Let those who have sat by the last awful struggle of one they love judge how bitter were my five hours' agony with the sun upon my back. I had failed, and the price of failure was a holiday-spectacle in the market-place of Poictiers. Jan Meert's express was hours ahead of me, and I was too wise or too weary to hope for the King's mercy.
As the day broadened life crept out to its labour; peasants in the fields, women by the village wells, children in the doorways, stood and stared as I passed. On the roads, especially as I drew near Tours, the trickle of travel thickened, forcing a march in the cool of the morning. Merchants with their bales, men-at-arms, a noble and his train of hired bullies; and though these did more than stare, their coarse jests failed to penetrate the armour of my despair. The whiteness of my face, and perhaps the fire in my eyes, saved me from any insult worse than words; for once, when one who would have called himself a gentleman seized my rein, I had but to throw back my hair and look him in the eyes. With a "Curse her, she's mad!" he snatched back his hand, and I rode on unmolested.
But even these five hours came to an end. At the gates of Plessis there was an astonishing disorder. Had I been coifed, court clad, and dainty as a lady fresh from Tours, I might have passed without notice in the confusion. But the dust-sown woman on the broken horse, her riding chair awry, her skirts rent, her hair in straggled wisps below her shoulders, could not go unchallenged.
"Monsieur de Commines, take me to Monsieur de Commines; on the King's service!" and I held out the ring. "Oh, sirs, sirs! for the love of God, make haste!"
At first I thought they would refuse me, for they drew aside and talked in whispers. Then one in authority said, "Better take her; who can tell what will happen next, or which way the wheel will turn." So they led me in through the triple gates, Anita with her nose between her knees for weariness, and the fellow who held the rein cursing her slowness, while he looked back at the entrance as if his heart lay there. Midway, down a quadrangle, he pointed to a door. "Commines' lodgings," he said curtly, and returned, running, the way he came.
Leaving Anita where she stood, I pushed the door open and called aloud—
"Monsieur de Commines! Monsieur de Commines!"
"He is with the King," answered a voice from the floor above, and leisurely feet moved towards the stairs. "Who wants Monseigneur?"
"Gaspard de Helville," said I; "and oh! Monsieur, whoever you are; if you have any pity, will you make haste!"
"Gaspard de Helville!" The leisurely tread quickened to a run, and a well-grown page lad came flying downstairs almost at a leap. "De Helville? How can that be? De Helville is—Madame—Mademoiselle—"
"Monsieur de Commines? Bring me to him. Oh, Monsieur! can you not see the haste and trouble I am in?"
"But he is with the King."
"Then he must leave the King."
"But the King is ill, some say dying——"
"Other men die as well as kings, and are we all to go a-mourning because the King is ill? I must—do you hear?—I must see Monsieur de Commines." Then I tried a woman's wile upon him. Smoothing back my hair, so that he could see my face, the weary whiteness of it, and the great black hollows circling the eyes, I touched him timidly. "See, Monsieur, I have ridden all night from Poictiers to save Gaspard de Helville's life—I, a woman, and alone. I know there is a risk to you in this thing I ask——"
"I'll do it," he said curtly, too much of a man not to be moved, and too much of a boy not to be wounded in his pride; "that is, I'll put a message through, but I don't believe Monseigneur can come!"
"Ah, Monsieur!" I cried, "your heart does justice to your kindly face," which made him redden, for it was his susceptibility that was touched rather than his heart, and he was still too much of a boy to relish a compliment. "Fetch pen, ink, and wax, that I may write the message."
For this very purpose I had brought with me the letter Monsieur de Commines had written to Navarre months before, and which was the cause of my journey to Paris. As may be supposed, it was not one to compromise the writer, no matter into whose hands it fell. Across it I wrote—Suzanne de Narbonne.The Cross of Flanders.Paris; and, reversing it so that the letter and address were inside, sealed it with the King's seal as a warrant for any importunity at the door of the sick room.
"Is anything known of Monsieur de Helville?" I asked, tying a strand of silk through the wax with hands that shook as much from dread of the answer as with fatigue.
"Jan Meert, the Fleming, left Plessis on Monday——"
"I know all that, but since then?"
"Nothing. Monseigneur has not quitted the King's side all night. When I heard your voice I thought Monsieur de Helville had changed his route, and so evaded capture."
"How could he?"
"Second thoughts, Mademoiselle."
"When he had passed his word? I see you do not know Gaspard de Helville. Do gentlemen in Plessis break their word on second thoughts? There is the letter, Monsieur, and oh, I pray you, make haste back!"
And so he did, and with him came Monseigneur, though not so quickly but I had time to lessen the disorder of my dress.
"Go thou upstairs and wait, boy," he said curtly; then, closing the door, came forward with both hands outstretched, but in appeal rather than welcome. "Mademoiselle de Narbonne! Mademoiselle de Narbonne! What does this madness mean? Would you ruin us all?"
"Monsieur de Helville—what of him? Oh, Monseigneur, what has happened?"
"De Helville!" and he drew in his breath with a prolonged hiss like a man who receives a hurt. "I feared it, from the first I feared it; poor de Helville! Mademoiselle, it is no fault of mine."
"Oh, Monseigneur!" I answered bitterly, for this excusing of himself before he was blamed angered me, "when were you ever at fault; you who are so clever, so cautious—of yourself! But what of Monsieur de Helville? who is too honest to be clever at court, too single of heart to think of himself. Is anything decided?"
For a moment he stood looking down upon me, his hard, keen eyes piercing me through and through; never have I met a man with harder, keener, bolder eyes than Monsieur de Commines. Then a softening pity broke across his face.
"Mademoiselle de Narbonne, what is de Helville to you?" said he, but with a gentleness, a commiseration, that took the offence out of the blunt question.
"Everything, for I love him," I replied, trying hard not to sob. "Oh, Monseigneur! cannot you see how this waiting tears my heart to pieces?"
"The King is implacable," he answered, "inexorable; there is no hope."
No hope! I could not speak, I could only put a hand to my throat and fight for breath.
"On Monday Jan Meert was sent to Poictiers——"
"Oh, Monseigneur, I know that; come to to-day."
"But," he persisted, "at least you cannot know that after nightfall yesterday Monsieur de Helville was arrested?"
