While the constable was thus venting his ill-humor in curses andPater nosters, as his wont was, Gabriel, on his way out of the Louvre, was passing through a rather dark gallery, when to his great amazement he saw his squire, Martin-Guerre, standing near the door, although he had ordered him to await him in the courtyard.
"Is it you, Master Martin?" said he. "So you have come to meet me! Very well! Go you ahead with Jérôme, and wait for me with the flags well wrapped up at the corner of the Rue St. Catherine on the Rue St. Antoine. Perhaps Monseigneur le Cardinal would prefer that we should present the flags to the king on the spot, and in the presence of the whole court assembled at the jousting. Christopher will hold my horse and bear me company. Go on! you understand me, don't you?"
"Yes, Monseigneur, I know what I wanted to know," replied Martin-Guerre.
And he started down the staircase ahead of Gabriel with an alacrity which augured well for the speedy execution of his commission. Imagine Gabriel's extreme surprise, when he came out more slowly and like one who dreamed, to find his squire still in the court, and now apparently terrified and pale as a ghost.
"Well, Martin, what is it, and what is the matter with you?" he asked him.
"Ah, Monseigneur, I have just seen him; he passed right near me this very moment, and spoke to me."
"Who, pray?"
"Who? Why, who but the devil, the ghost, the phantom, the monster, the other Martin-Guerre?"
"Still this madness. Martin! Are you dreaming as you stand there?"
"No, no, indeed I was not dreaming. He spoke to me, Monseigneur, I tell you; he stopped in front of me, turned me to stone with his wizard's look, and said to me, laughing his infernal laugh, 'So we are still in Vicomte d'Exmès's service, are we?' Note the plural, 'we are,' Monseigneur; 'and we have brought from Italy the flags taken in the field by Monsieur de Guise?' I said yes, in spite of myself, for he fascinated me. How does he know all this, Monseigneur? And he went on: 'Let us not be afraid, for are we not friends and brothers?' And then he heard your footsteps approaching, Monseigneur, and he added, with a diabolical irony which made my hair stand on end, just these words: 'We shall meet again, Martin-Guerre; we shall meet again.' And he disappeared through that little wicket, perhaps, or more likely into the wall."
"You poor fool!" said Gabriel. "How could he have had the necessary time to say and do all this since you left me up there in the gallery?"
"I, Monseigneur! I haven't stirred from this spot, where you ordered me to await you."
"It must have been another, then; and if not to you to whom have I just been speaking?"
"Most certainly to the other. Monseigneur; to my double, my ghost."
"Poor Martin!" said Gabriel, compassionately, "are you in pain? Doesn't your head ache? Perhaps we have walked too far in the hot sun."
"Oh, yes!" said Martin-Guerre, "I see that you fancy that I am wandering, do you not? But a sure proof that I am not mistaken, Monseigneur, is that I don't know a single word of the orders that you think you gave me."
"You must have forgotten them, Martin," said Gabriel, gently. "Well, then, I will repeat them, my good fellow. I told you to go and wait for me with the flags in the Rue St. Antoine at the corner of the Rue St. Catherine. Jérôme will accompany you, and I will keep Christopher with me; don't you remember now?"
"Pardon, Monseigneur; but how can you expect me to remember what I never knew?"
"At all events, you know it now, Martin," said Gabriel. "Come, let us take our horses again at the gates, where our people ought to be waiting with them, and then be off at once. To the Tournelles!"
"I obey, Monseigneur. The amount of it is that you have two squires; but I am very glad at least that I have not two masters."
The lists for the formal celebration had been laid out across the Rue St. Antoine from the Tournelles to the royal stables. They were in the form of a large square, bordered on each side by scaffolding filled with spectators. At one end were the queen and the court; at the other end was the entrance to the lists where the participants in the games were waiting; the general public filled the two remaining galleries.
When, after the marriage ceremony and the banquet which immediately succeeded it were at an end, the queen and court, about three in the afternoon, took their places on the seats reserved for them, vivas and shouts of joy resounded on all sides.
But this noisy jubilation caused the fête to be marred by an accident at its very beginning. The horse of Monsieur d'Avallon, one of the captains of the Guards, terrified by the uproar, reared and leaped into the arena, and his rider, unhorsed by the shock, hit his head a terrible blow against one of the wooden barriers which made the enclosure, and he was taken up half dead, and given over to the care of the surgeons in an almost hopeless condition.
The king was much moved by this sad casualty; but his passion for games and jousting soon got the better of his sorrow.
"Poor Monsieur d'Avallon," said he, "and such a devoted subject! Let us hope at least that he will be well looked after."
And then he added,—
"Come! the races for the ring can begin at any time."
The game of the ring of that epoch was much more complicated and difficult than the one that we know. The crutch from which the ring was suspended was placed almost two thirds of the way down the lists. It was necessary to ride at a hand gallop the first third, and at a full gallop the second third, and while going at this high rate of speed to carry off the ring on the end of the lance. But the lance must not be allowed to touch the body anywhere; it must be held horizontally with the elbow, high above the head. The game was ended by riding around the arena at a trot. The prize was a diamond ring offered by the queen.
Henri II., on his white steed, magnificently caparisoned in gold and velvet, was the most superb and most graceful cavalier of all. He carried and handled his lance with admirable grace and precision, and hardly ever missed the ring. But Monsieur de Vieilleville pressed him close; and there was a moment when it seemed as if the prize would go to him. He had two rings more than the king, and but three remained to be taken; but Monsieur de Vieilleville, like an accomplished courtier, missed them all three by extraordinary ill luck, and the prize was awarded to the king.
As he received the ring, he hesitated a moment, and his look turned regretfully toward Diane de Poitiers; but the gift was offered by the queen, and it was his bounden duty to present it to the new dauphine, Mary Stuart, the bride of the day.
"Well!" he asked, in the interval which followed this first contest, "are there any hopes of saving Monsieur d'Avallon's life?"
"He still breathes, Sire," was the reply; "but there is almost no chance that he will ever regain consciousness."
"Alas!" said the king, "let us have the gladiators' contest now."
This gladiators' contest was a mock combat with passades and manœuvring, quite new, and a great curiosity in those days; but which would have no special interest, probably, for the imagination of the spectator of our time, or of the readers of this book. We beg to refer to the pages of Brantôme those who are curious to read about the marches and counter-marches of these twelve gladiators, "of whom six were clad in white satin, and six in crimson satin, made up according to the style in vogue in ancient Rome." All of which should be of great historical interest in an age when local coloring had not been invented.
This fine contest came to an end amid general applause, and the necessary preparations were made for beginning the stake-race.
At the court end of the lists several stakes five or six feet long were stuck into the earth at regular intervals. The rules required that the contestants should ride at a hand-gallop in and out among these improvised trees in every direction, without missing or omitting a single one. The prize was a bracelet of marvellous workmanship.
Out of eight courses that were run, the honors remained with the king in three and with Monsieur le Colonel-Général de Bonnivet in a like number. The ninth and last was to be the decisive one; but Monsieur de Bonnivet was no less respectful than Monsieur de Vieilleville had been; and notwithstanding the very willing disposition of his horse, he came in third, and again Henri won the prize.
