[4]"Oh, God, our Heavenly Father,Who changedst water to wine,Make of my breech a lanternTo light this friend of mine!"
[4]
"Oh, God, our Heavenly Father,Who changedst water to wine,Make of my breech a lanternTo light this friend of mine!"
"Oh, God, our Heavenly Father,Who changedst water to wine,Make of my breech a lanternTo light this friend of mine!"
The next day, August 12, it was with an unfaltering step and a tranquil face that Gabriel de Montgommery took his way to the Louvre to ask audience of the king.
He had debated long and earnestly in his own mind, and with Aloyse, as to what he should do and say. Convinced that a violent course would have no other result with an adversary who wore a crown than to subject him to his father's fate, Gabriel had resolved to speak plainly and with dignity, but in a tone of moderation and with due respect. He would ask, not demand. Would there not still be time for him to adopt a more lofty demeanor, and ought he not in the first place to ascertain if the lapse of eighteen years had not softened Henri's bitter enmity?
Gabriel, in forming this resolution, showed as much discretion and shrewdness as were consistent with the bold step he had determined on.
Circumstances moreover lent him aid from an unexpected quarter.
As he entered the courtyard of the Louvre, attended by Martin-Guerre,—the real Martin-Guerre on this occasion,—Gabriel noticed an extraordinary commotion; but his mind was too deeply absorbed in his own affairs to pay much attention to the busily talking groups and sad faces which he passed at every step.
Nevertheless, he could but recognize on his way a litter with the Guise arms, and salute the cardinal, who was just leaving it in a state of great excitement.
"Ah! is it you, Monsieur Vicomte d'Exmès," said Charles de Lorraine, "and are you quite yourself again? So much the better! so much the better! Monsieur my brother was asking for news of you in his last letter with much interest."
"Monseigneur is so very kind!" responded Gabriel.
"You have well earned it by your gallantry," said the cardinal. "But where are you going so fast?"
"To seek the king, Monseigneur."
"Hm! The king has other business on hand than receiving you, my young friend. But wait a moment! I am going to his Majesty also, for he just sent for me. Let us go up together; I will be your sponsor, and you shall lend me the support of your strong arm. One good turn for another. In fact, that is just what I was going to say to his Majesty; for you have heard the sad news, I suppose?"
"No, indeed," Gabriel replied; "for I have just come from home; and I only noticed that there seemed to be something exciting in the air."
"I should say as much!" said the cardinal. "Monsieur de Montmorency has been up to his old tricks down yonder with the army. He undertook to fly to the relief of St. Quentin, which was in a state of siege, did the gallant constable! Don't go so fast, I beg you, Monsieur d'Exmès, for I no longer have the sprightly legs of twenty years. I was saying that he offered battle to the enemy, the intrepid general! It was day before yesterday, August 10, St. Laurent's Day. He had almost as many troops as the Spaniards, a superb body of cavalry,—the very pick and flower of the French nobility. Oh, well! he had so skilfully arranged matters, experienced commander that he is, that he sustained a most overwhelming defeat in the plains of Gibercourt and Lizerolles; that he was himself wounded and made prisoner, and with him all the leading officers and generals who did not remain on the field. Monsieur d'Enghien is among the latter; and of the whole infantry not a hundred men have come back. And that explains why everybody is so absorbed, Monsieur d'Exmès, and why his Majesty needs me, no doubt."
"Great God!" cried Gabriel, appalled, even in the depths of his own sorrow, by this great public calamity; "Great God! are the days of Poitiers and Agincourt returning upon poor France? But St. Quentin, Monseigneur?"
"St. Quentin," the cardinal replied, "was still holding out when the courier left; and the constable's nephew, Monsieur l'Amiral Gaspard de Coligny, who is defending the town, has sworn to lessen the result of his uncle's defeat by allowing himself to be buried in the ruins of the place rather than surrender it. But I am much afraid that he may be buried already, and the last rampart which kept the enemy out carried."
"In that case the kingdom is lost!" said Gabriel.
"May God protect France!" rejoined the cardinal. "But here we are at the king's apartments; and we will see what steps he proposes to take to protect himself."
The guards, as well they might, allowed the cardinal to pass with a bow, for they saw in him the man necessary for the emergency, and whose brother was the only man who could save the country. Charles de Lorraine, followed by Gabriel, entered unopposed the king's apartments, where they found him alone with Madame de Poitiers, and a prey to most profound dismay. Henri, as he saw the cardinal, rose and came eagerly forward to meet him.
"Your Eminence has arrived most opportunely," said he. "Well, well, Monsieur de Lorraine, what a frightful disaster! Who could have imagined it, I ask you?"
"I, Sire," replied the cardinal, "if your Majesty had asked me the question a month ago, at the time of Monsieur de Montmorency's departure—"
"No useless recrimination, cousin!" said the king; "we have not to do with the past, but with the threatening future and the dangerous present. Monsieur le Duc de Guise is on his way from Italy, is he not?"
"Yes, Sire; and he should be at Lyons now."
"God be praised!" cried the king. "Well, Monsieur de Lorraine, I intrust the welfare of the realm to the care of your illustrious brother. You and he, do you henceforth assume full power and sovereign authority to forward this glorious result. Be kings like me, and more truly kings than I am. I have just written with my own hand to Monsieur le Duc de Guise, to hasten his return. Here is the letter. Will your Eminence kindly write as well, and point out to your brother our horrible position and the necessity of not losing a moment, if France is to be saved. Say to Monsieur de Guise that I put myself entirely in his hands. Write, Monsieur Cardinal, and write at once, I beg. You have no need to go away from here. See, here in this closet you will find all you need. The courier, booted and spurred, is waiting below, already in the saddle. Hasten, Monsieur Cardinal, I pray you; hasten! A half-hour more or less may save or ruin everything."
"I obey your Majesty," replied the cardinal, going toward the closet, "and my noble brother also will obey, for his life belongs to the king and the kingdom; but whether he succeed or fail, your Majesty will remember later that you have intrusted him with power in a desperate situation."
"Say dangerous," rejoined the king, "but do not say desperate. But do my good city of St. Quentin and Monsieur de Coligny, its brave defender, still hold their own?"