"I saw it done, God help me, I saw it done."
"You, Mademoiselle? But it was at Poictiers!"
"At Poictiers," I echoed. "And all night I rode to catch your ear first. But I failed, unhappy woman that I am, I failed."
"All night?" he said, throwing his arms up. "A girl like you? Oh, poor child, poor child! We must try to save him yet."
"Is there time? Ah, Monseigneur, believe me, the worst truth is the truest mercy. Is there possible time?"
"Till dawn on Sunday," he answered, and for a minute we looked into one another's face in silence. What his thoughts were I do not know, but I struggled hard to count the hours that lay before the breaking of that dawn. But I could not; my brain was dumb of thought, and I could not. At last I caught at the one word—Sunday! and over and over again I said it as they say birds repeat a word when taught to speak. Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! and with as little understanding as they.
"The King fixed the day. All through he has taken a marvellous interest in this mission of de Helville's. I trust, Mademoiselle de Narbonne, that you know I am ignorant of its purposes, entirely ignorant?"
"Oh, Monseigneur!" answered I, "what do you or I matter? Or our ignorance or our knowledge either? Tell me of—of—Gaspard."
Perhaps I spoke more sharply than was just, for his face hardened, and his keen eyes grew stormy. But only for an instant, and it is much to Monsieur de Commines' credit that he bore so temperately with the captiousness of a petulant girl.
"I say the King was marvellously interested in de Helville's mission to Navarre," he went on quietly. "I think he knew it was his last blow for France, and that it should succeed was very near his heart. As time passed without news from de Helville he grew impatient, fretful, hotly passionate. For hours he would sit in the sunshine with not even his dogs near him, sit staring into vacancy while he mumbled his finger-tips like a dog a bone. Then in a flash, and for no cause, a storm of rage would shake him to so violent a mood that not even Coctier himself dared cross its course. Crooking his fingers he shook them in the air, cursing whatever crossed his mind, his son Charles, Rochfort, Navarre, de Helville, the Saints themselves, but chiefly Navarre and de Helville. At last, three weeks ago, he wrote again. What he said I do not know, though my seal closed the letter."
"I know," said I. "It was a truly Kingly warning, and of a noble dignity. Go on, Monseigneur, if you please."
"Then—I was absent in Tours that day—there came a post from the south, and for the first time I saw the depths of the King's rage. Mademoiselle, I am his servant and his friend, and I cannot speak of it. But the fierce mood was gone, and in its place there was an ice-cold, hungry, unemotional hate; an itching, craving lust for de Helville's death, infinitely more hopeless than the outbursts of his boisterous anger."
"And yet he let the woman go free?"
Monsieur de Commines searched my face anxiously.
"You have heard of her?"
"From Monsieur de Helville, at Morsigny. Monsieur de Helville had nothing to hide. How did your friend and master come to let the woman go?"
"That was Francis of Paulo's doing. Louis would have—I do not know what he would have done. But the friar stood over him, just these two alone, and the King, falling back into one of his dour, silent moods, gave way."
"Then there is hope yet!" I cried. "Surely surely, he will move the King to mercy——"
But Monseigneur, holding up his hand, waved away the hope.
"He has tried already, tried time and again, and failed. He even threatened to withhold absolution, and the King turned on him like a beast rather than a man. 'Away with you! away! away!' he cried. 'Your prayers were to prolong my life, and yet what am I? Is this—miserable that I am!—is this all your prayer can wring out of the Lord God? If you cannot save the lesser thing of the body, how can you damn the greater soul? Curse, if you must curse, but this Hellewyl dies.'"
"And yet," said I dully, "he moved the King to spare the woman."
"Louis has his own code of law. By it de Helville's return absolved the woman, and so in that case the monk prevailed. But no power can move him for de Helville. I pled with him, knelt to him, almost wept; prayed that if ever he owed me anything for all my eleven years of labour to pay it now in this one man's life. His only answer was a scoff, and that as I had betrayed Burgundy for pay eleven years ago, so now I would betray France. 'It was you,' he added, 'who put this milk-souled boor of a Fleming into my head, and by God! I have a mind to hang you alongside him as a warning to all fools as well as rogues.' Move him! Not Gabriel, not Michael, not the whole hierarchy of heaven would move him. He cries it is but Justice—Justice, and de Helville was arrested in Poictiers last night."
"I know, I know, but what came next?"
"At daybreak this morning the express reached Plessis, and by Louis' orders the news was at once brought to him. I was with him at the time; all night I have never left him. But when I would have spoken he shook his finger at me, and laid his hand upon the collar with the Cross of Saint Lo. 'Dawn on Sunday,' he whispered to Lesellè. He is so weak, Mademoiselle, pitiably weak in the flesh, but the will and the spirit are as strong as ever. 'Dawn on Sunday. That day the saints draw nearer to us, and I would not kill the soul with the body. Hang him at dawn, Lesellè.'"
"And this man is himself dying!" I cried.
"Dying, Mademoiselle?" said Commines. "Who said he was dying? I know that even in Plessis there are those who waver, and would fly to Charles if they dared; but—dying? No! no! It would be the ruin of France."
"Oh, Monseigneur! what do I care for the ruin of France? Dawn on Sunday! Gaspard! Gaspard! not two days! Monsieur de Commines, I must see the King."
"The King? You?" he answered brusquely. "No, no; how could you see him?"
"Your King is not so great but Suzanne de Narbonne might be received."
"I know, Mademoiselle, I know; but it is precisely because you are Suzanne de Narbonne. Why destroy yourself? Your very name is fatal."
"Do you think, Monsieur, that if I were afraid for myself I would have ridden from Poictiers last night? He need not know my name."
"But I dare not risk it," and again he shook his head.
"Risk what, Monseigneur? Risk me, yourself, or the King?"
"All three," he answered—"all three. You cannot understand."
"Then what you dare not I will dare. In spite of you, Monsieur de Commines, I will force my way to the King, and if all three perish, they perish."
For a moment he stood and stared angrily at me, then, as once before, his face softened.
"Oh, you poor child! There are six separate guards, and you could not pass the first of them."
"What! Not with that?" and I held the signet up towards him.
"That?" He bent forward uncomprehendingly. But a single glance was enough, and as he understood, I saw him wince.