This time the king sat down beside Diane de Poitiers, and put upon her arm without concealment the bracelet he had received.
The queen turned pale with rage.
Gaspard de Tavannes, who was just behind her, leaned forward and whispered in Catherine de Médicis's ear,—
"Madame, follow me with your eyes, and see what I am going to do."
"And what is it that you are going to do, my good Gaspard?" said the queen.
"To cut off Madame de Valentinois's nose," replied Tavannes, with the utmost gravity and seriousness.
He was just about to leave her, when Catherine, half terrified and half delighted, held him back.
"But, Gaspard, do you realize that it will be your destruction?"
"I do, Madame; but I will save the king and France!"
"Thanks, Gaspard," replied Catherine; "you are a valiant friend no less than a rough soldier. But I command you to be still, Gaspard, and have patience."
"Patience." In truth, that was the watchword by which Catherine de Médicis seemed to have ordered her life up to that time. She, who subsequently was so forward to take her place in the very first rank, had not yet appeared to have any ambition to emerge from the obscurity of the second. She bided her time. And yet she was at this time in the full bloom of a beauty of which Sieur de Bourdeille has left us most minute details; but she sedulously avoided all parade, and it is probably to this modesty that she owed the utter absence of slander in relation to her during her husband's lifetime. There was no one but the brute of a constable who would have dared to call the king's attention to the fact that the ten children that Catherine de Médicis had bestowed on France after ten years of sterility were very little like their father. No other person would have been bold enough to breathe a word against the queen.
It was always Catherine's custom to appear, as she did on this day, not even to notice the attentions which the king lavished on Diane de Poitiers in the sight and bearing of the whole court. After she had soothed the fiery indignation of the marshal she went on talking with her ladies of the races that had taken place, and of the address displayed by Henri.
The tournaments proper were not to take place until the next and following days; but several gentlemen attached to the court asked the king's leave, as it was still quite early, to break a lance or two in honor of the ladies and for their entertainment.
"So be it, gentlemen," the king replied as a matter of course. "I give you leave with all my heart, especially as it is likely to bother Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine, who has never had to deal with so numerous a correspondence, I fancy, as during the two hours that we have been here. There are two messages that he has received one right after the other, and he seems much preoccupied with them. But never mind! we shall know by and by what the matter is, and meanwhile you may break a lance or two. And here is a prize for the victor," added Henri, taking from his neck the gold necklace that he wore. "Do your best, gentlemen, and remember that if the contest grows warm, I shall be very likely to take a hand in it, and try to win back what I am offering you, especially as I owe something to Madame de Castro. Take notice, too, that at precisely six o'clock the contest will be declared at an end, and the victor, whoever he may be, will receive his crown. Come, you have an hour in which to show off your fine strokes. Be always careful that no harm comes to any one. And, apropos, how does Monsieur d'Avallon?"
"Alas, Sire, he is just at the point of death."
"God rest his soul!" said Henri. "Of all the captains of my Guards he was the most devoted to my service and the bravest. Who is there to take his place? But the ladies are waiting, gentlemen; and the lists are open. How, who shall receive the necklace from the hands of the queen?"
The Comte de Pommerive was the first challenger, and he had to yield to Monsieur de Burie, from whom Monsieur le Maréchal d'Amville soon wrested the field; but the marshal, who was very strong and skilful as well, held his ground against five challengers one after the other.
The king could not contain himself.
"I propose to find out, Monsieur d'Amville, if you are riveted there for all time," he said to the marshal.
He put on his armor, and at the very first onset Monsieur d'Amville lost his stirrups. It was Monsieur d'Aussun's turn next; but after him no other combatant appeared.
"How's this, gentlemen?" said Henri. "What! No one else wishes to tilt against me. Can it possibly be that you are humoring me?" he continued, with a gathering frown. "Ah,mordieu! if I thought so! There is no king here but the victor, and no privileges save those of knightly skill. Come, attack me, gentlemen, boldly."
But no one ventured to try a pass with the king; for they dreaded equally to vanquish him and to be vanquished.
But the king was much annoyed. He began to suspect that perhaps in former tourneys his opponents had not put forth all their science against him; and this thought, which made his prowess seem small in his own eyes, filled him with anger.
At last a new champion passed the barrier. Henri, without a single glance to see who it was, set his horse in motion and rushed at him. The two lances were shattered; but the king, throwing away the fragment, reeled in his saddle, and was forced to cling to the saddlebow to save himself. At that instant six o'clock struck. Henri was beaten.
He leaped quickly and joyously to the ground, threw his reins to a squire, and rushed to seize the hand of his vanquisher to escort him to the queen himself. To his vast surprise he saw a face which was absolutely unfamiliar to him. Moreover, he was a cavalier of fine presence and noble bearing; and the queen, as she passed the necklace around the young man's neck, while he knelt before her, could not forbear remarking it, and smiling upon him.
But he, after bowing to the ground, rose, took a few steps toward the platform appropriated to the court, stopped before Madame de Castro, and offered her the necklace, the prize of victory.
The trumpets were still sounding, so that no one heard the two cries which issued at the same moment from two mouths.
"Gabriel!"
"Diane!"
Diane, pale, and trembling with joy and wonder, took the necklace with a shaking hand. Every one supposed that the unknown knight had heard the king promise the necklace to Madame de Castro; and that he did not wish to disappoint so fair a damsel. It was agreed that his proceeding was very courteous, and bore the stamp of a true gentleman. The king himself put no other construction on the incident.
"I am touched by such extreme gallantry," said he; "but I, who am supposed to be able to call all my nobles by name, I confess that I cannot recall, Monsieur, where or when I have seen you before, and I shall be more than delighted to know to whom I am indebted for the sturdy blow just now which would have unsaddled me, I believe, if, thank God! I had not had such strong legs."
"Sire," replied Gabriel, "this is the first time that I have had the honor of appearing before your Majesty. I have been hitherto with the army, and have only just arrived from Italy. I am called Vicomte d'Exmès."
"Vicomte d'Exmès!" echoed the king. "I shall remember the name of my vanquisher, never fear."
"Sire," said Gabriel, "there can be no vanquisher where you are concerned, and I bring a glorious proof of it to your Majesty."
He made a sign; and Martin-Guerre and the two men-at-arms entered the lists with the Italian flags, which they laid at the king's feet.
"Sire," Gabriel continued, "these are the flags conquered in Italy by your army, and sent to your Majesty by Monseigneur le Duc de Guise. His Eminence, Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine, assures me that your Majesty will not take it ill of me to deliver these trophies to you thus unexpectedly, and in the presence of your court and the French people, who are the deeply interested witnesses of your greatness and glory. Sire, I have also the honor to hand you these letters from Monsieur le Duc de Guise."
"Thanks, Monsieur d'Exmès," said the king. "So this is the secret of all Monsieur le Cardinal's correspondence. These letters are your credentials to our favor, Viscount. But you have a very striking and triumphant way of presenting yourself. But what do I read here? That you have yourself taken four of these flags? Our cousin Guise rates you as one of his most gallant captains. Monsieur d'Exmès, ask of me what you choose; and I swear by all that is holy that you shall have it on the spot!"
"Sire, you overwhelm me; and I put myself entirely at the disposition of your Majesty's favor."
