"Le vendredi de la Toussaint,Est arrivé la GermanieÀ la belle croix de MessainPour faire grande boucherie."[5]
"Le vendredi de la Toussaint,Est arrivé la GermanieÀ la belle croix de MessainPour faire grande boucherie."[5]
"Hola! qui va la?" cried a harsh voice with an accent and pronunciation almost unintelligible, but which we will not undertake to describe lest we become unintelligible ourselves.
"A peasant from Angimont," replied Martin-Guerre, in a no less nondescript patois.
And he kept on his way and his song with increasing vigor and spirit,—
"Se campant au haut des vignesLe duc d'Albe et sa compagnie,À Saint-Arnou, près nos fossés,C'était pour faire l'entrepriseDe reconnaître nos fossés—"[6]
"Se campant au haut des vignesLe duc d'Albe et sa compagnie,À Saint-Arnou, près nos fossés,C'était pour faire l'entrepriseDe reconnaître nos fossés—"[6]
"Ho, there! Will you hold your noise and stop, wretched peasant, with your cursed song?" shouted the same harsh voice.
Martin-Guerre reflected that these importunate fellows who hailed him were ten against one; that, thanks to their horses, they could overtake him with ease, and that he might do an immense amount of harm by running away. So he stopped short. After all, he was not altogether disappointed at having an opportunity to display his self-possession and his cleverness. His master, who seemed sometimes to doubt the existence of those qualities in him, would have no excuse for it henceforth, if he should succeed in extricating himself with address from such a perilous position.
At first he assumed an air of most perfect self-confidence.
"By Saint Quentin the martyr!" he muttered, approaching his captors, "this is a fine business for you, keeping a poor belated peasant away from his wife and little ones at Angimont. Come, tell me, pray, what you want of me."
He meant to say this in Picardy patois; but he really said it in the dialect of Auvergne with the accent of a Provençal.
The man who had hailed him had a similar intention of replying in French, but the best he could do was Walloon with a German accent.
"What do we want of you? To question you and search you, night-prowler; for how do we know that there isn't a spy hidden under your peasant's smock?"
"Go on, then; question me and search me," was Martin-Guerre's response, accompanied with a hoarse and most unnatural laugh.
"We will take you to camp with us."
"To camp!" exclaimed Martin. "Oh, well, that's all right. I will speak to the general. Ah, you choose to arrest an unfortunate peasant on his way back from carrying supplies to your comrades down yonder at St. Quentin! May I be damned if I ever do it again! I will let your whole army die of hunger first. I was going to Angimont after more supplies; but you stop me on the way. Ah, you don't know me yet. I'll be even with you for this! 'Saint Quentin, tête de kien,' says the Picardy proverb. Take me for a spy indeed! I propose to complain to your chief. Let us go to your camp!"
"Mordieu! What gibberish!" retorted the commander of the scouting party. "I am the chief, my friend; and it is with me that you will have to reckon when we can see you plainly, if you please. Do you suppose we are going to rouse the generals for a blackguard like you?"
"Yes, I do; and it is to the generals that I propose to be taken!" cried Martin-Guerre, volubly. "I have something to say to the generals and the marshals. I propose to say to them that a man who is supplying you and your people with food is not to be arrested thus without once crying, 'Look out!' I have done nothing wrong. I am an honest inhabitant of Angimont. I mean to demand an indemnity for my trouble; and you shall be hung for yours, you wretches!"
"Comrade, he seems sure of his ground, do you know!" said one of the soldiers to his chief.
"Yes," replied the other; "and I would let him go if it didn't seem to me every little while that I recognize his figure and his voice. Come forward; everything will be explained in camp."
Martin-Guerre, placed between two of the horsemen for safe-keeping, never ceased to swear and grumble during the whole journey. As he entered the tent to which they escorted him in the first place, he swore and grumbled still more.
"So this is the way you treat your allies, is it? Oh, well, just wait till we furnish any more oats for your horses, or meal for you! I give you up. As soon as you have recognized me and let me go, I will go back to Angimont, and not leave the place again; or better still, I will leave it, and enter a complaint against you to Monseigneur Philibert Emmanuel in person, the first thing to-morrow morning. He is not the man to allow such an affront to be put upon me."
At this moment the ensign who was in command of the party held a torch to Martin-Guerre's face. He fell back three steps in wonder and horror.
"By the devil!" he cried, "I was not mistaken. It is he, the miserable villain! Don't you recognize him now, you fellows?"
"Yes, indeed we do!" repeated each of the troops in turn, as he examined Martin-Guerre's features with a curiosity which in every case changed at once to rage.
"Ah, you do recognize me at last, then?" rejoined the poor squire, who began to be seriously alarmed. "You know who I am? Martin Cornouiller of Angimont. And you are going to release me, are you not!"
"We release you, you villain, you rake, you gallows-bird!" cried the ensign, with flaming eyes and threatening fists.
"Well, well, what the deuce is the matter, my friend?" said Martin. "Perhaps I am no longer Martin Cornouiller?"
