“With the plan, none.”</p> +<p>“If it was Providence brought us together, was it not Providence +furnished me with Perrot who knows La Flèche? If it was +Providence brought the danger of the faithful in Angers to your knowledge, +was it not Providence set us on the road—without whom you had +been powerless?”</p> +<p>“I believe it!”</p> +<p>“Then, in His name, what is the matter?” Tignonville +rejoined with a passion of which the other’s manner seemed an +inadequate cause. “What will you! What is it?”</p> +<p>“I would take your place,” La Tribe answered quietly.</p> +<p>“My place?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“What, are we too many?”</p> +<p>“We are enough without you, M. Tignonville,” the minister +answered. “These men, who have wrongs to avenge, God will +justify them.”</p> +<p>Tignonville’s eyes sparkled with anger. “And have +I no wrongs to avenge?” he cried. “Is it nothing to +lose my mistress, to be robbed of my wife, to see the woman I love dragged +off to be a slave and a toy? Are these no wrongs?”</p> +<p>“He spared your life, if he did not save it,” the minister +said solemnly. “And hers. And her servants.”</p> +<p>“To suit himself.”</p> +<p>La Tribe spread out his hands.</p> +<p>“To suit himself! And for that you wish him to go free?” +Tignonville cried in a voice half-choked with rage. “Do +you know that this man, and this man alone, stood forth in the great +Hall of the Louvre, and when even the King flinched, justified the murder +of our people? After that is he to go free?”</p> +<p>“At your hands,” La Tribe answered quietly. “You +alone of our people must not pursue him.” He would have +added more, but Tignonville would not listen.</p> +<p>Brooding on his wrongs behind the wall of the Arsenal, he had let +hatred eat away his more generous instincts. Vain and conceited, +he fancied that the world laughed at the poor figure he had cut; and +the wound in his vanity festered until nothing would serve but to see +the downfall of his enemy. Instant pursuit, instant vengeance—only +these, he fancied, could restore him in his fellows’ eyes.</p> +<p>In his heart he knew what would become him better. But vanity +is a potent motive: and his conscience, even when supported by La Tribe, +struggled but weakly. From neither would he hear more.</p> +<p>“You have travelled with him, until you side with him!” +he cried violently. “Have a care, monsieur, have a care, +lest we think you papist!” And walking over to the men, +he bade them saddle; adding a sour word which turned their eyes, in +no friendly gaze, on the minister.</p> +<p>After that La Tribe said no more. Of what use would it have +been?</p> +<p>But as darkness came on and cloaked the little troop, and the storm +which the men had foreseen began to rumble in the west, his distaste +for the business waxed. The summer lightning which presently began +to play across the sky revealed not only the broad gleaming stream, +between which and a wooded hill their road ran, but the faces of his +companions; and these, in their turn, shed a grisly light on the bloody +enterprise towards which they were set. Nervous and ill at ease, +the minister’s mind dwelt on the stages of that enterprise: the +stealthy entrance through the waterway, the ascent through the trap, +the surprise, the slaughter in the sleeping-chamber. And either +because he had lived for days in the victim’s company, or was +swayed by the arguments he had addressed to another, the prospect shook +his soul.</p> +<p>In vain he told himself that this was the oppressor; he saw only +the man, fresh roused from sleep, with the horror of impending dissolution +in his eyes. And when the rider, behind whom he sat, pointed to +a faint spark of light, at no great distance before them, and whispered +that it was St. Agnes’s Chapel, hard by the inn, he could have +cried with the best Catholic of them all, “Inter pontem et fontem, +Domine!” Nay, some such words did pass his lips.</p> +<p>For the man before him turned halfway in his saddle. “What?” +he asked.</p> +<p>But the Huguenot did not explain.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV. AT THE KING’S INN.</h2> +<p>The Countess sat up in the darkness of the chamber. She had +writhed since noon under the stings of remorse; she could bear them +no longer. The slow declension of the day, the evening light, +the signs of coming tempest which had driven her company to the shelter +of the inn at the crossroads, all had racked her, by reminding her that +the hours were flying, and that soon the fault she had committed would +be irreparable. One impulsive attempt to redeem it she had made; +but it had failed, and, by rendering her suspect, had made reparation +more difficult. Still, by daylight it had seemed possible to rest +content with the trial made; not so now, when night had fallen, and +the cries of little children and the haggard eyes of mothers peopled +the darkness of her chamber. She sat up, and listened with throbbing +temples.</p> +<p>To shut out the lightning which played at intervals across the heavens, +Madame St. Lo, who shared the room, had covered the window with a cloak; +and the place was dark. To exclude the dull roll of the thunder +was less easy, for the night was oppressively hot, and behind the cloak +the casement was open. Gradually, too, another sound, the hissing +fall of heavy rain, began to make itself heard, and to mingle with the +regular breathing which proved that Madame St. Lo slept.</p> +<p>Assured of this fact, the Countess presently heaved a sigh, and slipped +from the bed. She groped in the darkness for her cloak, found +it, and donned it over her night gear. Then, taking her bearings +by her bed, which stood with its head to the window and its foot to +the entrance, she felt her way across the floor to the door, and after +passing her hands a dozen times over every part of it, she found the +latch, and raised it. The door creaked, as she pulled it open, +and she stood arrested; but the sound went no farther, for the roofed +gallery outside, which looked by two windows on the courtyard, was full +of outdoor noises, the rushing of rain and the running of spouts and +eaves. One of the windows stood wide, admitting the rain and wind, +and as she paused, holding the door open, the draught blew the cloak +from her. She stepped out quickly and shut the door behind her. +On her left was the blind end of the passage; she turned to the right. +She took one step into the darkness and stood motionless. Beside +her, within a few feet of her, some one had moved, with a dull sound +as of a boot on wood; a sound so near her that she held her breath, +and pressed herself against the wall.</p> +<p>She listened. Perhaps some of the servants—it was a common +usage—had made their beds on the floor. Perhaps one of the +women had stirred in the room against the wall of which she crouched. +Perhaps—but, even while she reassured herself, the sound rose +anew at her feet.</p> +<p>Fortunately at the same instant the glare of the lightning flooded +all, and showed the passage, and showed it empty. It lit up the +row of doors on her right and the small windows on her left, and discovered +facing her the door which shut off the rest of the house. She +could have thanked—nay, she did thank God for that light. +If the sound she had heard recurred she did not hear it; for, as the +thunder which followed hard on the flash crashed overhead and rolled +heavily eastwards, she felt her way boldly along the passage, touching +first one door, and then a second, and then a third.</p> +<p>She groped for the latch of the last, and found it, but, with her +hand on it, paused. In order to summon up her courage, she strove +to hear again the cries of misery and to see again the haggard eyes +which had driven her hither. And if she did not wholly succeed, +other reflections came to her aid. This storm, which covered all +smaller noises, and opened, now and again, God’s lantern for her +use, did it not prove that He was on her side, and that she might count +on His protection? The thought at least was timely, and with a +better heart she gathered her wits. Waiting until the thunder +burst over her head, she opened the door, slid within it, and closed +it. She would fain have left it ajar, that in case of need she +might escape the more easily. But the wind, which beat into the +passage through the open window, rendered the precaution too perilous.</p> +<p>She went forward two paces into the room, and as the roll of the +thunder died away she stooped forward and listened with painful intensity +for the sound of Count Hannibal’s breathing. But the window +was open, and the hiss of the rain persisted; she could hear nothing +through it, and fearfully she took another step forward. The window +should be before her; the bed in the corner to the left. But nothing +of either could she make out. She must wait for the lightning.</p> +<p>It came, and for a second or more the room shone. The window, +the low truckle-bed, the sleeper, she saw all with dazzling clearness, +and before the flash had well passed she was crouching low, with the +hood of her cloak dragged about her face. For the glare had revealed +Count Hannibal; but not asleep! He lay on his side, his face towards +her; lay with open eyes, staring at her.</p> +<p>Or had the light tricked her? The light must have tricked her, +for in the interval between the flash and the thunder, while she crouched +quaking, he did not move or call. The light must have deceived +her. She felt so certain of it that she found courage to remain +where she was until another flash came and showed him sleeping with +closed eyes.</p> +<p>She drew a breath of relief at that, and rose slowly to her feet. +But she dared not go forward until a third flash had confirmed the second. +Then, while the thunder burst overhead and rolled away, she crept on +until she stood beside the pillow, and, stooping, could hear the sleeper’s +breathing.</p> +<p>Alas! the worst remained to be done. The packet, she was sure +of it, lay under his pillow. How was she to find it, how remove +it without rousing him? A touch might awaken him. And yet, +if she would not return empty-handed, if she would not go back to the +harrowing thoughts which had tortured her through the long hours of +the day, it must be done, and done now.</p> +<p>She knew this, yet she hung irresolute a while, blenching before +the manual act, listening to the persistent rush and downpour of the +rain. Then a second time she drew courage from the storm. +How timely had it broken. How signally had it aided her! +How slight had been her chance without it! And so at last, resolutely +but with a deft touch, she slid her fingers between the pillow and the +bed, slightly pressing down the latter with her other hand. For +an instant she fancied that the sleeper’s breathing stopped, and +her heart gave a great bound. But the breathing went on the next +instant—if it had stopped—and dreading the return of the +lightning, shrinking from being revealed so near him, and in that act—for +which the darkness seemed more fitting—she groped farther, and +touched something. Then, as her fingers closed upon it and grasped +it, and his breath rose hot to her burning cheek, she knew that the +real danger lay in the withdrawal.</p> +<p>At the first attempt he uttered a kind of grunt and moved, throwing +out his hand. She thought that he was going to awake, and had +hard work to keep herself where she was; but he did not move, and she +began again with so infinite a precaution that the perspiration ran +down her face and her hair within the hood hung dank on her neck. +Slowly, oh so slowly, she drew back the hand, and with it the packet; +so slowly, and yet so resolutely, being put to it, that when the dreaded +flash surprised her, and she saw his harsh swarthy face, steeped in +the mysterious aloofness of sleep, within a hand’s breadth of +hers, not a muscle of her arm moved, nor did her hand quiver.</p> +<p>It was done—at last! With a burst of gratitude, of triumph, +of exultation, she stood erect. She realized that it was done, +and that here in her hand she held the packet. A deep gasp of +relief, of joy, of thankfulness, and she glided towards the door.</p> +<p>She groped for the latch, and in the act fancied his breathing was +changed. She paused, and bent her head to listen. But the +patter of the rain, drowning all sounds save those of the nearest origin, +persuaded her that she was mistaken, and, finding the latch, she raised +it, slipped like a shadow into the passage, and closed the door behind +her.</p> +<p>That done she stood arrested, all the blood in her body running to +her heart. She must be dreaming! The passage in which she +stood—the passage which she had left in black darkness—was +alight; was so far lighted, at least, that to eyes fresh from the night, +the figures of three men, grouped at the farther end, stood out against +the glow of the lanthorn which they appeared to be trimming—for +the two nearest were stooping over it. These two had their backs +to her, the third his face; and it was the sight of this third man which +had driven the blood to her heart. He ended at the waist! +It was only after a few seconds, it was only when she had gazed at him +awhile in speechless horror, that he rose another foot from the floor, +and she saw that he had paused in the act of ascending through a trapdoor. +What the scene meant, who these men were, or what their entrance portended, +with these questions her brain refused at the moment to grapple. +It was much that—still remembering who might hear her, and what +she held—she did not shriek aloud.</p> +<p>Instead, she stood in the gloom at her end of the passage, gazing +with all her eyes until she had seen the third man step clear of the +trap. She could see him; but the light intervened and blurred +his view of her. He stooped, almost as soon as he had cleared +himself, to help up a fourth man, who rose with a naked knife between +his teeth. She saw then that all were armed, and something stealthy +in their bearing, something cruel in their eyes as the light of the +lanthorn fell now on one dark face and now on another, went to her heart +and chilled it. Who were they, and why were they here? What +was their purpose? As her reason awoke, as she asked herself these +questions, the fourth man stooped in his turn, and gave his hand to +a fifth. And on that she lost her self-control, and cried out. +For the last man to ascend was La Tribe—La Tribe, from whom she +had parted that morning.</p> +<p>The sound she uttered was low, but it reached the men’s ears, +and the two whose backs were towards her turned as if they had been +pricked. He who held the lanthorn raised it, and the five glared +at her and she at them. Then a second cry, louder and more full +of surprise, burst from her lips. The nearest man, he who held +the lanthorn high that he might view her, was Tignonville, was her lover!</p> +<p>“<i>Mon Dieu</i>!” she whispered. “What is +it? What is it?”</p> +<p>Then, not till then, did he know her. Until then the light +of the lanthorn had revealed only a cloaked and cowled figure, a gloomy +phantom which shook the heart of more than one with superstitious terror. +But they knew her now—two of them; and slowly, as in a dream, +Tignonville came forward.</p> +<p>The mind has its moments of crisis, in which it acts upon instinct +rather than upon reason. The girl never knew why she acted as +she did; why she asked no questions, why she uttered no exclamations, +no remonstrances; why, with a finger on her lips and her eyes on his, +she put the packet into his hands.</p> +<p>He took it from her, too, as mechanically as she gave it—with +the hand which held his bare blade. That done, silent as she, +with his eyes set hard, he would have gone by her. The sight of +her <i>there</i>, guarding the door of him who had stolen her from him, +exasperated his worst passions. But she moved to hinder him, and +barred the way. With her hand raised she pointed to the trapdoor.</p> +<p>“Go!” she whispered, her tone stern and low, “you +have what you want! Go!”</p> +<p>“No!” And he tried to pass her.</p> +<p>“Go!” she repeated in the same tone. “You +have what you need.” And still she held her hand extended; +still without faltering she faced the five men, while the thunder, growing +more distant, rolled sullenly eastward, and the midnight rain, pouring +from every spout and dripping eave about the house, wrapped the passage +in its sibilant hush. Gradually her eyes dominated his, gradually +her nobler nature and nobler aim subdued his weaker parts. For +she understood now; and he saw that she did, and had he been alone he +would have slunk away, and said no word in his defence.</p> +<p>But one of the men, savage and out of patience, thrust himself between +them.</p> +<p>“Where is he?” he muttered. “What is the +use of this? Where is he?” And his bloodshot eyes—it +was Tuez-les-Moines—questioned the doors, while his hand, trembling +and shaking on the haft of his knife, bespoke his eagerness. “Where +is he? Where is he, woman? Quick, or—”</p> +<p>“I shall not tell you,” she answered.</p> +<p>“You lie,” he cried, grinning like a dog. “You +will tell us! Or we will kill you too! Where is he? +Where is he?”</p> +<p>“I shall not tell you,” she repeated, standing before +him in the fearlessness of scorn. “Another step and I rouse +the house! M. de Tignonville, to you who know me, I swear that +if this man does not retire—”</p> +<p>“He is in one of these rooms?” was Tignonville’s +answer. “In which? In which?”</p> +<p>“Search them!” she answered, her voice low, but biting +in its contempt. “Try them. Rouse my women, alarm +the house! And when you have his people at your throats—five +as they will be to one of you—thank your own mad folly!”</p> +<p>Tuez-les-Moines’ eyes glittered. “You will not +tell us?” he cried.</p> +<p>“No!”</p> +<p>“Then—”</p> +<p>But as the fanatic sprang on her, La Tribe flung his arms round him +and dragged him back.</p> +<p>“It would be madness,” he cried. “Are you +mad, fool? Have done!” he panted, struggling with him. +“If Madame gives the alarm—and he may be in any one of these +four rooms, you cannot be sure which—we are undone.” +He looked for support to Tignonville, whose movement to protect the +girl he had anticipated, and who had since listened sullenly. +“We have obtained what we need. Will you requite Madame, +who has gained it for us at her own risk—”</p> +<p>“It is Monsieur I would requite,” Tignonville muttered +grimly.</p> +<p>“By using violence to her?” the minister retorted passionately. +He and Tuez were still gripping one another. “I tell you, +to go on is to risk what we have got! And I for one—”</p> +<p>“Am chicken-hearted!” the young man sneered. “Madame—” +He seemed to choke on the word. “Will you swear that he +is not here?”</p> +<p>“I swear that if you do not go I will raise the alarm!” +she hissed—all their words were sunk to that stealthy note. +“Go! if you have not stayed too long already. Go! +Or see!” And she pointed to the trapdoor, from which the +face and arms of a sixth man had that moment risen—the face dark +with perturbation, so that her woman’s wit told her at once that +something was amiss. “See what has come of your delay already!”</p> +<p>“The water is rising,” the man muttered earnestly. +“In God’s name come, whether you have done it or not, or +we cannot pass out again. It is within a foot of the crown of +the culvert now, and it is rising.”</p> +<p>“Curse on the water!” Tuez-les-Moines answered in a frenzied +whisper. “And on this Jezebel. Let us kill her and +him! What matter afterwards?” And he tried to shake +off La Tribe’s grasp.</p> +<p>But the minister held him desperately. “Are you mad? +Are you mad?” he answered. “What can we do against +thirty? Let us be gone while we can. Let us be gone! +Come.”</p> +<p>“Ay, come,” Perrot cried, assenting reluctantly. +He had taken no side hitherto. “The luck is against us! +’Tis no use to-night, man!” And he turned with an +air of sullen resignation. Letting his legs drop through the trap, +he followed the bearer of the tidings out of sight. Another made +up his mind to go, and went. Then only Tignonville, holding the +lanthorn, and La Tribe, who feared to release Tuez-les-Moines, remained +with the fanatic.</p> +<p>The Countess’s eyes met her old lover’s, and whether +old memories overcame her, or, now that the danger was nearly past, +she began to give way, she swayed a little on her feet. But he +did not notice it. He was sunk in black rage—rage against +her, rage against himself.</p> +<p>“Take the light,” she muttered unsteadily. “And—and +he must follow!”</p> +<p>“And you?”</p> +<p>But she could bear it no longer. “Oh, go,” she +wailed. “Go! Will you never go? If you love +me, if you ever loved me, I implore you to go.”</p> +<p>He had betrayed little of a lover’s feeling. But he could +not resist that appeal, and he turned silently. Seizing Tuez-les-Moines +by the other arm, he drew him by force to the trap.</p> +<p>“Quiet, fool,” he muttered savagely when the man would +have resisted, “and go down! If we stay to kill him, we +shall have no way of escape, and his life will be dearly bought. +Down, man, down!” And between them, in a struggling silence, +with now and then an audible rap, or a ring of metal, the two forced +the desperado to descend.</p> +<p>La Tribe followed hastily. Tignonville was the last to go. +In the act of disappearing he raised his lanthorn for a last glimpse +of the Countess. To his astonishment the passage was empty; she +was gone. Hard by him a door stood an inch or two ajar, and he +guessed that it was hers, and swore under his breath, hating her at +that moment. But he did not guess how nicely she had calculated +her strength; how nearly exhaustion had overcome her; or that, even +while he paused—a fatal pause had he known it—eyeing the +dark opening of the door, she lay as one dead, on the bed within. +She had fallen in a swoon, from which she did not recover until the +sun had risen, and marched across one quarter of the heavens.</p> +<p>Nor did he see another thing, or he might have hastened his steps. +Before the yellow light of his lanthorn faded from the ceiling of the +passage, the door of the room farthest from the trap slid open. +A man, whose eyes, until darkness swallowed him, shone strangely in +a face extraordinarily softened, came out on tip-toe. This man +stood awhile, listening. At length, hearing those below utter +a cry of dismay, he awoke to sudden activity. He opened with a +turn of the key the door which stood at his elbow, the door which led +to the other part of the house. He vanished through it. +A second later a sharp whistle pierced the darkness of the courtyard, +and brought a dozen sleepers to their senses and their feet. A +moment, and the courtyard hummed with voices, above which one voice +rang clear and insistent. With a startled cry the inn awoke.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV. THE COMPANY OF THE BLEEDING HEART.</h2> +<p>“But why,” Madame St. Lo asked, sticking her arms akimbo, +“why stay in this forsaken place a day and a night, when six hours +in the saddle would set us in Angers?”</p> +<p>“Because,” Tavannes replied coldly—he and his cousin +were walking before the gateway of the inn—“the Countess +is not well, and will be the better, I think, for staying a day.”</p> +<p>“She slept soundly enough! I’ll answer for that!”</p> +<p>He shrugged his shoulders.</p> +<p>“She never raised her head this morning, though my women were +shrieking ‘Murder!’ next door, and—Name of Heaven!” +Madame resumed, after breaking off abruptly, and shading her eyes with +her hand, “what comes here? Is it a funeral? Or a +pilgrimage? If all the priests about here are as black, no wonder +M. Rabelais fell out with them!”</p> +<p>The inn stood without the walls for the convenience of those who +wished to take the road early: a little also, perhaps, because food +and forage were cheaper, and the wine paid no town-dues. Four +great roads met before the house, along the most easterly of which the +sombre company which had caught Madame St. Lo’s attention could +be seen approaching. At first Count Hannibal supposed with his +companion that the travellers were conveying to the grave the corpse +of some person of distinction; for the <i>cortége</i> consisted +mainly of priests and the like mounted on mules, and clothed for the +most part in black. Black also was the small banner which waved +above them, and bore in place of arms the emblem of the Bleeding Heart. +But a second glance failed to discover either litter or bier; and a +nearer approach showed that the travellers, whether they wore the tonsure +or not, bore weapons of one kind or another.</p> +<p>Suddenly Madame St. Lo clapped her hands, and proclaimed in great +astonishment that she knew them.</p> +<p>“Why, there is Father Boucher, the Curé of St. Benoist!” +she said, “and Father Pezelay of St. Magloire. And there +is another I know, though I cannot remember his name! They are +preachers from Paris! That is who they are! But what can +they be doing here? Is it a pilgrimage, think you?”</p> +<p>“Ay, a pilgrimage of Blood!” Count Hannibal answered +between his teeth. And, turning to him to learn what moved him, +she saw the look in his eyes which portended a storm. Before she +could ask a question, however, the gloomy company, which had first appeared +in the distance, moving, an inky blot, through the hot sunshine of the +summer morning, had drawn near, and was almost abreast of them. +Stepping from her side, he raised his hand and arrested the march.</p> +<p>“Who is master here?” he asked haughtily.</p> +<p>“I am the leader,” answered a stout pompous Churchman, +whose small malevolent eyes belied the sallow fatuity of his face. +“I, M. de Tavannes, by your leave.”</p> +<p>“And you, by your leave,” Tavannes sneered, “are—”</p> +<p>“Archdeacon and Vicar of the Bishop of Angers and Prior of +the Lesser Brethren of St. Germain, M. le Comte. Visitor also +of the Diocese of Angers,” the dignitary continued, puffing out +his cheeks, “and Chaplain to the Lieutenant-Governor of Saumur, +whose unworthy brother I am.”</p> +<p>“A handsome glove, and well embroidered!” Tavannes retorted +in a tone of disdain. “The hand I see yonder!” +He pointed to the lean parchment mask of Father Pezelay, who coloured +ever so faintly, but held his peace under the sneer. “You +are bound for Angers?” Count Hannibal continued. “For +what purpose, Sir Prior?”</p> +<p>“His Grace the Bishop is absent, and in his absence—”</p> +<p>“You go to fill his city with strife! I know you! +Not you!” he continued, contemptuously turning from the Prior, +and regarding the third of the principal figures of the party. +“But you! You were the Curé who got the mob together +last All Souls’.”</p> +<p>“I speak the words of Him Who sent me!” answered the +third Churchman, whose brooding face and dull curtained eyes gave no +promise of the fits of frenzied eloquence which had made his pulpit +famous in Paris.</p> +<p>“Then Kill and Burn are His alphabet!” Tavannes retorted, +and heedless of the start of horror which a saying so near blasphemy +excited among the Churchmen, he turned to Father Pezelay. “And +you! You, too, I know!” he continued. “And you +know me! And take this from me. Turn, father! Turn! +Or worse than a broken head—you bear the scar, I see—will +befall you. These good persons, whom you have moved, unless I +am in error, to take this journey, may not know me; but you do, and +can tell them. If they will to Angers, they must to Angers. +But if I find trouble in Angers when I come, I will hang some one high. +Don’t scowl at me, man!”—in truth, the look of hate +in Father Pezelay’s eyes was enough to provoke the exclamation. +“Some one, and it shall not be a bare patch on the crown will +save his windpipe from squeezing!”</p> +<p>A murmur of indignation broke from the preachers’ attendants; +one or two made a show of drawing their weapons. But Count Hannibal +paid no heed to them, and had already turned on his heel when Father +Pezelay spurred his mule a pace or two forward. Snatching a heavy +brass cross from one of the acolytes, he raised it aloft, and in the +voice which had often thrilled the heated congregation of St. Magloire, +he called on Tavannes to pause.