"You were a captain under Monsieur de Guise, Monsieur," said the king. "Would it suit you to hold the same rank in our Guards? I was perplexed as to how I should fill the place of Monsieur d'Avallon, who met such a sad fate here to-day; but I see that in you he will have a worthy successor."
"Your Majesty—"
"Do you accept? Then it's done. You will begin your duties to-morrow. Now we are about to return to the Louvre. You will tell me more at length of the particulars of this Italian war at some future time."
Gabriel saluted him.
Henri gave the word for departure. The crowd dispersed amid shouts ofVive le roi! Diane, as if by magic, found herself at Gabriel's side for an instant.
"To-morrow at the queen's levee," said she in a low voice.
She disappeared under her escort's wing, but leaving hope divine to blossom in the heart of her old-time friend.
When the queen held a levee, it was generally in the evening after supper; so much Gabriel learned, and was told also that his new post of captain of the Guards not only allowed but required him to show himself there. He had no desire to shirk that duty, and his only regret was that he had to wait twenty-four hours before fulfilling it. We can see that in zeal and gallantry Monsieur d'Avallon's place was likely to be worthily filled.
But he had to think about killing those twenty-four hours, one after the other,—those everlasting hours which separated him from the eagerly desired moment. This young man, whose joy made him forget his weariness, and who had as yet hardly seen Paris except on his way from one camp to another, started to scour the city with Martin-Guerre in search of a suitable lodging. He had the good luck, for he was in luck that day, to find vacant the very apartments which had formerly been occupied by his father, the Comte de Montgommery. He hired them, although they were somewhat over-fine for a mere captain of the Guards; but he could make himself easy in that regard by simply writing to his faithful Elyot to send him some money from Montgommery. He also wrote to his good nurse Aloyse to come and join him there.
Gabriel's first purpose was thus attained. He was a child no longer now, but a man who had already proved his manhood, and with whom there must be a reckoning; to the honorable qualities which he had inherited from his ancestors he had been able to add some personal renown. Alone and with no other support than his sword, and no recommendation but his gallant behavior, he had reached high rank at twenty-four. At last he might proudly show himself to her whom he loved, as well as to those whom it was his duty to hate. The latter Aloyse could help him to find; the former had found him.
Gabriel went to sleep with his heart at rest, and slept long and well.
The next day he had to present himself to Monsieur de Boissy, Grand Equerry of France, to furnish his proofs of nobility. Monsieur de Boissy, a man of honor, had been the Comte de Montgommery's friend. He understood Gabriel's motives for concealing his true title, and gave him his word that he would keep his secret. In the next place, Monsieur le Maréchal d'Amville presented Gabriel to his company. Then Gabriel at once began his duties by visiting and inspecting the State prisons in Paris,—a painful necessity which it was a part of his functions to yield to once a month.
He began with the Bastille, and ended with the Châtelet.
The governor handed him his list of prisoners, told him which ones had died or been transferred or set free, and which were sick, and finally made them pass in review before him,—a sad review, a mournful spectacle. He thought his duties were done, when the governor of the Châtelet called his attention to a page in his register which was almost blank, and bore only this extraordinary memorandum, which impressed Gabriel more than all the rest:—
"No. 21, X.—Secret prisoner. If during the visit of the governor or the captain of the Guards he makes the least attempt to speak, have him removed to a deeper and harsher dungeon."
"No. 21, X.—Secret prisoner. If during the visit of the governor or the captain of the Guards he makes the least attempt to speak, have him removed to a deeper and harsher dungeon."
"Who is this prisoner of such importance? May I know?" Gabriel asked Monsieur de Salvoison, governor of the Châtelet.
"No one knows who he is," was the reply. "I received him from my predecessor as he had received him from his. You notice that the date of his imprisonment is left blank. It must have been during the reign of François I. that he was brought here. He has undertaken to speak two or three times, so I am told; but at his first word the governor is bound, under the severest penalties, to close the door of his cell, and to remove him at once to a more rigorous dungeon; and this has always been done. There is now only one dungeon left more severe than that he occupies, and confinement in that means death. No doubt they desire that he should finally come to that; but just now the prisoner makes no attempt to speak. He must be some very dangerous criminal. He is always in shackles; and his jailer, to guard against any possibility of an escape, is in and out of his cell every minute."
"But suppose he speaks to the jailer?" said Gabriel.
"Oh, he is a deaf mute, born in the Châtelet, who has never been outside the walls."
Gabriel shuddered. This man, so completely isolated from the world of the living, and who yet lived and thought, inspired in his breast a feeling of compassion mingled with an undefinable dread. What resolution or compunction, what fear of hell or trust in heaven, could prevent so wretched a being from dashing out his brain against the walls of his dungeon? Could it be the thirst for revenge, or some hope of deliverance that enabled him to retain his hold on life!
Gabriel felt a sort of anxious eagerness to see this man; his heart beat faster than it had ever done before except when he was on his way to see Diane. He had visited a hundred other prisoners with no other emotion than a sort of general compassion for their lot; but the thought of this poor wretch appealed to him and moved him more than all the others, and his heart was filled with sorrow when he thought of his tomb-like existence.
"Let us go to Number 21," he said to the governor with a choking voice.
They went down several damp, black stairways, passed under several arches which resembled the horrible spirals of Dante's Inferno; at last the governor said, stopping before an iron door,—
"This is the place. I am not his jailer; he is in the cell, no doubt. But I have duplicate keys; let us go in."
He opened the door, and they went in, with no light but a lantern, held by a turnkey. Then Gabriel saw before him a mute and frightful picture, such as one hardly sees except in the nightmare of delirium.
For walls, nothing but solid rock, black, moss-grown, and noisome; for this gloomy hole was excavated below the bed of the Seine, and the water, in times of freshet, filled it half full. On these loathsome walls were crawling slimy things; and the icy air was broken by no sound except that made by the regular, dull falling of a drop of water from the hideous arch. A little less alive than the drop of water, a little more alive than the almost motionless slugs, two beings that had been human were dragging out their existence there, one guarding the other, both dumb and awe-inspiring.
The jailer, a sort of idiot, a dull-eyed giant, with a face of deathlike pallor, was standing in the shadow, gazing stupidly at the prisoner, who was lying in the corner on a pallet of straw, shackled hand and foot to a chain riveted to the wall. He was an old man, with a long white beard and white hair. When they entered he seemed to be sleeping, and did not stir; he might have been taken for a corpse or a statue.
But suddenly he sat up and opened his eyes, and his gaze met Gabriel's.
He was forbidden to speak; but this terrible and piercing gaze spoke for him. Gabriel was fascinated by it, and could not remove his eyes. The governor and turnkey overhauled all the corners of the dungeon. He, Gabriel, rooted to the spot, neither moved forward nor back, but stood there transfixed by those blazing eyes; he could not get away from them, and at the same time a thousand confused and unutterable thoughts were whirling through his brain.
The prisoner seemed no longer to view his visitor with mere indifference, and there was a moment when he made a motion and opened his lips as if to speak; but the governor having turned back toward them, he remembered in time the rule laid down for him, and his lips spoke only by a bitter smile. He closed his eyes once more, and relapsed into his corpse-like immobility.