"The ring de Helville carried away? I remember now. When the King asked for it I said I had given it to him that there might be no delay on his return. He was so eager for news that he held me excused."
"Then you are beaten, Monseigneur?"
"Yes and No," he answered. "I will tell you the whole truth, Mademoiselle. The King is too ill; this time I fear he is dying."
"And yet I shall see him. Monsieur de Helville is more to me than any King living or dying."
"Mademoiselle, you force me to say more than is safe. Alas! it is you who are beaten. You might as well cry to a log upon the bed. The King is unconscious. Had that not been so, I could not have left him. The express from Poictiers sapped his strength."
"The news of Gaspard's arrest? That is the finger of God, Monseigneur."
"Perhaps so," he answered moodily. "But remember, Mademoiselle de Narbonne, in spite of all, he is my King and my friend."
There was a silence between us while I tried to tear a way out of the net that bound me, then, in desperation, I cried out—
"Monsieur de Commines, you are a subtle, supple courtier-politician, playing your own game through the hand of the King. Is all this true?"
"True, God so judge me," he replied solemnly. "But, Mademoiselle, I do not say there is no hope; I believe the stupor will pass. I promise you this, so soon as the King's brain is clear you shall see him. I owe de Helville too much not to make the effort, and even though my debt was less, your courage and your love would compel me."
At the time I thought that my holding the King's signet had much to do with the compulsion, but I curbed my tongue. For the present I was helpless, and the future was in the hands of his good-will. Therefore I only said—
"I hold your promise, Monseigneur; on the faith of a Christian gentleman?"
"You hold it, Mademoiselle," answered he, earnestly; "and now, while I return to the King, you must eat, drink, and rest. Oh! not for your own sake," he went on, as I shook my head in protest, "but for Monsieur de Helville's. If you are to move the King at all, you must have strength to command your every word and act, no matter under what provocation."
The sound sense of that was plain, though I could see that Monseigneur spoke more out of a perfunctoriness and kindness of heart rather than any real expectation that I should have cause to put a tax upon my powers. So, while he was absent, Blaise, his page, served me, and I made it my steadfast duty to force down bite and sup, resting on a couch as I ate. And, indeed, I was not only very weary, but in much pain, though more of spirit than body. Think what the waiting in inaction was to me, and judge if each minute did not creep through my thought slowly, slowly, and yet searing as if it was red hot.
At last, late in the afternoon, the lad Blaise came for me in great haste.
"Mademoiselle, the King is asking for you."
"For me? How can that be?"
"I only know what I am told," he answered, fumbling at his bonnet.
"Is that all Monsieur de Commines' message?"
I have studied boys as well as men, and from his confusion I guessed his mind was burdened by more than he had delivered. At the question, his face flushed red in the sunlight, and he broke out—
"Mademoiselle, I hate the court, and court ways. God made me for a plain soldier, and not to truckle in mud."
"Wait," said I; "presently you will find that mud is your surest stepping-place to fortune. What more had you to say?"
"Monsieur de Commines beseeches you not to be angry if the King thinks evil of you; if he even puts a vile construction on your friendship for Monsieur de Helville."
"The King can think no more vilely of me than I of him," I answered hotly. Then my heart leaped into my mouth. Not for myself; for me the bitterness of fear was long past: but with that illumination which they say the drowning have at the last, I suddenly realised that Gaspard's life hung not alone on my powers of pleading, but on my self-control. All my grown years I had hated, loathed, and despised Louis of Valois, not only as the merciless enemy of Navarre, but as the vilest, meanest cunning spirit that ever made flesh contemptible. What if that loathing and despisal crept into my pleading and pled against me? What if that hatred, which to me was almost a religion, flashed through my prayer and blasted the King's mercy? What if they hardened Louis' softer mood, and so left me all my life guilty of Gaspard's blood? What if——
"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" cried Blaise, half piteously, half in indignation. "Do not look so horrified, so troubled. It was a lie, we all know it was a lie."
"Did Monsieur de Commines say, It is a lie?"
"For policy's sake, Mademoiselle——"
"Policy! policy! policy! That is Monsieur de Commines all over. Truth? There is no truth, there is only policy. A woman's honour? her reputation? her good name? To his slippery, pliant policy all these are nothing. There, there, Monsieur Blaise, it is my turn to say, do not look so horrified! Monsieur de Commines is his master's mirror."
At the first door a red-haired youth whom Blaise called Dâvidd was waiting for us, and with him as surety we passed through guard after guard unchallenged. Up what stairs, along what corridors, through what anterooms we were led I do not know; nor could I tell whether the furnishings of Plessis were those of the palace or the prison. If the hanging, were of silk I did not see them; if there were carvings, gildings, fretwork, my eyes passed them blindly by. Only there were men everywhere, men who whispered eagerly together in groups of threes and fours, and who turned to watch us curiously as we left them behind.
Before an open door, guarded as every other door had been through which we had come, Monsieur de Commines was waiting for us.
"Come!" said he, brusquely, almost dragging me after him, while Blaise and Dâvidd stood aside, "and remember, no matter what he may say, remember more than de Helville's life hangs on the turn of a word."
"I am not afraid," I began.
"But I am," he interrupted, "horribly, horribly afraid."
"Hey! Is that de Helville's woman, d'Argenton?" said a weak, whispering voice from the end of the room. It was the King, pipingly thin and harshly raucous by turns as weakness of flesh or strength of spirit got the upper hand. "Get out of the light, and let me look at her. Heh! heh! heh!" and he laughed a little snickering laugh through his nose. "What a lover he was, that de Helville! Bloused as a poppy or peaked and pale, they were all as one to him. What is your name, girl?"
From where he stood, a little in advance of me, I saw Monsieur de Commines start. He even opened his mouth as if to speak, but though he kept silence, his side-long glance was at once an entreaty and a repetition of his warning.
"Ah! Sire," said I, "might I not be spared that?"
"You can understand, your Majesty," said Monseigneur, his voice hard and jerky as if in bad control, "that under the circumstances Mademoiselle would prefer——"
"Of course," broke in Louis, though how can I give the cutting contempt of his sneer? "Modest retirement at all times becomes a woman. Meek virtue that consorts with this Hellewyl from Navarre to Poictiers, and heaven knows how long before, is shocked at the bare whispering of its name! Heh! heh! heh! What do they call you, girl?"