"Yes, or they were holding out two days ago, at all events," said Charles; "but the fortifications were in a pitiable condition, and the starving inhabitants were talking of capitulation; and with St. Quentin in the hands of the Spaniard to-day, Paris will be his in a week. Never mind, Sire! I will write to my brother, and you need not to be told that whatever man can do, Monsieur de Guise will do."
And the cardinal, saluting the king and Madame Diane, entered the closet to write the letter which Henri desired.
Gabriel had remained apart, thinking deeply and unnoticed. His generous young heart was deeply moved by contemplation of the terrible extremity to which France was reduced. He forgot that it was Monsieur de Montmorency, his bitterest enemy, who had been beaten, wounded, and captured. For the moment he saw in him only the commander of the French forces. In fact, he thought almost as much of his country's danger as of his father's suffering. The noble youth had a sympathetic heart, which was easily aroused by deep feeling, and he pitied all who were in distress; and when the king, after the cardinal had left the room, sank back despairingly upon his couch, with his head in his hands, crying aloud,—
"Oh, St. Quentin! on thee now hangs the destiny of France! St. Quentin, my noble city! If thou canst still resist but for one short week, Monsieur de Guise will have time to return, and the defence of thy faithful walls be organized anew! Whereas if they fall, the foe will march upon Paris, and all will be lost. St. Quentin, oh, I would give thee a new privilege for each hour of resistance, and a diamond for each of thy crumbling stones, if thou couldst hold out only one week more!"
"Sire, it shall hold out, and more than a week!" said Gabriel, coming forward.
He had made his resolution; and a sublime resolution it was!
"Monsieur d'Exmès!" cried Henri and Diane, in the same breath,—the king in wonder, and Diane with contempt.
"How did you come here, Monsieur?" asked the king, sternly.
"Sire, I entered with his Eminence."
"That's a different matter," said Henri; "but what were you saying, pray, Monsieur d'Exmès?—that St. Quentin might hold out, I think."
"Yes, Sire; and you said, did you not, that if it did hold out, you would endow it with freedom and wealth?"
"I say it again," said the king.
"Very well, Sire; and would you refuse to the man who should make its holding out possible what you would accord to the town which held out? To the man whose energetic will should infect the whole city, and who would not surrender it until the last piece of the wall crumbles under the enemy's cannon? The favor which this man shall ask at your hands, this man who shall have given you this week's respite, and thus preserved your kingdom, shall he ask it in vain, Sire, and will you chaffer about an act of mercy with, him who has given you back an empire?"
"No, by Heaven!" cried the king; "and whatever a king has to give that man shall have."
"A bargain, Sire; for not only can a king give, but he can forgive as well. And it is a pardon, and not titles or gold which this man will ask at your hands."
"But who is he? Where is this deliverer?" said the king.
"He stands before you, Sire. It is I, the humble captain of your Guards, but who feel in my heart and my arm a superhuman strength, which shall help me to prove that I make no vain boast in undertaking to save at one and the same time my country and my father."
"Your father, Monsieur d'Exmès!" said the astonished king.
"I am not Monsieur d'Exmès," said Gabriel. "I am Gabriel de Montgommery, son of Comte Jacques de Montgommery, whom you ought to remember, Sire."
"The son of the Comte de Montgommery!" cried the king, rising and turning pale.
Madame Diane too fell back upon her couch with a gesture of terror.
"Yes, Sire," replied Gabriel, calmly; "I am the Vicomte de Montgommery, who, in exchange for the service which he will render you by maintaining the defence of St. Quentin for a week, asks you for nothing but his father's liberty."
"Your father, Monsieur!" said the king. "Your father is dead, has disappeared. What do I know about him? I don't know, I'm sure, where your father is."
"But I do, Sire; I know," replied Gabriel, choking down a terrible dread. "My father has been in the Châtelet for eighteen years past, awaiting the divine gift of death; or the royal gift of mercy. My father is alive; I am certain of it. As to his crime, of that I know nothing."
"You know nothing of it?" the king asked, frowning darkly.
"I know nothing of it, Sire; but surely it should have been a serious offence to have deserved so long an imprisonment. But it could not have been an unpardonable one, since it did not merit death. Sire, listen. In eighteen years justice has had time to slumber and clemency to awake. Human passions, whether evil or good, do not resist so long as that. My father, who was a vigorous man when he entered his prison, will come out of it old and feeble. However guilty he may have been, has not his expiation been ample? And even if it should happen that his punishment was too severe, is he not too weak to remember? Restore to liberty, Sire, a poor prisoner, who will henceforth be of no consequence in the world. Remember, O Christian king, the words of the Christian creed, and forgive the sins of another that your own sins may be forgiven!"
These last words were uttered in a meaning tone which caused the king and Madame de Valentinois to look at each other in anxious and terrified inquiry.
But Gabriel chose only to touch delicately upon this sore spot in their consciences, and made haste to continue,—
"Please take notice, Sire, that I address you as an obedient and devoted subject. I have not said to you, 'My father was not tried; my father was secretly condemned without an opportunity to be heard in his own defence; and such injustice seems much like revenge. So I, his son, am about to appeal boldly to the nobility of France from this secret judgment which has been pronounced upon him. I am about to declare from the house-tops to every one who wears a sword the insult which has been offered to us all in the person of one gentleman—'"
Henri moved uneasily in his seat.
"I have not said this, Sire," Gabriel went on. "I know that there are emergencies stronger than law and right, and where an arbitrary act is the least perilous. I respect, as my father undoubtedly would respect, the secrets of a past which lies so far behind us. I ask you simply to allow me to commute the balance of my father's punishment by a glorious exploit of deliverance. I offer you by way of ransom for him to hold St. Quentin for a week against the enemy; and if that is not enough, why, to make up for the eventual loss of St. Quentin by capturing some other town from the Spaniards or the English! Surely that will be worth the gift of freedom to an old gray-headed man. Well, I will do all this and more too! for the cause which strengthens my arm is a pure and holy one. My will is strong and daring: and I know that God will be with me."
Madame Diane could not restrain a smile of incredulity at this heroic exhibition of youthful enthusiasm and confidence such as she had never seen and could not appreciate.
"I understand your smile, Madame," rejoined Gabriel, with a sad glance at her; "you think that I shall fall under this great task, do you not?Mon Dieu! it may be so. It may be that my presentiments mislead me. But what then? Why, then I shall die. Yes, Madame, yes, Sire, if the enemy enters St. Quentin before the end of the eighth day, I shall die in the breach for the town which I have failed to defend. Neither God nor my father nor you can ask more of me than that. My destiny will then have been fulfilled as the Lord has seen fit: my father will die in his dungeon, and I upon the field of battle; and you,—you will be relieved by natural means of the debt and of your creditor at the same time. Then you can be easy in your mind."