"Oh, let us go out!" said Gabriel to the governor. "For God's sake, let us go out! I must have fresh air and see the sunlight again."
He did not recover his tranquillity and his life, so to speak, until he found himself once more in the throng and tumult of the street. And even then the gloomy vision he had seen remained in his mind and pursued him the livelong day, as he walked thoughtfully hither and thither through the streets.
Something seemed to tell him that the fate of this wretched captive was connected with his own, and that a great crisis in his life was impending. Worn out at last by these mysteriously recurring presentiments, he directed his steps as the day drew to its close toward the lists of the Tournelles. The day's jousting, in which Gabriel had not cared to take part, was just coming to an end. Gabriel could see Diane, and she saw him; and this interchange of glances at once put his gloomy thoughts to flight as the rays of the sun disperse the clouds. Gabriel forgot the unfortunate prisoner whom he had seen that day, to give himself up entirely to thoughts of the lovely maiden he was to see again in the evening.
If was a custom handed down from the reign of François I. At least three times a week, the king, the nobles, and all the ladies of the court assembled in the evening in the queen's apartments. There they would chat about the gossip of the day with perfect freedom, and sometimes with a good deal of license. Private tête-à-têtes would often take place amid the general conversation; and, says Brantôme, "as a throng of earthly goddesses were assembled there, every nobleman and gentleman talked with her whom he loved the best." Frequently there was dancing too, or a play.
It was a party of this description that our friend Gabriel was to attend on the evening in question; and contrary to his custom, he arrayed and perfumed himself with considerable solicitude, so that he might not appear to disadvantage in the eyes of her "whom he loved the best," to quote Brantôme once more.
But Gabriel's delight was not altogether unalloyed by a feeling of uneasiness; and certain vague and offensive words which had been whispered in his hearing concerning Diane's approaching marriage had not failed to cause him some inward anxiety. Thanks to the joy he had felt in seeing Diane again, and in believing that he could distinguish in her expression signs of her former affection for him, he had almost forgotten that letter from the Cardinal de Lorraine which had been the cause of his taking his departure so hurriedly; but the rumors which were flying around, and the continual coupling of the names of Diane de Castro and François de Montmorency, which came to his ears only too plainly, brought back memory to his passionate heart. Was Diane reconciled, then, to that hateful marriage? Did she love this François? Distracting doubts which the evening's interview might not avail to solve satisfactorily.
Gabriel resolved therefore to question Martin-Guerre on the subject, for he had already made more than one acquaintance, and like most squires, was likely to have a much more extended knowledge in such matters than his master; for it is a fact of common observation in acoustics that reports of all sorts sound much louder on low ground, and that echoes are seldom heard except in valleys. This resolution came at a so much more fortunate time, because Martin-Guerre had also made up his mind to question his master, whose preoccupation had not escaped his notice, but who had not, in all conscience, any right to conceal his actions or his thoughts from a faithful retainer of five years' standing, and even more than that,—one who had saved his life.
From this mutual determination, and the conversation which ensued, Gabriel came to the conclusion that Diane de Castro did not love François de Montmorency, and Martin-Guerre that Gabriel did love Diane de Castro.
This twofold conclusion was so satisfactory to both parties that Gabriel arrived at the Louvre fully an hour before the gates were opened; and Martin-Guerre, as a mark of respect to the viscount's royal sweetheart, went off to the court tailor to buy a brown cloth jerkin and small-clothes of yellow tricot. He paid cash for the whole costume, and immediately arrayed himself in it so as to exhibit it in the evening in the antechambers of the Louvre, where he was to go in attendance on his master.
Imagine the tailor's amazement half an hour later to see Martin-Guerre appear again in other clothes. He commented on the fact. Martin-Guerre replied that the evening had seemed a bit cool to him, and that he had thought best to clothe himself a little more warmly. However, he was so very well pleased with the jerkin and the small-clothes that he had come to beg the tailor to sell him or make him another jerkin of the same material and like cut. To no purpose did the man of the yardstick remind Martin-Guerre that he would seem to have only one suit of clothes, and that he would do much better to order a different costume; for instance, a yellow jerkin and brown small-clothes, since he seemed to have a weakness for those particular colors. Martin-Guerre would not recede from his idea, and the tailor had to agree not to make a shade of difference in the garments, which he was to make for him at once, since he had none ready-made; but on this second order Martin-Guerre asked for some credit. He had paid cash handsomely for the first; he was the squire of Vicomte d'Exmès, captain of the king's Guards. The tailor had that monumental trust in human nature which has been from time immemorial the traditional propensity of his craft; so he consented, and promised to deliver the second costume complete the next day.
Meanwhile the hour during which Gabriel had had to gnash his teeth outside the gates of his paradise had passed away, and with a number of others, gentlemen and ladies, he had succeeded in making his way to the queen's apartments.
At the first glance Gabriel saw Diane; she was seated beside the Queen-Dauphine, as Mary Stuart was henceforth called.
To approach her at once would have been very presumptuous for a new-comer, and very imprudent too, no doubt. Gabriel resigned himself to await a favorable opportunity when the conversation should become animated and the attention of those who were near be called to other objects. Meanwhile he entered into conversation with a young nobleman of unhealthy pallor and delicate appearance, near whom he chanced to be standing. But after some little talk on matters as insignificant as his person seemed to be, the young cavalier asked of Gabriel,—
"To whom have I the honor of speaking, Monsieur?"
Gabriel replied, "I am Vicomte d'Exmès. And may I venture to ask you the same question, Monsieur?" he added.
The young man looked at him in amazement as he replied,—
"I am François de Montmorency."
He might as well have said, "I am the Devil!" and Gabriel would have shown less alarmed haste in leaving him. François, whose mind did not work very quickly, was entirely dumfounded; but as he was not fond of using his brain, he soon gave up the riddle, and sought elsewhere for auditors who should be somewhat less unceremonious.
Gabriel had taken care to direct his flight toward Diane de Castro; but his progress was arrested by a great commotion about the king. Henri was just announcing that as he desired to close the day by treating the ladies to a surprise, he had caused a stage to be arranged in the gallery, and that a five-act comedy in verse by Monsieur Jean Antoine de Baïf, entitled "Le Brave," would be performed there. This intelligence was naturally greeted with general gratitude and applause. The gentlemen gave their hands to the ladies to escort them into the neighboringsalle, where the stage had been erected; but Gabriel was too late to escort Diane, and could do no better than take his place at a short distance from her behind the queen.
Catherine de Médicis perceived him and called him, and he had no choice but to present himself before her.
"Monsieur d'Exmès," said she, "how is it that we didn't see you at the tournament to-day?"
"Madame," replied Gabriel, "the duties of the office which his Majesty has done me the honor to bestow upon me, prevented."
"So much the worse," said Catherine, with a sweet smile, "for you are surely one of our most daring and skilful cavaliers. You made the king reel yesterday, and that is a very rare thing. I should have been glad to be a witness again of your prowess."
Gabriel bowed, feeling decidedly ill at ease under this shower of compliments, to which he knew not how to reply.
"Do you know the play that they are going to give us?" pursued Catherine, evidently very favorably inclined toward the handsome and modest youth.