"It is not that, Sire," said Monsieur de Commines hastily, waving a monitory hand at me behind his back that I should keep silence. It was a hard thing to ask a woman at such a time and under such an imputation; but it was Gaspard's life I played for, and so I controlled myself. "Not that, ah, no! such brazen bashfulness would truly be absurd—in such a woman as your Majesty describes. But Hellewyl is unhappily in disgrace——"
"Disgrace!" cried Louis, his voice strengthening to a screech. "God's name! man, have you no better word than that? A damned treacherous cur who has cost France a province, and you sweetly lisp he is unhappily in disgrace! If to hang like a common thief is disgrace, and no more than disgrace, then, yes, yes, you are right, your Monsieur de Helville is in disgrace. But he was always a friend of yours, Monsieur le prince?" Flinging back the scarlet cape that covered his meagre shoulders, Louis tore open his cambric vest at the throat and lay back on his high pillows, gasping. "Coctier! Coctier! Come to me, Coctier!—My heart—ah! miserable sinner that I am—my heart as Father Francis says, is deceitful and desperately weak. I cannot trust it, cannot trust it."
The King's bed faced a range of windows opening to the west. Above the head a huge canopy projected, the hangings of which had been removed for sake of air; only at the extreme ends were there curtains remaining. These were drawn back as flat to the wall as the heavy silk would pack, but the carved pillars which supported the canopy gave a heavy, cumbersome appearance to the bed. Between these pillars cushions had been piled, raising the King almost to a sitting posture, but with complete and much-needed support.
Never had I seen such an anatomy of a man, and had he not been Louis of Valois I could have wept for pity. His eyes, filmed with grey and colourless from weakness, were sunk deep in a skull to which the skin clung flat, yellow as ancient parchment, and forcing into relief every bony curve and prominence. Naked in throat and chest, the tense sinews played up and down in the lean neck with every articulation, while across the hollow chest the bones showed like white knuckles through the strained skin. His loose sleeves had fallen back beyond the elbow, and the bare arms, stretched downwards on the counterpane, were shrunken to a skeleton. For four days no razor had touched him, and a thin frost lay upon the mouth, framing into relief the cruel straight lines of the sunken lips, through which the gapped and blackened teeth showed at every sneering laugh or outburst of rage. Had he died, and had his father the devil, entering in, raised him to life again, he could not have looked more like a mask of wasted malevolent mortality.
"Coctier!" he went on, slanting his eyes at us without turning his head. "They will kill me, Coctier, if they cross me like this."
From behind the shelter of the twisted pillar of the bedstead a man in a loose suit of grey stuffs leaned over him, putting a cup to his mouth.
"You hear, Monsieur d'Argenton? The responsibility is yours."
"His Majesty sent for—for—this lady," answered Monseigneur doggedly, "and, Sire, truly you mistake. What this—lady fears, is lest your righteous anger should strike more than Monsieur de Helville."
Sucking the liquid from the cup with as much noise and spilling of its contents as if he had been a half-weaned child, the King pointed a shaking finger at me.
"That—that—lady," he said, mocking, "need have no fear. I have Monsieur—how civil you are, d'Argenton, with your Monsieurs and your ladys!—I have the rascal Hellewyl safe, and will hurt neither her nor hers. God forbid!" he went on unctuously, and turning his eyes towards the side of the bed opposite to where Maître Coctier stood. There, a guardian over the soul, as Coctier over the body—and which was the more grievously sick, God knows!—stood a frocked monk, white bearded, white moustached, and rigid as a statue, his hands folded humbly across his breast. "God forbid that I should punish the innocent for the guilty, that would be mortal sin, eh, Father Francis?"
"Then, Sire," cried Monseigneur, "we have your promise?"
"My oath, if you like, man! Why! what a mystery you make about a—a—common——"
"She is Mademoiselle de Narbonne," said Monsieur de Commines, breaking in curtly, as Louis paused to pick his vilest epithet.
Drawing his palms under him at each side, the King pushed himself to such a sitting posture that for very weakness his chin fell forward on his breast.
"Narbonne?" he whispered huskily, his jaw working with sudden excitement. Whether from Coctier's potion or from some stimulant of the devil, fire woke in the dull eyes; and a broad spot of red flushed the skin above the cheek bones. "A Narbonne, you say, d'Argenton—a Narbonne? And yet this rascal Hellewyl——"
"Monsieur de Helville's promised wife, Sire," I cried, crushing back my indignation, and falling on my knees to this loathsome King. "A miserable, broken-hearted woman who pleads for her lover's life. Oh, Sire, Sire! be merciful, be gracious. As God has given you greatness——"
"Bah!" he snarled in a splutter; "be silent, girl!" Then, with a sudden shift to a mocking smoothness, he went on in the same breath: "Oh! we ask your pardon! Give us time to think, Mademoiselle de Narbonne. Narbonne? ho! ho! Narbonne? Narbonne? Come nearer, d'Argenton," and sinking back on his pillows with a moan he beckoned to Monseigneur. "Narbonne? What Narbonne?"
"Cousin twice or thrice removed to Jean de Foix, Sire, and guardian to the young Gaston."
"By God! d'Argenton, we win in the end!" he broke out, shaking his finger at me. "Cousin to Jean de Foix? That girl stands for Navarre, and we'll wring—wring our rights out of her!"
"Oh, Sire!" cried Monseigneur, "your promise, your promise!"
"Your oath!" said a deeper voice, and Francis of Paulo laid his hands fearlessly on the meagre shoulder nearest him. "Dare you forswear yourself—dare you lie in the very ear of God, and the grave open at the bed's edge?"
Round upon him turned Louis, striking upward feebly like an angry cat.