"That last remark of his is very true, at all events," whispered Diane, in the ear of the king, who was absorbed in thought.
However, she said aloud to Gabriel, while Henri maintained a dreamy silence,—
"Even supposing that you fall, Monsieur, leaving your work half done, it is easy to imagine that you will leave some inheritor of your name behind you, or some confidant of your secret."
"I swear to you by my father's safety," said Gabriel, "that when I die everything shall die with me, and that no one will then have the right to importune his Majesty on this subject. I put myself in God's hands in advance, I say again; and you ought, in like manner, Sire, to recognize His intervention, if He shall endow me with the strength to fulfil my vast design. But here and now, if I die, I relieve you from all obligation and from all responsibility, Sire,—at least before men; but the rights of the Most High are not lost by prescription."
Henri shuddered. His naturally irresolute mind did not know what course to decide upon; and the vacillating prince turned to Madame de Poitiers as if to ask for aid and advice.
She, understanding fully his hesitation, to which she was well used, responded to his glance with a peculiar smile.
"Is it not your opinion, Sire, that we ought to rely upon the word of Monsieur d'Exmès, who is a loyal gentleman, and, I believe, of a chivalrous and knightly character? I know not whether his request is or is not well founded; and your Majesty's silence in that regard affords no ground upon which I or any one can allege anything, and leaves the whole question in uncertainty. But in my humble opinion, Sire, you should not reject so generous a proffer; and if I were in your place, I would gladly pledge my royal word to Monsieur d'Exmès to grant him, if he fulfil his heroic and daring promise, whatever favor he might choose to ask at my hands on his return."
"Ah, Madame, I ask no more than that," said Gabriel.
"Just one word more," resumed Diane. "How," she added, fixing a piercing glance upon the young man,—"how and why did you make up your mind to speak of a mysterious affair, which seems to be of some consequence, before me,—before a woman who may be anything but discreet for aught you know of her, and an entire stranger to this whole matter?"
"I had two reasons, Madame," replied Gabriel, with perfect sang-froid. "In the first place, I imagined that there neither could be nor should be any secret in his Majesty's heart so far as you are concerned. In that case, it was only disclosing to you what you were sure to know sooner or later, or what you already knew. In the second place, I hoped, as indeed has come to pass, that you would deign to support my request to the king; that you would urge him to put me to this proof; and that you, a woman, would be found, as you always have been, on the side of clemency."
It would have been impossible for the closest scrutiny to detect in Gabriel's tone the least inflection of irony, or upon his calm and unmoved features the slightest symptom of a disdainful smile; and Madame Diane's penetrating gaze was thrown away.
She responded to a speech which might after all have been meant to be complimentary by a slight inclination of the head.
"Allow me one more question," she said, "just as to one circumstance which has aroused my curiosity, that is all. How is it that you who are so young happen to be in possession of a secret that is eighteen years old?"
"I reply so much the more willingly, Madame," said Gabriel, gravely and sombrely, "because my reply may serve to convince you of God's intervention in the matter. My father's squire, one Perrot Travigny, who was killed in the transactions which preceded the disappearance of the count, has risen from the tomb, by the grace of God, and has revealed to me what I have told you."
At this reply, delivered in a tone of the utmost solemnity, the king arose, pale and breathless, and even Madame de Poitiers, despite her nerves of steel, could not repress a shudder of terror. At that superstitious epoch, when apparitions and ghosts were freely believed in, Gabriel's words, uttered with the conviction of truth personified, might well have had a terrifying effect upon two tormented consciences.
"Enough, enough, Monsieur!" said the king, hastily, with trembling voice; "and everything that you ask is granted. Leave us! leave us!"
"And I may set out for St. Quentin, then, within the hour, relying upon your Majesty's word?"
"Yes, yes, Monsieur, set out at once!" said the king, who, notwithstanding Diane's warning glances, had great difficulty in mastering his distress; "set out at once! Do what you have promised; and I give you my word as king and gentleman that I will do what you wish."
Gabriel, with joy at his heart, bent low before the king and duchess, and took his leave without another word, as if, having obtained his desire, he had not a moment more to lose.
"At last! He is not here now!" said the king, breathing deeply, as if relieved of a heavy burden.
"Sire," said Madame de Poitiers, "be calm, and try to regain your self-command. You came very near betraying yourself before that man."
"That is no man, Madame," said the king, as one dreaming; "that is my ever-living remorse: it is my reproachful conscience."
"Well, Sire," said Diane, who was herself again, "you have done very well to accede to this Gabriel's request, and to send him where he is now going; for I am very much mistaken, or your remorse will soon die before St. Quentin, and you will then be rid of your conscience."
The Cardinal de Lorraine returned at this moment with the letter he had been writing to his brother, and the king had no time to reply.
Meanwhile Gabriel, leaving the king with a light heart, had only one thought and one wish in the world: it was to see once more, with hope beating high in his breast, her whom he had left with death in his soul; to say to Diane de Castro all that he hoped from the future, and to draw from her loved glances the courage of which he should stand so much in need.
He knew that she had gone into a convent; but into what convent? It might be that her women had not gone with her; and he turned his steps in the direction of her former apartment at the Louvre, to question Jacinthe.
Jacinthe was with her mistress; but Denise, the second waiting-maid, had stayed behind; and it was she who received Gabriel.
"Ah, Monsieur d'Exmès!" she cried. "You are such a welcome visitor; for it may perhaps be that you have come to give me some news of my dear mistress."
"On the contrary, Denise, I have come to learn of her from you," said Gabriel.
"Ah, Holy Virgin! I know nothing at all, and I am terribly frightened about her."
"But why so anxious, Denise?" asked Gabriel, who began to be anxious himself.
"Why!" replied the maid; "why, you must know where Madame de Castro is now!
"Indeed, no! I know nothing about it, Denise; and it is just what I hoped to learn from you."
"Holy Virgin! and didn't you know, Monseigneur, that she asked leave of the king to enter a convent a month ago?"
"I know that; and then?"