"I know it only in Latin," was his reply; "for I am told that it is nothing more than an imitation of one of Terence's plays."
"I see that you are as learned as you are valiant," said the queen, "as well versed in literary matters as you are skilful with thrusts of the lance."
All this was said in an undertone, and accompanied by glances which were not exactly cruel. To be sure, Catherine's heart was empty for the moment. But Gabriel, uncouth as Euripides' Hippolyte, received the Italian's advances with an air of constraint and a frowning brow. Ungrateful wretch! when he was to owe to this kindly disposition, at which he turned up his nose, not only the place which he had so longed for at Diane's side, but the most fascinating pouting by which the love of a jealous sweetheart can betray itself.
In fact, when the prologue began, according to custom, to appeal to the indulgence of the spectators, Catherine said to Gabriel,—
"Go and sit there behind me among these ladies, my literary friend, so that I may at need resort to your fund of information."
Madame de Castro had selected her seat at the end of a row, so that there was only the passage-way beyond her. Gabriel, having paid his respects to the queen, took a stool and modestly seated himself in the passage-way by Diane's side, so as to discommode no one.
The play began.
It was, as Gabriel had told the queen, an imitation of the "Eunuchus" of Terence, written in lines of eight syllables, and translated with all the pedantic simplicity of the time. We will abstain from criticising the play. It would be, moreover, an anachronism, for criticism had not yet been invented at that barbarous epoch. It will suffice for us to remind our readers that the principal character is a braggart, a swaggering soldier who allows himself to be duped and bullied by a sycophant.
Now, from the very beginning of the play, the many partisans of the Guises who were in the hall could see in the absurd old bully only the Constable de Montmorency, while the Montmorency faction chose to recognize the ambitious views of the Duc de Guise in the bluster of the swaggering soldier. And so every scene was a piece of satire, and every sally a pointed hit. The two factions laughed uproariously, and pointed at one another with their fingers; and, truth to tell, this comedy which was being enacted in the hall was no less entertaining than that which the actors were performing on the platform.
Our lovers took advantage of the interest which the two rival camps took in the performance to speak quietly and calmly of their love amid the shouts and laughter. In the first place, each pronounced the other's name in a low voice. It was the sacred invocation.
"Diane!"
"Gabriel!"
"Are you really going to marry François de Montmorency?"
"You have made rapid strides in the queen's good graces, haven't you?"
"But you heard her call me."
"And you know that the king wishes this marriage."
"But have you not consented to it, Diane?"
"But haven't you listened to Catherine, Gabriel?"
"One word, just one!" replied Gabriel. "But you still feel some interest, do you, in the feeling which may be aroused in me by another than yourself? Then you must care something for what is passing in my heart."
"I care as much for it," said Madame de Castro, "as you do for what is passing in mine."
"Oh! then let me tell you, Diane, that if you are like me, you are jealous; if you are like me, you love me to distraction."
"Monsieur d'Exmès," said Diane, who tried for an instant to be severe, poor child!—"Monsieur d'Exmès, I am called Madame de Castro."
"But are you not a widow, Madame? Are you not free?"
"Free, alas!"
"Oh, Diane, you sigh. Tell me, Diane, that your childish affection, which made our early years so sweet, has left some trace in the maiden's heart. Oh, tell me, Diane, that you still love me a little! Don't fear that any one will hear you, for everybody near us is taken up with the jokes of that sycophant; they have no tender words to listen to, so they are laughing. Oh, Diane, smile upon me and answer me; do you love me, Diane?"
"Hush! Don't you see that the act is coming to an end?" said the roguish damsel. "Wait at least till the play begins again."
Theentr'actelasted ten minutes,—ten centuries, rather! Fortunately, Catherine, talking busily with Mary Stuart, did not call Gabriel to her side. He would have been quite capable of declining to go, even if it had been his everlasting ruin.
When the comedy began again amid shouts of laughter and noisy applause,—
"Well?" Gabriel inquired.
"Well, what?" replied Diane, feigning an indifference that she was very far from feeling. "Oh, yes, you were asking me, I believe, if I love you. Well, then! Didn't I answer you just now, thus: 'I love you as much as you love me'?"
"Ah!" cried Gabriel, "do you realize what you are saying, Diane? Do you know the extent of this love of mine to which you say that yours is equal?"
"But," said the little dissembler, "if you want me to know about it, the least you can do is to tell me."
"Listen to me, then, Diane, and you will see that since I left you six years ago every action of every hour of my life has tended to bring me nearer to you. It was only on my arrival at Paris a month after your departure from Vimoutiers, that I learned who you were: the daughter of the king and Madame de Valentinois. But it was not your title as a daughter of France that terrified me; it was your title as wife of the Duc de Castro, and yet something said to me: 'No matter! raise yourself to her level; win some renown for yourself, so that some day she may hear your name at least, and may admire you as others fear you.' Such were my thoughts, Diane; and I entered the service of the Duc de Guise, as the one who seemed most likely to put me in a way to win the honorable name at which my ambition pointed, speedily and well. In brief, I was shut up with him within the walls of Metz in the following year, and did my best to bring about the almost-despaired-of result, the raising of the siege. It was at Metz, where I remained to restore the fortification and repair all the damage inflicted in sixty-five days of assault, that I heard of the taking of Hesdin by the imperial troops and the death of the Duc de Castro, your husband. He had never even seen you again, Diane! Oh, I pitied him, but how I did fight at Renty! Ask Monsieur de Guise about it. I was also at Abbeville, Dinant, Bavay, and Cateau-Cambrésis. I was everywhere where the fire of musketry was to be heard; and I can fairly say that there has been no glorious action during this reign in which I have not had some little share.
"After the truce of Vaucelles," said Gabriel, continuing his narrative, "I came to Paris, but you were still at the convent, Diane; and my enforced repose was becoming very wearisome when, by good luck, the truce was broken. The Duc de Guise, who was anxious to give me some token of his good-will, asked me if I would follow him to Italy. If I would! Crossing the Alps in the depths of winter, we made our way through the Milanais, carried Valenza by storm, were allowed free passage through the duchies of Parma and Plaisance, and after a triumphal progress through Tuscany and the States of the Church, we arrived at the Abruzzi. Meanwhile Monsieur de Guise lacked money and troops; yet he took Campli, and laid siege to Civitella; but the army was demoralized, and the success of the expedition compromised. It was at Civitella, Diane, that I learned from a letter from his Eminence, the Cardinal de Lorraine, to his brother of your approaching marriage to François de Montmorency.
"There was nothing more for me to do on that side of the Alps. Monsieur de Guise himself agreed to that, and I obtained from his kindness permission to return to France, fortified with his weighty recommendation, and to bring to the king the flags we had conquered. But my only ambition and desire was to see you, Diane, to speak with you, and to learn from your own lips if you were entering into this new contract of your own free will; and finally, after having told you, as I have just done, of all my struggles and endeavors for these six years, to ask you what I now ask you once more: 'Tell me, Diane, do you love me as I love you?"