"No oath!" he cried shrilly, his yellow face suffused by excited rage. "I swore no oath, I only said—only said—said——" His voice died away in a quaver as his eyes met those of the white-haired monk set in unshrinking sternness. "I submit, Father, I submit. Heaven is too strong for me, poor weak wretch that I am. But, pray God, heaven is worth a province. It is a long price to pay for a man's soul. But what we must not wring we may win by consent, a consent free from all pressure of compulsion? For that I must—I must think. Mademoiselle de Narbonne, your pleading has moved my pity, as you see, moved it greatly. From my heart I grieve for your sorrow. If—mark, for to-day I say no more thanif—if Justice allows mercy—it is France who is offended, not I—would you wish to be the one to carry Monsieur de Helville's pardon to Poictiers?"
"If I might, Sire," I answered, my heart beating so fast that I could hardly draw breath.
"And if—not? If France can find no excuse, what then? Would you still wish to say—farewell?"
"Farewell? Not that, not that; give me his life, Sire, give me his life, and in return everything that service, everything that devotion can do——"
"Perhaps," he broke in sharply, "perhaps you can find me excuses for Monsieur de Helville, excuses that will satisfy—France! What will you give—France for his life?"
"Oh, Sire!" I answered, half crying, for it seemed to me he played with my misery, "what can I give France?"
"Navarre!" Leaning his chin on his palm, he bit furiously at his finger-nails. "Navarre! a child for a man. No, no, no, do not answer now, wait till you see Poictiers' market-place clear in your mind as it will be next Sunday at dawn. Wait and think. Go away for to-day, go away. I am tired and must rest, is it not so, Coctier? Only, I would be merciful. Come again to-morrow, and meanwhile, think hard."
"To-morrow, Sire?" I cried, now fully weeping and too confused to grasp the meaning of all he said. "Oh, Sire! there is so little time."
"Tut, tut! no, no, I am not so ill as that; every hour I am stronger, is it not so, Coctier? Take her away, d'Argenton, take her away, there is no more to be said."
"But Monsieur de Helville—Gaspard—oh, Sire, the dawn of Sunday is so near, so very near."
He had fallen back on the cushions, his thin chest heaving as he fought for breath, his eyes closed all but a narrow slit through which the evil beast in him glared at me. As I took a step towards him, wringing my hands, he shook his head, a dry, mocking smile, twitching his lips.
"The greater need to think hard," he whispered. "A child for a man—to-morrow, when I send for you. In any case you shall see your lover, in any case I will send word. Take her away, d'Argenton, lest worse come to her, oath or no oath. A province for a single soul! Ah! Dear Saint Claude! what a price to pay! Take her away, take her away!"
Not roughly, but with a force I could not combat, Monsieur de Commines caught me by the arm, drawing me in the direction of the door, and the last I knew of Louis of Valois was the skeleton head turned towards me on the pillows, the yellow sunken face wrinkled into a malevolent, smirking laugh, and a piping voice that said:
"Are you there, Father Francis? Mother of Mercy! pray for me, for I am very weak."
Not even when we were beyond the door, not till we were midway down the gallery, and so in comparative privacy between two sets of guards, did he loosen his hold. At first I thought he was angry, so urgent was he, so insistent. But no, his eyes were full of pity, and his face, white and strained, was the face of a man in sore trouble rather than wrath.
"You have failed, Mademoiselle," said he, with a kind of fatherly tenderness that sat strangely on one whose hair was still unsilvered. "That was inevitable from the first. But though you have failed, it will be a comfort hereafter that you made the trial."
"But there is still hope, Monseigneur, surely there is still hope?"
"Yes," he assented with a sudden cheerfulness, "of course you are right, and for to-day hope is our best medicine."
"What did the King mean at the last?" I asked as as we walked slowly onward. "He said I was to think hard. But, Monseigneur, I cannot think. My brain is dazed, is in a whirl. He spoke of a man for a child, but my head swims, and I cannot understand."
"Do not try to understand," he answered very gently. I never thought so stern a man had so much of a woman's tenderness in him. "Think only that yea or nay you are to see Monsieur de Helville again. Have you strength for another ride to Poictiers?"
"To Poictiers to see Gaspard? Why, yes, Monseigneur. Poictiers to see Gaspard! That is nothing."
"Then my advice is, rest. Nurse your strength, Mademoiselle; who knows when it may be needed, or for what crisis."
And I did rest, partly because I was worn threadbare, and partly through a draught Coctier gave me. So Friday drifted into the last day of the week end, and on the morrow Gaspard was to die at dawn.
How the hours of that day passed I cannot tell. They crawled, that was when I sat listening for the footfall of the King's messenger who never came; they flew, that was when I thought of Poictiers' market-place, and what the dawn brought with it. But whether they crept or flew, I was like one groping a way through a maze and forever being turned back.
Twice I tried the stables, but the gear, both bit and saddle, had been hidden away; twice, too, I tried the gates, but was denied passage; none might cross Plessis threshold, even outwards, without the King's permission. Time after time I importuned the guards who kept the outer door of the royal wing—I wept, I pled, I stormed. By turns I was many things, Mademoiselle de Narbonne, Monsieur de Commines' friend and guest, a broken-hearted, despairing woman; but tears, prayers, and threats were alike useless.
So Saturday passed, and the sun went down on the last day of the week.
Through all these desperate hours of failure Blaise and his friend Dâvidd Lesellè went wheresoever I went, and though powerless to help, their dumb sympathy was a comfort. Now, in this growing dusk, they sat with me in silence. I had ceased to weep. To me Gaspard was already dead and I had no more tears. Crouched forward, I watched the western glow fade through amber and palest green to the soft beginnings of the night. Had the sun set in crimson or in cloud, I think I must have shrieked at the omen, so tense and quivering was every nerve. But all was peace, all was calm and tranquillity; and as the purple deepened, deepened, deepened till the stars shone out luminously clear, something of the quiet of nature fell upon my spirit. Then a door clapped noisily, and up the staircase came a rush of feet.
"It is Monseigneur," said Blaise, rousing himself.
On the threshold, Monsieur de Commines stood peering into the darkness of the room. To a sick heart night brings comfort as it brings counsel to doubt, and so the lamps sat unlit in their sources.
"Who is here, and where is Mademoiselle de Narbonne?" he cried.
I, and I, and I, we answered, while I added:
"Oh, Monseigneur, is there hope?"
"God knows!" he said curtly. "Lesellè, dear lad, fetch a light. Mademoiselle, can you ride boy-fashion?"
"Yes, yes; Monsieur de Commines, what has happened?"