</p> +<p>“Stand, my lord!” he cried. “And take warning! +Stand, reckless and profane, whose face is set hard as a stone, and +his heart as a flint, against High Heaven and Holy Church! Stand +and hear! Behold the word of the Lord is gone out against this +city, even against Angers, for the unbelief thereof! Her place +shall be left unto her desolate, and her children shall be dashed against +the stones! Woe unto you, therefore, if you gainsay it, or fall +short of that which is commanded! You shall perish as Achan, the son +of Charmi, and as Saul! The curse that has gone out against you +shall not tarry, nor your days continue! For the Canaanitish woman +that is in your house, and for the thought that is in your heart, the +place that was yours is given to another! Yea, the sword is even +now drawn that shall pierce your side!”</p> +<p>“You are more like to split my ears!” Count Hannibal +answered sternly. “And now mark me! Preach as you +please here. But a word in Angers, and though you be shaven twice +over, I will have you silenced after a fashion which will not please +you! If you value your tongue therefore, father—Oh, you +shake off the dust, do you? Well, pass on! ’Tis wise, +perhaps.”</p> +<p>And undismayed by the scowling brows, and the cross ostentatiously +lifted to heaven, he gazed after the procession as it moved on under +its swaying banner, now one and now another of the acolytes looking +back and raising his hands to invoke the bolt of Heaven on the blasphemer. +As the <i>cortége</i> passed the huge watering-troughs, and the +open gateway of the inn, the knot of persons congregated there fell +on their knees. In answer the Churchmen raised their banner higher, +and began to sing the <i>Eripe me, Domine</i>! and to its strains, now +vengeful, now despairing, now rising on a wave of menace, they passed +slowly into the distance, slowly towards Angers and the Loire.</p> +<p>Suddenly Madame St. Lo twitched his sleeve. “Enough for +me!” she cried passionately. “I go no farther with +you!”</p> +<p>“Ah?”</p> +<p>“No farther!” she repeated. She was pale, she shivered. +“Many thanks, my cousin, but we part company here. I do +not go to Angers. I have seen horrors enough. I will take +my people, and go to my aunt by Tours and the east road. For you, +I foresee what will happen. You will perish between the hammer +and the anvil.”</p> +<p>“Ah?”</p> +<p>“You play too fine a game,” she continued, her face quivering. +“Give over the girl to her lover, and send away her people with +her. And wash your hands of her and hers. Or you will see +her fall, and fall beside her! Give her to him, I say—give +her to him!”</p> +<p>“My wife?”</p> +<p>“Wife?” she echoed, for, fickle, and at all times swept +away by the emotions of the moment, she was in earnest now. “Is +there a tie,” and she pointed after the vanishing procession, +“that they cannot unloose? That they will not unloose? +Is there a life which escapes if they doom it? Did the Admiral +escape? Or Rochefoucauld? Or Madame de Luns in old days? +I tell you they go to rouse Angers against you, and I see beforehand +what will happen. She will perish, and you with her. Wife? +A pretty wife, at whose door you took her lover last night.”</p> +<p>“And at your door!” he answered quietly, unmoved by the +gibe.</p> +<p>But she did not heed. “I warned you of that!” she +cried. “And you would not believe me. I told you he +was following. And I warn you of this. You are between the +hammer and the anvil, M. le Comte! If Tignonville does not murder +you in your bed—”</p> +<p>“I hold him in my power.”</p> +<p>“Then Holy Church will fall on you and crush you. For +me, I have seen enough and more than enough. I go to Tours by +the east road.”</p> +<p>He shrugged his shoulders. “As you please,” he +said.</p> +<p>She flung away in disgust with him. She could not understand +a man who played fast and loose at such a time. The game was too +fine for her, its danger too apparent, the gain too small. She +had, too, a woman’s dread of the Church, a woman’s belief +in the power of the dead hand to punish. And in half an hour her +orders were given. In two hours her people were gathered, and +she departed by the eastward road, three of Tavannes’ riders reinforcing +her servants for a part of the way. Count Hannibal stood to watch +them start, and noticed Bigot riding by the side of Suzanne’s +mule. He smiled; and presently, as he turned away, he did a thing +rare with him—he laughed outright.</p> +<p>A laugh which reflected a mood rare as itself. Few had seen +Count Hannibal’s eye sparkle as it sparkled now; few had seen +him laugh as he laughed, walking to and fro in the sunshine before the +inn. His men watched him, and wondered, and liked it little, for +one or two who had overheard his altercation with the Churchmen had +reported it, and there was shaking of heads over it. The man who +had singed the Pope’s beard and chucked cardinals under the chin +was growing old, and the most daring of the others had no mind to fight +with foes whose weapons were not of this world.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal’s gaiety, however, was well grounded, had they +known it. He was gay, not because he foresaw peril, and it was +his nature to love peril; not—in the main, though a little, perhaps—because +he knew that the woman whose heart he desired to win had that night +stood between him and death; not, though again a little, perhaps, because +she had confirmed his choice by conduct which a small man might have +deprecated, but which a great man loved; but chiefly, because the events +of the night had placed in his grasp two weapons by the aid of which +he looked to recover all the ground he had lost—lost by his impulsive +departure from the pall of conduct on which he had started.</p> +<p>Those weapons were Tignonville, taken like a rat in a trap by the +rising of the water; and the knowledge that the Countess had stolen +the precious packet from his pillow. The knowledge—for he +had lain and felt her breath upon his cheek, he had lain and felt her +hand beneath his pillow, he had lain while the impulse to fling his +arms about her had been almost more than he could tame! He had +lain and suffered her to go, to pass out safely as she had passed in. +And then he had received his reward in the knowledge that, if she robbed +him, she robbed him not for herself; and that where it was a question +of his life she did not fear to risk her own.</p> +<p>When he came, indeed, to that point, he trembled. How narrowly +had he been saved from misjudging her! Had he not lain and waited, +had he not possessed himself in patience, he might have thought her +in collusion with the old lover whom he found at her door, and with +those who came to slay him. Either he might have perished unwarned; +or escaping that danger, he might have detected her with Tignonville +and lost for all time the ideal of a noble woman.</p> +<p>He had escaped that peril. More, he had gained the weapons +we have indicated; and the sense of power, in regard to her, almost +intoxicated him. Surely if he wielded those weapons to the best +advantage, if he strained generosity to the uttermost, the citadel of +her heart must yield at last!</p> +<p>He had the defect of his courage and his nature, a tendency to do +things after a flamboyant fashion. He knew that her act would +plunge him in perils which she had not foreseen. If the preachers +roused the Papists of Angers, if he arrived to find men’s swords +whetted for the massacre and the men themselves awaiting the signal, +then if he did not give that signal there would be trouble. There +would be trouble of the kind in which the soul of Hannibal de Tavannes +revelled, trouble about the ancient cathedral and under the black walls +of the Angevin castle; trouble amid which the hearts of common men would +be as water.</p> +<p>Then, when things seemed at their worst, he would reveal his knowledge. +Then, when forgiveness must seem impossible, he would forgive. +With the flood of peril which she had unloosed rising round them, he +would say, “Go!” to the man who had aimed at his life; he +would say to her, “I know, and I forgive!” That, that +only, would fitly crown the policy on which he had decided from the +first, though he had not hoped to conduct it on lines so splendid as +those which now dazzled him.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI. TEMPER.</h2> +<p>It was his gaiety, that strange unusual gaiety, still continuing, +which on the following day began by perplexing and ended by terrifying +the Countess. She could not doubt that he had missed the packet +on which so much hung and of which he had indicated the importance. +But if he had missed it, why, she asked herself, did he not speak? +Why did he not cry the alarm, search and question and pursue? +Why did he not give her that opening to tell the truth, without which +even her courage failed, her resolution died within her?</p> +<p>Above all, what was the secret of his strange merriment? Of +the snatches of song which broke from him, only to be hushed by her +look of astonishment? Of the parades which his horse, catching +the infection, made under him, as he tossed his riding-cane high in +the air and caught it?</p> +<p>Ay, what? Why, when he had suffered so great a loss, when he +had been robbed of that of which he must give account—why did +he cast off his melancholy and ride like the youngest? She wondered +what the men thought, and looking, saw them stare, saw that they watched +him stealthily, saw that they laid their heads together. What +were they thinking of it? She could not tell; and slowly a terror, +more insistent than any to which the extremity of violence would have +reduced her, began to grip her heart.</p> +<p>Twenty hours of rest had lifted her from the state of collapse into +which the events of the night had cast her; still her limbs at starting +had shaken under her. But the cool freshness of the early summer +morning, and the sight of the green landscape and the winding Loir, +beside which their road ran, had not failed to revive her spirits; and +if he had shown himself merely gloomy, merely sunk in revengeful thoughts, +or darting hither and thither the glance of suspicion, she felt that +she could have faced him, and on the first opportunity could have told +him the truth.</p> +<p>But his new mood veiled she knew not what. It seemed, if she +comprehended it at all, the herald of some bizarre, some dreadful vengeance, +in harmony with his fierce and mocking spirit. Before it her heart +became as water. Even her colour little by little left her cheeks. +She knew that he had only to look at her now to read the truth; that +it was written in her face, in her shrinking figure, in the eyes which +now guiltily sought and now avoided his. And feeling sure that +he did read it and know it, she fancied that he licked his lips, as +the cat which plays with the mouse; she fancied that he gloated on her +terror and her perplexity.</p> +<p>This, though the day and the road were warrants for all cheerful +thoughts. On one side vineyards clothed the warm red slopes, and +rose in steps from the valley to the white buildings of a convent. +On the other the stream wound through green flats where the black cattle +stood knee-deep in grass, watched by wild-eyed and half-naked youths. +Again the travellers lost sight of the Loir, and crossing a shoulder, +rode through the dim aisles of a beech-forest, through deep rustling +drifts of last year’s leaves. And out again and down again +they passed, and turning aside from the gateway, trailed along beneath +the brown machicolated wall of an old town, from the crumbling battlements +of which faces half-sleepy, half-suspicious, watched them as they moved +below through the glare and heat. Down to the river-level again, +where a squalid anchorite, seated at the mouth of a cave dug in the +bank, begged of them, and the bell of a monastery on the farther bank +tolled slumberously the hour of Nones.</p> +<p>And still he said nothing, and she, cowed by his mysterious gaiety, +yet spurning herself for her cowardice, was silent also. He hoped +to arrive at Angers before nightfall. What, she wondered, shivering, +would happen there? What was he planning to do to her? How +would he punish her? Brave as she was, she was a woman, with a +woman’s nerves; and fear and anticipation got upon them; and his +silence—his silence which must mean a thing worse than words!</p> +<p>And then on a sudden, piercing all, a new thought. Was it possible +that he had other letters? If his bearing were consistent with +anything, it was consistent with that. Had he other genuine letters, +or had he duplicate letters, so that he had lost nothing, but instead +had gained the right to rack and torture her, to taunt and despise her?</p> +<p>That thought stung her into sudden self-betrayal. They were +riding along a broad dusty track which bordered a stone causey raised +above the level of winter floods. Impulsively she turned to him.</p> +<p>“You have other letters!” she cried. “You +have other letters!” And freed for the moment from her terror, +she fixed her eyes on his and strove to read his face.</p> +<p>He looked at her, his mouth grown hard. “What do you +mean, Madame?” he asked,</p> +<p>“You have other letters?”</p> +<p>“For whom?”</p> +<p>“From the King, for Angers!”</p> +<p>He saw that she was going to confess, that she was going to derange +his cherished plan; and unreasonable anger awoke in the man who had +been more than willing to forgive a real injury.</p> +<p>“Will you explain?” he said between his teeth. +And his eyes glittered unpleasantly. “What do you mean?”</p> +<p>“You have other letters,” she cried, “besides those +which I stole.”</p> +<p>“Which you stole?” He repeated the words without +passion. Enraged by this unexpected turn, he hardly knew how to +take it.</p> +<p>“Yes, I!” she cried. “I! I took them +from under your pillow!”</p> +<p>He was silent a minute. Then he laughed and shook his head.</p> +<p>“It will not do, Madame,” he said, his lip curling. +“You are clever, but you do not deceive me.”</p> +<p>“Deceive you?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“You do not believe that I took the letters?” she cried +in great amazement.</p> +<p>“No,” he answered, “and for a good reason.” +He had hardened his heart now. He had chosen his line, and he +would not spare her.</p> +<p>“Why, then?” she cried. “Why?”</p> +<p>“For the best of all reasons,” he answered. “Because +the person who stole the letters was seized in the act of making his +escape, and is now in my power.”</p> +<p>“The person—who stole the letters?” she faltered.</p> +<p>“Yes, Madame.”</p> +<p>“Do you mean M. de Tignonville?”</p> +<p>“You have said it.”</p> +<p>She turned white to the lips, and trembling, could with difficulty +sit her horse. With an effort she pulled it up, and he stopped +also. Their attendants were some way ahead.</p> +<p>“And you have the letters?” she whispered, her eyes meeting +his. “You have the letters?”</p> +<p>“No, but I have the thief!” Count Hannibal answered with +sinister meaning. “As I think you knew, Madame,” he +continued ironically, “a while back before you spoke.”</p> +<p>“I? Oh no, no!” and she swayed in her saddle. +“What—what are you—going to do?” she muttered +after a moment’s stricken silence.</p> +<p>“To him?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“The magistrates will decide, at Angers.”</p> +<p>“But he did not do it! I swear he did not.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal shook his head coldly.</p> +<p>“I swear, Monsieur, I took the letters!” she repeated +piteously. “Punish me!” Her figure, bowed like +an old woman’s over the neck of her horse, seemed to crave his +mercy.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal smiled.</p> +<p>“You do not believe me?”</p> +<p>“No,” he said. And then, in a tone which chilled +her, “If I did believe you,” he continued, “I should +still punish him!” She was broken; but he would see if he +could not break her further. He would try if there were no weak +spot in her armour. He would rack her now, since in the end she +must go free. “Understand, Madame,” he continued in +his harshest tone, “I have had enough of your lover. He +has crossed my path too often. You are my wife, I am your husband. +In a day or two there shall be an end of this farce and of him.”</p> +<p>“He did not take them!” she wailed, her face sinking +lower on her breast. “He did not take them! Have mercy!”</p> +<p>“Any way, Madame, they are gone!” Tavannes answered. +“You have taken them between you; and as I do not choose that +you should pay, he will pay the price.”</p> +<p>If the discovery that Tignonville had fallen into her husband’s +hands had not sufficed to crush her, Count Hannibal’s tone must +have done so. The shoot of new life which had raised its head +after those dreadful days in Paris, and—for she was young—had +supported her under the weight which the peril of Angers had cast on +her shoulders, died, withered under the heel of his brutality. +The pride which had supported her, which had won Tavannes’ admiration +and exacted his respect, sank, as she sank herself, bowed to her horse’s +neck, weeping bitter tears before him. She abandoned herself to +her misery, as she had once abandoned herself in the upper room in Paris.</p> +<p>And he looked at her. He had willed to crush her; he had his +will, and he was not satisfied. He had bowed her so low that his +magnanimity would now have its full effect, would shine as the sun into +a dark world; and yet he was not happy. He could look forward +to the morrow, and say, “She will understand me, she will know +me!” and, lo, the thought that she wept for her lover stabbed +him, and stabbed him anew; and he thought, “Rather would she death +from him, than life from me! Though I give her creation, it will +not alter her! Though I strike the stars with my head, it is he +who fills her world.”</p> +<p>The thought spurred him to further cruelty, impelled him to try if, +prostrate as she was, he could not draw a prayer from her.</p> +<p>“You don’t ask after him?” he scoffed. “He +may be before or behind? Or wounded or well? Would you not +know, Madame? And what message he sent you? And what he +fears, and what hope he has? And his last wishes? And—for +while there is life there is hope—would you not learn where the +key of his prison lies to-night? How much for the key to-night, +Madame?”</p> +<p>Each question fell on her like the lash of a whip; but as one who +has been flogged into insensibility, she did not wince. That drove +him on: he felt a mad desire to hear her prayers, to force her lower, +to bring her to her knees. And he sought about for a keener taunt. +Their attendants were almost out of sight before them; the sun, declining +apace, was in their eyes.</p> +<p>“In two hours we shall be in Angers,” he said. +“Mon Dieu, Madame, it was a pity, when you two were taking letters, +you did not go a step farther. You were surprised, or I doubt +if I should be alive to-day!”</p> +<p>Then she did look up. She raised her head and met his gaze +with such wonder in her eyes, such reproach in her tear-stained face, +that his voice sank on the last word.</p> +<p>“You mean—that I would have murdered you?” she +said. “I would have cut off my hand first. What I +did”—and now her voice was as firm as it was low—“what +I did, I did to save my people. And if it were to be done again, +I would do it again!”</p> +<p>“You dare to tell me that to my face?” he cried, hiding +feelings which almost choked him. “You would do it again, +would you? Mon Dieu, Madame, you need to be taught a lesson!”</p> +<p>And by chance, meaning only to make the horses move on again, he +raised his whip. She thought that he was going to strike her, +and she flinched at last. The whip fell smartly on her horse’s +quarters, and it sprang forward. Count Hannibal swore between +his teeth.</p> +<p>He had turned pale, she red as fire. “Get on! Get +on!” he cried harshly. “We are falling behind!” +And riding at her heels, flipping her horse now and then, he forced +her to trot on until they overtook the servants.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII. THE BLACK TOWN.</h2> +<p>It was late evening when, riding wearily on jaded horses, they came +to the outskirts of Angers, and saw before them the term of their journey. +The glow of sunset had faded, but the sky was still warm with the last +hues of day; and against its opal light the huge mass of the Angevin +castle, which even in sunshine rises dark and forbidding above the Mayenne, +stood up black and sharply defined. Below it, on both banks of +the river, the towers and spires of the city soared up from a sombre +huddle of ridge-roofs, broken here by a round-headed gateway, crumbling +and pigeon-haunted, that dated from St. Louis, and there by the gaunt +arms of a windmill.</p> +<p>The city lay dark under a light sky, keeping well its secrets. +Thousands were out of doors enjoying the evening coolness in alley and +court, yet it betrayed the life which pulsed in its arteries only by +the low murmur which rose from it. Nevertheless, the Countess +at sight of its roofs tasted the first moment of happiness which had +been hers that day. She might suffer, but she had saved. +Those roofs would thank her! In that murmur were the voices of +women and children she had redeemed! At the sight and at the thought +a wave of love and tenderness swept all bitterness from her breast. +A profound humility, a boundless thankfulness took possession of her. +Her head sank lower above her horse’s mane; but this time it sank +in reverence, not in shame.</p> +<p>Could she have known what was passing beneath those roofs which night +was blending in a common gloom—could she have read the thoughts +which at that moment paled the cheeks of many a stout burgher, whose +gabled house looked on the great square, she had been still more thankful. +For in attics and back rooms women were on their knees at that hour, +praying with feverish eyes; and in the streets men—on whom their +fellows, seeing the winding-sheet already at the chin, gazed askance—smiled, +and showed brave looks abroad, while their hearts were sick with fear.</p> +<p>For darkly, no man knew how, the news had come to Angers. It +had been known, more or less, for three days. Men had read it +in other men’s eyes. The tongue of a scold, the sneer of +an injured woman had spread it, the birds of the air had carried it. +From garret window to garret window across the narrow lanes of the old +town it had been whispered at dead of night; at convent grilles, and +in the timber-yards beside the river. Ten thousand, fifty thousand, +a hundred thousand, it was rumoured, had perished in Paris. In +Orleans, all. In Tours this man’s sister; at Saumur that +man’s son. Through France the word had gone forth that the +Huguenots must die; and in the busy town the same roof-tree sheltered +fear and hate, rage and cupidity. On one side of the party-wall +murder lurked fierce-eyed; on the other, the victim lay watching the +latch, and shaking at a step. Strong men tasted the bitterness +of death, and women clasping their babes to their breasts smiled sickly +into children’s eyes.</p> +<p>The signal only was lacking. It would come, said some, from +Saumur, where Montsoreau, the Duke of Anjou’s Lieutenant-Governor +and a Papist, had his quarters. From Paris, said others, directly +from the King. It might come at any hour now, in the day or in +the night; the magistrates, it was whispered, were in continuous session, +awaiting its coming. No wonder that from lofty gable windows, +and from dormers set high above the tiles, haggard faces looked northward +and eastward, and ears sharpened by fear imagined above the noises of +the city the ring of the iron shoes that carried doom.</p> +<p>Doubtless the majority desired—as the majority in France have +always desired—peace. But in the purlieus about the cathedral +and in the lanes where the sacristans lived, in convent parlours and +college courts, among all whose livelihood the new faith threatened, +was a stir as of a hive deranged. Here was grumbling against the +magistrates—why wait? There, stealthy plannings and arrangements; +everywhere a grinding of weapons and casting of slugs. Old grudges, +new rivalries, a scholar’s venom, a priest’s dislike, here +was final vent for all. None need leave this feast unsated!</p> +<p>It was a man of this class, sent out for the purpose, who first espied +Count Hannibal’s company approaching. He bore the news into +the town, and by the time the travellers reached the city gate, the +dusky street within, on which lights were beginning to twinkle from +booths and casements, was alive with figures running to meet them and +crying the news as they ran. The travellers, weary and road-stained, +had no sooner passed under the arch than they found themselves the core +of a great crowd which moved with them and pressed about them; now unbonneting, +and now calling out questions, and now shouting, “Vive le Roi! +Vive le Roi!” Above the press, windows burst into light; +and over all, the quaint leaning gables of the old timbered houses looked +down on the hurry and tumult.</p> +<p>They passed along a narrow street in which the rabble, hurrying at +Count Hannibal’s bridle, and often looking back to read his face, +had much ado to escape harm; along this street and before the yawning +doors of a great church whence a breath heavy with incense and burning +wax issued to meet them. A portion of the congregation had heard +the tumult and struggled out, and now stood close-packed on the steps +under the double vault of the portal. Among them the Countess’s +eyes, as she rode by, a sturdy man-at-arms on either hand, caught and +held one face. It was the face of a tall, lean man in dusty black; +and though she did not know him she seemed to have an equal attraction +for him; for as their eyes met he seized the shoulder of the man next +him and pointed her out. And something in the energy of the gesture, +or in the thin lips and malevolent eyes of the man who pointed, chilled +the Countess’s blood and shook her, she knew not why.</p> +<p>Until then, she had known no fear save of her husband. But +at that a sense of the force and pressure of the crowd—as well +as of the fierce passions, straining about her, which a word might unloose—broke +upon her; and looking to the stern men on either side she fancied that +she read anxiety in their faces.</p> +<p>She glanced behind. Boot to boot, the Count’s men came +on, pressing round her women and shielding them from the exuberance +of the throng. In their faces too she thought that she traced +uneasiness. What wonder if the scenes through which she had passed +in Paris began to recur to her mind, and shook nerves already overwrought?</p> +<p>She began to tremble. “Is there—danger?” +she muttered, speaking in a low voice to Bigot, who rode on her right +hand. “Will they do anything?”</p> +<p>The Norman snorted. “Not while he is in the saddle,” +he said, nodding towards his master, who rode a pace in front of them, +his reins loose. “There be some here know him!” Bigot +continued, in his drawling tone. “And more will know him +if they break line. Have no fear, Madame, he will bring you safe +to the inn. Down with the Huguenots?” he continued, turning +from her and addressing a rogue who, holding his stirrup, was shouting +the cry till he was crimson. “Then why not away, and—”</p> +<p>“The King! The King’s word and leave!” the +man answered.</p> +<p>“Ay, tell us!” shrieked another, looking upward, while +he waved his cap; “have we the King’s leave?”</p> +<p>“You’ll bide <i>his</i> leave!” the Norman retorted, +indicating the Count with his thumb. “Or ’twill be +up with you—on the three-legged horse!”</p> +<p>“But he comes from the King!” the man panted.</p> +<p>“To be sure. To be sure!”</p> +<p>“Then—”</p> +<p>“You’ll bide his time! That’s all!” +Bigot answered, rather it seemed for his own satisfaction than the other’s +enlightenment. “You’ll all bide it, you dogs!” +he continued in his beard, as he cast his eye over the weltering crowd. +“Ha! so we are here, are we? And not too soon, either.”</p> +<p>He fell silent as they entered an open space, overlooked on one side +by the dark façade of the cathedral, on the other three sides +by houses more or less illumined. The rabble swept into this open +space with them and before them, filled much of it in an instant, and +for a while eddied and swirled this way and that, thrust onward by the +worshippers who had issued from the church and backwards by those who +had been first in the square, and had no mind to be hustled out of hearing. +A stranger, confused by the sea of excited faces, and deafened by the +clamour of “Vive le Roi!” “Vive Anjou!” mingled +with cries against the Huguenots, might have fancied that the whole +city was arrayed before him. But he would have been wide of the +mark. The scum, indeed—and a dangerous scum—frothed +and foamed and spat under Tavannes’ bridle-hand; and here and +there among them, but not of them, the dark-robed figure of a priest +moved to and fro; or a Benedictine, or some smooth-faced acolyte egged +on to the work he dared not do. But the decent burghers were not +there. They lay bolted in their houses; while the magistrates, +with little heart to do aught except bow to the mob—or other their +masters for the time being—shook in their council chamber.