"And then! Ah, that is the terrible part of it. For do you know what convent she chose? That of the Benedictines, of which her old friend, Sister Monique, is superior, at St. Quentin, Monseigneur,—at St. Quentin, at this very moment besieged and perhaps taken by these English and Spanish heathens. She had not been there a fortnight, Monseigneur, when the siege began."
"Oh," cried Gabriel, "the hand of God is in all this! He awakens the son in me to new life, by arousing the lover anew, and thus doubles my courage and my strength. Thanks, Denise. This for your good news," he added, placing a purse in her hand. "Pray to Heaven for your mistress and for me."
In hot haste he went down once more into the courtyard of the Louvre, where Martin-Guerre was awaiting him.
"Where do we go now, Monseigneur?" asked the squire.
"Where the cannon is echoing, Martin,—to St. Quentin! to St. Quentin! We must be there day after to-morrow, so we start within the hour, my fine fellow."
"Ah, so much the better!" cried Martin. "Oh, mighty Saint Martin, my patron saint," he added, "I am content now to be a drunkard and a gambler and a rake; but I give you fair warning that I would throw myself into the midst of the enemy's battalions if ever I were a coward!"
A general council of the military leaders and prominent citizens was being held in the St. Quentin town-hall. It was the 15th of August already, and the town had not yet capitulated; but there was much talk about capitulation. The suffering and destitution of the inhabitants were at their height; and since there was no hope of saving the place, and since the enemy, some day, sooner or later, were sure to gain possession, would it not be better to put an end to so much misery?
Gaspard de Coligny, the gallant admiral, whom the Constable de Montmorency, his uncle, had intrusted with the defence of the place, had determined not to admit the Spaniard until the last extremity. He knew that each day's delay, terrible though it was to the suffering people, might be the salvation of the kingdom. But what could he do against the discouragement and mutterings of the whole population? The war outside the walls gave no time for fighting within; and if the people of St. Quentin should refuse some day to perform the labor which was required of them as well as of the troops, further resistance would be useless, and it would remain but to deliver the keys of the town, and with them the key of France, to Philip II. and his general, Philibert Emmanuel of Savoy.
However, he had resolved, before contemplating such a disastrous step, to make one last supreme effort; and with that in view he had convoked this assembly of the principal men of the town, whom we will now allow to complete our information as to the desperate condition of the fortifications, and, above all, as to the condition of the brave hearts of their defenders;—the most important fortifications of all.
The speech with which the admiral opened the sitting appealing eloquently to the patriotism of his hearers, was received with depressing silence. Then Gaspard de Coligny directly questioned Captain Oger, one of the valiant gentlemen who served under him. He hoped by beginning with the officers to urge the citizens on to further resistance. But Captain Oger's advice unluckily was not what the admiral anticipated.
"Since you have done me the honor to ask my opinion, Monsieur l'Amiral," said he, "I will say what I have to say frankly, but with much sorrow: St. Quentin can hold out no longer. If we had any hope of maintaining ourselves for a week even, or for four days, or for two days, I would say, 'These two days may afford time for the army to be reorganized; these two days may save our country,—therefore let us not surrender until the last stone in the walls has crumbled, and the last man has fallen.' But I am convinced that the next assault, which may be made within an hour, will be the last. Is it not, then, better, while there is still time, to save what can be saved of the town by capitulation, and escape pillage at least, if we cannot escape defeat?"
"Yes, yes, that is true! Well said! that is the only reasonable course to take," muttered those who heard him.
"No, gentlemen, no!" cried the admiral; "we are not dealing with reason now, but with sentiment. Besides, I do not believe that one single assault will let the Spaniards into the town, when we have already repelled five. Come, Lauxford, you know the present condition of the works and the countermines: are not the fortifications sufficiently strong to hold out for a long time to come? Speak frankly, and don't represent matters any more or less favorable than they really are. We have come together to learn the truth; and it is the truth I ask of you."
"I will tell it to you," replied the engineer Lauxford, "or rather I will let the facts speak for themselves; they will tell you the truth better than I, and without flattery. For this purpose, all you need to do is to go over with me in your mind the vulnerable points of these fortifications. Monsieur l'Amiral, at the present moment there are four practicable openings for the enemy; and I must confess that I am much surprised that he has not already made use of them. In the first place, there is a breach in the wall at the Boulevard St. Martin wide enough for twenty men to pass through abreast. We have lost there more than two hundred men,—living walls, who cannot, however, supply the lack of walls of stone. At the Porte St. Jean, the great tower alone is still standing, and the best curtain is battered to pieces. There is a countermine at that point, all closed and ready; but I fear that if we fire it, we shall cause the destruction of the great tower; which alone holds the assailants in check, and the ruins of which would serve them as ladders. At the hamlet of Remicourt, the Spanish trenches have cut through the outer wall of the moat, and they have taken up a position there under cover of a mantlet, behind which they are battering away at the walls without intermission. Finally, on the Faubourg d'Isle side, you know, Monsieur l'Amiral, that the enemy is in possession not only of the moats, but of the boulevard and the abbey; and they are so firmly lodged there that it is no longer possible to inflict any damage on them at that point, while, step by step, they are scaling the parapet,—which is only five or six feet thick,—attacking in flank with their batteries the men at work on the Boulevard de la Reine, and worrying them so that it has been impracticable to keep them at work. The remainder of the fortifications will perhaps stand out; but there are the four mortal wounds, and they will soon sap the life of the city, Monseigneur. You have asked me for the truth, and I have given it to you in all its melancholy details, leaving to your wisdom and foresight to say what use shall be made of it."
Thereupon the mutterings of the throng began again, and although no one dared to say it aloud, every one was saying under his breath,—
"The best thing to do is to capitulate, and not risk the disastrous chances of an assault."
But the admiral rejoined, undismayed,—
"Hold, gentlemen, another word! As you say, Monsieur Lauxford, if our walls are wreak, we have, to supplement their weakness, our gallant soldiers,—living ramparts. With them, and with the earnest concurrence of the citizens, is it not possible to postpone the taking of the town for a few days? (And what would be a shameful act to-day will cover us with glory then.) Yes, the fortifications are too weak, I agree; but we have troops in sufficient numbers, have we not, Monsieur de Rambouillet?"