"Blaise, you and she are about a size. Fetch her a riding suit, then saddle Bay Zadok and Mesrour; quick, boy, quick!"
"But, Monseigneur——"
"One moment, Mademoiselle, here is Lesellè. Thanks, lad. Listen now. You know the Poictiers road by Sainte Maure and Chatellerault?"
"Yes, Monseigneur."
"Even in the darkness?"
"Yes, Monseigneur."
"I have Sir John's leave to borrow you for to-night. It is a race for life, boy, and there must be no mistakes."
"I understand, Monseigneur. When do we start?"
"In ten minutes: Blaise is saddling the horses. You are to convoy Mademoiselle de Narbonne."
"Mademoiselle de Narbonne? To Poictiers, Monseigneur?"
"Yes, wait in the courtyard till she is ready. Have you supped?"
"No, Monseigneur."
"Then ride hungry, or eat as you go. Off with you now; ten minutes, remember."
But when, catching him by the arm, I would have importuned him, he motioned me to silence.
"One moment, Mademoiselle, one moment," he said testily, and as he spoke Blaise returned, a pile of sober grey stuff on his arm. This Monsieur de Commines snatched from him. "Now the horses, quickly, but with no noise," and at last the door was shut.
"Monseigneur, what does this mean?"
"It means, Mademoiselle, that the King is dead."
"Dead? Louis—the King—dead? That hypocrite, that tyrant—dead? God be thanked for His justice!"
"He was the greatest man in France," answered Monseigneur, with something like a sob in his throat. "He was the greatest King France ever knew. For eleven years he was my master and my friend—and he is dead."
"God be thanked!" I repeated, for my heart was very sore and very hard; how was it possible I could find pity for Louis of Valois? "If he was the greatest man in France, he was also the worst."
"What he was is for God's judgment, Mademoiselle, and it is my belief that Kings do not stand at the same bar as common men."
"But Gaspard? Monsieur de Commines, what of Gaspard?"
A shiver shook him as if he was chilly even in the August heat, but the lines of sorrow softened on his face.
"Take heart, Mademoiselle. Please God, we shall save him yet, or at least you shall."
"I? Oh, Monseigneur! God be thanked! God be thanked! But how? What must I do?"
"The King's death forgives the King's debt, Mademoiselle."
"Ah! Did I not say it was His finger! But who shall tell them in Poictiers, The King is dead?"
"You and Lesellè. Blaise is saddling the horses."
"Eight hours, and thirty leagues to ride?"
"Nearly nine, and not twenty-five, nor is there any spur like love."
"I rode for love's sake two days ago, and it cost me fourteen hours."
"You had but one horse, and lost your way. Young Lesellè knows the road well, and yesterday I ordered relays to be ready at Sainte Maure and Chatellerault."
"Lesellè? Why not Blaise?"
"Lesellè is one of the King's guard, and his uniform carries authority."
"Oh, Monseigneur!" and I caught him by the hand, kissing it, "you think of everything."
"And what thought have you not taken?" he answered. "Now, Mademoiselle, go into that inner room and dress; remember that to-night you ride a race."
Men twit us with the slow niceness with which we women make ourselves dainty to their eyes, and if we failed so to make ourselves dainty they would twit us the more. But that night there was no dallying. I did not wait so long as to untie my points, but slit them open with my girdle dagger, and then thanked God that at Morsigny the daily dressing of little Gaston taught me how to handle boys' clothing. What had taken an hour with a lover's eyes to be met, was undone and done in less time than the saddling of two horses. Tall and slim, my hair coifed out of sight, under the twinkle of the starlight I made as mannish a boy as Blaise himself.
Monseigneur was giving Dâvidd Lesellè his final instructions.
"There is a post to Paris—you can hear their horses stamping now in the west court, and here, in good time, comes Blaise. Join these as if you formed part of the escort. Old Sir John has given orders at the gate, and no questions will be asked. Mount, Mademoiselle, take Mesrour, his motion is the smoother. No, Blaise, no, you must stay with me; God knows what will happen in Plessis to-night, and I may need you for as desperate a crisis as Mademoiselle has to face. Once outside the gate keep behind the troop, and at the river turn south, saying nothing. Is your length of stirrup right, Mademoiselle? Then mount, lad, and I'll talk as we go. Make straight for Sainte Maure; the fords are low, and there is no depth of water to fear. Ride through the village till you see an open door with a light set before it; it burns by order of the King sent yesterday. There horses are ready waiting, mount and ride on. In Chatellerault, at theCorne d'Abondancea second relay is waiting, good horses all and do not spare them. Have you strength, Mademoiselle?"
"Please God," I answered.
I saw him nod his head as we rode on in silence, a subdued clatter of life before us.
"At Poictiers," he went on slowly, but though he spoke to Lesellè his eyes were fastened on mine, "I think I would ride straight for the market-place. It was the King's order that—that—all should be as public as possible, and the people warned to attend. Yes, the market-place will be best; waste no time on the citadel, and ride in haste, ride with authority, assume the very powers of the Crown itself, and speak, if needs be, in Charles' name. Remember, that point once reached, delay is life to Monsieur de Helville. Mademoiselle, say what God and your heart bid you. Trust both, and have no fear. And now here are the gates, and there the Paris post is waiting. Lesellè, I think your uncle has held it back for us. He has a kindly heart, and in three hours I have come to know him better than in the last as many years. At times it takes the shock of death to bring men near to one another. Mademoiselle, you are very safe with this lad, young as he is. He is staunch, has a Scot's prudence, a Scot's long head, and a Scot's shrewdness, I can say no more. Lesellè lad, you ride a race for life."
"I understand, Monseigneur."
Few words, three only, and yet they gave me greater comfort than if he had protested devotion for five minutes: the man to have faith in is the man who says little but understands much.
"God bless you, Monseigneur!" I cried, stooping towards him as the gates swung open.
"And keep you, Mademoiselle," he answered, and caught my hand in both his. "From the House of Death to the House of Life; surely it is His mercy and His will, but oh! what a cost to France!"
With that, as the watchman called nine o'clock from the walls, we rode out into the night.
We rode slowly at first, lagging behind the Paris post, and still slowly when we turned south.