</p> +<p>There is not a city of France which has not seen it; which has not +known the moment when the mass impended, and it lay with one man to +start it or stay its course. Angers within its houses heard the +clamour, and from the child, clinging to its mother’s skirt, and +wondering why she wept, to the Provost, trembled, believing that the +hour had come. The Countess heard it too, and understood it. +She caught the savage note in the voice of the mob—that note which +means danger—and, her heart beating wildly, she looked to her +husband. Then, fortunately for her, fortunately for Angers, it +was given to all to see that in Count Hannibal’s saddle sat a +man.</p> +<p>He raised his hand for silence, and in a minute or two—not +at once, for the square was dusky—it was obtained. He rose +in his stirrups, and bared his head.</p> +<p>“I am from the King!” he cried, throwing his voice to +all parts of the crowd. “And this is his Majesty’s +pleasure and good will! That every man hold his hand until to-morrow +on pain of death, or worse! And at noon his further pleasure will +be known! Vive le Roi!”</p> +<p>And he covered his head again.</p> +<p>“Vive le Roi!” cried a number of the foremost. +But their shouts were feeble and half-hearted, and were quickly drowned +in a rising murmur of discontent and ill-humour, which, mingled with +cries of “Is that all? Is there no more? Down with +the Huguenots!” rose from all parts. Presently these cries +became merged in a persistent call, which had its origin, as far as +could be discovered, in the darkest corner of the square. A call +for “Montsoreau! Montsoreau! Give us Montsoreau!”</p> +<p>With another man, or had Tavannes turned or withdrawn, or betrayed +the least anxiety, words had become actions, disorder a riot; and that +in the twinkling of an eye. But Count Hannibal, sitting his horse, +with his handful of riders behind him, watched the crowd, as little +moved by it as the Armed Knight of Notre Dame. Only once did he +say a word. Then, raising his hand as before to gain a hearing—</p> +<p>“You ask for Montsoreau?” he thundered. “You +will have Montfaucon if you do not quickly go to your homes!”</p> +<p>At which, and at the glare of his eye, the more timid took fright. +Feeling his gaze upon them, seeing that he had no intention of withdrawing, +they began to sneak away by ones and twos. Soon others missed +them and took the alarm, and followed. A moment and scores were +streaming away through lanes and alleys and along the main street. +At last the bolder and more turbulent found themselves a remnant. +They glanced uneasily at one another and at Tavannes, took fright in +their turn, and plunging into the current hastened away, raising now +and then as they passed through the streets a cry of “Vive Montsoreau! +Montsoreau!”—which was not without its menace for the morrow.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal waited motionless until no more than half a dozen +groups remained in the open. Then he gave the word to dismount; +for, so far, even the Countess and her women had kept their saddles, +lest the movement which their retreat into the inn must have caused +should be misread by the mob. Last of all he dismounted himself, +and with lights going before him and behind, and preceded by Bigot, +bearing his cloak and pistols, he escorted the Countess into the house. +Not many minutes had elapsed since he had called for silence; but long +before he reached the chamber looking over the square from the first +floor, in which supper was being set for them, the news had flown through +the length and breadth of Angers that for this night the danger was +past. The hawk had come to Angers, and lo! it was a dove.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal strode to one of the open windows and looked out. +In the room, which was well lighted, were people of the house, going +to and fro, setting out the table; to Madame, standing beside the hearth—which +held its summer dressing of green boughs—while her woman held +water for her to wash, the scene recalled with painful vividness the +meal at which she had been present on the morning of the St. Bartholomew—the +meal which had ushered in her troubles. Naturally her eyes went +to her husband, her mind to the horror in which she had held him then; +and with a kind of shock—perhaps because the last few minutes +had shown him in a new light—she compared her old opinion of him +with that which, much as she feared him, she now entertained.</p> +<p>This afternoon, if ever, within the last few hours, if at all, he +had acted in a way to justify that horror and that opinion. He +had treated her—brutally; he had insulted and threatened her, +had almost struck her. And yet—and yet Madame felt that +she had moved so far from the point which she had once occupied that +the old attitude was hard to understand. Hardly could she believe +that it was on this man, much as she still dreaded him, that she had +looked with those feelings of repulsion.</p> +<p>She was still gazing at him with eyes which strove to see two men +in one, when he turned from the window. Absorbed in thought, she +had forgotten her occupation, and stood, the towel suspended in her +half-dried hands. Before she knew what he was doing he was at +her side; he bade the woman hold the bowl, and he rinsed his hands. +Then he turned, and without looking at the Countess, he dried his hands +on the farther end of the towel which she was still using.</p> +<p>She blushed faintly. A something in the act, more intimate +and more familiar than had ever marked their intercourse, set her blood +running strangely. When he turned away and bade Bigot unbuckle +his spur-leathers, she stepped forward.</p> +<p>“I will do it!” she murmured, acting on a sudden and +unaccountable impulse. And as she knelt, she shook her hair about +her face to hide its colour.</p> +<p>“Nay, Madame, but you will soil your fingers!” he said +coldly.</p> +<p>“Permit me,” she muttered half coherently. And +though her fingers shook, she pursued and performed her task.</p> +<p>When she rose he thanked her; and then the devil in the man, or the +Nemesis he had provoked when he took her by force from another—the +Nemesis of jealousy, drove him to spoil all.</p> +<p>“And for whose sake, Madame?” he added, with a jeer; +“mine or M. de Tignonville’s?” And with a glance +between jest and earnest, he tried to read her thoughts.</p> +<p>She winced as if he had indeed struck her, and the hot colour fled +her cheeks.</p> +<p>“For his sake!” she said, with a shiver of pain. +“That his life may be spared!” And she stood back +humbly, like a beaten dog. Though, indeed, it was for the sake +of Angers, in thankfulness for the past rather than in any desperate +hope of propitiating her husband, that she had done it!</p> +<p>Perhaps he would have withdrawn his words. But before he could +answer, the host, bowing to the floor, came to announce that all was +ready, and that the Provost of the City, for whom M. le Comte had sent, +was in waiting below.</p> +<p>“Let him come up!” Tavannes answered, grave and frowning. +“And see you, close the room, sirrah! My people will wait +on us. Ah!” as the Provost, a burly man, with a face framed +for jollity, but now pale and long, entered and approached him with +many salutations. “How comes it, M. le Prévôt—you +are the Prévôt, are you not?”</p> +<p>“Yes, M. le Comte.”</p> +<p>“How comes it that so great a crowd is permitted to meet in +the streets? And that at my entrance, though I come unannounced, +I find half of the city gathered together?”</p> +<p>The Provost stared. “Respect, M. le Comte,” he +said, “for His Majesty’s letters, of which you are the bearer, +no doubt induced some to come together.”</p> +<p>“Who said I brought letters?”</p> +<p>“Who—?”</p> +<p>“Who said I brought letters?” Count Hannibal repeated +in a strenuous voice. And he ground his chair half about and faced +the astonished magistrate. “Who said I brought letters?”</p> +<p>“Why, my lord,” the Provost stammered, “it was +everywhere yesterday—”</p> +<p>“Yesterday?”</p> +<p>“Last night, at latest—that letters were coming from +the King.”</p> +<p>“By my hand?”</p> +<p>“By your lordship’s hand—whose name is so well +known here,” the magistrate added, in the hope of clearing the +great man’s brow.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal laughed darkly. “My hand will be better +known by-and-by,” he said. “See you, sirrah, there +is some practice here. What is this cry of Montsoreau that I hear?”</p> +<p>“Your lordship knows that he is His Grace’s lieutenant-governor +in Saumur.”</p> +<p>“I know that, man. But is he here?”</p> +<p>“He was at Saumur yesterday, and ’twas rumoured three +days back that he was coming here to extirpate the Huguenots. +Then word came of your lordship and of His Majesty’s letters, +and ’twas thought that M. de Montsoreau would not come, his authority +being superseded.”</p> +<p>“I see. And now your rabble think that they would prefer +M. Montsoreau. That is it, is it?”</p> +<p>The magistrate shrugged his shoulders and opened his hands.</p> +<p>“Pigs!” he said. And having spat on the floor, +he looked apologetically at the lady. “True pigs!”</p> +<p>“What connections has he here?” Tavannes asked.</p> +<p>“He is a brother of my lord the Bishop’s vicar, who arrived +yesterday.”</p> +<p>“With a rout of shaven heads who have been preaching and stirring +up the town!” Count Hannibal cried, his face growing red. +“Speak, man; is it so? But I’ll be sworn it is!”</p> +<p>“There has been preaching,” the Provost answered reluctantly.</p> +<p>“Montsoreau may count his brother, then, for one. He +is a fool, but with a knave behind him, and a knave who has no cause +to love us! And the Castle? ’Tis held by one of M. +de Montsoreau’s creatures, I take it?”</p> +<p>“Yes, my lord.”</p> +<p>“With what force?”</p> +<p>The magistrate shrugged his shoulders, and looked doubtfully at Badelon, +who was keeping the door. Tavannes followed the glance with his +usual impatience. “Mon Dieu, you need not look at him!” +he cried. “He has sacked St. Peter’s and singed the +Pope’s beard with a holy candle! He has been served on the +knee by Cardinals; and is Turk or Jew, or monk or Huguenot as I please. +And Madame”—for the Provost’s astonished eyes, after +resting awhile on the old soldier’s iron visage, had passed to +her—“is Huguenot, so you need have no fear of her! +There, speak, man,” with impatience, “and cease to think +of your own skin!”</p> +<p>The Provost drew a deep breath, and fixed his small eyes on Count +Hannibal.</p> +<p>“If I knew, my lord, what you—why, my own sister’s +son”—he paused, his face began to work, his voice shook—“is +a Huguenot! Ay, my lord, a Huguenot! And they know it!” +he continued, a flush of rage augmenting the emotion which his countenance +betrayed. “Ay, they know it! And they push me on at +the Council, and grin behind my back; Lescot, who was Provost two years +back, and would match his son with my daughter; and Thuriot, who prints +for the University! They nudge one another, and egg me on, till +half the city thinks it is I who would kill the Huguenots! I!” +Again his voice broke. “And my own sister’s son a +Huguenot! And my girl at home white-faced for—for his sake.”</p> +<p>Tavannes scanned the man shrewdly. “Perhaps she is of +the same way of thinking?” he said.</p> +<p>The Provost started, and lost one half of his colour. “God +forbid!” he cried, “saving Madame’s presence! +Who says so, my lord, lies!”</p> +<p>“Ay, lies not far from the truth.”</p> +<p>“My lord!”</p> +<p>“Pish, man, Lescot has said it, and will act on it. And +Thuriot, who prints for the University! Would you ’scape +them? You would? Then listen to me. I want but two +things. First, how many men has Montsoreau’s fellow in the +Castle? Few, I know, for he is a niggard, and if he spends, he +spends the Duke’s pay.”</p> +<p>“Twelve. But five can hold it.”</p> +<p>“Ay, but twelve dare not leave it! Let them stew in their +own broth! And now for the other matter. See, man, that +before daybreak three gibbets, with a ladder and two ropes apiece, are +set up in the square. And let one be before this door. You +understand? Then let it be done! The rest,” he added +with a ferocious smile, “you may leave to me.”</p> +<p>The magistrate nodded rather feebly. “Doubtless,” +he said, his eye wandering here and there, “there are rogues in +Angers. And for rogues the gibbet! But saving your presence, +my lord, it is a question whether—”</p> +<p>But M. de Tavannes’ patience was exhausted. “Will +you do it?” he roared. “That is the question. +And the only question.”</p> +<p>The Provost jumped, he was so startled. “Certainly, my +lord, certainly!” he muttered humbly. “Certainly, +I will!” And bowing frequently, but saying no more, he backed +himself out of the room.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal laughed grimly after his fashion, and doubtless thought +that he had seen the last of the magistrate for that night. Great +was his wrath, therefore, when, less than a minute later—and before +Bigot had carved for him—the door opened, and the Provost appeared +again. He slid in, and without giving the courage he had gained +on the stairs time to cool, plunged into his trouble.</p> +<p>“It stands this way, M. le Comte,” he bleated. +“If I put up the gibbets and a man is hanged, and you have letters +from the King, ’tis a rogue the less, and no harm done. +But if you have no letters from His Majesty, then it is on my shoulders +they will put it, and ’twill be odd if they do not find a way +to hang me to right him.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal smiled grimly. “And your sister’s +son?” he sneered. “And your girl who is white-faced +for his sake, and may burn on the same bonfire with him? And—”</p> +<p>“Mercy! Mercy!” the wretched Provost cried. +And he wrung his hands. “Lescot and Thuriot—”</p> +<p>“Perhaps we may hang Lescot and Thuriot—”</p> +<p>“But I see no way out,” the Provost babbled. “No +way! No way!”</p> +<p>“I am going to show you one,” Tavannes retorted. +“If the gibbets are not in place by sunrise, I shall hang you +from this window. That is one way out; and you’ll be wise +to take the other! For the rest and for your comfort, if I have +no letters, it is not always to paper that the King commits his inmost +heart.”</p> +<p>The magistrate bowed. He quaked, he doubted, but he had no +choice.</p> +<p>“My lord,” he said, “I put myself in your hands. +It shall be done, certainly it shall be done. But, but—” +and shaking his head in foreboding, he turned to the door. At +the last moment, when he was within a pace of it, the Countess rose +impulsively to her feet. She called to him.</p> +<p>“M. le Prévôt, a minute, if you please,” +she said. “There may be trouble to-morrow; your daughter +may be in some peril. You will do well to send her to me. +My lord”—and on the word her voice, uncertain before, grew +full and steady—“will see that I am safe. And she +will be safe with me.”</p> +<p>The Provost saw before him only a gracious lady, moved by a thoughtfulness +unusual in persons of her rank. He was at no pains to explain +the flame in her cheek, or the soft light which glowed in her eyes, +as she looked at him across her formidable husband. He was only +profoundly grateful—moved even to tears. Humbly thanking +her, he accepted her offer for his child, and withdrew wiping his eyes. +When he was gone, and the door had closed behind him, Tavannes turned +to the Countess, who still kept her feet.</p> +<p>“You are very confident this evening,” he sneered. +“Gibbets do not frighten you, it seems, madame. Perhaps +if you knew for whom the one before the door is intended?”</p> +<p>She met his look with a searching gaze, and spoke with a ring of +defiance in her tone. “I do not believe it!” she said. +“I do not believe it! You who save Angers will not destroy +him!” And then her woman’s mood changing, with courage +and colour ebbing together, “Oh no, you will not! You will +not!” she wailed. And she dropped on her knees before him, +and holding up her clasped hands, “God will put it in your heart +to spare him—and me!”</p> +<p>He rose with a stifled oath, took two steps from her, and in a tone +hoarse and constrained, “Go!” he said. “Go, +or sit! Do you hear, Madame? You try my patience too far!”</p> +<p>But when she had gone his face was radiant. He had brought +her, he had brought all, to the point at which he aimed. To-morrow +his triumph awaited him. To-morrow he who had cast her down would +raise her up.</p> +<p>He did not foresee what a day would bring forth.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII. IN THE LITTLE CHAPTER-HOUSE.</h2> +<p>The sun was an hour high, and in Angers the shops and booths, after +the early fashion of the day, were open or opening. Through all +the gates country folk were pressing into the gloomy streets of the +Black Town with milk and fruit; and at doors and windows housewives +cheapened fish, or chaffered over the fowl for the pot. For men +must eat, though there be gibbets in the Place Ste.-Croix: gaunt gibbets, +high and black and twofold, each, with its dangling ropes, like a double +note of interrogation.</p> +<p>But gibbets must eat also; and between ground and noose was so small +a space in those days that a man dangled almost before he knew it. +The sooner, then, the paniers were empty, and the clown, who pays for +all, was beyond the gates, the better he, for one, would be pleased. +In the market, therefore, was hurrying. Men cried their wares +in lowered voices, and tarried but a little for the oldest customer. +The bargain struck, the more timid among the buyers hastened to shut +themselves into their houses again; the bolder, who ventured to the +Place to confirm the rumour with their eyes, talked in corners and in +lanes, avoided the open, and eyed the sinister preparations from afar. +The shadow of the things which stood before the cathedral affronting +the sunlight with their gaunt black shapes lay across the length and +breadth of Angers. Even in the corners where men whispered, even +in the cloisters where men bit their nails in impotent anger, the stillness +of fear ruled all. Whatever Count Hannibal had it in his mind +to tell the city, it seemed unlikely—and hour by hour it seemed +less likely—that any would contradict him.</p> +<p>He knew this as he walked in the sunlight before the inn, his spurs +ringing on the stones as he made each turn, his movements watched by +a hundred peering eyes. After all, it was not hard to rule, nor +to have one’s way in this world. But then, he went on to +remember, not every one had his self-control, or that contempt for the +weak and unsuccessful which lightly took the form of mercy. He +held Angers safe, curbed by his gibbets. With M. de Montsoreau +he might have trouble; but the trouble would be slight, for he knew +Montsoreau, and what it was the Lieutenant-Governor valued above profitless +bloodshed.</p> +<p>He might have felt less confident had he known what was passing at +that moment in a room off the small cloister of the Abbey of St. Aubin, +a room known at Angers as the Little Chapter-house. It was a long +chamber with a groined roof and stone walls, panelled as high as a tall +man might reach with dark chestnut wood. Gloomily lighted by three +grated windows, which looked on a small inner green, the last resting-place +of the Benedictines, the room itself seemed at first sight no more than +the last resting-place of worn-out odds and ends. Piles of thin +sheepskin folios, dog’s-eared and dirty, the rejected of the choir, +stood against the walls; here and there among them lay a large brass-bound +tome on which the chains that had fettered it to desk or lectern still +rusted. A broken altar cumbered one corner: a stand bearing a +curious—and rotting—map filled another. In the other +two corners a medley of faded scutcheons and banners, which had seen +their last Toussaint procession, mouldered slowly into dust—into +much dust. The air of the room was full of it.</p> +<p>In spite of which the long oak table that filled the middle of the +chamber shone with use: so did the great metal standish which it bore. +And though the seven men who sat about the table seemed, at a first +glance and in that gloomy light, as rusty and faded as the rubbish behind +them, it needed but a second look at their lean jaws and hungry eyes +to be sure of their vitality.</p> +<p>He who sat in the great chair at the end of the table was indeed +rather plump than thin. His white hands, gay with rings, were +well cared for; his peevish chin rested on a falling-collar of lace +worthy of a Cardinal. But though the Bishop’s Vicar was +heard with deference, it was noticeable that when he had ceased to speak +his hearers looked to the priest on his left, to Father Pezelay, and +waited to hear his opinion before they gave their own. The Father’s +energy, indeed, had dominated the Angerins, clerks and townsfolk alike, +as it had dominated the Parisian <i>dévotes</i> who knew him +well. The vigour which hate inspires passes often for solid strength; +and he who had seen with his own eyes the things done in Paris spoke +with an authority to which the more timid quickly and easily succumbed.</p> +<p>Yet gibbets are ugly things; and Thuriot, the printer, whose pride +had been tickled by a summons to the conclave, began to wonder if he +had done wisely in coming. Lescot, too, who presently ventured +a word.</p> +<p>“But if M. de Tavannes’ order be to do nothing,” +he began doubtfully, “you would not, reverend Father, have us +resist his Majesty’s will?”</p> +<p>“God forbid, my friend!” Father Pezelay answered with +unction. “But his Majesty’s will is to do—to +do for the glory of God and the saints and His Holy Church! How? +Is that which was lawful at Saumur unlawful here? Is that which +was lawful at Tours unlawful here? Is that which the King did +in Paris—to the utter extermination of the unbelieving and the +purging of that Sacred City—against his will here? Nay, +his will is to do—to do as they have done in Paris and in Tours +and in Saumur! But his Minister is unfaithful! The woman +whom he has taken to his bosom has bewildered him with her charms and +her sorceries, and put it in his mind to deny the mission he bears.”</p> +<p>“You are sure, beyond chance of error, that he bears letters +to that effect, good Father?” the printer ventured.</p> +<p>“Ask my lord’s Vicar! He knows the letters and +the import of them!”</p> +<p>“They are to that effect,” the Archdeacon answered, drumming +on the table with his fingers and speaking somewhat sullenly. +“I was in the Chancellery, and I saw them. They are duplicates +of those sent to Bordeaux.”</p> +<p>“Then the preparations he has made must be against the Huguenots,” +Lescot, the ex-Provost, said with a sigh of relief. And Thuriot’s +face lightened also. “He must intend to hang one or two +of the ringleaders, before he deals with the herd.”</p> +<p>“Think it not!” Father Pezelay cried in his high shrill +voice. “I tell you the woman has bewitched him, and he will +deny his letters!”</p> +<p>For a moment there was silence. Then, “But dare he do +that, reverend Father?” Lescot asked slowly and incredulously. +“What? Suppress the King’s letters?”</p> +<p>“There is nothing he will not dare! There is nothing +he has not dared!” the priest answered vehemently, the recollection +of the scene in the great guard-room of the Louvre, when Tavannes had +so skilfully turned the tables on him, instilling venom into his tone. +“She who lives with him is the devil’s. She has bewitched +him with her spells and her Sabbaths! She bears the mark of the +Beast on her bosom, and for her the fire is even now kindling!”</p> +<p>The laymen who were present shuddered. The two canons who faced +them crossed themselves, muttering, “Avaunt, Satan!”</p> +<p>“It is for you to decide,” the priest continued, gazing +on them passionately, “whether you will side with him or with +the Angel of God! For I tell you it was none other executed the +Divine judgments at Paris! It was none other but the Angel of +God held the sword at Tours! It is none other holds the sword +here! Are you for him or against him? Are you for him, or +for the woman with the mark of the Beast? Are you for God or against +God? For the hour draws near! The time is at hand! +You must choose! You must choose!” And, striking the +table with his hand, he leaned forward, and with glittering eyes fixed +each of them in turn, as he cried, “You must choose! You +must choose!” He came to the Archdeacon last.</p> +<p>The Bishop’s Vicar fidgeted in his chair, his face a shade +more shallow, his cheeks hanging a trifle more loosely, than ordinary.</p> +<p>“If my brother were here!” he muttered. “If +M. de Montsoreau had arrived!”</p> +<p>But Father Pezelay knew whose will would prevail if Montsoreau met +Tavannes at his leisure. To force Montsoreau’s hand, therefore, +to surround him on his first entrance with a howling mob already committed +to violence, to set him at their head and pledge him before he knew +with whom he had to do—this had been, this still was, the priest’s +design.</p> +<p>But how was he to pursue it while those gibbets stood? While +their shadows lay even on the chapter table, and darkened the faces +of his most forward associates? That for a moment staggered the +priest; and had not private hatred, ever renewed by the touch of the +scar on his brow, fed the fire of bigotry he had yielded, as the rabble +of Angers were yielding, reluctant and scowling, to the hand which held +the city in its grip. But to have come so far on the wings of +hate, and to do nothing! To have come avowedly to preach a crusade, +and to sneak away cowed! To have dragged the Bishop’s Vicar +hither, and fawned and cajoled and threatened by turns—and for +nothing! These things were passing bitter—passing bitter, +when the morsel of vengeance he had foreseen smacked so sweet on the +tongue.</p> +<p>For it was no common vengeance, no layman’s vengeance, coarse +and clumsy, which the priest had imagined in the dark hours of the night, +when his feverish brain kept him wakeful. To see Count Hannibal +roll in the dust had gone but a little way towards satisfying him. +No! But to drag from his arms the woman for whom he had sinned, +to subject her to shame and torture in the depths of some convent, and +finally to burn her as a witch—it was that which had seemed to +the priest in the night hours a vengeance sweet in the mouth.</p> +<p>But the thing seemed unattainable in the circumstances. The +city was cowed; the priest knew that no dependence was to be placed +on Montsoreau, whose vice was avarice and whose object was plunder. +To the Archdeacon’s feeble words, therefore, “We must look,” +the priest retorted sternly, “not to M. de Montsoreau, reverend +Father, but to the pious of Angers! We must cry in the streets, +‘They do violence to God! They wound God and His Mother!’ +And so, and so only, shall the unholy thing be rooted out!”</p> +<p>“Amen!” the Curé of St.-Benoist muttered, lifting +his head; and his dull eyes glowed awhile. “Amen! +Amen!” Then his chin sank again upon his breast.</p> +<p>But the Canons of Angers looked doubtfully at one another, and timidly +at the speakers; the meat was too strong for them. And Lescot +and Thuriot shuffled in their seats. At length, “I do not +know,” Lescot muttered timidly.</p> +<p>“You do not know?”</p> +<p>“What can be done!”</p> +<p>“The people will know!” Father Pezelay retorted “Trust +them!”</p> +<p>“But the people will not rise without a leader.”</p> +<p>“Then will I lead them!”</p> +<p>“Even so, reverend Father—I doubt,” Lescot faltered. +And Thuriot nodded assent. Gibbets were erected in those days +rather for laymen than for the Church.</p> +<p>“You doubt!” the priest cried. “You doubt!” +His baleful eyes passed from one to the other; from them to the rest +of the company. He saw that with the exception of the Curé +of St.-Benoist all were of a mind. “You doubt! Nay, +but I see what it is! It is this,” he continued slowly and +in a different tone, “the King’s will goes for nothing in +Angers! His writ runs not here. And Holy Church cries in +vain for help against the oppressor. I tell you, the sorceress +who has bewitched him has bewitched you also. Beware! beware, +therefore, lest it be with you as with him! And the fire that +shall consume her, spare not your houses!”