"Dear friend," said Madame de Castro, softly, "I will now respond by telling you of my life in return for yours. When I came to court, a mere child of twelve, after the first moments of wonder and childish curiosity, I grew weary of it all; the gilded chains of my life here weighed heavily upon me, and I bitterly regretted our dear woods and fields at Vimoutiers and Montgommery, Gabriel! Every night I cried myself to sleep. But the king my father was very kind to me, and I tried to give him my love in return for his tenderness. But where was my freedom? Where was Aloyse? And, oh, where were you, Gabriel? I didn't see the king every day. Madame de Valentinois was very cold and constrained with me, and seemed almost to avoid me; and I, Gabriel, I had always need of being loved, as you must remember. Oh, I suffered bitterly that first year, dear."
"Poor dear Diane!" said Gabriel, much moved.
"And so," Diane resumed, "while you were fighting, I was pining away. Man acts, and woman waits,—such is destiny. But it is sometimes much harder to wait than to act. After the first year of my loneliness, the death of the Duc de Castro left me a widow, and the king sent me to pass my period of mourning at the convent of the Filles-Dieu. But the tranquil and peaceful life which we led at the convent suited my nature much better than the everlasting intriguing and excitement of the court; so when my mourning was at an end, I sought and obtained the king's leave to remain at the convent. At least, they loved me there,—good Sister Monique above all, who reminded me of Aloyse. I tell you her name, Gabriel, so that you may love her too. And then, not only did all the sisters love me, but I could still dream, Gabriel; I had the time to do it and the right. I was free; and who was the central figure of all my dreams, of the past as well as of the future? Dear friend, you can guess, can you not?"
Gabriel, reassured and enraptured, answered only by a look of passionate affection. Luckily the comedy had become very engrossing. The braggart was being well scoffed at; and the Guise and Montmorency factions were howling themselves hoarse with delight. The lovers might as well have been alone in a desert.
"Five tranquil and hopeful years passed away," continued Diane. "I had had only one misfortune, in the death of Enguerrand, my foster-father. But a second one was not long in coming. The king recalled me to court, and informed me that I was the destined bride of François de Montmorency. I resisted this time, Gabriel, for I was no longer a child, who did not know what she was doing. I resisted. Then my father went on his knees to me, and pointed out to me how deeply this marriage concerned the well-being of the realm. You had forgotten me, no doubt. It was the king who said that, Gabriel. And then where were you, and who were you? In short, the king persisted so, and begged me so appealingly—it was yesterday, yes, only yesterday—that I promised what he wished, Gabriel, but only on condition that, in the first place, my sacrifice should be delayed for three months; and in the second place, I should find out what had become of you."
"But you did promise?" said Gabriel, turning pale.
"I did, but I had not then seen you, dear; and I had no idea that the very same day your unlooked-for appearance was to stir again in my heart both joyful and sad emotions as soon as I recognized you. Ah, Gabriel, handsomer and prouder than of old, but still the same! I knew all at once that my promise to the king was of no effect, and this marriage impossible; that my life belongs to you, and that, if you still loved me, I would love you forever. Well, now, don't you agree that I am no longer in debt to you, and that your life has no reproach to make to mine?"
"Oh, you are an angel, Diane! And all that I have done to deserve your love is nothing."
"And now, Gabriel, since fate has brought us together for a little, let us consider the obstacles which still keep us asunder. The king is ambitious for his daughters; and the Castros and the Montmorencys between them have made him hard to manage, alas!"
"Make your mind easy on that score, Diane, for the family to which I belong has nothing to ask from either of them, and it will not be the first time either that it has been allied with the royal family of France."
"Really, Gabriel! you fill my cup of joy to the full, in telling me that. I am, as you know, very ignorant in heraldic matters; I do not know the Exmès. Down at Vimoutiers I called you Gabriel; and my heart had no need of a sweeter name than that. That is the name that I love; and if you think that your other name will satisfy the king, why, all is well, and I am happy indeed. Whether you are Exmès or Guise or Montmorency, as long as you are not called Montgommery, all is well."
"And why, then, must I not be a Montgommery?" asked Gabriel, beginning to be alarmed.
"Oh, the Montgommerys, our neighbors down yonder, have apparently done the king some injury, for he hates them bitterly."
"Indeed!" said Gabriel, who began to feel a choking sensation in his throat; "but is it the Montgommerys who have injured the king, or is it rather the king who has injured the Montgommerys?"
"My father is too kind-hearted to have ever been unjust, Gabriel."
"Kind to his daughter, yes," said Gabriel; "but where his enemies are concerned—"
"He may be terrible," replied Diane, "as you are against the enemies of France and the king. But what does it matter, and what have the Montgommerys to do with us, Gabriel?"
"But if I were a Montgommery, Diane?"
"Oh, do not say that, dear."
"But if it should be so?"
"In that case," said Diane, "if I found myself thus obliged to choose between my father and you, I would throw myself at the feet of the injured party, whichever it might be, and I would beg my father to forgive you for my sake, or I would beg you to forgive my father for my sake."
"And your voice is so powerful, dear Diane, that the injured one would surely yield to your prayers, if there had never been blood shed; for blood can only be washed out by blood."
"Oh, you frighten me, Gabriel! Come, this is far enough to carry this test of my love; for it was nothing but a test, was it?"
"No, Diane, nothing but a test. God grant that it may prove to be nothing more!" he murmured under his breath.
"And there is not, there cannot be any bad blood between my father and you?"
"I hope not, Diane, I hope not; I should suffer too bitterly in making you suffer."
"That's right, Gabriel. And if you hope not, Gabriel," she added with her lovely smile, "I hope, for my part, to induce my father to give up this marriage which would be my death-warrant. Such a mighty king as he ought to have enough ways of making it up to the Montmorencys."
"No, Diane; and all his treasures and all his power could not make up to them for losing you."
"Ah, that's your way of looking at it. But you did frighten me, Gabriel. But never fear, dear; François de Montmorency doesn't think as you do on this subject, thank God! and he would much prefer the bâton which will make a marshal of him, to your poor Diane. But I, having accepted this happy exchange, will prepare the king for it very gently. I will remind him of the royal alliances of the D'Exmès family, and of your own personal exploits, Gabriel."
She interrupted herself.
"Ah,mon Dieu! see, the play seems to be finished."
"Five acts, how short it has been!" said Gabriel. "But you are right, Diane; and the epilogue is just pointing the moral of the piece."
"Luckily," said Diane, "we have said almost all that we had to say to each other."
"I haven't said one thousandth part of it," said Gabriel.
"No, nor I really," said Diane; "and the queen's advances to you."
"Oh, you wretch!" said Gabriel.
"Oh, no, the wretch is she who smiles at you, and not I who grumble at you, do you hear? Don't speak to her again this evening, will you, dear, just to please me?"
"Just to please you! How good you are! No, I will not speak to her again. But, see, the epilogue is also finished, alas! Adieu! but only for a little while, is it, Diane? Say one last word to me to sustain and comfort me, dear Diane."
"To meet soon again, and forever, Gabriel, my littlehusband," whispered the beaming maiden in the ear of the delighted Gabriel.
And she disappeared in the pushing, noisy crowd. Gabriel slunk away so as to fulfil his promise of avoiding a meeting with the queen. Such touching fidelity to his oath! And he left the Louvre, convinced that Antoine de Baïf was a very great man, and that he had never been present at a performance which had given him so much pleasure.