"Monsieur l'Amiral," said the captain who was addressed, "if we were down in the square, in the midst of the crowd, who are awaiting the result of our deliberations, I would say yes; for we should do our utmost to inspire hope and confidence in every breast. But here, in council, before those whose courage needs no proof or stimulus, I do not hesitate to tell you that we have not men enough for the difficult and dangerous work to be done. We have given arms to every one who was able to carry them. The rest are employed in the defensive works, and children and old men are doing their share there. Even the women are assisting in the good work by saving and nursing the wounded. In short, not one arm is idle, and yet arms are sadly needed. There is not a spot on the ramparts where there is one man too many, and there are frequently not enough. Multiply as we will, it is impossible to arrange our forces so that fifty more men are not absolutely necessary at the Porte St. Jean, and at least fifty others at the Boulevard St. Martin. The disaster of St. Laurent has deprived us of reinforcements that we had reason to anticipate; and unless you expect succor from Paris, Monseigneur, it is for you to consider if, in such dire extremity, you ought to risk the lives of the small number of men we have left, and of this remnant of our gallant gendarmerie, who may still do much good service in helping to defend other places, and perhaps to save our country."
The whole assembly murmured approval of these words; and the distant shouting of the people who were crowding around the building on the outside was a still more eloquent commentary upon them.
But at this moment a voice of thunder cried,—
"Silence!"
Every voice was hushed; for he who spoke in such a commanding and steady voice was Jean Peuquoy, the syndic of the guild of weavers,—a citizen who was held in the highest esteem and consideration, and was a little feared by the people.
Jean Peuquoy was a type of the sturdy bourgeoisie, who loved their city as a mother and as a child, worshipped her and grumbled at her, lived always for her, and would die for her if need were. For the honest weaver there was no world but France, and in all France naught but St. Quentin. No one was so well versed as he in the history and traditions of the town, its ancient customs, and old-time legends. There was not a quarter, not a street, not a house, which in its present or its past had any secrets from Jean Peuquoy. He was in himself the municipality personified. His shop was a second Grand'place, and his wooden house in the Rue St. Martin another town-hall. This venerable mansion was made noticeable by a very peculiar coat-of-arms,—a shuttle crowned between the antlers of a full-grown stag. One of Jean Peuquoy's ancestors (for Jean Peuquoy reckoned up his ancestors like any gentleman)—a weaver like himself, it need not be said, and in addition an archer of renown—had put out the two eyes of this fine stag with two shafts at more than a hundred paces. These superb antlers are still to be seen at St. Quentin in the Rue St. Martin. Every one for ten leagues around knew the antlers and the weaver. Jean Peuquoy was thus the city itself; and every dweller in St. Quentin listened to the voice of his country speaking through him.
And so no one stirred when the weaver's voice, rising above the grumbling and the muttering, shouted, "Silence!"
"Yes, be silent!" he continued, "and lend me your ears for one moment, my fellow-citizens and good friends, I beseech you. Let us look over together, with your leave, what we have already done, and we may perhaps learn from that what we have still to do. When the enemy sat down before our walls; when we saw this swarm of Spaniards, English, Germans, and Walloons, under the redoubtable Philibert Emmanuel of Savoy, swooping down like locusts around our town,—we bravely accepted our lot, did we not? We did not murmur, nor did we accuse Providence of having cruelly selected St. Quentin as the expiatory sacrifice of France. Far from it; and Monsieur l'Amiral will do us the justice to say that from the very hour of his arrival, bringing us the mighty succor of his experience and valor, we did our best to forward his plans with our persons and our property. We have furnished supplies and money, and have ourselves shouldered the cross-bow and wielded the pick and shovel. Those of us who have not acted as sentinels on the walls have been digging in the town. We have helped to discipline and restore order among the rebellious peasants in the suburbs, who refused to work in payment for the protection we had afforded them. In short, we have done, I honestly believe, everything that could possibly be asked of men whose trade is not war. So we hoped that our lord the king would speedily remember his loyal subjects in St. Quentin, and would send us without delay the succor that we needed; and so it happened. Monsieur de Montmorency came hurrying hither to drive the forces of Philip II. from our gates, and we thanked God and the king; but the fatal day of St. Laurent dashed our hopes to the ground in a few short hours. The constable was taken, his army cut to pieces, and we were left in a more hopeless state than ever. Five days have passed since then, and the enemy have made good use of them. Three fierce assaults have cost us more than two hundred men and whole sections of the walls. The cannon thunders unceasingly. Listen! it echoes my very words. But we do not wish to hear it, and listen only on the side where Paris lies, to hear if we cannot distinguish some sound to announce the arrival of further reinforcement. But no; and our last resources are, so far as we can see, exhausted. The king abandons us, and has many other things to do than to think of us. He must collect around him at Paris all that remains of his forces, and must save the kingdom rather than one poor town; and if he does turn his eyes and his thoughts toward St. Quentin now and then, it is only to ask if its death-agony will last long enough to give France time to recover. But as to hope or chance of relief, there is no more now for us, dear countrymen and friends. Monsieur de Rambouillet and Monsieur de Lauxford have spoken the truth. We lack fortifications and troops; our city is dying; we are abandoned, despairing, and lost!"
"Yes, yes!" cried the whole assembly, with one accord; "we must surrender! we must surrender!"
"Not so," rejoined Jean Peuquoy; "we must die!"
An amazed silence followed this unexpected conclusion. The weaver profited by it to proceed with increased animation.
"We must die. What we have already done points out to us what remains for us to do. Messieurs Lauxford and de Rambouillet say that we cannot hold out; but Monsieur de Coligny says that we must hold out! And let us do it! You know whether I am devoted to our good town of St. Quentin, my dear brothers. I love her as I loved my old mother, in very truth. Every bullet that strikes her venerable walls seems to pierce my heart; and yet now that the general has spoken, I feel that he must be obeyed. Let not the arm rebel against the head, and St. Quentin perish! Monsieur l'Amiral knows what he is doing and what he means to do. He has weighed, in his wisdom, the fate of one city against the fate of France. He has decided that St. Quentin must die, like a sentinel at his post; so be it. The man who murmurs is a coward; and he who disobeys, a traitor. The walls are crumbling: let us make new walls with our dead bodies; let us gain a week, let us gain two days, or an hour even, at the price of all our blood and all our property. Monsieur l'Amiral knows the worth of all this; and since he asks it of us, we must do it. He will have to answer for it to God and to the king; but that doesn't concern us. As for us, our business is to die when he says, 'Die!' Let Monsieur de Coligny's conscience look out for the rest. He is responsible, and we must submit."