</p> +<p>The two citizens crossed themselves, grew pale and shuddered. +The fear of witchcraft was great in Angers, the peril, if accused of +it, enormous. Even the Canons looked startled.</p> +<p>“If—if my brother were here,” the Archdeacon repeated +feebly, “something might be done!”</p> +<p>“Vain is the help of man!” the priest retorted sternly, +and with a gesture of sublime dismissal. “I turn from you +to a mightier than you!” And, leaning his head on his hands, +he covered his face.</p> +<p>The Archdeacon and the churchmen looked at him, and from him their +scared eyes passed to one another. Their one desire now was to +be quit of the matter, to have done with it, to escape; and one by one +with the air of whipped curs they rose to their feet, and in a hurry +to be gone muttered a word of excuse shamefacedly and got themselves +out of the room. Lescot and the printer were not slow to follow, +and in less than a minute the two strange preachers, the men from Paris, +remained the only occupants of the chamber; save, to be precise, a lean +official in rusty black, who throughout the conference had sat by the +door.</p> +<p>Until the last shuffling footstep had ceased to sound in the still +cloister no one spoke. Then Father Pezelay looked up, and the +eyes of the two priests met in a long gaze.</p> +<p>“What think you?” Pezelay muttered at last.</p> +<p>“Wet hay,” the other answered dreamily, “is slow +to kindle, yet burns if the fire be big enough. At what hour does +he state his will?”</p> +<p>“At noon.”</p> +<p>“In the Council Chamber?”</p> +<p>“It is so given out.”</p> +<p>“It is three hundred yards from the Place Ste.-Croix and he +must go guarded,” the Curé of St.-Benoist continued in +the same dull fashion. “He cannot leave many in the house +with the woman. If it were attacked in his absence—”</p> +<p>“He would return, and—” Father Pezelay shook +his head, his cheek turned a shade paler. Clearly, he saw with +his mind’s eye more than he expressed.</p> +<p>“<i>Hoc est corpus</i>,” the other muttered, his dreamy +gaze on the table. “If he met us then, on his way to the +house and we had bell, book, and candle, would he stop?”</p> +<p>“He would not stop!” Father Pezelay rejoined.</p> +<p>“He would not?”</p> +<p>“I know the man!”</p> +<p>“Then—” but the rest St. Benoist whispered, his +head drooping forward; whispered so low that even the lean man behind +him, listening with greedy ears, failed to follow the meaning of his +superior’s words. But that he spoke plainly enough for his +hearer Father Pezelay’s face was witness. Astonishment, +fear, hope, triumph, the lean pale face reflected all in turn; and, +underlying all, a subtle malignant mischief, as if a devil’s eyes +peeped through the holes in an opera mask.</p> +<p>When the other was at last silent, Pezelay drew a deep breath.</p> +<p>“’Tis bold! Bold! Bold!” he muttered. +“But have you thought? He who bears the—”</p> +<p>“Brunt?” the other whispered, with a chuckle. “He +may suffer? Yes, but it will not be you or I! No, he who +was last here shall be first there! The Archdeacon-Vicar—if +we can persuade him—who knows but that even for him the crown +of martyrdom is reserved?” The dull eyes flickered with +unholy amusement.</p> +<p>“And the alarm that brings him from the Council Chamber?”</p> +<p>“Need not of necessity be real. The pinch will be to +make use of it. Make use of it—and the hay will burn!”</p> +<p>“You think it will?”</p> +<p>“What can one man do against a thousand? His own people +dare not support him.”</p> +<p>Father Pezelay turned to the lean man who kept the door, and, beckoning +to him, conferred a while with him in a low voice.</p> +<p>“A score or so I might get,” the man answered presently, +after some debate. “And well posted, something might be +done. But we are not in Paris, good father, where the Quarter +of the Butchers is to be counted on, and men know that to kill Huguenots +is to do God service! Here”—he shrugged his shoulders +contemptuously—“they are sheep.”</p> +<p>“It is the King’s will,” the priest answered, frowning +on him darkly.</p> +<p>“Ay, but it is not Tavannes’,” the man in black +answered with a grimace. “And he rules here to-day.”</p> +<p>“Fool!” Pezelay retorted. “He has not twenty +with him. Do you do as I say, and leave the rest to Heaven!”</p> +<p>“And to you, good master?” the other answered. +“For it is not all you are going to do,” he continued, with +a grin, “that you have told me. Well, so be it! I’ll +do my part, but I wish we were in Paris. St. Genevieve is ever +kind to her servants.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIX. THE ESCAPE.</h2> +<p>In a small back room on the second floor of the inn at Angers, a +mean, dingy room which looked into a narrow lane, and commanded no prospect +more informing than a blind wall, two men sat, fretting; or, rather, +one man sat, his chin resting on his hand, while his companion, less +patient or more sanguine, strode ceaselessly to and fro. In the +first despair of capture—for they were prisoners—they had +made up their minds to the worst, and the slow hours of two days had +passed over their heads without kindling more than a faint spark of +hope in their breasts. But when they had been taken out and forced +to mount and ride—at first with feet tied to the horses’ +girths—they had let the change, the movement, and the open air +fan the flame. They had muttered a word to one another, they had +wondered, they had reasoned. And though the silence of their guards—from +whose sour vigilance the keenest question drew no response—seemed +of ill-omen, and, taken with their knowledge of the man into whose hands +they had fallen, should have quenched the spark, these two, having special +reasons, the one the buoyancy of youth, the other the faith of an enthusiast, +cherished the flame. In the breast of one indeed it had blazed +into a confidence so arrogant that he now took all for granted, and +was not content.</p> +<p>“It is easy for you to say ‘Patience!’” he +cried, as he walked the floor in a fever. “You stand to +lose no more than your life, and if you escape go free at all points! +But he has robbed me of more than life! Of my love, and my self-respect, +curse him! He has worsted me not once, but twice and thrice! +And if he lets me go now, dismissing me with my life, I shall—I +shall kill him!” he concluded, through his teeth.</p> +<p>“You are hard to please!”</p> +<p>“I shall kill him!”</p> +<p>“That were to fall still lower!” the minister answered, +gravely regarding him. “I would, M. de Tignonville, you +remembered that you are not yet out of jeopardy. Such a frame +of mind as yours is no good preparation for death, let me tell you!”</p> +<p>“He will not kill us!” Tignonville cried. “He +knows better than most men how to avenge himself!”</p> +<p>“Then he is above most!” La Tribe retorted. “For +my part I wish I were sure of the fact, and I should sit here more at +ease.”</p> +<p>“If we could escape, now, of ourselves!” Tignonville +cried. “Then we should save not only life, but honour! +Man, think of it! If we could escape, not by his leave, but against +it! Are you sure that this is Angers?”</p> +<p>“As sure as a man can be who has only seen the Black Town once +or twice!” La Tribe answered, moving to the casement—which +was not glazed—and peering through the rough wooden lattice. +“But if we could escape we are strangers here. We know not +which way to go, nor where to find shelter. And for the matter +of that,” he continued, turning from the window with a shrug of +resignation, “’tis no use to talk of it while yonder foot +goes up and down the passage, and its owner bears the key in his pocket.”</p> +<p>“If we could get out of his power as we came into it!” +Tignonville cried.</p> +<p>“Ay, if! But it is not every floor has a trap!”</p> +<p>“We could take up a board.”</p> +<p>The minister raised his eyebrows.</p> +<p>“We could take up a board!” the younger man repeated; +and he stepped the mean chamber from end to end, his eyes on the floor. +“Or—yes, <i>mon Dieu</i>!” with a change of attitude, +“we might break through the roof?” And, throwing back +his head, he scanned the cobwebbed surface of laths which rested on +the unceiled joists.</p> +<p>“Umph!”</p> +<p>“Well, why not, Monsieur? Why not break through the ceiling?” +Tignonville repeated, and in a fit of energy he seized his companion’s +shoulder and shook him. “Stand on the bed, and you can reach +it.”</p> +<p>“And the floor which rests on it!”</p> +<p>“<i>Par Dieu</i>, there is no floor! ’Tis a cockloft +above us! See there! And there!” And the young +man sprang on the bed, and thrust the rowel of a spur through the laths. +La Tribe’s expression changed. He rose slowly to his feet.</p> +<p>“Try again!” he said.</p> +<p>Tignonville, his face red, drove the spur again between the laths, +and worked it to and fro until he could pass his fingers into the hole +he had made. Then he gripped and bent down a length of one of +the laths, and, passing his arm as far as the elbow through the hole, +moved it this way and that. His eyes, as he looked down at his +companion through the falling rubbish, gleamed with triumph.</p> +<p>“Where is your floor now?” he asked.</p> +<p>“You can touch nothing?”</p> +<p>“Nothing. It’s open. A little more and I +might touch the tiles.” And he strove to reach higher.</p> +<p>For answer La Tribe gripped him. “Down! Down, Monsieur,” +he muttered. “They are bringing our dinner.”</p> +<p>Tignonville thrust back the lath as well as he could, and slipped +to the floor; and hastily the two swept the rubbish from the bed. +When Badelon, attended by two men, came in with the meal he found La +Tribe at the window blocking much of the light, and Tignonville laid +sullenly on the bed. Even a suspicious eye must have failed to +detect what had been done; the three who looked in suspected nothing +and saw nothing. They went out, the key was turned again on the +prisoners, and the footsteps of two of the men were heard descending +the stairs.</p> +<p>“We have an hour, now!” Tignonville cried; and leaping, +with flaming eyes, on the bed, he fell to hacking and jabbing and tearing +at the laths amid a rain of dust and rubbish. Fortunately the +stuff, falling on the bed, made little noise; and in five minutes, working +half-choked and in a frenzy of impatience, he had made a hole through +which he could thrust his arms, a hole which extended almost from one +joist to its neighbour. By this time the air was thick with floating +lime; the two could scarcely breathe, yet they dared not pause. +Mounting on La Tribe’s shoulders—who took his stand on the +bed—the young man thrust his head and arms through the hole, and, +resting his elbows on the joists, dragged himself up, and with a final +effort of strength landed nose and knees on the timbers, which formed +his supports. A moment to take breath, and press his torn and +bleeding fingers to his lips; then, reaching down, he gave a hand to +his companion and dragged him to the same place of vantage.</p> +<p>They found themselves in a long narrow cockloft, not more than six +feet high at the highest, and insufferably hot. Between the tiles, +which sloped steeply on either hand, a faint light filtered in, disclosing +the giant rooftree running the length of the house, and at the farther +end of the loft the main tie-beam, from which a network of knees and +struts rose to the rooftree.</p> +<p>Tignonville, who seemed possessed by unnatural energy, stayed only +to put off his boots. Then “Courage!” he panted, “all +goes well!” and, carrying his boots in his hands, he led the way, +stepping gingerly from joist to joist until he reached the tie-beam. +He climbed on it, and, squeezing himself between the struts, entered +a second loft, similar to the first. At the farther end of this +a rough wall of bricks in a timber-frame lowered his hopes; but as he +approached it, joy! Low down in the corner where the roof descended, +a small door, square, and not more than two feet high, disclosed itself.</p> +<p>The two crept to it on hands and knees and listened. “It +will lead to the leads, I doubt?” La Tribe whispered. They +dared not raise their voices.</p> +<p>“As well that way as another!” Tignonville answered recklessly. +He was the more eager, for there is a fear which transcends the fear +of death. His eyes shone through the mask of dust, the sweat ran +down to his chin, his breath came and went noisily. “Naught +matters if we can escape him!” he panted. And he pushed +the door recklessly. It flew open; the two drew back their faces +with a cry of alarm.</p> +<p>They were looking, not into the sunlight, but into a grey dingy garret +open to the roof, and occupying the upper part of a gable-end somewhat +higher than the wing in which they had been confined. Filthy truckle-beds +and ragged pallets covered the floor, and, eked out by old saddles and +threadbare horserugs, marked the sleeping quarters either of the servants +or of travellers of the meaner sort. But the dinginess was naught +to the two who knelt looking into it, afraid to move. Was the +place empty? That was the point; the question which had first +stayed, and then set their pulses at the gallop.</p> +<p>Painfully their eyes searched each huddle of clothing, scanned each +dubious shape. And slowly, as the silence persisted, their heads +came forward until the whole floor lay within the field of sight. +And still no sound! At last Tignonville stirred, crept through +the doorway, and rose up, peering round him. He nodded, and, satisfied +that all was safe, the minister followed him.</p> +<p>They found themselves a pace or so from the head of a narrow staircase, +leading downwards. Without moving, they could see the door which +closed it below. Tignonville signed to La Tribe to wait, and himself +crept down the stairs. He reached the door, and, stooping, set +his eye to the hole through which the string of the latch passed. +A moment he looked, and then, turning on tiptoe, he stole up again, +his face fallen.</p> +<p>“You may throw the handle after the hatchet!” he muttered. +“The man on guard is within four yards of the door.” +And in the rage of disappointment he struck the air with his hand.</p> +<p>“Is he looking this way?”</p> +<p>“No. He is looking down the passage towards our room. +But it is impossible to pass him.”</p> +<p>La Tribe nodded, and moved softly to one of the lattices which lighted +the room. It might be possible to escape that way, by the parapet +and the tiles. But he found that the casement was set high in +the roof, which sloped steeply from its sill to the eaves. He +passed to the other window, in which a little wicket in the lattice +stood open. He looked through it. In the giddy void white +pigeons were wheeling in the dazzling sunshine, and, gazing down, he +saw far below him, in the hot square, a row of booths, and troops of +people moving to and fro like pigmies; and—and a strange thing, +in the middle of all! Involuntarily, as if the persons below could +have seen his face at the tiny dormer, he drew back.</p> +<p>He beckoned to M. Tignonville to come to him; and when the young +man complied, he bade him in a whisper look down. “See!” +he muttered. “There!”</p> +<p>The younger man saw and drew in his breath. Even under the +coating of dust his face turned a shade greyer.</p> +<p>“You had no need to fear that he would let us go!” the +minister muttered, with half-conscious irony.</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Nor I! There are two ropes.” And La Tribe +breathed a few words of prayer. The object which had fixed his +gaze was a gibbet: the only one of the three which could be seen from +their eyrie.</p> +<p>Tignonville, on the other hand, turned sharply away, and with haggard +eyes stared about the room. “We might defend the staircase,” +he muttered. “Two men might hold it for a time.”</p> +<p>“We have no food.”</p> +<p>“No.” Suddenly he gripped La Tribe’s arm. +“I have it!” he cried. “And it may do! +It must do!” he continued, his face working. “See!” +And lifting from the floor one of the ragged pallets, from which the +straw protruded in a dozen places, he set it flat on his head.</p> +<p>It drooped at each corner—it had seen much wear—and, +while it almost hid his face, it revealed his grimy chin and mortar-stained +shoulders. He turned to his companion.</p> +<p>La Tribe’s face glowed as he looked. “It may do!” +he cried. “It’s a chance! But you are right! +It may do!”</p> +<p>Tignonville dropped the ragged mattress, and tore off his coat; then +he rent his breeches at the knee, so that they hung loose about his +calves.</p> +<p>“Do you the same!” he cried. “And quick, +man, quick! Leave your boots! Once outside we must pass +through the streets under these”—he took up his burden again +and set it on his head—“until we reach a quiet part, and +there we—”</p> +<p>“Can hide! Or swim the river!” the minister said. +He had followed his companion’s example, and now stood under a +similar burden. With breeches rent and whitened, and his upper +garments in no better case, he looked a sorry figure.</p> +<p>Tignonville eyed him with satisfaction, and turned to the staircase.</p> +<p>“Come,” he cried, “there is not a moment to be +lost. At any minute they may enter our room and find it empty! +You are ready? Then, not too softly, or it may rouse suspicion! +And mumble something at the door.”</p> +<p>He began himself to scold, and, muttering incoherently, stumbled +down the staircase, the pallet on his head rustling against the wall +on each side. Arrived at the door, he fumbled clumsily with the +latch, and, when the door gave way, plumped out with an oath—as +if the awkward burden he bore were the only thing on his mind. +Badelon—he was on duty—stared at the apparition; but the +next moment he sniffed the pallet, which was none of the freshest, and, +turning up his nose, he retreated a pace. He had no suspicion; +the men did not come from the part of the house where the prisoners +lay, and he stood aside to let them pass. In a moment, staggering, +and going a little unsteadily, as if they scarcely saw their way, they +had passed by him, and were descending the staircase.</p> +<p>So far well! Unfortunately, when they reached the foot of that +flight they came on the main passage of the first-floor. It ran +right and left, and Tignonville did not know which way he must turn +to reach the lower staircase. Yet he dared not hesitate; in the +passage, waiting about the doors, were four or five servants, and in +the distance he caught sight of three men belonging to Tavannes’ +company. At any moment, too, an upper servant might meet them, +ask what they were doing, and detect the fraud. He turned at random, +therefore—to the left as it chanced—and marched along bravely, +until the very thing happened which he had feared. A man came +from a room plump upon them, saw them, and held up his hands in horror.</p> +<p>“What are you doing?” he cried in a rage and with an +oath. “Who set you on this?”</p> +<p>Tignonville’s tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. +La Tribe from behind muttered something about the stable.</p> +<p>“And time too!” the man said. “Faugh! +But how come you this way? Are you drunk? Here!” +He opened the door of a musty closet beside him, “Pitch them in +here, do you hear? And take them down when it is dark. Faugh. +I wonder you did not carry the things though her ladyship’s room +at once! If my lord had been in and met you! Now then, do +as I tell you! Are you drunk?”</p> +<p>With a sullen air Tignonville threw in his mattress. La Tribe +did the same. Fortunately the passage was ill-lighted, and there +were many helpers and strange servants in the inn. The butler +only thought them ill-looking fellows who knew no better.</p> +<p>“Now be off!” he continued irascibly. “This +is no place for your sort. Be off!” And, as they moved, +“Coming! Coming!” he cried in answer to a distant +summons; and he hurried away on the errand which their appearance had +interrupted.</p> +<p>Tignonville would have gone to work to recover the pallets, for the +man had left the key in the door. But as he went to do so the +butler looked back, and the two were obliged to make a pretence of following +him. A moment, however, and he was gone; and Tignonville turned +anew to regain them. A second time fortune was adverse; a door +within a pace of him opened, a woman came out. She recoiled from +the strange figure; her eyes met his. Unluckily the light from +the room behind her fell on his face, and with a shrill cry she named +him.</p> +<p>One second and all had been lost, for the crowd of idlers at the +other end of the passage had caught her cry, and were looking that way. +With presence of mind Tignonville clapped his hand on her mouth, and, +huddling her by force into the room, followed her, with La Tribe at +his heels.</p> +<p>It was a large room, in which seven or eight people, who had been +at prayers when the cry startled them, were rising from their knees. +The first thing they saw was Javette on the threshold, struggling in +the grasp of a wild man, ragged and begrimed; they deemed the city risen +and the massacre upon them. Carlat threw himself before his mistress, +the Countess in her turn sheltered a young girl, who stood beside her +and from whose face the last trace of colour had fled. Madame +Carlat and a waiting-woman ran shrieking to the window; another instant +and the alarm would have gone abroad.</p> +<p>Tignonville’s voice stopped it. “Don’t you +know me?” he cried, “Madame! you at least! Carlat! +Are you all mad?”</p> +<p>The words stayed them where they stood in an astonishment scarce +less than their alarm. The Countess tried twice to speak; the +third time—</p> +<p>“Have you escaped?” she muttered.</p> +<p>Tignonville nodded, his eyes bright with triumph. “So +far,” he said. “But they may be on our heels at any +moment! Where can we hide?”</p> +<p>The Countess, her hand pressed to her side, looked at Javette.</p> +<p>“The door, girl!” she whispered. “Lock it!”</p> +<p>“Ay, lock it! And they can go by the back-stairs,” +Madame Carlat answered, awaking suddenly to the situation. “Through +my closet! Once in the yard they may pass out through the stables.”</p> +<p>“Which way?” Tignonville asked impatiently. “Don’t +stand looking at me, but—”</p> +<p>“Through this door!” Madame Carlat answered, hurrying +to it.</p> +<p>He was following when the Countess stepped forward and interposed +between him and the door.</p> +<p>“Stay!” she cried; and there was not one who did not +notice a new decision in her voice, a new dignity in her bearing. +“Stay, Monsieur, we may be going too fast. To go out now +and in that guise—may it not be to incur greater peril than you +incur here? I feel sure that you are in no danger of your life +at present. Therefore, why run the risk—”</p> +<p>“In no danger, Madame!” he cried, interrupting her in +astonishment. “Have you seen the gibbet in the Square? +Do you call that no danger?”</p> +<p>“It is not erected for you.”</p> +<p>“No?”</p> +<p>“No, Monsieur,” she answered firmly, “I swear it +is not. And I know of reasons, urgent reasons, why you should +not go. M. de Tavannes”—she named her husband nervously, +as conscious of the weak spot—“before he rode abroad laid +strict orders on all to keep within, since the smallest matter might +kindle the city. Therefore, M. de Tignonville, I request, nay +I entreat,” she continued with greater urgency, as she saw his +gesture of denial, “you to stay here until he returns.”</p> +<p>“And you, Madame, will answer for my life?”</p> +<p>She faltered. For a moment, a moment only, her colour ebbed. +What if she deceived herself? What if she surrendered her old +lover to death? What if—but the doubt was of a moment only. +Her duty was plain.</p> +<p>“I will answer for it,” she said, with pale lips, “if +you remain here. And I beg, I implore you—by the love you +once had for me, M. de Tignonville,” she added desperately, seeing +that he was about to refuse, “to remain here.”</p> +<p>“Once!” he retorted, lashing himself into ignoble rage. +“By the love I once had! Say, rather, the love I have, Madame—for +I am no woman-weathercock to wed the winner, and hold or not hold, stay +or go, as he commands! You, it seems,” he continued with +a sneer, “have learned the wife’s lesson well! You +would practise on me now, as you practised on me the other night when +you stood between him and me! I yielded then, I spared him. +And what did I get by it? Bonds and a prison! And what shall +I get now? The same! No, Madame,” he continued bitterly, +addressing himself as much to the Carlats and the others as to his old +mistress. “I do not change! I loved! I love! +I was going and I go! If death lay beyond that door”—and +he pointed to it—“and life at his will were certain here, +I would pass the threshold rather than take my life of him!” +And, dragging La Tribe with him, with a passionate gesture he rushed +by her, opened the door, and disappeared in the next room.</p> +<p>The Countess took one pace forward, as if she would have followed +him, as if she would have tried further persuasion. But as she +moved a cry rooted her to the spot. A rush of feet and the babel +of many voices filled the passage with a tide of sound, which drew rapidly +nearer. The escape was known! Would the fugitives have time +to slip out below?</p> +<p>Some one knocked at the door, tried it, pushed and beat on it. +But the Countess and all in the room had run to the windows and were +looking out.</p> +<p>If the two had not yet made their escape they must be taken. +Yet no; as the Countess leaned from the window, first one dusty figure +and then a second darted from a door below, and made for the nearest +turning, out of the Place Ste.-Croix. Before they gained it, four +men, of whom, Badelon, his grey locks flying, was first, dashed out +in pursuit, and the street rang with cries of “Stop him! +Seize him! Seize him!” Some one—one of the pursuers +or another—to add to the alarm let off a musket, and in a moment, +as if the report had been a signal, the Place was in a hubbub, people +flocked into it with mysterious quickness, and from a neighbouring roof—whence, +precisely, it was impossible to say—the crackling fire of a dozen +arquebuses alarmed the city far and wide.</p> +<p>Unfortunately, the fugitives had been baulked at the first turning. +Making for a second, they found it choked, and, swerving, darted across +the Place towards St.-Maurice, seeking to lose themselves in the gathering +crowd. But the pursuers clung desperately to their skirts, overturning +here a man and there a child; and then in a twinkling, Tignonville, +as he ran round a booth, tripped over a peg and fell, and La Tribe stumbled +over him and fell also. The four riders flung themselves fiercely +on their prey, secured them, and began to drag them with oaths and curses +towards the door of the inn.</p> +<p>The Countess had seen all from her window; had held her breath while +they ran, had drawn it sharply when they fell. Now, “They +have them!” she muttered, a sob choking her, “they have +them!” And she clasped her hands. If he had followed +her advice! If he had only followed her advice!</p> +<p>But the issue proved less certain than she deemed it. The crowd, +which grew each moment, knew nothing of pursuers or pursued. On +the contrary, a cry went up that the riders were Huguenots, and that +the Huguenots were rising and slaying the Catholics; and as no story +was too improbable for those days, and this was one constantly set about, +first one stone flew, and then another, and another. A man with +a staff darted forward and struck Badelon on the shoulder, two or three +others pressed in and jostled the riders; and if three of Tavannes’ +following had not run out on the instant and faced the mob with their +pikes, and for a moment forced them to give back, the prisoners would +have been rescued at the very door of the inn. As it was they +were dragged in, and the gates were flung to and barred in the nick +of time. Another moment, almost another second, and the mob had +seized them. As it was, a hail of stones poured on the front of +the inn, and amid the rising yells of the rabble there presently floated +heavy and slow over the city the tolling of the great bell of St.-Maurice.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXX. SACRILEGE!</h2> +<p>M. de Montsoreau, Lieutenant-Governor of Saumur almost rose from +his seat in his astonishment.</p> +<p>“What! No letters?” he cried, a hand on either +arm of the chair.