As he passed into the vestibule, he picked up Martin-Guerre, who was awaiting him, all radiant in his new clothes.
"Well, Monseigneur, did you see Madame d'Angoulême?" the squire asked his master when they were in the street.
"I did see her," replied Gabriel, dreamily.
"And does Madame d'Angoulême still love Monsieur le Vicomte?" continued Martin-Guerre, who saw that Gabriel was in a good humor.
"Rascal!" cried Gabriel, "who told you that? Where did you learn that Madame de Castro loved me, or that I loved Madame de Castro alone? Be good enough to hold your tongue, villain!"
"Oh, well," muttered Master Martin, "Monseigneur must be beloved, else he would have sighed and would not have insulted me; and Monseigneur must be in love or he would have noticed my new cape and breeches."
"Why do you prate to me of breeches and cape? But really, you didn't have that doublet a short time ago, did you?"
"No, Monseigneur, I bought it this very evening to do honor to my master and his mistress, and I paid cash for it too,—for my wife Bertrande did teach me order and economy, as she taught me temperance and chastity and all the virtues. I must do her that much justice; and if I had only been able to instil a little mildness of temper into her, we should have made the happiest couple in the world."
"It was well done of you, chatterbox, and I will repay your outlay, since it was for me that you incurred it."
"Oh, how generous, Monseigneur! But if Monseigneur wishes me to hold my peace about his secret, he should not give me this new proof that he is loved as dearly as he loves. One never empties one's purse so readily, when the heart is not overflowing. Besides, Monsieur le Vicomte knows Martin-Guerre, and that he is to be trusted. Faithful and dumb as the sword that he wears!"
"Very true; but no more of this, Master Martin."
"I leave Monseigneur to his dreams."
Gabriel was dreaming to such an extent that when he reached his chambers he felt an absolute need of pouring his dreams into a sympathetic ear: and he wrote that same night to Aloyse,—
MY DEAR ALOYSE,—Diane loves me! But no, that is not what I ought to say to you first of all. My dear Aloyse, come and join me here; after six years of separation, I must embrace you once more. The main points of my life are now fixed. I am captain of the king's Guards,—one of the most eagerly sought of all ranks in the army; and the name I have made for myself will help me to reinstate in honor and renown that which I inherit from my ancestors. And I have need of you for this latter task too, Aloyse. And then I need you because I am so happy, because, I repeat it, Diane loves me,—yes, the Diane of former days, my child sister, who has never forgotten her good Aloyse, although she calls the king her father. And then, Aloyse, this daughter of the king and Madame de Valentinois, this widow of the Duc de Castro, has never forgotten, and still loves with her whole dear soul her obscure Vimoutiers playmate. She has told me so within the hour, and her sweet voice still echoes in my heart.So come, Aloyse, for I really am too happy to be alone in my happiness.
MY DEAR ALOYSE,—Diane loves me! But no, that is not what I ought to say to you first of all. My dear Aloyse, come and join me here; after six years of separation, I must embrace you once more. The main points of my life are now fixed. I am captain of the king's Guards,—one of the most eagerly sought of all ranks in the army; and the name I have made for myself will help me to reinstate in honor and renown that which I inherit from my ancestors. And I have need of you for this latter task too, Aloyse. And then I need you because I am so happy, because, I repeat it, Diane loves me,—yes, the Diane of former days, my child sister, who has never forgotten her good Aloyse, although she calls the king her father. And then, Aloyse, this daughter of the king and Madame de Valentinois, this widow of the Duc de Castro, has never forgotten, and still loves with her whole dear soul her obscure Vimoutiers playmate. She has told me so within the hour, and her sweet voice still echoes in my heart.
So come, Aloyse, for I really am too happy to be alone in my happiness.
On the 7th of June there was a sitting of the king's council, and there was a very full attendance of members of the council of state. About Henri II. and the princes of the blood were this day assembled Anne de Montmorency, the Cardinal de Lorraine and his brother Charles de Guise, Archbishop of Reims, the chancellor Olivier de Lenville, President Bertrand, Comte d'Aumale, Sedan, Humières, and Saint-André and his son.
Vicomte d'Exmès, in his capacity of captain of the Guards, stood near the door, with bared sword.
All the interest of the session was, as usual, centred in the contentions between the rival ambitions of the houses of Montmorency and Lorraine, represented on this occasion in the council by the constable himself and the cardinal.
"Sire," said the Cardinal de Lorraine, "the danger is imminent, and the enemy at our gates. A formidable army is being assembled in Flanders; and Philip II. may invade our territory to-morrow, and Mary of England declare war against you. Sire, you have a crying need for the presence of a gallant leader, young and vigorous, who is not afraid to act boldly, and whose very name would incite terror in the Spaniard by reminding him of recent defeats."
"Like the name of your brother, Monsieur de Guise, for example," said De Montmorency, sarcastically.
"Like the name of my brother, to be sure," replied the cardinal, valiantly; "like the name of the victor of Metz, of Renty, and of Valenza. Yes, Sire, the Duc de Guise is the man whom you should summon home at once from Italy, where men and supplies are lacking, where he is like to be compelled to raise the siege of Civitella, and where his presence and that of his army, which might be so useful against the threatened invasion here, can be of no further use."
The king turned carelessly toward Monsieur de Montmorency, as if to say, "Now it is your turn."
"Sire," the constable replied to his glance, "recall the army, by all means; and this absurd conquest of Italy, about which there has been so much braggadocio, will end, as I have always said, in ridicule. But what need have you of the general? Look at the latest intelligence from the North: the Flemish frontier is quiet; Philip II. is quaking in his shoes; and Mary of England hasn't a word to say. You may still renew the truce, Sire, or dictate terms of peace, as you choose. It is no adventurous captain of whom you now have need, but a shrewd and experienced minister, who is not blinded by the rash impetuosity of youth, and in whose eyes war is not the mere plaything of an insatiable ambition, but who can lay the foundations of an honorable peace on terms consistent with the glory and dignity of France—"
"Like yourself, for instance, Monsieur le Connétable," interrupted the Cardinal de Lorraine, bitterly.
"Like myself," was Anne de Montmorency's proud reply; "and I frankly advise the king not to trouble himself further about the chances of a war which can take place only if he chooses, and when he chooses. Interior affairs, the condition of the treasury, and religious interests have a much stronger claim upon our attention; and a prudent administrator to-day will be worth a thousand times more than the most enterprising general."
"And will have a thousand times greater claim upon his Majesty's favor, eh?" was the cardinal's sharp retort.
"His Eminence has rounded out my reflection for me," continued Montmorency, coolly; "and since he has put the question on that ground, I will venture to ask his Majesty for a proof that my services in behalf of peaceful measures are gratifying to him."
"What proof is that?" said the king, sighing.
"Sire, I beg your Majesty to make a public declaration of the honor which you condescend to do my house by bestowing upon my son the hand of Madame d'Angoulême. I must have this official demonstration and solemn promise, so that I may steadfastly pursue my present course, without having to combat the suspicions of my friends and the clamor of my enemies."
This bold request was received, despite the king's presence, with signs of applause or displeasure, according as the councillors belonged to one or the other faction.