After these solemn, mournful words, every tongue was still, every head lowered, Gaspard de Coligny's like the others, and even to a greater degree than the others. It was in truth a heavy burden which the syndic of weavers put upon him; and he could not forbear a shudder as he thought of all these lives with which he was thus made chargeable.
"I see by your silence, my friends and brothers," continued Jean Peuquoy, "that you understand and approve what I have said; but one cannot expect husbands and fathers to pronounce sentence aloud upon their wives and children. To say nothing is to make a favorable reply. You will allow Monsieur l'Amiral to make orphans of your children and widows of your wives; but you cannot pronounce their sentence yourselves, is it not so? It is quite right too. Say nothing and die. No one would be so brutal as to require you to cry: 'Meure St. Quentin!' But if your patriotic hearts beat, as I believe they do, in unison with mine, you can at least cry, 'Vive la France!'"
"Vive la France!" echoed a few voices, as feeble as the wailing of children, and as mournful as sobs.
Then Gaspard de Coligny, deeply moved, and in a state of intense agitation, rose hastily from his seat.
"Listen to me; listen!" he cried: "I will not accept such a fearful responsibility alone. I was able to resist you when you wished to yield to the enemy, but when you do yield to me, I can no longer discuss the question; and since every soul in this assembly is of a contrary opinion to that which I hold, and since you all deem the sacrifice useless—"
"I believe, may God forgive me," broke in a loud voice from the crowd, "that even you are about to speak of giving up the town, Monsieur l'Amiral."
"Who dares thus to interrupt me?" demanded Gaspard de Coligny, with a gathering frown.
"I!" said a man, attired in the costume of a peasant of the suburbs of St. Quentin, making his way forward through the crowd.
"A peasant!" exclaimed the admiral.
"No, not a peasant," rejoined the stranger, "but Vicomte d'Exmès, captain of the king's Guards, who comes in his Majesty's name."
"In the king's name!" exclaimed the throng of astonished citizens.
"In the king's name," repeated Gabriel; "and you see that he has not abandoned his noble people of St. Quentin; on the contrary, he is still anxious about them. I came in, disguised as a peasant, three hours since; and during these three hours I have examined the walls and listened to your deliberations. But let me say that what I have heard hardly agrees with what I saw. Whence this discouragement, suitable for none but women, which seems to have stricken with panic the stoutest hearts? How comes it that you thus suddenly lose all hope, and leave yourselves a prey to imaginary fears? What! have you sunk so low that you can only rebel against the will of Monsieur l'Amiral, or bend your necks to the yoke in resignation? Show your face, by the living God, not to your leaders, but to the enemy; and if you cannot overcome them, at least let your defeat be more glorious than a triumph. I come from the ramparts; and I tell you that you can hold them two weeks yet, and the king only asks you to keep the enemy at bay one week to insure the salvation of France. To all that you have listened to in this hall I will make answer in two words, and will point out to you a remedy for your ills and a ray of hope to calm your fears."
The officers and notables crowded around Gabriel, already under the magic spell of his powerful and sympathetic will.
"Hear him! hear him!" they cried.
It was amid a breathless stillness that Gabriel continued,—
"In the first place, Monsieur Engineer Lauxford, what did you say,—that four weak spots in the fortifications were like open gates for the enemy to come in? Well, let us see. The Faubourg d'Isle side is in the greatest danger; the Spaniards are masters of the abbey, and from that point they are keeping up such a well-directed fire that our workmen don't dare to show themselves. Allow me, Monsieur Lauxford, to point out to you a very simple and very excellent way to protect them, which I saw put in practice by the besieged at Civitella this very year. It consists simply in screening our workmen from the Spanish batteries by placing old flatboats across the boulevard, piled upon one another, and filled with bags of earth. The cannon-balls waste their force in the soft soil; and behind that shelter our workmen will be as safe as if they were out of range of the cannon. At the hamlet of Remicourt, the enemy, under cover of a mantlet, are calmly undermining the wall, you say? I have with my own eyes verified the fact. But that is the place, Monsieur Engineer, where we must locate a countermine, and not at the Porte St. Jean, where the great tower makes your countermine not only useless but dangerous. So remove your sappers and miners from the western to the southern side, Monsieur Lauxford, and you will find great advantage in so doing. But the Porte St. Jean, you will ask, and the Boulevard St. Martin, are they to be left undefended? Fifty men at the first, and fifty at the second point will be enough; so Monsieur de Rambouillet himself has told us. But," he added, "these hundred men are not forthcoming. Very well! I will furnish them."
A murmur of glad surprise was heard all over the room.
"Yes," resumed Gabriel, in a steadier tone, as he saw that their hearts were somewhat encouraged by his words, "I left Baron de Vaulpergues with his company of three hundred lancers three leagues from here. We understand each other. I agreed to come here, risking all the perils of passing through the enemy's camp, in order to satisfy myself as to the most favorable points for him to make his way into the town with his men. I am here, as you see; and my plans are made. I shall now return to Vaulpergues. We shall divide his company into three. I shall take command in person of one of these detachments; and at nightfall, there being no moon, we propose to march from three different directions, each toward a postern designated beforehand. Surely we shall be very unfortunate if only one of our three detachments eludes the enemy, when their attention is called off by the other two. In any event, there will surely be one; and a hundred determined men will be thrown into the town, where, fortunately, there is no lack of provisions. These hundred men will be posted, as I said, at the Porte St. Jean and the Boulevard St. Michel; and now tell me, Monsieur Lauxford and Monsieur de Rambouillet,—tell me, I beg, what spot in the walls will then offer an easy entrance to the enemy."
With universal acclamation the assembly received these stirring words, which so powerfully awakened new hope in their despondent hearts.
"Oh," cried Jean Peuquoy, "now we can fight, and we can conquer."