</p> +<p>The Magistrates stared, one and all. “No letters?” +they muttered.</p> +<p>And “No letters?” the Provost chimed in more faintly.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal looked smiling round the Council table. He alone +was unmoved.</p> +<p>“No,” he said. “I bear none.”</p> +<p>M. de Montsoreau, who, travel-stained and in his corselet, had the +second place of honour at the foot of the table, frowned.</p> +<p>“But, M. le Comte,” he said, “my instructions from +Monsieur were to proceed to carry out his Majesty’s will in co-operation +with you, who, I understood, would bring letters <i>de par le Roi</i>.”</p> +<p>“I had letters,” Count Hannibal answered negligently. +“But on the way I mislaid them.”</p> +<p>“Mislaid them?” Montsoreau cried, unable to believe his +ears; while the smaller dignitaries of the city, the magistrates and +churchmen who sat on either side of the table, gaped open-mouthed. +It was incredible! It was unbelievable! Mislay the King’s +letters! Who had ever heard of such a thing?</p> +<p>“Yes, I mislaid them. Lost them, if you like it better.”</p> +<p>“But you jest!” the Lieutenant-Governor retorted, moving +uneasily in his chair. He was a man more highly named for address +than courage; and, like most men skilled in finesse, he was prone to +suspect a trap. “You jest, surely, Monsieur! Men do +not lose his Majesty’s letters, by the way.”</p> +<p>“When they contain his Majesty’s will, no,” Tavannes +answered, with a peculiar smile.</p> +<p>“You imply, then?”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal shrugged his shoulders, but had not answered when +Bigot entered and handed him his sweetmeat box; he paused to open it +and select a prune. He was long in selecting; but no change of +countenance led any of those at the table to suspect that inside the +lid of the box was a message—a scrap of paper informing him that +Montsoreau had left fifty spears in the suburb without the Saumur gate, +besides those whom he had brought openly into the town. Tavannes +read the note slowly while he seemed to be choosing his fruit. +And then—</p> +<p>“Imply?” he answered. “I imply nothing, M. +de Montsoreau.”</p> +<p>“But—”</p> +<p>“But that sometimes his Majesty finds it prudent to give orders +which he does not mean to be carried out. There are things which +start up before the eye,” Tavannes continued, negligently tapping +the box on the table, “and there are things which do not; sometimes +the latter are the more important. You, better than I, M. de Montsoreau, +know that the King in the Gallery at the Louvre is one, and in his closet +is another.”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“And that being so—”</p> +<p>“You do not mean to carry the letters into effect?”</p> +<p>“Had I the letters, certainly, my friend. I should be +bound by them. But I took good care to lose them,” Tavannes +added naïvely. “I am no fool.”</p> +<p>“Umph!”</p> +<p>“However,” Count Hannibal continued, with an airy gesture, +“that is my affair. If you, M. de Montsoreau, feel inclined, +in spite of the absence of my letters, to carry yours into effect, by +all means do so—after midnight of to-day.”</p> +<p>M. de Montsoreau breathed hard. “And why,” he asked, +half sulkily and half ponderously, “after midnight only, M. le +Comte?”</p> +<p>“Merely that I may be clear of all suspicion of having lot +or part in the matter,” Count Hannibal answered pleasantly. +“After midnight of to-night by all means do as you please. +Until midnight, by your leave, we will be quiet.”</p> +<p>The Lieutenant-Governor moved doubtfully in his chair, the fear—which +Tavannes had shrewdly instilled into his mind—that he might be +disowned if he carried out his instructions, struggling with his avarice +and his self-importance. He was rather crafty than bold; and such +things had been, he knew. Little by little, and while he sat gloomily +debating, the notion of dealing with one or two and holding the body +of the Huguenots to ransom—a notion which, in spite of everything, +was to bear good fruit for Angers—began to form in his mind. +The plan suited him: it left him free to face either way, and it would +fill his pockets more genteelly than would open robbery. On the +other hand, he would offend his brother and the fanatical party, with +whom he commonly acted. They were looking to see him assert himself. +They were looking to hear him declare himself. And—</p> +<p>Harshly Count Hannibal’s voice broke in on his thoughts; harshly, +a something sinister in its tone.</p> +<p>“Where is your brother?” he said. And it was evident +that he had not noted his absence until then. “My lord’s +Vicar of all people should be here!” he continued, leaning forward +and looking round the table. His brow was stormy.</p> +<p>Lescot squirmed under his eye; Thuriot turned pale and trembled. +It was one of the canons of St.-Maurice, who at length took on himself +to answer.</p> +<p>“His lordship requested, M. le Comte,” he ventured, “that +you would excuse him. His duties—”</p> +<p>“Is he ill?”</p> +<p>“He—”</p> +<p>“Is he ill, sirrah?” Tavannes roared. And while +all bowed before the lightning of his eye, no man at the table knew +what had roused the sudden tempest. But Bigot knew, who stood +by the door, and whose ear, keen as his master’s, had caught the +distant report of a musket shot. “If he be not ill,” +Tavannes continued, rising and looking round the table in search of +signs of guilt, “and there be foul play here, and he the player, +the Bishop’s own hand shall not save him! By Heaven it shall +not! Nor yours!” he continued, looking fiercely at Montsoreau. +“Nor your master’s!”</p> +<p>The Lieutenant-Governor sprang to his feet. “M. le Comte,” +he stammered, “I do not understand this language! Nor this +heat, which may be real or not! All I say is, if there be foul +play here—”</p> +<p>“If!” Tavannes retorted. “At least, if there +be, there be gibbets too! And I see necks!” he added, leaning +forward. “Necks!” And then, with a look of flame, +“Let no man leave this table until I return,” he cried, +“or he will have to deal with me. Nay,” he continued, +changing his tone abruptly, as the prudence, which never entirely left +him—and perhaps the remembrance of the other’s fifty spearmen—sobered +him in the midst of his rage, “I am hasty. I mean not you, +M. de Montsoreau! Ride where you will; ride with me, if you will, +and I will thank you. Only remember, until midnight Angers is +mine!”</p> +<p>He was still speaking when he moved from the table, and, leaving +all staring after him, strode down the room. An instant he paused +on the threshold and looked back; then he passed out, and clattered +down the stone stairs. His horse and riders were waiting, but, +his foot in the stirrup, he stayed for a word with Bigot.</p> +<p>“Is it so?” he growled.</p> +<p>The Norman did not speak, but pointed towards the Place Ste.-Croix, +whence an occasional shot made answer for him.</p> +<p>In those days the streets of the Black City were narrow and crooked, +overhung by timber houses, and hampered by booths; nor could Tavannes +from the old Town Hall—now abandoned—see the Place Ste.-Croix. +But that he could cure. He struck spurs to his horse, and, followed +by his ten horsemen, he clattered noisily down the paved street. +A dozen groups hurrying the same way sprang panic-stricken to the walls, +or saved themselves in doorways. He was up with them, he was beyond +them! Another hundred yards, and he would see the Place.</p> +<p>And then, with a cry of rage, he drew rein a little, discovering +what was before him. In the narrow gut of the way a great black +banner, borne on two poles, was lurching towards him. It was moving +in the van of a dark procession of priests, who, with their attendants +and a crowd of devout, filled the street from wall to wall. They +were chanting one of the penitential psalms, but not so loudly as to +drown the uproar in the Place beyond them.</p> +<p>They made no way, and Count Hannibal swore furiously, suspecting +treachery. But he was no madman, and at the moment the least reflection +would have sent him about to seek another road. Unfortunately, +as he hesitated a man sprang with a gesture of warning to his horse’s +head and seized it; and Tavannes, mistaking the motive of the act, lost +his self-control. He struck the fellow down, and, with a reckless +word, rode headlong into the procession, shouting to the black robes +to make way, make way! A cry, nay, a shriek of horror, answered +him and rent the air. And in a minute the thing was done. +Too late, as the Bishop’s Vicar, struck by his horse, fell screaming +under its hoofs—too late, as the consecrated vessels which he +had been bearing rolled in the mud, Tavannes saw that they bore the +canopy and the Host!</p> +<p>He knew what he had done, then. Before his horse’s iron +shoes struck the ground again, his face—even his face—had +lost its colour. But he knew also that to hesitate now, to pause +now, was to be torn in pieces; for his riders, seeing that which the +banner had veiled from him, had not followed him, and he was alone, +in the middle of brandished fists and weapons. He hesitated not +a moment. Drawing a pistol, he spurred onwards, his horse plunging +wildly among the shrieking priests; and though a hundred hands, hands +of acolytes, hands of shaven monks, clutched at his bridle or gripped +his boot, he got clear of them. Clear, carrying with him the memory +of one face seen an instant amid the crowd, one face seen, to be ever +remembered—the face of Father Pezelay, white, evil, scarred, distorted +by wicked triumph.</p> +<p>Behind him, the thunder of “Sacrilege! Sacrilege!” +rose to Heaven, and men were gathering. In front the crowd which +skirmished about the inn was less dense, and, ignorant of the thing +that had happened in the narrow street, made ready way for him, the +boldest recoiling before the look on his face. Some who stood +nearest to the inn, and had begun to hurl stones at the window and to +beat on the doors—which had only the minute before closed on Badelon +and his prisoners—supposed that he had his riders behind him; +and these fled apace. But he knew better even than they the value +of time; he pushed his horse up to the gates, and hammered them with +his boot while be kept his pistol-hand towards the Place and the cathedral, +watching for the transformation which he knew would come!</p> +<p>And come it did; on a sudden, in a twinkling! A white-faced +monk, frenzy in his eyes, appeared in the midst of the crowd. +He stood and tore his garments before the people, and, stooping, threw +dust on his head. A second and a third followed his example; then +from a thousand throats the cry of “Sacrilege! Sacrilege!” +rolled up, while clerks flew wildly hither and thither shrieking the +tale, and priests denied the Sacraments to Angers until it should purge +itself of the evil thing.</p> +<p>By that time Count Hannibal had saved himself behind the great gates, +by the skin of his teeth. The gates had opened to him in time. +But none knew better than he that Angers had no gates thick enough, +nor walls of a height, to save him for many hours from the storm he +had let loose!</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXI. THE FLIGHT FROM ANGERS.</h2> +<p>But that only the more roused the devil in the man; that, and the +knowledge that he had his own headstrong act to thank for the position. +He looked on the panic-stricken people who, scared by the turmoil without, +had come together in the courtyard, wringing their hands and chattering; +and his face was so dark and forbidding that fear of him took the place +of all other fear, and the nearest shrank from contact with him. +On any other entering as he had entered, they would have hailed questions; +they would have asked what was amiss, and if the city were rising, and +where were Bigot and his men. But Count Hannibal’s eye struck +curiosity dumb. When he cried from his saddle, “Bring me +the landlord!” the trembling man was found, and brought, and thrust +forward almost without a word.</p> +<p>“You have a back gate?” Tavannes said, while the crowd +leaned forward to catch his words.</p> +<p>“Yes, my lord,” the man faltered.</p> +<p>“Into the street which leads to the ramparts?”</p> +<p>“Ye-yes, my lord.”</p> +<p>“Then”—to Badelon—“saddle! You +have five minutes. Saddle as you never saddled before,” +he continued in a low tone, “or—” His tongue +did not finish the threat, but his hand waved the man away. “For +you”—he held Tignonville an instant with his lowering eye—“and +the preaching fool with you, get arms and mount! You have never +played aught but the woman yet; but play me false now, or look aside +but a foot from the path I bid you take, and you thwart me no more, +Monsieur! And you, Madame,” he continued, turning to the +Countess, who stood bewildered at one of the doors, the Provost’s +daughter clinging and weeping about her, “you have three minutes +to get your women to horse! See you, if you please, that they +take no longer!”</p> +<p>She found her voice with difficulty. “And this child?” +she said. “She is in my care.”</p> +<p>“Bring her,” he muttered with a scowl of impatience. +And then, raising his voice as he turned on the terrified gang of hostlers +and inn servants who stood gaping round him, “Go help!” +he thundered. “Go help! And quickly!” he added, +his face growing a shade darker as a second bell began to toll from +a neighbouring tower, and the confused babel in the Place Ste.-Croix +settled into a dull roar of “<i>Sacrilège</i>! <i>sacrilège</i>.”—“Hasten!”</p> +<p>Fortunately it had been his first intention to go to the Council +attended by the whole of his troop; and eight horses stood saddled in +the stalls. Others were hastily pulled out and bridled, and the +women were mounted. La Tribe, at a look from Tavannes, took behind +him the Provost’s daughter, who was helpless with terror. +Between the suddenness of the alarm, the uproar without, and the panic +within, none but a man whose people served him at a nod and dreaded +his very gesture could have got his party mounted in time. Javette +would fain have swooned, but she dared not. Tignonville would +fain have questioned, but he shrank from the venture. The Countess +would fain have said something, but she forced herself to obey and no +more. Even so the confusion in the courtyard, the mingling of +horses and men and trappings and saddle-bags, would have made another +despair; but wherever Count Hannibal, seated in his saddle in the middle, +turned his face, chaos settled into a degree of order, servants, ceasing +to listen to the yells and cries outside, ran to fetch, women dropped +cloaks from the gallery, and men loaded muskets and strapped on bandoliers.</p> +<p>Until at last—but none knew what those minutes of suspense +cost him—he saw all mounted, and, pistol in hand, shepherded them +to the back gates. As he did so he stooped for a few scowling +words with Badelon, whom he sent to the van of the party: then he gave +the word to open. It was done; and even as Montsoreau’s +horsemen, borne on the bosom of a second and more formidable throng, +swept raging into the already crowded square, and the cry went up for +“a ram! a ram!” to batter in the gates, Tavannes, hurling +his little party before him, dashed out at the back, and putting to +flight a handful of rascals who had wandered to that side, cantered +unmolested down the lane to the ramparts. Turning eastward at +the foot of the frowning Castle, he followed the inner side of the wall +in the direction of the gate by which he had entered the preceding evening.</p> +<p>To gain this his party had to pass the end of the Rue Toussaint, +which issues from the Place Ste.-Croix and runs so straight that the +mob seething in front of the inn had only to turn their heads to see +them. The danger incurred at this point was great; for a party +as small as Tavannes’ and encumbered with women would have had +no chance if attacked within the walls.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal knew it. But he knew also that the act which +he had committed rendered the north bank of the Loire impossible for +him. Neither King nor Marshal, neither Charles of Valois nor Gaspard +of Tavannes, would dare to shield him from an infuriated Church, a Church +too wise to forgive certain offences. His one chance lay in reaching +the southern bank of the Loire—roughly speaking, the Huguenot +bank—and taking refuge in some town, Rochelle or St. Jean d’Angely, +where the Huguenots were strong, and whence he might take steps to set +himself right with his own side.</p> +<p>But to cross the great river which divides France into two lands +widely differing he must leave the city by the east gate; for the only +bridge over the Loire within forty miles of Angers lay eastward from +the town, at Ponts de Cé, four miles away. To this gate, +therefore, past the Rue Toussaint, he whirled his party daringly; and +though the women grew pale as the sounds of riot broke louder on the +ear, and they discovered that they were approaching instead of leaving +the danger—and though Tignonville for an instant thought him mad, +and snatched at the Countess’s rein—his men-at-arms, who +knew him, galloped stolidly on, passed like clockwork the end of the +street, and, reckless of the stream of persons hurrying in the direction +of the alarm, heedless of the fright and anger their passage excited, +pressed steadily on. A moment and the gate through which they +had entered the previous evening appeared before them. And—a +sight welcome to one of them—it was open.</p> +<p>They were fortunate indeed, for a few seconds later they had been +too late. The alarm had preceded them. As they dashed up, +a man ran to the chains of the portcullis and tried to lower it. +He failed to do so at the first touch, and, quailing, fled from Badelon’s +levelled pistol. A watchman on one of the bastions of the wall +shouted to them to halt or he would fire: but the riders yelled in derision, +and thundering through the echoing archway, emerged into the open, and +saw, extended before them, in place of the gloomy vistas of the Black +Town, the glory of the open country and the vine-clad hills, and the +fields about the Loire yellow with late harvest.</p> +<p>The women gasped their relief, and one or two who were most out of +breath would have pulled up their horses and let them trot, thinking +the danger at an end. But a curt savage word from the rear set +them flying again, and down and up and on again they galloped, driven +forward by the iron hand which never relaxed its grip of them. +Silent and pitiless he whirled them before him until they were within +a mile of the long Ponts de Cé—a series of bridges rather +than one bridge—and the broad shallow Loire lay plain before them, +its sandbanks grilling in the sun, and grey lines of willows marking +its eyots. By this time some of the women, white with fatigue, +could only cling to their saddles with their hands; while others were +red-hot, their hair unrolled, and the perspiration mingled with the +dust on their faces. But he who drove them had no pity for weakness +in an emergency. He looked back and saw, a half-mile behind them, +the glitter of steel following hard on their heels: and “Faster! +faster!” he cried, regardless of their prayers: and he beat the +rearmost of the horses with his scabbard. A waiting-woman shrieked +that she should fall, but he answered ruthlessly, “Fall then, +fool!” and the instinct of self-preservation coming to her aid, +she clung and bumped and toiled on with the rest until they reached +the first houses of the town about the bridges, and Badelon raised his +hand as a signal that they might slacken speed.</p> +<p>The bewilderment of the start had been so great that it was then +only, when they found their feet on the first link of the bridge, that +two of the party, the Countess and Tignonville, awoke to the fact that +their faces were set southwards. To cross the Loire in those days +meant much to all: to a Huguenot, very much. It chanced that these +two rode on to the bridge side by side, and the memory of their last +crossing—the remembrance that, on their journey north a month +before, they had crossed it hand-in-hand with the prospect of passing +their lives together, and with no faintest thought of the events which +were to ensue, flashed into the mind of each of them. It deepened +the flush which exertion had brought to the woman’s cheek, then +left it paler than before. A minute earlier she had been wroth +with her old lover; she had held him accountable for the outbreak in +the town and this hasty retreat; now her anger died as she looked and +she remembered. In the man, shallower of feeling and more alive +to present contingencies, the uppermost emotion as he trod the bridge +was one of surprise and congratulation.</p> +<p>He could not at first believe in their good fortune. “<i>Mon +Dieu</i>!” he cried, “we are crossing!” And +then again in a lower tone, “We are crossing! We are crossing!” +And he looked at her.</p> +<p>It was impossible that she should not look back; that she who had +ceased to be angry should not feel and remember; impossible that her +answering glance should not speak to his heart. Below them, as +on that day a month earlier, when they had crossed the bridges going +northward, the broad shallow river ran its course in the sunshine, its +turbid currents gleaming and flashing about the sandbanks and osier-beds. +To the eye, the landscape, save that the vintage was farther advanced +and the harvest in part gathered in, was the same. But how changed +were their relations, their prospects, their hopes, who had then crossed +the river hand-in-hand, planning a life to be passed together.</p> +<p>The young man’s rage boiled up at the thought. Too vividly, +too sharply it showed him the wrongs which he had suffered at the hands +of the man who rode behind him, the man who even now drove him on and +ordered him and insulted him. He forgot that he might have perished +in the general massacre if Count Hannibal had not intervened. +He forgot that Count Hannibal had spared him once and twice. He +laid on his enemy’s shoulders the guilt of all, the blood of all: +and, as quick on the thought of his wrongs and his fellows’ wrongs +followed the reflection that with every league they rode southwards +the chance of requital grew, he cried again, and this time joyously—</p> +<p>“We are crossing! A little, and we shall be in our own +land!”</p> +<p>The tears filled the Countess’s eyes as she looked westwards +and southwards.</p> +<p>“Vrillac is there!” she cried; and she pointed. +“I smell the sea!”</p> +<p>“Ay!” he answered, almost under his breath. “It +lies there! And no more than thirty leagues from us! With +fresh horses we might see it in two days!”</p> +<p>Badelon’s voice broke in on them. “Forward!” +he cried, as the party reached the southern bank. “<i>En +avant</i>!” And, obedient to the word, the little company, +refreshed by the short respite, took the road out of Ponts de Cé +at a steady trot. Nor was the Countess the only one whose face +glowed, being set southwards, or whose heart pulsed to the rhythm of +the horses’ hoofs that beat out “Home!” Carlat’s +and Madame Carlat’s also. Javette even, hearing from her +neighbour that they were over the Loire, plucked up courage; while La +Tribe, gazing before him with moistened eyes, cried “Comfort” +to the scared and weeping girl who clung to his belt. It was singular +to see how all sniffed the air as if already it smacked of the sea and +of the south; and how they of Poitou sat their horses as if they asked +nothing better than to ride on and on and on until the scenes of home +arose about them. For them the sky had already a deeper blue, +the air a softer fragrance, the sunshine a purity long unknown.</p> +<p>Was it wonderful, when they had suffered so much on that northern +bank? When their experience during the month had been comparable +only with the direst nightmare? Yet one among them, after the +first impulse of relief and satisfaction, felt differently. Tignonville’s +gorge rose against the sense of compulsion, of inferiority. To +be driven forward after this fashion, whether he would or no, to be +placed at the back of every base-born man-at-arms, to have no clearer +knowledge of what had happened or of what was passing, or of the peril +from which they fled, than the women among whom he rode—these +things kindled anew the sullen fire of hate. North of the Loire +there had been some excuse for his inaction under insult; he had been +in the man’s country and power. But south of the Loire, +within forty leagues of Huguenot Niort, must he still suffer, still +be supine?</p> +<p>His rage was inflamed by a disappointment he presently underwent. +Looking back as they rode clear of the wooden houses of Ponts de Cé, +he missed Tavannes and several of his men; and he wondered if Count +Hannibal had remained on his own side of the river. It seemed +possible; and in that event La Tribe and he and Carlat might deal with +Badelon and the four who still escorted them. But when he looked +back a minute later, Tavannes was within sight, following the party +with a stern face; and not Tavannes only. Bigot, with two of the +ten men who hitherto had been missing, was with him.</p> +<p>It was clear, however, that they brought no good news, for they had +scarcely ridden up before Count Hannibal cried, “Faster! faster!” +in his harshest voice, and Bigot urged the horses to a quicker trot. +Their course lay almost parallel with the Loire in the direction of +Beaupréau; and Tignonville began to fear that Count Hannibal +intended to recross the river at Nantes, where the only bridge below +Angers spanned the stream. With this in view it was easy to comprehend +his wish to distance his pursuers before he recrossed.</p> +<p>The Countess had no such thought. “They must be close +upon us!” she murmured, as she urged her horse in obedience to +the order.</p> +<p>“Whoever they are!” Tignonville muttered bitterly. +“If we knew what had happened, or who followed, we should know +more about it, Madame. For that matter, I know what I wish he +would do. And our heads are set for it.”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“Make for Vrillac!” he answered, a savage gleam in his +eyes.</p> +<p>“For Vrillac?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Ah, if he would!” she cried, her face turning pale. +“If he would. He would be safe there!”</p> +<p>“Ay, quite safe!” he answered with a peculiar intonation. +And he looked at her askance.</p> +<p>He fancied that his thought, the thought which had just flashed into +his brain, was her thought; that she had the same notion in reserve, +and that they were in sympathy. And Tavannes, seeing them talking +together, and noting her look and the fervour of her gesture, formed +the same opinion, and retired more darkly into himself. The downfall +of his plan for dazzling her by a magnanimity unparalleled and beyond +compare, a plan dependent on the submission of Angers—his disappointment +in this might have roused the worst passions of a better man. +But there was in this man a pride on a level at least with his other +passions: and to bear himself in this hour of defeat and flight so that +if she could not love him she must admire him, checked in a strange +degree the current of his rage.</p> +<p>When Tignonville presently looked back he found that Count Hannibal +and six of his riders had pulled up and were walking their horses far +in the rear. On which he would have done the same himself; but +Badelon called over his shoulder the eternal “Forward, Monsieur, +<i>en avant</i>!” and sullenly, hating the man and his master +more deeply every hour, Tignonville was forced to push on, with thoughts +of vengeance in his heart.</p> +<p>Trot, trot! Trot, trot! Through a country which had lost +its smiling wooded character and grew more sombre and less fertile the +farther they left the Loire behind them. Trot, trot! Trot, +trot!—for ever, it seemed to some. Javette wept with fatigue, +and the other women were little better. The Countess herself spoke +seldom except to cheer the Provost’s daughter; who, poor girl, +flung suddenly out of the round of her life and cast among strangers, +showed a better spirit than might have been expected. At length, +on the slopes of some low hills, which they had long seen before them, +a cluster of houses and a church appeared; and Badelon, drawing rein, +cried—</p> +<p>“Beaupréau, Madame! We stay an hour!”