Gabriel turned pale and shuddered; but he recovered his courage somewhat when he heard the Cardinal de Lorraine reply with spirit,—
"The Holy Father's bull, annulling the marriage of François de Montmorency and Jeanne de Fiennes, has not yet arrived, so far as I know, and may not arrive at all."
"Then we must get along without it," said the constable; "secret marriages may be annulled by royal decree."
"But a decree cannot be made retroactive," was the cardinal's retort.
"But such an effect may be given to it, may it not, Sire? Say it aloud, I conjure you, that those who attack me, as well as I myself, may have a certain demonstration of your approbation of my views! Tell them that your royal favor will go so far as to give a retroactive effect to this just decree!"
"No doubt I can do it," said the king, whose feeble indecision seemed to be yielding to this firm and steady language.
Gabriel had to lean heavily upon his sword to save himself from falling.
The constable's eyes shone with delight. The peace party seemed to be on the verge of a decided triumph, thanks to his daring.
But at this moment the sound of trumpets was heard in the courtyard. The air they were playing was an unfamiliar one, and the members of the council looked wonderingly at one another. The usher came in almost immediately, and bowing to the ground, announced,—
"Sir Edward Fleming, herald of England, begs the honor of being admitted to your Majesty's presence."
"Let the herald of England enter," said the king, marvelling, but outwardly calm.
He made a sign, and the dauphin and the princes came and stood about him, while the other members of the council took their places outside the royal circle. The herald, accompanied only by two armed attendants, was ushered in. He saluted the king, who nodded his head slightly from the sofa on which he remained seated.
Then said the herald,—
"Mary, Queen of England and France, to Henri, King of France: For having maintained friendly relations with the English Protestants, enemies of our religion and our State, and for having tendered and promised them aid and protection against the just and deserved penalties incurred by them, we, Mary of England, do declare war by land and by sea against Henri of France. And as a gage of this defiance, I, Edward Fleming, herald of England, do here fling down my gauntlet of battle."
At a sign from the king the Vicomte d'Exmès stepped forward and picked up Sir Edward's glove. Then Henri said coolly to the herald the one word,—
"Thanks!"
Thereupon he took off the magnificent necklace which he wore, and gave it to Gabriel to hand to the herald, and said, inclining his head once more,—
"You may now withdraw."
The herald bowed low and left the hall. A moment later the blare of the English trumpets was heard once more, whereupon the king broke the silence.
"Well, my Cousin de Montmorency," said he to the constable, "you seem to have been a little too hasty in promising peace, and in answering for the good intentions of Queen Mary. This alleged patronage of the English Protestants is a mere pious pretext to conceal the love of our sister of England for her young husband Philip II. War with the husband and wife both! Well, so be it! A king of France need not fear all Europe; and if the Flemish frontier will only give us a little time to look around— Well, Florimond, again? What is it now?"
"Sire," said the usher, re-entering, "a special courier with important despatches from Monsieur le Gouverneur de Picardie."
"Go and see what it is, I beg, Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine," said the king, graciously.
The cardinal returned with the despatches, which he handed to the king.
"Ah, ah, gentlemen," said the king, casting his eye upon them, "a different sort of news this. The forces of Philip II. are assembling at Givet, and Monsieur Gaspard de Coligny advises us that the Duke of Savoy is at their head. A worthy foe! Your nephew, Monsieur le Connétable, thinks that the Spanish troops are about to attack Mezières and Rocroy, so as to cut off Marienbourg. He asks for speedy reinforcements, to enable him to strengthen these places, and hold his own in case he is attacked."
The whole assemblage was in a state of great emotion and excitement.
"Monsieur de Montmorency," said Henri, smiling calmly, "you are not happy in your predictions to-day. 'Mary of England,' said you, 'has not a word to say;' and we have only just been hearing her trumpets sounding. 'Philip II. is afraid, and the Low Country quiet,' you added. Now, the King of Spain seems to be no more afraid than ourselves, while the Flemish are very far from quiet. I must say that I am convinced that the prudent administrator will have to make way for the gallant soldier."
"Sire," said Anne de Montmorency, "I am Constable of France, and war knows even more of me than peace."
"Very true, my good cousin, and I am glad to see that you remember Bicocque and Marignan, and that warlike impulses are coming back to you again. Draw your sword from the scabbard, then, and I shall rejoice. All that I wish to say is that we must think now of nothing but war, and of honorable and glorious war. Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine, be good enough to write to your brother, Monsieur de Guise, to return immediately. As for internal affairs and family matters, they must be postponed; and I think we shall have to wait for the Pope's dispensation, Monsieur de Montmorency, before considering farther the proposed marriage of Madame d'Angoulême."
The constable made a wry face, while the cardinal smiled, and Gabriel breathed again.
"Come, gentlemen," added the king, who seemed to have shaken off his indifference all at once, "come, we must collect our thoughts now with so many serious matters to consider. The session is at an end for this morning, but the council will meet again this evening. Till evening, then, and God protect France!"
"Vive le roi!" cried the members of the council with one voice.
And the assemblage dispersed.
The constable left the king's presence buried in thought. Master Arnauld du Thill put himself in his way, and accosted him in a low voice.
This took place in the grand gallery of the Louvre,
"Monseigneur, one word—"
"Who is it?" said the constable. "Ah, you, Arnauld? What do you want with me? I am hardly in trim to listen to you to-day."
"Yes, I imagined," said Arnauld, "that Monseigneur was vexed by the turn which the marriage project concerning Madame Diane and Monseigneur François has taken."
"How did you know that, you rascal? But after all, what does it matter who knows it? The wind is from a stormy quarter, and favors the Guises, that is sure."
"But to-morrow it may be a fair wind for the Montmorencys," said the spy; "and if there is none but the king against this marriage to-day, why, he will be for it to-morrow. No, the fresh obstacle which bars our way, Monseigneur, is a more serious one, and comes from another quarter."
"And whence can come a more serious obstacle than the disapprobation or even lukewarmness of the king?"
"From Madame d'Angoulême herself, for instance," replied Arnauld.
"You have scented something in that quarter, have you, my keen hound?" said the constable, drawing nearer to him, and evidently becoming interested.
"And how did Monseigneur suppose that I had passed the fortnight that has elapsed?"
"True, it is a long while since I have heard a word of you."
"Neither directly nor indirectly, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld, proudly; "and you, who used to reproach me for being mentioned rather too often in the police-patrol reports, must confess, I think, that for two weeks I have worked shrewdly and quietly."
"True again," said the constable; "and I have been surprised that I haven't had to intervene to get you out of trouble, you varlet, who are always drinking when you're not gambling, and rioting when you're not fighting."
"And the troublesome hero of the last fifteen days has been not I, Monseigneur, but a certain squire of the new captain of the Guards, Vicomte d'Exmès, one Martin-Guerre."
"Yes, I remember now that Martin-Guerre's name has taken Arnauld du Thill's place in the report that I have to examine every evening."
"For instance, who was picked up drunk by the watch the other night?" asked Arnauld.
"Martin-Guerre."
"And who, after a quarrel at the gaming-table on account of dice found to be cogged, struck with his sword the finest of the king's gendarmes?"
"Martin-Guerre again."
"And who only yesterday was taken in the act of trying to carry off the wife of Master Gorju, the ironmonger?"