"Not too fast till the horses are warmed to their work," said Lesellè, and I, with a fevered, grudging impatience reined Mesrour back to a trot.
But once across the Cher the pace quickened, and on every flat and down every slope, we tore at a gallop. The road was good, smooth, broad and hard, Louis andcorvéehad seen to that.Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! A race for a man's life, said Monseigneur.Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! It was all that, and more than that for me—it was a race for a woman's soul. How could there be a God at all if this monstrous iniquity of Poictiers came to pass?Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! The intermingling beat of our horses' hoofs rang their rhythm in my head;a race—for the life—of a man; a race—for the life—of a man; a race—for a wom—an's soul; over and over again, till I almost screamed at the iteration.
A swerve down the hill to the valley of the Indre broke into the beat. With a splash we plunged into the river, and walked our panting beasts up the further slope.
"Do we keep our time, Monsieur Lesellè?"
"We more than keep it, Mademoiselle. Accidents apart, there is only one thing to fear."
"What is that?"
"Wolves."
"I am not afraid, Monsieur Lesellè."
"I know it, Mademoiselle, nor do I mean fear for ourselves," and with a thrust of the spur we rode on; by reaped cornfields,a race—for the life—of a man; through broad pastures, waste lands and commonage,pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! a race—for a wom—an's soul; under leafy arches, where the trees, grappling, met overhead and rasped their boughs in a rising wind. What a race it was, and how the blood drummed in the ears, how the courage rose as the night-wind blew cool in the face!Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa——Crash! Bay Zadok was down, and Lesellè lay in the ditch groaning. But before I could jump from the saddle he was on his feet again, stooping over the horse. A minute or two he fumbled at it in the dark, muttering to himself.
"Hurt," he said curtly. "Mesrour must carry double to Sainte Maure. Mademoiselle, shift your foot from the stirrup an instant—yes, I have it now."
In the gloom, I felt rather than saw him grip at Mesrour's gear. With a swing he was up behind me on the croup, but as he steadied himself he moaned.
"Are you also hurt, Monsieur?"
"It is nothing," he answered, grasping my belt, "nothing at all; ride on."
God be thanked, it was not far, and at a trot we entered the straggle of dim grey huts that called itself Sainte Maure. Rounding a curve, a mellow glare flared from a doorstep.
"Monseigneur's posting-house," said Lesellè, and slipped to the ground. "Within there! Horses, horses! In the King's name!"
They were alert and waiting. A head, cowled like a priest's, peered round the jamb.
"Two minutes, Monsieur, two minutes; there is no more than to tighten the girths."
"Better dismount and stretch your legs, Mademoiselle," said Lesellè. "Two minutes means ten."
"Are we on time?"
"Better than that; one third the way, and the hour not much more than gone eleven."
"Bay Zadok?"
"Ah, Mademoiselle! if we could but have put him out of pain!"
"Poor beast! So bad as that? What of your own hurt? Ungrateful that I am, I had forgotten it."
"Nothing, Mademoiselle, nothing at all," and he turned into the shadow of the thatched house, crying out, "Quick with the horses! the King is in haste!"
The King is in haste! A true word. There were two Kings in haste, the King of Life and Love and the King of Sorrows. In my impatience I smote my palms together.
"Will they never bring the horses! Monsieur Lesellè! Monsieur Lesellè——"
"Here they come, Mademoiselle."
Down a lane between the huts, a lane smelling of unutterable vileness, came the night-capped figure, a bridle on either arm.
"Do you give Monsieur a hand; ride on, I'll follow," said Lesellè, and like a bolt I shot into the dark. This time I could brook no cautious warming into work.
Behind me Lesellè shouted for God's sake to wait; but I only cried back, Follow, follow, follow! and spurred on. It was three leagues before he caught me up, and then only because the Creuse at Port-de-piles stopped me. Six, eight, ten minutes I waited, chafing. But the river was brawling, and I dared not face the water alone. Lesellè's words were a warning. Only wolves or accident can stop us, and I feared the last more than the first.
When at length he came through the gloom he was swaying in his saddle.
"Now I know why you lagged behind!" I cried sharply. "Shame, boy, shame! Monsieur de Commines said I could trust you. Is this a time to drink yourself drunk?"
Steadying himself by an effort he turned to the left, making neither retort nor protest.
"The ford is upstream, Mademoiselle," was all he said.
That he took the rebuke so meekly turned the edge of my anger, righteous though it was, and I followed him without further comment. But as we crossed the stream, I riding on his left, midway my horse stumbled, and I cried out, for the waiting had broken down my self-control. Promptly he dropped the reins from his right hand, catching at my bridle. But reaching across his body he missed it, and I recovered of myself, shaken and out of temper.
"Try your nearer hand next time."
"Yes, Mademoiselle," he answered submissively, and splashing on through the shallow water of the ford led up the road.
But now galloping was no longer possible because of loose stones and greasy ruts. So sure as we pushed on beyond our cautious trot our beasts stumbled, nor did the track improve till we had passed Ingrande. Twice I broke out on Lesellè, once in tears and once lashing him with my tongue as if the fault was his. But he either kept silence and rode on doggedly, or answered, always submissively, that there was no better path, and that the going was faster beyond Chatellerault.
But in Chatellerault there was again a check.
TheCorne d'Abondancewas asleep from garret to cellar, and ten precious minutes were wasted before Lesellé, having beaten the door in vain, at last roused life by flinging a stone through an open window. Then a man leaned out, cursing. But Lesellè cursed him back in two languages, and cried out for the horses that were to be ready in the King's name. But there had either been a blunder or treachery: the horses were ordered for the night following, and again he cursed us for thieves.
"At your peril!" cried Lesellè. "If the King's business miscarries because of you, by God! you'll hang! You know the King's way."
"To-morrow night," answered the fellow, "that was the order, and it is the King's way to be obeyed to the letter."
In the end it was Lesellè's archer's dress that saved us, and thereafter there was no delay. But there had been a desperate waste of time, and as we galloped out of Chatellerault it seemed to me the east was grey.
The road was now a steady rise, with the Clain on our left glimmering in and out of the hosts of trunks that stretched from Mirebeaud to the river's bank. The wind was growing with the dawn, but so buried were we in leafage we scarcely heard the rustle. From the right, not far off, came the short, gasping bark of a fox; that, with thepa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop, of the hoofs on the hard, sound road, was the only life.