</p> +<p>It was six o’clock. They had ridden some hours without +a break. With sighs and cries of pain the women dropped from their +clumsy saddles, while the men laid out such food—it was little—as +had been brought, and hobbled the horses that they might feed. +The hour passed rapidly, and when it had passed Badelon was inexorable. +There was wailing when he gave the word to mount again; and Tignonville, +fiercely resenting this dumb, reasonless flight, was at heart one of +the mutineers. But Badelon said grimly that they might go on and +live, or stay and die, as it pleased them; and once more they climbed +painfully to their saddles, and jogged steadily on through the sunset, +through the gloaming, through the darkness, across a weird, mysterious +country of low hills and narrow plains which grew more wild and less +cultivated as they advanced. Fortunately the horses had been well +saved during the long leisurely journey to Angers, and now went well +and strongly. When they at last unsaddled for the night in a little +dismal wood within a mile of Clisson, they had placed some forty miles +between themselves and Angers.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXII. THE ORDEAL BY STEEL.</h2> +<p>The women for the most part fell like sacks and slept where they +alighted, dead weary. The men, when they had cared for the horses, +followed the example; for Badelon would suffer no fire. In less +than half an hour, a sentry who stood on guard at the edge of the wood, +and Tignonville and La Tribe, who talked in low voices with their backs +against a tree, were the only persons who remained awake, with the exception +of the Countess. Carlat had made a couch for her, and screened +it with cloaks from the wind and the eye; for the moon had risen and +where the trees stood sparsest its light flooded the soil with pools +of white. But Madame had not yet retired to her bed. The +two men, whose voices reached her, saw her from time to time moving +restlessly to and fro between the road and the little encampment. +Presently she came and stood over them.</p> +<p>“He led His people out of the wilderness,” La Tribe was +saying; “out of the trouble of Paris, out of the trouble of Angers, +and always, always southward. If you do not in this, Monsieur, +see His finger—”</p> +<p>“And Angers?” Tignonville struck in, with a faint sneer. +“Has He led that out of trouble? A day or two ago you would +risk all to save it, my friend. Now, with your back safely turned +on it, you think all for the best.”</p> +<p>“We did our best,” the minister answered humbly. +“From the day we met in Paris we have been but instruments.”</p> +<p>“To save Angers?”</p> +<p>“To save a remnant.”</p> +<p>On a sudden the Countess raised her hand. “Do you not +hear horses, Monsieur?” she cried. She had been listening +to the noises of the night, and had paid little heed to what the two +were saying.</p> +<p>“One of ours moved,” Tignonville answered listlessly. +“Why do you not lie down, Madame?”</p> +<p>Instead of answering, “Whither is he going?” she asked. +“Do you know?”</p> +<p>“I wish I did know,” the young man answered peevishly. +“To Niort, it may be. Or presently he will double back and +recross the Loire.”</p> +<p>“He would have gone by Cholet to Niort,” La Tribe said. +“The direction is rather that of Rochelle. God grant we +be bound thither!”</p> +<p>“Or to Vrillac,” the Countess cried, clasping her hands +in the darkness. “Can it be to Vrillac he is going?”</p> +<p>The minister shook his head.</p> +<p>“Ah, let it be to Vrillac!” she cried, a thrill in her +voice. “We should be safe there. And he would be safe.”</p> +<p>“Safe?” echoed a fourth and deeper voice. And out +of the darkness beside them loomed a tall figure.</p> +<p>The minister looked and leapt to his feet. Tignonville rose +more slowly.</p> +<p>The voice was Tavannes’. “And where am I to be +safe?” he repeated slowly, a faint ring of saturnine amusement +in his tone.</p> +<p>“At Vrillac!” she cried. “In my house, Monsieur!”</p> +<p>He was silent a moment. Then, “Your house, Madame? +In which direction is it, from here?”</p> +<p>“Westwards,” she answered impulsively, her voice quivering +with eagerness and emotion and hope. “Westwards, Monsieur—on +the sea. The causeway from the land is long, and ten can hold +it against ten hundred.”</p> +<p>“Westwards? And how far westwards?”</p> +<p>Tignonville answered for her; in his tone throbbed the same eagerness, +the same anxiety, which spoke in hers. Nor was Count Hannibal’s +ear deaf to it.</p> +<p>“Through Challans,” he said, “thirteen leagues.”</p> +<p>“From Clisson?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”</p> +<p>“And by Commequiers less,” the Countess cried.</p> +<p>“No, it is a worse road,” Tignonville answered quickly; +“and longer in time.”</p> +<p>“But we came—”</p> +<p>“At our leisure, Madame. The road is by Challans, if +we wish to be there quickly.”</p> +<p>“Ah!” Count Hannibal said. In the darkness it was +impossible to see his face or mark how he took it. “But +being there, I have few men.”</p> +<p>“I have forty will come at call,” she cried with pride. +“A word to them, and in four hours or a little more—”</p> +<p>“They would outnumber mine by four to one,” Count Hannibal +answered coldly, dryly, in a voice like ice-water flung in their faces. +“Thank you, Madame; I understand. To Vrillac is no long +ride; but we will not ride it at present.” And he turned +sharply on his heel and strode from them.</p> +<p>He had not covered thirty paces before she overtook him in the middle +of a broad patch of moonlight, and touched his arm. He wheeled +swiftly, his hand halfway to his hilt. Then he saw who it was.</p> +<p>“Ah,” he said, “I had forgotten, Madame. +You have come—”</p> +<p>“No!” she cried passionately; and standing before him +she shook back the hood of her cloak that he might look into her eyes. +“You owe me no blow to-day. You have paid me, Monsieur. +You have struck me already, and foully, like a coward. Do you +remember,” she continued rapidly, “the hour after our marriage, +and what you said to me? Do you remember what you told me? +And whom to trust and whom to suspect, where lay our interest and where +our foes’? You trusted me then! What have I done that +you now dare—ay, dare, Monsieur,” she repeated fearlessly, +her face pale and her eyes glittering with excitement, “to insult +me? That you treat me as—Javette? That you deem me +capable of <i>that</i>? Of luring you into a trap, and in my own +house, or the house that was mine, of—”</p> +<p>“Treating me as I have treated others.”</p> +<p>“You have said it!” she cried. She could not herself +understand why his distrust had wounded her so sharply, so home, that +all fear of him was gone. “You have said it, and put that +between us which will not be removed. I could have forgiven blows,” +she continued, breathless in her excitement, “so you had thought +me what I am. But now you will do well to watch me! You +will do well to leave Vrillac on one side. For were you there, +and raised your hand against me—not that that touches me, but +it will do—and there are those, I tell you, would fling you from +the tower at my word.”</p> +<p>“Indeed?”</p> +<p>“Ay, indeed! And indeed, Monsieur!”</p> +<p>Her face was in moonlight, his was in shadow.</p> +<p>“And this is your new tone, Madame, is it?” he said, +slowly and after a pregnant pause. “The crossing of a river +has wrought so great a change in you?”</p> +<p>“No!” she cried.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he said. And, despite herself, she flinched +before the grimness of his tone. “You have yet to learn +one thing, however: that I do not change. That, north or south, +I am the same to those who are the same to me. That what I have +won on the one bank I will hold on the other, in the teeth of all, and +though God’s Church be thundering on my heels! I go to Vrillac—”</p> +<p>“You—go?” she cried. “You go?”</p> +<p>“I go,” he repeated, “to-morrow. And among +your own people I will see what language you will hold. While +you were in my power I spared you. Now that you are in your own +land, now that you lift your hand against me, I will show you of what +make I am. If blows will not tame you, I will try that will suit +you less. Ay, you wince, Madame! You had done well had you +thought twice before you threatened, and thrice before you took in hand +to scare Tavannes with a parcel of clowns and fisherfolk. To-morrow, +to Vrillac and your duty! And one word more, Madame,” he +continued, turning back to her truculently when he had gone some paces +from her. “If I find you plotting with your lover by the +way I will hang not you, but him. I have spared him a score of +times; but I know him, and I do not trust him.”</p> +<p>“Nor me,” she said, and with a white, set face she looked +at him in the moonlight. “Had you not better hang me now?”</p> +<p>“Why?”</p> +<p>“Lest I do you an injury!” she cried with passion; and +she raised her hand and pointed northward. “Lest I kill +you some night, Monsieur! I tell you, a thousand men on your heels +are less dangerous than the woman at your side—if she hate you.”</p> +<p>“Is it so?” he cried. His hand flew to his hilt; +his dagger flashed out. But she did not move, did not flinch, +only she set her teeth; and her eyes, fascinated by the steel, grew +wider.</p> +<p>His hand sank slowly. He held the weapon to her, hilt foremost; +she took it mechanically.</p> +<p>“You think yourself brave enough to kill me, do you?” +he sneered. “Then take this, and strike, if you dare. +Take it—strike, Madame! It is sharp, and my arms are open.” +And he flung them wide, standing within a pace of her. “Here, +above the collar-bone, is the surest for a weak hand. What, afraid?” +he continued, as, stiffly clutching the weapon which he had put into +her hand, she glared at him, trembling and astonished. “Afraid, +and a Vrillac! Afraid, and ’tis but one blow! See, +my arms are open. One blow home, and you will never lie in them. +Think of that. One blow home, and you may lie in his. Think +of that! Strike, then, Madame,” he went on, piling taunt +on taunt, “if you dare, and if you hate me. What, still +afraid! How shall I give you heart? Shall I strike you? +It will not be the first time by ten. I keep count, you see,” +he continued mockingly. “Or shall I kiss you? Ay, +that may do. And it will not be against your will, either, for +you have that in your hand will save you in an instant. Even”—he +drew a foot nearer—“now! Even—” +And he stooped until his lips almost touched hers.</p> +<p>She sprang back. “Oh, do not!” she cried. +“Oh, do not!” And, dropping the dagger, she covered +her face with her hands, and burst into weeping.</p> +<p>He stooped coolly, and, after groping some time for the poniard, +drew it from the leaves among which it had fallen. He put it into +the sheath, and not until he had done that did he speak. Then +it was with a sneer.</p> +<p>“I have no need to fear overmuch,” he said. “You +are a poor hater, Madame. And poor haters make poor lovers. +’Tis his loss! If you will not strike a blow for him, there +is but one thing left. Go, dream of him!”</p> +<p>And, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, he turned on his heel.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII. THE AMBUSH.</h2> +<p>The start they made at daybreak was gloomy and ill-omened, through +one of those white mists which are blown from the Atlantic over the +flat lands of Western Poitou. The horses, looming gigantic through +the fog, winced as the cold harness was girded on them. The men +hurried to and fro with saddles on their heads, and stumbled over other +saddles, and swore savagely. The women turned mutinous and would +not rise; or, being dragged up by force, shrieked wild, unfitting words, +as they were driven to the horses. The Countess looked on and +listened, and shuddered, waiting for Carlat to set her on her horse. +She had gone during the last three weeks through much that was dreary, +much that was hopeless; but the chill discomfort of this forced start, +with tired horses and wailing women, would have darkened the prospect +of home had there been no fear or threat to cloud it.</p> +<p>He whose will compelled all stood a little apart and watched all, +silent and gloomy. When Badelon, after taking his orders and distributing +some slices of black bread to be eaten in the saddle, moved off at the +head of his troop, Count Hannibal remained behind, attended by Bigot +and the eight riders who had formed the rearguard so far. He had +not approached the Countess since rising, and she had been thankful +for it. But now, as she moved away, she looked back and saw him +still standing; she marked that he wore his corselet, and in one of +those revulsions of feeling—which outrun man’s reason—she +who had tossed on her couch through half the night, in passionate revolt +against the fate before her, took fire at his neglect and his silence; +she resented on a sudden the distance he kept, and his scorn of her. +Her breast heaved, her colour came, involuntarily she checked her horse, +as if she would return to him, and speak to him. Then the Carlats +and the others closed up behind her, Badelon’s monotonous “Forward, +Madame, <i>en avant</i>!” proclaimed the day’s journey begun, +and she saw him no more.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, the motionless figure, looming Homeric through the +fog, with gleams of wet light reflected from the steel about it, dwelt +long in her mind. The road which Badelon followed, slowly at first, +and with greater speed as the horses warmed to their work, and the women, +sore and battered resigned themselves to suffering, wound across a flat +expanse broken by a few hills. These were little more than mounds, +and for the most part were veiled from sight by the low-lying sea-mist, +through which gnarled and stunted oaks rose mysterious, to fade as strangely. +Weird trees they were, with branches unlike those of this world’s +trees, rising in a grey land without horizon or limit, through which +our travellers moved, weary phantoms in a clinging nightmare. +At a walk, at a trot, more often at a jaded amble, they pushed on behind +Badelon’s humped shoulders. Sometimes the fog hung so thick +about them that they saw only those who rose and fell in the saddles +immediately before them; sometimes the air cleared a little, the curtain +rolled up a space, and for a minute or two they discerned stretches +of unfertile fields, half-tilled and stony, or long tracts of gorse +and broom, with here and there a thicket of dwarf shrubs or a wood of +wind-swept pines. Some looked and saw these things; more rode +on sulky and unseeing, supporting impatiently the toils of a flight +from they knew not what.</p> +<p>To do Tignonville justice, he was not of these. On the contrary, +he seemed to be in a better temper on this day and, where so many took +things unheroically, he showed to advantage. Avoiding the Countess +and riding with Carlat, he talked and laughed with marked cheerfulness; +nor did he ever fail, when the mist rose, to note this or that landmark, +and confirm Badelon in the way he was going.</p> +<p>“We shall be at Lége by noon!” he cried more than +once, “and if M. le Comte persists in his plan, may reach Vrillac +by late sunset. By way of Challans!”</p> +<p>And always Carlat answered, “Ay, by Challans, Monsieur, so +be it!”</p> +<p>He proved, too, so far right in his prediction that noon saw them +drag, a weary train, into the hamlet of Lége, where the road +from Nantes to Olonne runs southward over the level of Poitou. +An hour later Count Hannibal rode in with six of his eight men, and, +after a few minutes’ parley with Badelon, who was scanning the +horses, he called Carlat to him. The old man came.</p> +<p>“Can we reach Vrillac to-night?” Count Hannibal asked +curtly.</p> +<p>“By Challans, my lord,” the steward answered, “I +think we can. We call it seven hours’ riding from here.”</p> +<p>“And that route is the shortest?”</p> +<p>“In time, M. le Comte, the road being better.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal bent his brows. “And the other way?” +he said.</p> +<p>“Is by Commequiers, my lord. It is shorter in distance.”</p> +<p>“By how much?”</p> +<p>“Two leagues. But there are fordings and a salt marsh; +and with Madame and the women—”</p> +<p>“It would be longer?”</p> +<p>The steward hesitated. “I think so,” he said slowly, +his eyes wandering to the grey misty landscape, against which the poor +hovels of the village stood out naked and comfortless. A low thicket +of oaks sheltered the place from south-westerly gales. On the +other three sides it lay open.</p> +<p>“Very good,” Tavannes said curtly. “Be ready +to start in ten minutes. You will guide us.”</p> +<p>But when the ten minutes had elapsed and the party were ready to +start, to the astonishment of all the steward was not to be found. +To peremptory calls for him no answer came; and a hurried search through +the hamlet proved equally fruitless. The only person who had seen +him since his interview with Tavannes turned out to be M. de Tignonville; +and he had seen him mount his horse five minutes before, and move off—as +he believed—by the Challans road.</p> +<p>“Ahead of us?”</p> +<p>“Yes, M. le Comte,” Tignonville answered, shading his +eyes and gazing in the direction of the fringe of trees. “I +did not see him take the road, but he was beside the north end of the +wood when I saw him last. Thereabouts!” and he pointed to +a place where the Challans road wound round the flank of the wood. +“When we are beyond that point, I think we shall see him.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal growled a word in his beard, and, turning in his saddle, +looked back the way he had come. Half a mile away, two or three +dots could be seen approaching across the plain. He turned again.</p> +<p>“You know the road?” he said, curtly addressing the young +man.</p> +<p>“Perfectly. As well as Carlat.”</p> +<p>“Then lead the way, Monsieur, with Badelon. And spare +neither whip nor spur. There will be need of both, if we would +lie warm to-night.”</p> +<p>Tignonville nodded assent and, wheeling his horse, rode to the head +of the party, a faint smile playing about his mouth. A moment, +and the main body moved off behind him, leaving Count Hannibal and six +men to cover the rear. The mist, which at noon had risen for an +hour or two, was closing down again, and they had no sooner passed clear +of the wood than the trees faded out of sight behind them. It +was not wonderful that they could not see Carlat. Objects a hundred +paces from them were completely hidden.</p> +<p>Trot, trot! Trot, trot! through a grey world so featureless, +so unreal that the riders, now dozing in the saddle, and now awaking, +seemed to themselves to stand still, as in a nightmare. A trot +and then a walk, and then a trot again; and all a dozen times repeated, +while the women bumped along in their wretched saddles, and the horses +stumbled, and the men swore at them.</p> +<p>Ha! La Garnache at last, and a sharp turn southward to Challans. +The Countess raised her head, and began to look about her. There, +should be a church, she knew; and there, the old ruined tower built +by wizards, or the Carthaginians, so old tradition ran; and there, to +the westward, the great salt marshes towards Noirmoutier. The +mist hid all, but the knowledge that they were there set her heart beating, +brought tears to her eyes, and lightened the long road to Challans.</p> +<p>At Challans they halted half an hour, and washed out the horses’ +mouths with water and a little <i>guignolet</i>—the spirit of +the country. A dose of the cordial was administered to the women; +and a little after seven they began the last stage of the journey, through +a landscape which even the mist could not veil from the eyes of love. +There rose the windmill of Soullans! There the old dolmen, beneath +which the grey wolf that ate the two children of Tornic had its lair. +For a mile back they had been treading my lady’s land; they had +only two more leagues to ride, and one of those was crumbling under +each dogged footfall. The salt flavour, which is new life to the +shore-born, was in the fleecy reek which floated by them, now thinner, +now more opaque; and almost they could hear the dull thunder of the +Biscay waves falling on the rocks.</p> +<p>Tignonville looked back at her and smiled. She caught the look; +she fancied that she understood it and his thoughts. But her own +eyes were moist at the moment with tears, and what his said, and what +there was of strangeness in his glance, half-warning, half-exultant, +escaped her. For there, not a mile before them, where the low +hills about the fishing village began to rise from the dull inland level—hills +green on the land side, bare and scarped towards the sea and the island—she +espied the wayside chapel at which the nurse of her early childhood +had told her beads. Where it stood, the road from Commequiers +and the road she travelled became one: a short mile thence, after winding +among the hillocks, it ran down to the beach and the causeway—and +to her home.</p> +<p>At the sight she bethought herself of Carlat, and calling to M. de +Tignonville, she asked him what he thought of the steward’s continued +absence.</p> +<p>“He must have outpaced us!” he answered, with an odd +laugh.</p> +<p>“But he must have ridden hard to do that.”</p> +<p>He reined back to her. “Say nothing!” he muttered +under his breath. “But look ahead, Madame, and see if we +are expected!”</p> +<p>“Expected? How can we be expected?” she cried. +The colour rushed into her face.</p> +<p>He put his finger to his lip, and looked warningly at Badelon’s +humped shoulders, jogging up and down in front of them. Then, +stooping towards her, in a lower tone, “If Carlat has arrived +before us, he will have told them,” he said.</p> +<p>“Have told them?”</p> +<p>“He came by the other road, and it is quicker.”</p> +<p>She gazed at him in astonishment, her lips parted; and slowly she +understood, and her eyes grew hard.</p> +<p>“Then why,” she said, “did you say it was longer. +Had we been overtaken, Monsieur, we had had you to thank for it, it +seems!”</p> +<p>He bit his lip. “But we have not been overtaken,” +he rejoined. “On the contrary, you have me to thank for +something quite different.”</p> +<p>“As unwelcome, perhaps!” she retorted. “For +what?”</p> +<p>“Softly, Madame.”</p> +<p>“For what?” she repeated, refusing to lower her voice. +“Speak, Monsieur, if you please.” He had never seen +her look at him in that way.</p> +<p>“For the fact,” he answered, stung by her look and tone, +“that when you arrive you will find yourself mistress in your +own house! Is that nothing?”</p> +<p>“You have called in my people?”</p> +<p>“Carlat has done so, or should have,” he answered. +“Henceforth,” he continued, a ring of exultation in his +voice, “it will go hard with M. le Comte, if he does not treat +you better than he has treated you hitherto. That is all!”</p> +<p>“You mean that it will go hard with him in any case?” +she cried, her bosom rising and falling.</p> +<p>“I mean, Madame—But there they are! Good Carlat! +Brave Carlat! He has done well!”</p> +<p>“Carlat?”</p> +<p>“Ay, there they are! And you are mistress in your own +land! At last you are mistress, and you have me to thank for it! +See!” And heedless in his exultation whether Badelon understood +or not, he pointed to a place before them where the road wound between +two low hills. Over the green shoulder of one of these, a dozen +bright points caught and reflected the last evening light; while as +he spoke a man rose to his feet on the hillside above, and began to +make signs to persons below. A pennon, too, showed an instant +over the shoulder, fluttered, and was gone.</p> +<p>Badelon looked as they looked. The next instant he uttered +a low oath, and dragged his horse across the front of the party.</p> +<p>“Pierre!” he cried to the man on his left, “ride +for your life! To my lord, and tell him we are ambushed!” +And as the trained soldier wheeled about and spurred away, the sacker +of Rome turned a dark scowling face on Tignonville. “If +this be your work,” he hissed, “we shall thank you for it +in hell! For it is where most of us will lie to-night! They +are Montsoreau’s spears, and they have those with them are worse +to deal with than themselves!” Then in a different tone, +and throwing off all disguise, “Men to the front!” he shouted. +“And you, Madame, to the rear quickly, and the women with you! +Now, men, forward, and draw! Steady! Steady! They +are coming!”</p> +<p>There was an instant of confusion, disorder, panic; horses jostling +one another, women screaming and clutching at men, men shaking them +off and forcing their way to the van. Fortunately the enemy did +not fall on at once, as Badelon expected, but after showing themselves +in the mouth of the valley, at a distance of three hundred paces, hung +for some reason irresolute. This gave Badelon time to array his +seven swords in front; but real resistance was out of the question, +as he knew. And to none seemed less in question than to Tignonville.</p> +<p>When the truth, and what he had done, broke on the young man, he +sat a moment motionless with horror. It was only when Badelon +had twice summoned him with opprobrious words that he awoke to the relief +of action. Even after that he hung an instant trying to meet the +Countess’s eyes, despair in his own; but it was not to be. +She had turned her head, and was looking back, as if thence only and +not from him could help come. It was not to him she turned; and +he saw it, and the justice of it. And silent, grim, more formidable +even than old Badelon, the veteran fighter, who knew all the tricks +and shifts of the <i>mêlée</i>, he spurred to the flank +of the line.</p> +<p>“Now, steady!” Badelon cried again, seeing that the enemy +were beginning to move. “Steady! Ha! Thank God, +my lord! My lord is coming! Stand! Stand!” +The distant sound of galloping hoofs had reached his ear in the nick +of time. He stood in his stirrups and looked back. Yes, +Count Hannibal was coming, riding a dozen paces in front of his men. +The odds were still desperate—for he brought but six—the +enemy were still three to one. But the thunder of his hoofs as +he came up checked for a moment the enemy’s onset; and before +Montsoreau’s people got started again Count Hannibal had ridden +up abreast of the women, and the Countess, looking at him, knew that, +desperate as was their strait, she had not looked behind in vain. +The glow of battle, the stress of the moment, had displaced the cloud +from his face; the joy of the born fighter lightened in his eye. +His voice rang clear and loud above the press.</p> +<p>“Badelon! wait you and two with Madame!” he cried. +“Follow at fifty paces’ distance, and, when we have broken +them, ride through! The others with me! Now forward, men, +and show your teeth! A Tavannes! A Tavannes! A Tavannes! +We carry it yet!”</p> +<p>And he dashed forward, leading them on, leaving the women behind; +and down the sward to meet him, thundering in double line, came Montsoreau’s +men-at-arms, and with the men-at-arms, a dozen pale, fierce-eyed men +in the Church’s black, yelling the Church’s curses. +Madame’s heart grew sick as she heard, as she waited, as she judged +him by the fast-failing light a horse’s length before his men—with +only Tignonville beside him.</p> +<p>She held her breath—would the shock never come? If Badelon +had not seized her rein and forced her forward, she would not have moved. +And then, even as she moved, they met! With yells and wild cries +and a mare’s savage scream, the two bands crashed together in +a huddle of fallen or rearing horses, of flickering weapons, of thrusting +men, of grapples hand-to-hand. What happened, what was happening +to any one, who it was fell, stabbed through and through by four, or +who were those who still fought single combats, twisting round one another’s +horses, those on her right and on her left, she could not tell. +For Badelon dragged her on with whip and spur, and two horsemen—who +obscured her view—galloped in front of her, and rode down bodily +the only man who undertook to bar her passage. She had a glimpse +of that man’s face, as his horse, struck in the act of turning, +fell sideways on him; and she knew it, in its agony of terror, though +she had seen it but once. It was the face of the man whose eyes +had sought hers from the steps of the church in Angers; the lean man +in black, who had turned soldier of the Church—to his misfortune.</p> +<p>Through? Yes, through, the way was clear before them! +The fight with its screams and curses died away behind them. The +horses swayed and all but sank under them. But Badelon knew it +no time for mercy; iron-shod hoofs rang on the road behind, and at any +moment the pursuers might be on their heels. He flogged on until +the cots of the hamlet appeared on either side of the way; on, until +the road forked and the Countess with strange readiness cried “The +left!”