"Fight, yes; but as for victory, I dare not hope it," rejoined Gabriel, with an air of authority. "I have no desire to make matters appear better than they really are, but only that they should not be made to appear worse. I wished to prove to every one of you, and first of all, to you, Master Jean Peuquoy, who have given utterance to such noble but gloomy words,—I wished to prove to you, in the first place, that the king does not abandon you, and in the second place, that your fall might be glorious, but obstinate resistance must be of the greatest service. You said a moment since, 'Let us offer ourselves as a sacrifice;' and now you say, 'Let us fight.' It is a great step forward. Yes, it is possible, nay, it may be probable that the sixty thousand men who are now besieging your frail ramparts will end by carrying them. But in the first place, do not imagine that the noble struggle you will have maintained will expose you to cruel reprisals. Philibert Emmanuel is a brave soldier, who loves and honors bravery in others, and will never punish you for your valor. And last of all, think that if you can hold out ten or twelve days more, you will perhaps have lost your town, but you will surely have saved your country. A sublime and noble end! Towns, like men, have their patents of nobility; and the mighty deeds that they accomplish are their titles and their ancestors. Your little children, men of St. Quentin, will some day be proud of their fathers. Your walls may be destroyed; but who can ever destroy the glorious memory of this siege? Courage, then, heroic sentinels of a kingdom! Save the king, and save your country. But a moment ago, with heads bowed down, you seemed to have resolved to die, the willing victims of stern necessity. Lift up your heads! If you perish, let it be as willing heroes, and your memory shall never perish! Thus you can heartily join me in the cry: 'Vive la France!' and 'Vive St. Quentin!'"
"Vive la France! Vive St. Quentin! Vive le roi!" burst enthusiastically from a hundred throats.
"And now," said Gabriel, "to the ramparts and to work! and encourage by your example your fellow-citizens, who await you. To-morrow a hundred pairs of arms more, I swear, shall be here to aid you in your work of salvation and of glory."
"To the ramparts!" cried the throng.
And out they rushed, carried away with joy and hope and pride, and inspiring with their words and their enthusiasm those who had not heard the words of the unhoped-for liberator, who had been sent by God and the king to the disheartened town.
Gaspard de Coligny, the worthy and high-minded commander, had listened to Gabriel in silence born of wonder and admiration. When the whole assemblage had dispersed with triumphant shouts, he left the seat he had occupied, went up to the young man, and pressed his hand with an air of amazement.
"Thanks, Monsieur," said he; "you have saved St. Quentin and myself from disgrace, and it may be France and the king from destruction."
"Alas! I have done nothing as yet, Monsieur l'Amiral," said Gabriel. "I must now go back to Vaulpergues; and God alone can enable me to go out as I came in, and to introduce the hundred men I have promised into the town. It is God and not I to whom thanks must be rendered, ten days from now."
Gabriel de Montgommery remained in conversation with the admiral more than an hour.
Coligny could but marvel at the firmness and boldness and knowledge displayed by this youth, who talked of strategy like a commanding general, of defensive works like an engineer, and of moral influence like a gray-headed sage. Gabriel, on his side, admired the upright and noble character of Gaspard, and the kind-heartedness and honesty of conscience which made him perhaps the purest and most loyal gentleman of the age. Certainly the nephew bore but little resemblance to the uncle! At the end of an hour the two men, one with hair that was already turning gray, while the locks of the other were still of the hue of the raven, understood and appreciated each other as if their acquaintance were of twenty years' standing.
When they had fully agreed upon the measures to be taken to facilitate the entrance of Vaulpergues's troops on the following night, Gabriel took leave of the admiral, saying to him confidently: "Au revoir!" He carried with him the countersigns and necessary signals.
Martin-Guerre, disguised as a peasant, like his master, awaited him at the foot of the staircase in the town-hall.
"Ah, there you are, Monseigneur!" cried the worthy squire. "I am very glad indeed to see you again; for a whole hour I have heard nothing from every passer-by but the name of Vicomte d'Exmès, accompanied with exclamations of wonder and extravagant praise! You have upset the whole town. What talisman did you bring, Monseigneur, to make such a revolution in the hearts of the whole population?"
"The word of a resolute man, Martin,—nothing more. But talking is not enough, and now we must act."
"Let us act, then, Monseigneur,—for my part, actions suit me better than words. We are going, I see, to take a walk in the fields under the noses of the enemies' sentinels. Well, Monseigneur, I am ready."
"Don't be in too great haste, Martin," rejoined Gabriel; "it is too light, and I must wait for the dusk before leaving the town, by agreement with the admiral. We have therefore almost three hours before us. Then too I have something to do meanwhile," he added, with some embarrassment. "Yes, a very important matter to look after,—some information to seek."
"I understand," said Martin-Guerre, "something about the strength of the garrison, is it not, or about the weak spots in the fortifications? What untiring zeal!"
"You don't understand anything at all about it," said Gabriel, smiling. "No, I know all that I want to know about the ramparts and the troops; and it is with a matter more—more personal that I am occupied just now."
"Speak, Monseigneur; and if I can help you in any way—"
"Yes, Martin, you are, I know, a faithful servant and a devoted friend, so I have no secrets from you except those which do not belong to me. If you don't know whom I am seeking for anxiously and fondly in this town, after my duties are done, Martin, it must be because you have forgotten."
"Oh, pardon, Monseigneur, I know now!" cried Martin. "It is, is it not, a—a Benedictine?"
"It is, Martin. What can have become of her in this panic-stricken town. In truth, I didn't dare to ask Monsieur l'Amiral for fear of betraying myself by my distress. And then, too, would he have been able to answer? Diane changed her name, no doubt, when she entered the convent."
"Yes," rejoined Martin; "for I must say that which she bore, and which is a lovely name in my opinion, has a slightly heathenish sound, because of Madame de Poitiers, I suppose. Sister Diane! The fact is that that name is as offensive as my other self when he is tipsy."
"What shall I do, then?" said Gabriel. "The best way would be perhaps to inquire, in the first place, about the Benedictine convent in a general way."
"Yes," said Martin-Guerre; "and then we will go from the general to the particular, as my old curé used to say when he was suspected of being a Lutheran. Well, Monseigneur, I am at your orders to make these inquiries, as for every other purpose."
"We must go about it separately, Martin; and then we shall have two chances instead of one. Be careful and reserved, and try above all things not to drink, you incorrigible tippler! We need all our self-possession."
"Oh, Monseigneur knows that since we left Paris I have regained my former sobriety, and drink nothing but pure water. I have only seen double once."
"I am glad to hear it," said Gabriel. "Well, then, Martin, in two hours meet me at this spot."
"I will be here, Monseigneur."
And they separated.