So dark was it we dared not touch a bridle, but with a loose rein plied whip and spur in our race for a man's life.
"Are we on time?" I cried to Lesellè, who led the way.
"Please God!" he cried back across his shoulder, and stooping low to avoid the downward thrust of the branches, rode on.
Please God! When a man says, Please God! he doubts. Little by little the strain of the gallop on the rising hill began to tell on the horses, and their speed slackened. The smooth, easy motion shortened to a lumpish gait, and at a very sharp rise they stopped, half stumbling.
"How far to Poictiers?"
"Five leagues, Mademoiselle."
"And the hour?"
All Lesellè's boyish ardour was gone. He rode like an old man, slouching in the saddle, his chin sunk on his breast. At my question I saw him raise his head and look at me, his face white against the overhung blackness of the night.
"Mademoiselle, I have done my best."
"The hour, Monsieur, if you please?"
"Gone four, I think."
"Oh!" and with a savage lash I brought down the whip on my beast's sweating flank. "Dawn in an hour! Lesellè, Lesellè, is there nothing will drive them on?"
"They are only blown, Mademoiselle; give them time."
"Time? Who will give Gaspard de Helville time? God of Love! Is there nothing—nothing to drive them on?"
I have never ceased to count it a miracle, and a proof how, out of evil, the Almighty can bring good. But two things can stop us, Lesellè had said, wolves or accident. Of the two, I feared the last more than the first, and even as I spoke there came the howl of a wolf through the silence, a howl caught up and answered again and again from right and left till the vast wood seemed full of howls. As he heard the baying, the beast under me stopped dead still, his skin creeping with fear till the shudder shook me in the saddle; then with a scream he bolted forward, and on we dashed as if the hounds of hell were loose coursing a soul.
"Lower, stoop lower!" cried Lesellè as the horses swerved, still holding the road. "Keep a drag on the right rein, Mademoiselle!"
Instinctively, but without comprehension, I obeyed, and the rasp of a low-hung bough along my back taught me the lad's wisdom. To the left was the river, and at all hazards we must keep the road. Let such a branch catch me across the breast, and my dawn would break more redly than Gaspard's, and sooner by an hour. Such a thing as that I dreaded, but not the wolves. The wolves? Their howl was salvation, and with my face buried in the drifting mane, I thanked God for the wolves.
Jesu! what a race it was! Men have said, Were you not afraid? But with that wild rush of wind in the face, with the swelled veins throbbing under my cheek, with the sobbing catch in the breath growing hoarser almost every stride, there was no time for conscious fear. If I thought at all, it was that the pace could not last, that Poictiers was far away and the dawn near, that the sob was growing hoarser, hoarser, till the breath in the windpipes roared like the rasping of a file. Then Lesellè shouted, "Halt, halt, halt!" and straining on the bit, I pulled the staggering beast to a stand.
Behind was the howling of the wolves, but down the road ahead came the clatter of hoofs.
"Life or death," said the lad, panting in sympathy with his moaning horse, "but in another furlong or two it would have been——Halt! halt there! Horses in the King's name; horses for life or death!"
No need now to tell that it was for life. A north bound train from Poictiers saved us; but as we rode on the dawn was grey even in the thick of the wood, and on our left the east flared to a red glare as of the Last Day.
Again it was whip and spur, nor, with no more than a scant league to go, was there need to spare the horses. Spare them? We drove them along at the dagger's point. But the throbbing exultation born of that wild burst had died away, and it was a weary, trembling, white-faced woman who, leading the Scots lad by ten lengths, splashed uuhalting through the Clain and galloped up the hill to the newly opened gate, for the sun was fully risen, and down the valley of the Clain the morning mists were all a-swim with glory.
Before the gate the guard stretched themselves, yawning, and when I would have passed, one caught my bridle. But with a wrench I dragged it from his grasp.
"A pardon!" I cried, my lips dry and cracked, my woman's voice harsh and shrill by turns. "The King is dead! Long live the King! I bear a pardon from King Charles!"
With that they closed in upon me, clamouring, and Lesellè rode up.
"Tell them," I gasped, "tell them as we go, but in God's name, let us ride on. Monsieur de Helville!—a pardon from the King!"
The name pricked them.
"De Helville?" cried one, flinging out a level arm to point ahead. "On—on—to the right—in front of Notre Dame; perhaps there is still time."
Oh! that last dash through the still streets in the cool of the morning! At my right was Lesellè, his face whiter than my own. His left hand was thrust through his belt, the palm flattened outwards. Bay Zadok had broken the arm, and all through the night he had ridden in his pain, making no moan. But I had no thought of pity for him, my thought was all with the packed crowd before us, a crowd that filled the square and overflowed into every avenue of approach, choking them. When Louis said, Do this! it was the people's wisdom to obey; and, even under Louis, a Seigneur was not hung every day of the week!
Dropping the reins, Lesellè drew his sword and pushed on ahead.
"God save King Charles!" he cried, standing in his stirrups and shouting till the cry roared down even the buzzing clamour of the crowd. "God save King Charles! A pardon! A pardon!"
How such a knitted throng could part asunder I do not know; who went down under whose feet in the surge backwards I do not know; but the roar, the thundering gallop, and the naked steel cleft them like a plough cutting a furrow through a sodden field, and we burst into the square unchecked.
In the centre was a hollow kept clear of rabble by treble lines of soldiers, and we, looking above the swaying sea of heads, saw what they guarded—a gibbet, a wheeled platform drawn by oxen, and on the platform three men; they were Gaspard, Father Paulus, and another. A short ladder rose slanting above the wheel.
"God save King Charles!" we cried, "God save King Charles! A pardon! a pardon! The King is dead, is dead; God save the King!"
What a silence fell upon the crowd! what a silence! It was stiller than death itself. Then a roar broke out, drowning our puny outcry.
"Long live King Charles! Long live King Charles!"
But for myself I say this: another King had indeed come to his throne that day; a greater than Louis who was dead, a greater than Charles who had come to his own; a greater than any King who ever reigned in France; for it was the King of Life and Love.
The Lord God be praised for all His faithful mercies!
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.