—on, until the beach appeared below them at the foot +of a sharp pitch, and beyond the beach the slow heaving grey of the +ocean.</p> +<p>The tide was high. The causeway ran through it, a mere thread +lipped by the darkling waves, and at the sight a grunt of relief broke +from Badelon. For at the end of the causeway, black against the +western sky, rose the gateway and towers of Vrillac; and he saw that, +as the Countess had said, it was a place ten men could hold against +ten hundred!</p> +<p>They stumbled down the beach, reached the causeway and trotted along +it; more slowly now, and looking back. The other women had followed +by hook or by crook, some crying hysterically, yet clinging to their +horses and even urging them; and in a medley, the causeway clear behind +them and no one following, they reached the drawbridge, and passed under +the arch of the gate beyond.</p> +<p>There friendly hands, Carlat’s foremost, welcomed them and +aided them to alight, and the Countess saw, as in a dream, the familiar +scene, all unfamiliar: the gate, where she had played, a child, aglow +with lantern-light and arms. Men, whose rugged faces she had known +in infancy, stood at the drawbridge chains and at the winches. +Others blew matches and handled primers, while old servants crowded +round her, and women looked at her, scared and weeping. She saw +it all at a glance—the lights, the black shadows, the sudden glow +of a match on the groining of the arch above. She saw it, and +turning swiftly, looked back the way she had come; along the dusky causeway +to the low, dark shore, which night was stealing quickly from their +eyes. She clasped her hands.</p> +<p>“Where is Badelon?” she cried. “Where is +he? Where is he?”</p> +<p>One of the men who had ridden before her answered that he had turned +back.</p> +<p>“Turned back!” she repeated. And then, shading +her eyes, “Who is coming?” she asked, her voice insistent. +“There is some one coming. Who is it? Who is it?”</p> +<p>Two were coming out of the gloom, travelling slowly and painfully +along the causeway. One was La Tribe, limping; the other a rider, +slashed across the forehead, and sobbing curses.</p> +<p>“No more!” she muttered. “Are there no more?”</p> +<p>The minister shook his head. The rider wiped the blood from +his eyes, and turned up his face that he might see the better. +But he seemed to be dazed, and only babbled strange words in a strange +<i>patois</i>.</p> +<p>She stamped her foot in passion. “More lights!” +she cried. “Lights! How can they find their way? +And let six men go down the <i>digue</i>, and meet them. Will +you let them be butchered between the shore and this?”</p> +<p>But Carlat, who had not been able to collect more than a dozen men, +shook his head; and before she could repeat the order, sounds of battle, +shrill, faint, like cries of hungry seagulls, pierced the darkness which +shrouded the farther end of the causeway. The women shrank inward +over the threshold, while Carlat cried to the men at the chains to be +ready, and to some who stood at loopholes above, to blow up their matches +and let fly at his word. And then they all waited, the Countess +foremost, peering eagerly into the growing darkness. They could +see nothing.</p> +<p>A distant scuffle, an oath, a cry, silence! The same, a little +nearer, a little louder, followed this time, not by silence, but by +the slow tread of a limping horse. Again a rush of feet, the clash +of steel, a scream, a laugh, all weird and unreal, issuing from the +night; then out of the darkness into the light, stepping slowly with +hanging head, moved a horse, bearing on its back a man—or was +it a man?—bending low in the saddle, his feet swinging loose. +For an instant the horse and the man seemed to be alone, a ghostly pair; +then at their heels came into view two figures, skirmishing this way +and that; and now coming nearer, and now darting back into the gloom. +One, a squat figure, stooping low, wielded a sword with two hands; the +other covered him with a half-pike. And then beyond these—abruptly +as it seemed—the night gave up to sight a swarm of dark figures +pressing on them and after them, driving them before them.</p> +<p>Carlat had an inspiration. “Fire!” he cried; and +four arquebuses poured a score of slugs into the knot of pursuers. +A man fell, another shrieked and stumbled, the rest gave back. +Only the horse came on spectrally, with hanging head and shining eyeballs, +until a man ran out and seized its head, and dragged it, more by his +strength than its own, over the drawbridge. After it Badelon, +with a gaping wound in his knee, and Bigot, bleeding from a dozen hurts, +walked over the bridge, and stood on either side of the saddle, smiling +foolishly at the man on the horse.</p> +<p>“Leave me!” he muttered. “Leave me!” +He made a feeble movement with his hand, as if it held a weapon; then +his head sank lower. It was Count Hannibal. His thigh was +broken, and there was a lance-head in his arm. The Countess looked +at him, then beyond him, past him into the darkness.</p> +<p>“Are there no more?” she whispered tremulously. +“No more? Tignonville—my—”</p> +<p>Badelon shook his head. The Countess covered her face and wept.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV. WHICH WILL YOU, MADAME?</h2> +<p>It was in the grey dawning of the next day, at the hour before the +sun rose, that word of M. de Tignonville’s fate came to them in +the castle. The fog which had masked the van and coming of night +hung thick on its retreating skirts, and only reluctantly and little +by little gave up to sight and daylight a certain thing which night +had left at the end of the causeway. The first man to see it was +Carlat, from the roof of the gateway; and he rubbed eyes weary with +watching, and peered anew at it through the mist, fancying himself back +in the Place Ste.-Croix at Angers, supposing for a wild moment the journey +a dream, and the return a nightmare. But rub as he might, and +stare as he might, the ugly outlines of the thing he had seen persisted—nay, +grew sharper as the haze began to lift from the grey, slow-heaving floor +of sea. He called another man and bade him look.</p> +<p>“What is it?” he said. “D’you see, +there? Below the village?”</p> +<p>“’Tis a gibbet,” the man answered, with a foolish +laugh; they had watched all night. “God keep us from it.”</p> +<p>“A gibbet?”</p> +<p>“Ay!”</p> +<p>“But what is it for? What is it doing there?”</p> +<p>“It is there to hang those they have taken, very like,” +the man answered, stupidly practical. And then other men came +up, and stared at it and growled in their beards. Presently there +were eight or ten on the roof of the gateway looking towards the land +and discussing the thing; and by-and-by a man was descried approaching +along the causeway with a white flag in his hand.</p> +<p>At that Carlat bade one fetch the minister. “He understands +things,” he muttered, “and I misdoubt this. And see,” +he cried after the messenger, “that no word of it come to Mademoiselle!” +Instinctively in the maiden home he reverted to the maiden title.</p> +<p>The messenger went, and came again bringing La Tribe, whose head +rose above the staircase at the moment the envoy below came to a halt +before the gate. Carlat signed to the minister to come forward; +and La Tribe, after sniffing the salt air, and glancing at the long, +low, misty shore and the stiff ugly shape which stood at the end of +the causeway, looked down and met the envoy’s eyes. For +a moment no one spoke. Only the men who had remained on the gateway, +and had watched the stranger’s coming, breathed hard.</p> +<p>At last, “I bear a message,” the man announced loudly +and clearly, “for the lady of Vrillac. Is she present?”</p> +<p>“Give your message!” La Tribe replied.</p> +<p>“It is for her ears only.”</p> +<p>“Do you want to enter?”</p> +<p>“No!” The man answered so hurriedly that more than +one smiled. He had the bearing of a lay clerk of some precinct, +a verger or sacristan; and after a fashion the dress of one also, for +he was in dusty black and wore no sword, though he was girded with a +belt. “No!” he repeated, “but if Madame will +come to the gate, and speak to me—”</p> +<p>“Madame has other fish to fry,” Carlat blurted out. +“Do you think that she has naught to do but listen to messages +from a gang of bandits?”</p> +<p>“If she does not listen she will repent it all her life!” +the fellow answered hardily. “That is part of my message.”</p> +<p>There was a pause while La Tribe considered the matter. In +the end, “From whom do you come?” he asked.</p> +<p>“From His Excellency the Lieutenant-Governor of Saumur,” +the envoy answered glibly, “and from my Lord Bishop of Angers, +him assisting by his Vicar; and from others gathered lawfully, who will +as lawfully depart if their terms are accepted. Also from M. de +Tignonville, a gentleman, I am told, of these parts, now in their hands +and adjudged to die at sunset this day if the terms I bring be not accepted.”</p> +<p>There was a long silence on the gate. The men looked down fixedly; +not a feature of one of them moved, for no one was surprised. +“Wherefore is he to die?” La Tribe asked at last.</p> +<p>“For good cause shown.”</p> +<p>“Wherefore?”</p> +<p>“He is a Huguenot.”</p> +<p>The minister nodded. “And the terms?” Carlat muttered.</p> +<p>“Ay, the terms!” La Tribe repeated, nodding afresh. +“What are they?”</p> +<p>“They are for Madame’s ear only,” the messenger +made answer.</p> +<p>“Then they will not reach it!” Carlat broke forth in +wrath. “So much for that! And for yourself, see you +go quickly before we make a target of you!”</p> +<p>“Very well, I go,” the envoy answered sullenly. +“But—”</p> +<p>“But what?” La Tribe cried, gripping Carlat’s shoulder +to quiet him. “But what? Say what you have to say, +man! Speak out, and have done with it!’</p> +<p>“I will say it to her and to no other.”</p> +<p>“Then you will not say it!” Carlat cried again. +“For you will not see her. So you may go. And the +black fever in your vitals.”</p> +<p>“Ay, go!” La Tribe added more quietly.</p> +<p>The man turned away with a shrug of the shoulders, and moved off +a dozen paces, watched by all on the gate with the same fixed attention. +But presently he paused; he returned.</p> +<p>“Very well,” he said, looking up with an ill grace. +“I will do my office here, if I cannot come to her. But +I hold also a letter from M. de Tignonville, and that I can deliver +to no other hands than hers!” He held it up as he spoke, +a thin scrap of greyish paper, the fly-leaf of a missal perhaps. +“See!” he continued, “and take notice! If she +does not get this, and learns when it is too late that it was offered—”</p> +<p>“The terms,” Carlat growled impatiently. “The +terms! Come to them!”</p> +<p>“You will have them?” the man answered, nervously passing +his tongue over his lips. “You will not let me see her, +or speak to her privately?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Then hear them. His Excellency is informed that one +Hannibal de Tavannes, guilty of the detestable crime of sacrilege and +of other gross crimes, has taken refuge here. He requires that +the said Hannibal de Tavannes be handed to him for punishment, and, +this being done before sunset this evening, he will yield to you free +and uninjured the said M. de Tignonville, and will retire from the lands +of Vrillac. But if you refuse”—the man passed his +eye along the line of attentive faces which fringed the battlement—“he +will at sunset hang the said Tignonville on the gallows raised for Tavannes, +and will harry the demesne of Vrillac to its farthest border!”</p> +<p>There was a long silence on the gate. Some, their gaze still +fixed on him, moved their lips as if they chewed. Others looked +aside, met their fellows’ eyes in a pregnant glance, and slowly +returned to him. But no one spoke. At his back the flush +of dawn was flooding the east, and spreading and waxing brighter. +The air was growing warm; the shore below, from grey, was turning green.</p> +<p>In a minute or two the sun, whose glowing marge already peeped above +the low hills of France, would top the horizon.</p> +<p>The man, getting no answer, shifted his feet uneasily. “Well,” +he cried, “what answer am I to take?”</p> +<p>Still no one moved.</p> +<p>“I’ve done my part. Will no one give her the letter?” +he cried. And he held it up. “Give me my answer, for +I am going.”</p> +<p>“Take the letter!” The words came from the rear +of the group in a voice that startled all. They turned, as though +some one had struck them, and saw the Countess standing beside the hood +which covered the stairs. They guessed that she had heard all +or nearly all; but the glory of the sunrise, shining full on her at +that moment, lent a false warmth to her face, and life to eyes woefully +and tragically set. It was not easy to say whether she had heard +or not. “Take the letter,” she repeated.</p> +<p>Carlat looked helplessly over the parapet.</p> +<p>“Go down!”</p> +<p>He cast a glance at La Tribe, but he got none in return, and he was +preparing to do her bidding when a cry of dismay broke from those who +still had their eyes bent downwards. The messenger, waving the +letter in a last appeal, had held it too loosely; a light air, as treacherous, +as unexpected, had snatched it from his hand, and bore it—even +as the Countess, drawn by the cry, sprang to the parapet—fifty +paces from him. A moment it floated in the air, eddying, rising, +falling; then, light as thistledown, it touched the water and began +to sink.</p> +<p>The messenger uttered frantic lamentations, and stamped the causeway +in his rage. The Countess only looked, and looked, until the rippling +crest of a baby wave broke over the tiny venture, and with its freight +of tidings it sank from sight.</p> +<p>The man, silent now, stared a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.</p> +<p>“Well, ’tis fortunate it was his,” he cried brutally, +“and not His Excellency’s, or my back had suffered! +And now,” he added impatiently, “by your leave, what answer?”</p> +<p>What answer? Ah, God, what answer? The men who leant +on the parapet, rude and coarse as they were, felt the tragedy of the +question and the dilemma, guessed what they meant to her, and looked +everywhere save at her.</p> +<p>What answer? Which of the two was to live? Which die—shamefully? +Which? Which?</p> +<p>“Tell him—to come back—an hour before sunset,” +she muttered.</p> +<p>They told him and he went; and one by one the men began to go too, +and stole from the roof, leaving her standing alone, her face to the +shore, her hands resting on the parapet. The light breeze which +blew off the land stirred loose ringlets of her hair, and flattened +the thin robe against her sunlit figure. So had she stood a thousand +times in old days, in her youth, in her maidenhood. So in her +father’s time had she stood to see her lover come riding along +the sands to woo her! So had she stood to welcome him on the eve +of that fatal journey to Paris! Thence had others watched her +go with him. The men remembered—remembered all; and one +by one they stole shamefacedly away, fearing lest she should speak or +turn tragic eyes on them.</p> +<p>True, in their pity for her was no doubt of the end, or thought of +the victim who must suffer—of Tavannes. They, of Poitou, +who had not been with him, knew nothing of him; they cared as little. +He was a northern man, a stranger, a man of the sword, who had seized +her—so they heard—by the sword. But they saw that +the burden of choice was laid on her; there, in her sight and in theirs, +rose the gibbet; and, clowns as they were, they discerned the tragedy +of her <i>rôle</i>, play it as she might, and though her act gave +life to her lover.</p> +<p>When all had retired save three or four, she turned and saw these +gathered at the head of the stairs in a ring about Carlat, who was addressing +them in a low eager voice. She could not catch a syllable, but +a look hard and almost cruel flashed into her eyes as she gazed; and +raising her voice she called the steward to her.</p> +<p>“The bridge is up,” she said, her tone hard, “but +the gates? Are they locked?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Madame.”</p> +<p>“The wicket?”</p> +<p>“No, not the wicket.” And Carlat looked another +way.</p> +<p>“Then go, lock it, and bring the keys to me!” she replied. +“Or stay!” Her voice grew harder, her eyes spiteful +as a cat’s. “Stay, and be warned that you play me +no tricks! Do you hear? Do you understand? Or old +as you are, and long as you have served us, I will have you thrown from +this tower, with as little pity as Isabeau flung her gallants to the +fishes. I am still mistress here, never more mistress than this +day. Woe to you if you forget it.”</p> +<p>He blenched and cringed before her, muttering incoherently.</p> +<p>“I know,” she said, “I read you! And now +the keys. Go, bring them to me! And if by chance I find +the wicket unlocked when I come down, pray, Carlat, pray! For +you will have need of prayers.”</p> +<p>He slunk away, the men with him; and she fell to pacing the roof +feverishly. Now and then she extended her arms, and low cries +broke from her, as from a dumb creature in pain. Wherever she +looked, old memories rose up to torment her and redouble her misery. +A thing she could have borne in the outer world, a thing which might +have seemed tolerable in the reeking air of Paris or in the gloomy streets +of Angers wore here its most appalling aspect. Henceforth, whatever +choice she made, this home, where even in those troublous times she +had known naught but peace, must bear a damning stain! Henceforth +this day and this hour must come between her and happiness, must brand +her brow, and fix her with a deed of which men and women would tell +while she lived! Oh, God—pray? Who said, pray?</p> +<p>“I!” And La Tribe with tears in his eyes held out +the keys to her. “I, Madame,” he continued solemnly, +his voice broken with emotion. “For in man is no help. +The strongest man, he who rode yesterday a master of men, a very man +of war in his pride and his valour—see him, now, and—”</p> +<p>“Don’t!” she cried, sharp pain in her voice. +“Don’t!” And she stopped him with her hand, +her face averted. After an interval, “You come from him?” +she muttered faintly.</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Is he—hurt to death, think you?” She spoke +low, and kept her face hidden from him.</p> +<p>“Alas, no!” he answered, speaking the thought in his +heart. “The men who are with him seem confident of his recovery.”</p> +<p>“Do they know?”</p> +<p>“Badelon has had experience.”</p> +<p>“No, no. Do they know of this?” she cried. +“Of this!” And she pointed with a gesture of loathing +to the black gibbet on the farther strand.</p> +<p>He shook his head. “I think not,” he muttered. +And after a moment, “God help you!” he added fervently. +“God help and guide you, Madame!”</p> +<p>She turned on him suddenly, fiercely. “Is that all you +can do?” she cried. “Is that all the help you can +give? You are a man. Go down, lead them out; drive off these +cowards who drain our life’s blood, who trade on a woman’s +heart! On them! Do something, anything, rather than lie +in safety here—here!”</p> +<p>The minister shook his head sadly. “Alas, Madame!” +he said, “to sally were to waste life. They outnumber us +three to one. If Count Hannibal could do no more than break through +last night, with scarce a man unwounded—”</p> +<p>“He had the women!”</p> +<p>“And we have not him!”</p> +<p>“He would not have left us!” she cried hysterically.</p> +<p>“I believe it.”</p> +<p>“Had they taken me, do you think he would have lain behind +walls? Or skulked in safety here, while—while—” +Her voice failed her.</p> +<p>He shook his head despondently.</p> +<p>“And that is all you can do?” she cried, and turned from +him, and to him again, extending her arms, in bitter scorn. “All +you will do? Do you forget that twice he spared your life? +That in Paris once, and once in Angers, he held his hand? That +always, whether he stood or whether he fled, he held himself between +us and harm? Ay, always? And who will now raise a hand for +him? Who?”</p> +<p>“Madame!”</p> +<p>“Who? Who? Had he died in the field,” she +continued, her voice shaking with grief, her hands beating the parapet—for +she had turned from him—“had he fallen where he rode last +night, in the front, with his face to the foe, I had viewed him tearless, +I had deemed him happy! I had prayed dry-eyed for him who—who +spared me all these days and weeks! Whom I robbed and he forgave +me! Whom I tempted, and he forbore me! Ay, and who spared +not once or twice him for whom he must now—he must now—” +And unable to finish the sentence she beat her hands again and passionately +on the stones.</p> +<p>“Heaven knows, Madame,” the minister cried vehemently, +“Heaven knows, I would advise you if I could.”</p> +<p>“Why did he wear his corselet?” she wailed, as if she +had not heard him. “Was there no spear could reach his breast, +that he must come to this? No foe so gentle he would spare him +this? Or why did <i>he</i> not die with me in Paris when we waited? +In another minute death might have come and saved us this.”</p> +<p>With the tears running down his face he tried to comfort her.</p> +<p>“Man that is a shadow,” he said, “passeth away—what +matter how? A little while, a very little while, and we shall +pass!”</p> +<p>“With his curse upon us!” she cried. And, shuddering, +she pressed her hands to her eyes to shut out the sight her fancy pictured.</p> +<p>He left her for a while, hoping that in solitude she might regain +control of herself. When he returned he found her seated, and +outwardly more composed; her arms resting on the parapet-wall, her eyes +bent steadily on the long stretch of hard sand which ran northward from +the village. By that route her lover had many a time come to her; +there she had ridden with him in the early days; and that way they had +started for Paris on such a morning and at such an hour as this, with +sunshine about them, and larks singing hope above the sand-dunes, and +with wavelets creaming to the horses’ hoofs!</p> +<p>Of all which La Tribe, a stranger, knew nothing. The rapt gaze, +the unchanging attitude only confirmed his opinion of the course she +would adopt. He was thankful to find her more composed; and in +fear of such a scene as had already passed between them, he stole away +again. He returned by-and-by, but with the greatest reluctance, +and only because Carlat’s urgency would take no refusal.</p> +<p>He came this time to crave the key of the wicket, explaining that—rather +to satisfy his own conscience and the men than with any hope of success—he +proposed to go halfway along the causeway, and thence by signs invite +a conference.</p> +<p>“It is just possible,” he added, hesitating—he +feared nothing so much as to raise hopes in her—“that by +the offer of a money ransom, Madame—”</p> +<p>“Go,” she said, without turning her head. “Offer +what you please. But”—bitterly—“have a +care of them! Montsoreau is very like Montereau! Beware +of the bridge!”</p> +<p>He went and came again in half an hour. Then, indeed, though +she had spoken as if hope was dead in her, she was on her feet at the +first sound of his tread on the stairs; her parted lips and her white +face questioned him. He shook his head.</p> +<p>“There is a priest,” he said in broken tones, “with +them, whom God will judge. It is his plan, and he is without mercy +or pity.”</p> +<p>“You bring nothing from—him?”</p> +<p>“They will not suffer him to write again.”</p> +<p>“You did not see him?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXV. AGAINST THE WALL.</h2> +<p>In a room beside the gateway, into which, as the nearest and most +convenient place, Count Hannibal had been carried from his saddle, a +man sat sideways in the narrow embrasure of a loophole, to which his +eyes seemed glued. The room, which formed part of the oldest block +of the château, and was ordinarily the quarters of the Carlats, +possessed two other windows, deep-set indeed, yet superior to that through +which Bigot—for he it was—peered so persistently. +But the larger windows looked southwards, across the bay—at this +moment the noon-high sun was pouring his radiance through them; while +the object which held Bigot’s gaze and fixed him to his irksome +seat, lay elsewhere. The loophole commanded the causeway leading +shorewards; through it the Norman could see who came and went, and even +the cross-beam of the ugly object which rose where the causeway touched +the land.</p> +<p>On a flat truckle-bed behind the door lay Count Hannibal, his injured +leg protected from the coverlid by a kind of cage. His eyes were +bright with fever, and his untended beard and straggling hair heightened +the wildness of his aspect. But he was in possession of his senses; +and as his gaze passed from Bigot at the window to the old Free Companion, +who sat on a stool beside him, engaged in shaping a piece of wood into +a splint, an expression almost soft crept into his harsh face.</p> +<p>“Old fool!” he said. And his voice, though changed, +had not lost all its strength and harshness. “Did the Constable +need a splint when you laid him under the tower at Gaeta?”</p> +<p>The old man lifted his eyes from his task, and glanced through the +nearest window.</p> +<p>“It is long from noon to night,” he said quietly, “and +far from cup to lip, my lord!”</p> +<p>“It would be if I had two legs,” Tavannes answered, with +a grimace, half-snarl, half-smile. “As it is—where +is that dagger? It leaves me every minute.”</p> +<p>It had slipped from the coverlid to the ground. Badelon took +it up, and set it on the bed within reach of his master’s hand.</p> +<p>Bigot swore fiercely. “It would be farther still,” +he growled, “if you would be guided by me, my lord. Give +me leave to bar the door, and ’twill be long before these fisher +clowns force it. Badelon and I—”</p> +<p>“Being in your full strength,” Count Hannibal murmured +cynically.</p> +<p>“Could hold it. We have strength enough for that,” +the Norman boasted, though his livid face and his bandages gave the +lie to his words. He could not move without pain; and for Badelon, +his knee was as big as two with plaisters of his own placing.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal stared at the ceiling. “You could not +strike two blows!” he said. “Don’t lie to me! +And Badelon cannot walk two yards! Fine fighters!” he continued +with bitterness, not all bitter. “Fine bars ’twixt +a man and death! No, it is time to turn the face to the wall. +And, since go I must, it shall not be said Count Hannibal dared not +go alone! Besides—”</p> +<p>Bigot stopped him with an oath that was in part a cry of pain.</p> +<p>“D---n her!” he exclaimed in fury, “’tis +she is that <i>besides</i>! I know it. ’Tis she has +been our ruin from the day we saw her first, ay, to this day! +’Tis she has bewitched you until your blood, my lord, has turned +to water. Or you would never, to save the hand that betrayed us, +never to save a man—”</p> +<p>“Silence!” Count Hannibal cried, in a terrible voice. +And rising on his elbow, he poised the dagger as if he would hurl it. +“Silence, or I will spit you like the vermin you are! Silence, +and listen! And you, old ban-dog, listen too, for I know you obstinate! +It is not to save him. It is because I will die as I have lived, +fearing nothing and asking nothing! It were easy to bar the door +as you would have me, and die in the corner here like a wolf at bay, +biting to the last. That were easy, old wolf-hound! Pleasant +and good sport!”</p> +<p>“Ay! That were a death!” the veteran cried, his +eyes brightening. “So I would fain die!”</p> +<p>“And I!” Count Hannibal returned, showing his teeth in +a grim smile. “I too! Yet I will not! I will +not! Because so to die were to die unwillingly, and give them +triumph. Be dragged to death? No, old dog, if die we must, +we will go to death! We will die grandly, highly, as becomes Tavannes! +That when we are gone they may say, ‘There died a man!’”</p> +<p>“<i>She</i> may say!” Bigot muttered, scowling.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal heard and glared at him, but presently thought better +of it, and after a pause—</p> +<p>“Ay, she too!” he said. “Why not? As +we have played the game—for her—so, though we lose, we will +play it to the end; nor because we lose throw down the cards! +Besides, man, die in the corner, die biting, and he dies too!”