Two hours later they met as they had agreed. Gabriel was radiant, but Martin-Guerre very sheepish. All that the latter had learned was that the Benedictines had chosen to share with the other women of the town the labor and honor of nursing and watching the wounded; that every day they were scattered about among the ambulances, and did not return to the convent till evening; and that soldiers and citizens alike were unsparing of their admiration and veneration for them.
Gabriel, by good luck, had learned something more. When the first person he met had told him all that Martin-Guerre had learned, Gabriel asked the name of the superior of the convent. It was, if his memory served him, Mother Monique, Diane de Castro's friend. Gabriel then inquired where the saintly woman was to be found.
"In the place where the danger is greatest," was the reply.
Gabriel made his way to the Faubourg d'Isle, and actually found the superior there. She knew already by the public reports who the Vicomte d'Exmès was, what he had said at the town-hall, and what part he was going to play at St. Quentin. She received him as the envoy of the king and the savior of the city.
"You will not be surprised, Mother," said Gabriel, "that coming in the king's name, I ask you for news of his Majesty's daughter, Madame Diane de Castro. I have sought her in vain among the nuns whom I have met on my way. She is not ill, I trust?"
"No, Monsieur le Vicomte," replied the superior; "but I required her to remain at the convent to-day, and take a little rest, for not one of us has equalled her in devotion and courage. She has been everywhere, and always ready, practising at all times and in all places, and with a sort of joy and eagerness, her sublime charity, which is our gallantry. Ah, she is the worthy daughter of the blood of France! And yet she is unwilling that her title and her rank should become known; and she will take it very kindly of you, Monsieur le Vicomte, to respect her noble incognito. But no matter! if she does hide her noble birth, she shows her kind heart; and all those who are suffering rejoice to see her angel's face pass like a ray of celestial hope in the midst of their pain. She is called, from the name of the order, Sister Benedicta; but our poor wounded fellows, who do not know Latin, call her the Sister Bénie."
"And well the name fits Madame la Duchesse!" cried Gabriel, who felt tears of joy gathering in his eyes. "And may I see her to-morrow, Mother,—that is, if I return?"
"You will return, brother," replied the superior; "and in that spot where you hear the most pitiful groans and shrieks of pain, there you will find Sister Bénie."
Thus it was that Gabriel rejoined Martin-Guerre, with his heart full to overflowing with renewed courage, and certain now, as the superior was, that he would come safe and unscathed through the perils of the night.
Gabriel had acquired sufficiently accurate information about the suburbs of St. Quentin to avoid going astray in a region where he was an utter stranger. Under cover of nightfall he and Martin-Guerre left the town by the least carefully guarded postern without hindrance. Wrapped in long dark cloaks, they glided into the moat-like shadows, and thence by the breach in the wall into the fields.
But they were not beyond the greatest danger. Small bodies of the enemy patrolled the suburbs day and night; encampments were scattered here and there about the besieged town, and any encounter might be fatal to our peasant-soldiers. The least risk that they ran was to be delayed a day; that is to say, to make the projected expedition entirely useless.
And so when after a half-hour of travelling they arrived at a cross-roads, Gabriel stopped and seemed to reflect. Martin-Guerre also stopped, but he did not reflect. That task he ordinarily left to his master. Martin-Guerre was a brave and loyal squire, but he had no desire or ability to be anything more than the hand; Gabriel was the head.
"Martin," Gabriel began, after a moment's thought, "here are two roads, both of which lead to the forest of Angimont, where Baron de Vaulpergues is waiting for us. If we keep together, Martin, we may be taken together; while if we separate, we have a double chance of carrying out our plans and of finding Madame de Castro. Let us each take a different road. Do you take this one; it is the longest, but the safest, according to Monsieur l'Amiral. You will, however, have to go near the Walloon encampment, where Monsieur de Montmorency is probably a prisoner. You must avoid it by making a detour, as we did last night. Use all your assurance and self-possession. If you fall in with any troops, you must pass yourself off for a peasant of Angimont, and say that you have been carrying provisions to the Spanish camp at St. Quentin, and were delayed on your return. Do your best to imitate the Picardy patois, which will not be very difficult with foreigners. But, above all things, err rather on the side of audacity than timidity. Assume an air of confidence, for if you hesitate, you are lost."
"Oh, be quite easy, Monseigneur," said Martin-Guerre, with a very self-satisfied mien. "I am not so simple as I seem, and I will give a good account of myself."
"Well said, Martin. I will take this other road; it is shorter, but more dangerous, for it is the main highway from Paris, which is watched more carefully than all the others. I shall run across more than one hostile party, I fear, and I shall have to drown myself in the ditches, or flay myself in the thickets, more than once; and when all is said and done, it is very possible that I may not accomplish my purpose. But no matter, Martin! Wait for me just half an hour; if I do not join you in that time, let Monsieur de Vaulpergues set out without delay. It will then be about midnight, and the danger will not be so great as in the evening. Nevertheless, Martin, advise him from me to adopt every possible precaution. You know what is to be done,—to divide his company into three detachments, and approach the town as quietly as possible from three opposite directions. It is too much to hope that all three detachments should succeed in getting into the place; but the failure of one may very well be the salvation of the others. But it's all the same! It is quite possible that we shall meet no more, my good Martin; but we must think only of the welfare of the country. Your hand! And may God keep you!"
"Oh, I pray only for you, Monseigneur!" rejoined Martin. "If He will only preserve you, He may do what He pleases with me; for I am good for nothing except to worship you and serve you. So I hope to have some fine sport with these infernal Spaniards to-night."
"I like to see you in this frame of mind, Martin. Well, adieu! Good luck to you, and keep cool, above all things!"
"Good luck, Monseigneur, and don't be too rash!"
The master and squire then separated. Everything went well at first with Martin; and although it was scarcely possible for him to lose his way, he nevertheless showed considerable skill in avoiding some suspicious-looking armed men from whom the darkness hid him. But as he drew near the Walloon encampment, the sentinels became much more numerous.
At the fork of two roads, Martin-Guerre suddenly found himself between two parties of soldiers, one on foot, and the other mounted; and a sharpQui vive? told the unlucky squire that he was discovered.
"Well," said he, "now the time has come to show the impudence which my master recommended to me so forcibly."
And struck with an almost providentially bright idea, he began to sing at the top of his voice, and very opportunely, the following ballad of the siege of Metz:—