</p> +<p>“And why not?” Bigot asked, rising in a fury. “Why +not? Whose work is it we lie here, snared by these clowns of fisherfolk? +Who led us wrong and betrayed us? He die? Would the devil +had taken him a year ago! Would he were within my reach now! +I would kill him with my bare fingers! He die? And why not?”</p> +<p>“Why, because, fool, his death would not save me!” Count +Hannibal answered coolly. “If it would, he would die! +But it will not; and we must even do again as we have done. I +have spared him—he’s a white-livered hound!—both once +and twice, and we must go to the end with it since no better can be! +I have thought it out, and it must be. Only see you, old dog, +that I have the dagger hid in the splint where I can reach it. +And then, when the exchange has been made, and my lady has her silk +glove again—to put in her bosom!”—with a grimace and +a sudden reddening of his harsh features—“if master priest +come within reach of my arm, I’ll send him before me, where I +go.”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay!” said Badelon. “And if you fail +of your stroke I will not fail of mine! I shall be there, and +I will see to it he goes! I shall be there!”</p> +<p>“You?”</p> +<p>“Ay, why not?” the old man answered quietly. “I +may halt on this leg for aught I know, and come to starve on crutches +like old Claude Boiteux who was at the taking of Milan and now begs +in the passage under the Châtelet.”</p> +<p>“Bah, man, you will get a new lord!”</p> +<p>Badelon nodded. “Ay, a new lord with new ways!” +he answered slowly and thoughtfully. “And I am tired. +They are of another sort, lords now, than they were when I was young. +It was a word and a blow then. Now I am old, with most it is—’Old +hog, your distance! You scent my lady!’ Then they +rode, and hunted, and tilted year in and year out, and summer or winter +heard the lark sing. Now they are curled, and paint themselves, +and lie in silk and toy with ladies—who shamed to be seen at Court +or board when I was a boy—and love better to hear the mouse squeak +than the lark sing.”</p> +<p>“Still, if I give you my gold chain,” Count Hannibal +answered quietly, “’twill keep you from that.”</p> +<p>“Give it to Bigot,” the old man answered. The splint +he was fashioning had fallen on his knees, and his eyes were fixed on +the distance of his youth. “For me, my lord, I am tired, +and I go with you. I go with you. It is a good death to +die biting before the strength be quite gone. Have the dagger +too, if you please, and I’ll fit it within the splint right neatly. +But I shall be there—”</p> +<p>“And you’ll strike home?” Tavannes cried eagerly. +He raised himself on his elbow, a gleam of joy in his gloomy eyes.</p> +<p>“Have no fear, my lord. See, does it tremble?” +He held out his hand. “And when you are sped, I will try +the Spanish stroke—upwards with a turn ere you withdraw, that +I learned from Ruiz—on the shaven pate. I see them about +me now!” the old man continued, his face flushing, his form dilating. +“It will be odd if I cannot snatch a sword and hew down three +to go with Tavannes! And Bigot, he will see my lord the Marshal +by-and-by; and as I do to the priest, the Marshal will do to Montsoreau. +Ho! ho! He will teach him the <i>coup de Jarnac</i>, never fear!” +And the old man’s moustaches curled up ferociously.</p> +<p>Count Hannibal’s eyes sparkled with joy. “Old dog!” +he cried—and he held his hand to the veteran, who brushed it reverently +with his lips—“we will go together then! Who touches +my brother, touches Tavannes!”</p> +<p>“Touches Tavannes!” Badelon cried, the glow of battle +lighting his bloodshot eyes. He rose to his feet. “Touches +Tavannes! You mind at Jarnac—”</p> +<p>“Ah! At Jarnac!”</p> +<p>“When we charged their horse, was my boot a foot from yours, +my lord?”</p> +<p>“Not a foot!”</p> +<p>“And at Dreux,” the old man continued with a proud, elated +gesture, “when we rode down the German pikemen—they were +grass before us, leaves on the wind, thistledown—was it not I +who covered your bridle hand, and swerved not in the <i>mêlée</i>?”</p> +<p>“It was! It was!”</p> +<p>“And at St. Quentin, when we fled before the Spaniard—it +was his day, you remember, and cost us dear—”</p> +<p>“Ay, I was young then,” Tavannes cried in turn, his eyes +glistening. “St. Quentin! It was the tenth of August. +And you were new with me, and seized my rein—”</p> +<p>“And we rode off together, my lord—of the last, of the +last, as God sees me! And striking as we went, so that they left +us for easier game.”</p> +<p>“It was so, good sword! I remember it as if it had been +yesterday!”</p> +<p>“And at Cerisoles, the Battle of the Plain, in the old Spanish +wars, that was most like a joust of all the pitched fields I ever saw—at +Cerisoles, where I caught your horse? You mind me? It was +in the shock when we broke Guasto’s line—”</p> +<p>“At Cerisoles?” Count Hannibal muttered slowly. +“Why, man, I—”</p> +<p>“I caught your horse, and mounted you afresh? You remember, +my lord? And at Landriano, where Leyva turned the tables on us +again.”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal stared. “Landriano?” he muttered +bluntly. “’Twas in ’29, forty years ago and +more! My father, indeed—”</p> +<p>“And at Rome—at Rome, my lord? <i>Mon Dieu</i>! +in the old days at Rome! When the Spanish company scaled the wall—Ruiz +was first, I next—was it not my foot you held? And was it +not I who dragged you up, while the devils of Swiss pressed us hard? +Ah, those were days, my lord! I was young then, and you, my lord, +young too, and handsome as the morning—”</p> +<p>“You rave!” Tavannes cried, finding his tongue at last. +“Rome? You rave, old man! Why, I was not born in those +days. My father even was a boy! It was in ’27 you +sacked it—five-and-forty years ago!”</p> +<p>The old man passed his hands over his heated face, and, as a man +roused suddenly from sleep looks, he looked round the room. The +light died out of his eyes—as a light blown out in a room; his +form seemed to shrink, even while the others gazed at him, and he sat +down.</p> +<p>“No, I remember,” he muttered slowly. “It +was Prince Philibert of Chalons, my lord of Orange.”</p> +<p>“Dead these forty years!”</p> +<p>“Ay, dead these forty years! All dead!” the old +man whispered, gazing at his gnarled hand, and opening and shutting +it by turns. “And I grow childish! ’Tis time, +high time, I followed them! It trembles now; but have no fear, +my lord, this hand will not tremble then. All dead! Ay, +all dead!”</p> +<p>He sank into a mournful silence; and Tavannes, after gazing at him +awhile in rough pity, fell to his own meditations, which were gloomy +enough. The day was beginning to wane, and with the downward turn, +though the sun still shone brightly through the southern windows, a +shadow seemed to fall across his thoughts. They no longer rioted +in a turmoil of defiance as in the forenoon. In its turn, sober +reflection marshalled the past before his eyes. The hopes of a +life, the ambitions of a life, moved in sombre procession, and things +done and things left undone, the sovereignty which Nostradamus had promised, +the faces of men he had spared and of men he had not spared—and +the face of one woman.</p> +<p>She would not now be his. He had played highly, and he would +lose highly, playing the game to the end, that to-morrow she might think +of him highly. Had she begun to think of him at all? In +the chamber of the inn at Angers he had fancied a change in her, an +awakening to life and warmth, a shadow of turning to him. It had +pleased him to think so, at any rate. It pleased him still to +imagine—of this he was more confident—that in the time to +come, when she was Tignonville’s, she would think of him secretly +and kindly. She would remember him, and in her thoughts and in +her memory he would grow to the heroic, even as the man she had chosen +would shrink as she learned to know him.</p> +<p>It pleased him, that. It was almost all that was left to please +him—that, and to die proudly as he had lived. But as the +day wore on, and the room grew hot and close, and the pain in his thigh +became more grievous, the frame of his mind altered. A sombre +rage was born and grew in him, and a passion fierce and ill-suppressed. +To end thus, with nothing done, nothing accomplished of all his hopes +and ambitions! To die thus, crushed in a corner by a mean priest +and a rabble of spearmen, he who had seen Dreux and Jarnac, had defied +the King, and dared to turn the St. Bartholomew to his ends! To +die thus, and leave her to that puppet! Strong man as he was, +of a strength of will surpassed by few, it taxed him to the utmost to +lie and make no sign. Once, indeed, he raised himself on his elbow +with something between an oath and a snarl, and he seemed about to speak. +So that Bigot came hurriedly to him.</p> +<p>“My lord?”</p> +<p>“Water!” he said. “Water, fool!” +And, having drunk, he turned his face to the wall, lest he should name +her or ask for her.</p> +<p>For the desire to see her before he died, to look into her eyes, +to touch her hand once, only once, assailed his mind and all but whelmed +his will. She had been with him, he knew it, in the night; she +had left him only at daybreak. But then, in his state of collapse, +he had been hardly conscious of her presence. Now to ask for her +or to see her would stamp him coward, say what he might to her. +The proverb, that the King’s face gives grace, applied to her; +and an overture on his side could mean but one thing, that he sought +her grace. And that he would not do though the cold waters of +death covered him more and more, and the coming of the end—in +that quiet chamber, while the September sun sank to the appointed place—awoke +wild longings and a wild rebellion in his breast. His thoughts +were very bitter, as he lay, his loneliness of the uttermost. +He turned his face to the wall.</p> +<p>In that posture he slept after a time, watched over by Bigot with +looks of rage and pity. And on the room fell a long silence. +The sun had lacked three hours of setting when he fell asleep. +When he re-opened his eyes, and, after lying for a few minutes between +sleep and waking, became conscious of his position, of the day, of the +things which had happened, and his helplessness—an awakening which +wrung from him an involuntary groan—the light in the room was +still strong, and even bright. He fancied for a moment that he +had merely dozed off and awaked again; and he continued to lie with +his face to the wall, courting a return of slumber.</p> +<p>But sleep did not come, and little by little, as he lay listening +and thinking and growing more restless, he got the fancy that he was +alone. The light fell brightly on the wall to which his face was +turned; how could that be if Bigot’s broad shoulders still blocked +the loophole? Presently, to assure himself, he called the man by name.</p> +<p>He got no answer.</p> +<p>“Badelon!” he muttered. “Badelon!”</p> +<p>Had he gone, too, the old and faithful? It seemed so, for again +no answer came.</p> +<p>He had been accustomed all his life to instant service; to see the +act follow the word ere the word ceased to sound. And nothing +which had gone before, nothing which he had suffered since his defeat +at Angers, had brought him to feel his impotence and his position—and +that the end of his power was indeed come—as sharply as this. +The blood rushed to his head; almost the tears to eyes which had not +shed them since boyhood, and would not shed them now, weak as he was! +He rose on his elbow and looked with a full heart; it was as he had +fancied. Badelon’s stool was empty; the embrasure—that +was empty too. Through its narrow outlet he had a tiny view of +the shore and the low rocky hill, of which the summit shone warm in +the last rays of the setting sun.</p> +<p>The setting sun! Ay, for the lower part of the hill was growing +cold; the shore at its foot was grey. Then he had slept long, +and the time was come. He drew a deep breath and listened. +But on all within and without lay silence, a silence marked, rather +than broken, by the dull fall of a wave on the causeway. The day +had been calm, but with the sunset a light breeze was rising.</p> +<p>He set his teeth hard, and continued to listen. An hour before +sunset was the time they had named for the exchange. What did +it mean? In five minutes the sun would be below the horizon; already +the zone of warmth on the hillside was moving and retreating upwards. +And Bigot and old Badelon? Why had they left him while he slept? +An hour before sunset! Why, the room was growing grey, grey and +dark in the corners, and—what was that?</p> +<p>He started, so violently that he jarred his leg, and the pain wrung +a groan from him. At the foot of the bed, overlooked until then, +a woman lay prone on the floor, her face resting on her outstretched +arms. She lay without motion, her head and her clasped hands towards +the loophole, her thick, clubbed hair hiding her neck. A woman! +Count Hannibal stared, and, fancying he dreamed, closed his eyes, then +looked again. It was no phantasm. It was the Countess; it +was his wife!</p> +<p>He drew a deep breath, but he did not speak, though the colour rose +slowly to his cheek. And slowly his eyes devoured her from head +to foot, from the hands lying white in the light below the window to +the shod feet; unchecked he took his fill of that which he had so much +desired—the seeing her! A woman prone, with all of her hidden +but her hands: a hundred acquainted with her would not have known her. +But he knew her, and would have known her from a hundred, nay from a +thousand, by her hands alone.</p> +<p>What was she doing here, and in this guise? He pondered; then +he looked from her for an instant, and saw that while he had gazed at +her the sun had set, the light had passed from the top of the hill; +the world without and the room within were growing cold. Was that +the cause she no longer lay quiet? He saw a shudder run through +her, and a second; then it seemed to him—or was he going mad?—that +she moaned, and prayed in half-heard words, and, wrestling with herself, +beat her forehead on her arms, and then was still again, as still as +death. By the time the paroxysm had passed, the last flush of +sunset had faded from the sky, and the hills were growing dark.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI. HIS KINGDOM.</h2> +<p>Count Hannibal could not have said why he did not speak to her at +once. Warned by an instinct vague and ill-understood, he remained +silent, his eyes riveted on her, until she rose from the floor. +A moment later she met his gaze, and he looked to see her start. +Instead, she stood quiet and thoughtful, regarding him with a kind of +sad solemnity, as if she saw not him only, but the dead; while first +one tremor and then a second shook her frame.</p> +<p>At length “It is over!” she whispered. “Patience, +Monsieur; have no fear, I will be brave. But I must give a little +to him.”</p> +<p>“To him!” Count Hannibal muttered, his face extraordinarily, +pale.</p> +<p>She smiled with an odd passionateness. “Who was my lover!” +she cried, her voice a-thrill. “Who will ever be my lover, +though I have denied him, though I have left him to die! It was +just. He who has so tried me knows it was just! He whom +I have sacrificed—he knows it too, now! But it is hard to +be—just,” with a quavering smile. “You who take +all may give him a little, may pardon me a little, may have—patience!”</p> +<p>Count Hannibal uttered a strangled cry, between a moan and a roar. +A moment he beat the coverlid with his hands in impotence. Then +he sank back on the bed.</p> +<p>“Water!” he muttered. “Water!”</p> +<p>She fetched it hurriedly, and, raising his head on her arm, held +it to his lips. He drank, and lay back again with closed eyes. +He lay so still and so long that she thought that he had fainted; but +after a pause he spoke.</p> +<p>“You have done that?” he whispered; “you have done +that?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” she answered, shuddering. “God forgive +me! I have done that! I had to do that, or—”</p> +<p>“And is it too late—to undo it?”</p> +<p>“It is too late.” A sob choked her voice.</p> +<p>Tears—tears incredible, unnatural—welled from under Count +Hannibal’s closed eyelids, and rolled sluggishly down his harsh +cheek to the edge of his beard.</p> +<p>“I would have gone,” he muttered. “If you +had spoken, I would have spared you this.”</p> +<p>“I know,” she answered unsteadily; “the men told +me.”</p> +<p>“And yet—”</p> +<p>“It was just. And you are my husband,” she replied. +“More, I am the captive of your sword, and as you spared me in +your strength, my lord, I spared you in your weakness.”</p> +<p>“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu, Madame!” he cried, “at +what a cost!”</p> +<p>And that arrested, that touched her in the depths of her grief and +her horror; even while the gibbet on the causeway, which had burned +itself into her eyeballs, hung before her. For she knew that it +was the cost to <i>her</i> he was counting. She knew that for +himself he had ever held life cheap, that he could have seen Tignonville +suffer without a qualm. And the thoughtfulness for her, the value +he placed on a thing—even on a rival’s life—because +its was dear to her, touched her home, moved her as few things could +have moved her at that moment. She saw it of a piece with all +that had gone before, with all that had passed between them, since that +fatal Sunday in Paris. But she made no sign. More than she +had said she would not say; words of love, even of reconciliation, had +no place on her lips while he whom she had sacrificed awaited his burial.</p> +<p>And meantime the man beside her lay and found it incredible. +“It was just,” she had said. And he knew it; Tignonville’s +folly—that and that only had led them into the snare and caused +his own capture. But what had justice to do with the things of +this world? In his experience, the strong hand—that was +justice, in France; and possession—that was law. By the +strong hand he had taken her, and by the strong hand she might have +freed herself.</p> +<p>And she had not. There was the incredible thing. She +had chosen instead to do justice! It passed belief. Opening +his eyes on a silence which had lasted some minutes, a silence rendered +more solemn by the lapping water without, Tavannes saw her kneeling +in the dusk of the chamber, her head bowed over his couch, her face +hidden in her hands. He knew that she prayed, and feebly he deemed +the whole a dream. No scene akin to it had had place in his life; +and, weakened and in pain, he prayed that the vision might last for +ever, that he might never awake.</p> +<p>But by-and-by, wrestling with the dread thought of what she had done, +and the horror which would return upon her by fits and spasms, she flung +out a hand, and it fell on him. He started, and the movement, +jarring the broken limb, wrung from him a cry of pain. She looked +up and was going to speak, when a scuffling of feet under the gateway +arch, and a confused sound of several voices raised at once, arrested +the words on her lips. She rose to her feet and listened. +Dimly he could see her face through the dusk. Her eyes were on +the door, and she breathed quickly.</p> +<p>A moment or two passed in this way, and then from the hurly-burly +in the gateway the footsteps of two men—one limped—detached +themselves and came nearer and nearer. They stopped without. +A gleam of light shone under the door, and some one knocked.</p> +<p>She went to the door, and, withdrawing the bar, stepped quickly back +to the bedside, where for an instant the light borne by those who entered +blinded her. Then, above the lanthorn, the faces of La Tribe and +Bigot broke upon her, and their shining eyes told her that they bore +good news. It was well, for the men seemed tongue-tied. +The minister’s fluency was gone; he was very pale, and it was +Bigot who in the end spoke for both. He stepped forward, and, +kneeling, kissed her cold hand.</p> +<p>“My lady,” he said, “you have gained all, and lost +nothing. Blessed be God!”</p> +<p>“Blessed be God!” the minister wept. And from the +passage without came the sound of laughter and weeping and many voices, +with a flutter of lights and flying skirts, and women’s feet.</p> +<p>She stared at him wildly, doubtfully, her hand at her throat.</p> +<p>“What?” she said, “he is not dead—M. de Tignonville?”</p> +<p>“No, he is alive,” La Tribe answered, “he is alive.” +And he lifted up his hands as if he gave thanks.</p> +<p>“Alive?” she cried. “Alive! Oh, Heaven +is merciful. You are sure? You are sure?”</p> +<p>“Sure, Madame, sure. He was not in their hands. +He was dismounted in the first shock, it seems, and, coming to himself +after a time, crept away and reached St. Gilles, and came hither in +a boat. But the enemy learned that he had not entered with us, +and of this the priest wove his snare. Blessed be God, who put +it into your heart to escape it!”</p> +<p>The Countess stood motionless, and with closed eyes pressed her hands +to her temples. Once she swayed as if she would fall her length, +and Bigot sprang forward to support and save her. But she opened +her eyes at that, sighed very deeply, and seemed to recover herself.</p> +<p>“You are sure?” she said faintly. “It is +no trick?”</p> +<p>“No, Madame, it is no trick,” La Tribe answered. +“M. de Tignonville is alive, and here.”</p> +<p>“Here!” She started at the word. The colour +fluttered in her cheek. “But the keys,” she murmured. +And she passed her hand across her brow. “I thought—that +I had them.”</p> +<p>“He has not entered,” the minister answered, “for +that reason. He is waiting at the postern, where he landed. +He came, hoping to be of use to you.”</p> +<p>She paused a moment, and when she spoke again her aspect had undergone +a subtle change. Her head was high, a flush had risen to her cheeks, +her eyes were bright.</p> +<p>“Then,” she said, addressing La Tribe, “do you, +Monsieur, go to him, and pray him in my name to retire to St. Gilles, +if he can do so without peril. He has no place here—now; +and if he can go safely to his home it will be well that he do so. +Add, if you please, that Madame de Tavannes thanks him for his offer +of aid, but in her husband’s house she needs no other protection.”</p> +<p>Bigot’s eyes sparkled with joy.</p> +<p>The minister hesitated. “No more, Madame?” he faltered. +He was tender-hearted, and Tignonville was of his people.</p> +<p>“No more,” she said gravely, bowing her head. “It +is not M. de Tignonville I have to thank, but Heaven’s mercy, +that I do not stand here at this moment unhappy as I entered—a +woman accursed, to be pointed at while I live. And the dead”—she +pointed solemnly through the dark casement to the shore—“the +dead lie there.”</p> +<p>La Tribe went.</p> +<p>She stood a moment in thought, and then took the keys from the rough +stone window-ledge on which she had laid them when she entered. +As the cold iron touched her fingers she shuddered. The contact +awoke again the horror and misery in which she had groped, a lost thing, +when she last felt that chill.</p> +<p>“Take them,” she said; and she gave them to Bigot. +“Until my lord can leave his couch they will remain in your charge, +and you will answer for all to him. Go, now, take the light; and +in half an hour send Madame Carlat to me.”</p> +<p>A wave broke heavily on the causeway and ran down seething to the +sea; and another and another, filling the room with rhythmical thunders. +But the voice of the sea was no longer the same in the darkness, where +the Countess knelt in silence beside the bed—knelt, her head bowed +on her clasped hands, as she had knelt before, but with a mind how different, +with what different thoughts! Count Hannibal could see her head +but dimly, for the light shed upwards by the spume of the sea fell only +on the rafters. But he knew she was there, and he would fain, +for his heart was full, have laid his hand on her hair.</p> +<p>And yet he would not. He would not, out of pride. Instead +he bit on his harsh beard, and lay looking upward to the rafters, waiting +what would come. He who had held her at his will now lay at hers, +and waited. He who had spared her life at a price now took his +own a gift at her hands, and bore it.</p> +<p>“<i>Afterwards, Madame de Tavannes</i>—”</p> +<p>His mind went back by some chance to those words—the words +he had neither meant nor fulfilled. It passed from them to the +marriage and the blow; to the scene in the meadow beside the river; +to the last ride between La Flèche and Angers—the ride +during which he had played with her fears and hugged himself on the +figure he would make on the morrow. The figure? Alas! of +all his plans for dazzling her had come—<i>this</i>! Angers +had defeated him, a priest had worsted him. In place of releasing +Tignonville after the fashion of Bayard and the Paladins, and in the +teeth of snarling thousands, he had come near to releasing him after +another fashion and at his own expense. Instead of dazzling her +by his mastery and winning her by his magnanimity, he lay here, owing +her his life, and so weak, so broken, that the tears of childhood welled +up in his eyes.</p> +<p>Out of the darkness a hand, cool and firm, slid into his, clasped +it tightly, drew it to warm lips, carried it to a woman’s bosom.</p> +<p>“My lord,” she murmured, “I was the captive of +your sword, and you spared me. Him I loved you took and spared +him too—not once or twice. Angers, also, and my people you +would have saved for my sake. And you thought I could do this! +Oh! shame, shame!” But her hand held his always.</p> +<p>“You loved him,” he muttered.</p> +<p>“Yes, I loved him,” she answered slowly and thoughtfully. +“I loved him.” And she fell silent a minute. +Then, “And I feared you,” she added, her voice low. +“Oh, how I feared you—and hated you!”</p> +<p>“And now?”</p> +<p>“I do not fear him,” she answered, smiling in the darkness. +“Nor hate him. And for you, my lord, I am your wife and +must do your bidding, whether I will or no. I have no choice.”</p> +<p>He was silent.</p> +<p>“Is that not so?” she asked.</p> +<p>He tried weakly to withdraw his hand.</p> +<p>But she clung to it. “I must bear your blows or your +kisses. I must be as you will and do as you will, and go happy +or sad, lonely or with you, as you will! As you will, my lord! +For I am your chattel, your property, your own. Have you not told +me so?”</p> +<p>“But your heart,” he cried fiercely, “is his! +Your heart, which you told me in the meadow could never be mine!”</p> +<p>“I lied,” she murmured, laughing tearfully, and her hands +hovered over him. “It has come back! And it is on +my lips.”</p> +<p>And she leant over and kissed him. And Count Hannibal knew +that he had entered into his kingdom, the sovereignty of a woman’s +heart.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>An hour later there was a stir in the village on the mainland. +Lanthorns began to flit to and fro. Sulkily men were saddling +and preparing for the road. It was far to Challans, farther to +Lège—more than one day, and many a weary league to Ponts +de Cé and the Loire. The men who had ridden gaily southwards +on the scent of spoil and revenge turned their backs on the castle with +many a sullen oath and word. They burned a hovel or two, and stripped +such as they spared, after the fashion of the day; and it had gone ill +with the peasant woman who fell into their hands. Fortunately, +under cover of the previous night every soul had escaped from the village, +some to sea, and the rest to take shelter among the sand-dunes; and +as the troopers rode up the path from the beach, and through the green +valley, where their horses shied from the bodies of the men they had +slain, there was not an eye to see them go.</p> +<p>Or to mark the man who rode last, the man of the white face—scarred +on the temple—and the burning eyes, who paused on the brow of +the hill, and, before he passed beyond, cursed with quivering lips the +foe who had escaped him. The words were lost, as soon as spoken, +in the murmur of the sea on the causeway; the sea, fit emblem of the +Eternal, which rolled its tide regardless of blessing or cursing, good +or ill will, nor spared one jot of ebb or flow because a puny creature +had spoken to the night.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNT HANNIBAL***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 15763-h.htm or 15763-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/7/6/15763 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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