"No, you are not Martin Cornouiller," replied the ensign; "and to unmask you and prove you a liar, here are ten men standing around you, who know you well. My friends, tell this impostor his name, to convict him of deceit and infernal falsehood."
"It's Arnauld du Thill! it's that scoundrel, Arnauld du Thill!" the ten voices shouted in chorus with terrifying unanimity.
"Arnauld du Thill! What do you mean?" asked Martin, turning pale.
"Oh, yes, deny yourself now, you villain!" cried the ensign. "But luckily here are ten witnesses to contradict you. Before them, notwithstanding your peasant's dress, have you the face to declare that I didn't take you prisoner at the battle of St. Laurent in attendance upon the constable?"
"No, no, I am Martin Cornouiller," stammered Martin, who was beginning to lose his head.
"You are Martin Cornouiller?" said the ensign, with a contemptuous laugh; "you are not that coward Arnauld du Thill, who promised me a ransom, whom I treated with every consideration, and who only last night made his escape, carrying with him not only the little money that I possessed, but my dearly-loved Gudule, the lovelyvivandière? Villain! what have you done with Gudule?"
"What have you done with Gudule?" echoed his companions, in ominous chorus.
"What have I done with Gudule?" said Martin-Guerre, completely crushed. "How can I tell, miserable wretch that I am! Ah, well, do you really all recognize me? Are you perfectly sure that you are not mistaken? Can you swear that my name is—Arnauld du Thill; that this fine fellow took me prisoner at the battle of St. Laurent; and that I have treacherously carried off his Gudule? Can you swear to all this?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" cried the ten voices, vigorously. "Very well. I am not surprised," said Martin-Guerre, piteously (he was apt to wander a little, we remember, when this matter of his twofold existence was touched upon). "No, indeed, I am not surprised. I would have insisted until to-morrow that my name is Martin Cornouiller; but you know me as Arnauld du Thill. I was here yesterday, it seems; so I say no more. Expect no more resistance from me, for I submit. From the moment that this turns out to be so, my feet and hands are tied. I did not foresee this. It has been such a long time since my alibis ceased to trouble me. Come on! it's all right. Do with me as you will; carry me off; imprison me; strangle me; what you tell me of Gudule puts the finishing touch to my conviction that you are right. Yes, I recognize my own hand in that! But I am very glad to know that my name is Arnauld du Thill."
Poor Martin-Guerre thenceforth confessed everything that they chose, allowed himself to be overwhelmed with insults and reproaches, and offered his all to God by way of penance for the new offences that they charged him with. As he could not tell what had become of Gudule, they loaded him with chains, and subjected him to all varieties of ill-treatment, but without wearing out his angelic patience. All that he regretted was that he had not had time to fulfil his commission to Baron de Vaulpergues; but who could have imagined that new crimes would rise to confront him, and reduce to nothing his splendid schemes for exhibiting his address and presence of mind?
"One thing that consoles me, however," he reflected, in the damp corner where they had flung him down upon the ground, "is that perhaps Arnauld du Thill may enter St. Quentin triumphantly with a detachment of Vaulpergues's company. But no, no! that is a delusive hope too; and what I know of the blackguard would lead me rather to guess that the monster is at some inn on the road to Paris with the fair Gudule. Alas, alas! I can't help thinking that I could put more heart into my penance if I had at least some little knowledge of the sin."
[5]"On Friday after All SaintsAll Germany came downWith fire and sword and rapineTo sack our well-loved town."
[5]
"On Friday after All SaintsAll Germany came downWith fire and sword and rapineTo sack our well-loved town."
"On Friday after All SaintsAll Germany came downWith fire and sword and rapineTo sack our well-loved town."
[6]"Encamped above the vineyards,Bold Alva and his bandCame spying round St. Arnou,Our trenches to—"
[6]
"Encamped above the vineyards,Bold Alva and his bandCame spying round St. Arnou,Our trenches to—"
"Encamped above the vineyards,Bold Alva and his bandCame spying round St. Arnou,Our trenches to—"
Fanciful as it appeared to him, Martin-Guerre's hope was realized nevertheless. When Gabriel after a thousand narrow escapes reached the forest where Baron de Vaulpergues was awaiting him, the first face that he saw was that of his squire, and the first words he uttered were, "Martin-Guerre!"
"Here I am, Monseigneur," was the squire's reply, in a steady voice.
This Martin-Guerre needed nobody to advise or urge him to be impudent.
"Were you much ahead of me, Martin?" asked Gabriel.
"I have been here an hour, Monseigneur."
"Have you really? But it seems to me that you have changed your dress, for surely you hadn't on that doublet when you left me three hours ago."
"No, Monseigneur; I obtained this one of a peasant who was more appropriately dressed than I, as I thought, and gave him mine in exchange."
"Very well! and you had no unfortunate encounter?"
"Not one, Monseigneur."
"Quite the contrary," said the Baron de Vaulpergues, coming up to them, "for the blackguard, when he arrived here, was accompanied by a very charming little maiden, upon my word,—a Flemishvivandière, so far as we could judge from her speech. She seemed to be very sad, poor creature; but he very roughly though with much discretion dismissed her at the edge of the forest before coming to this spot, despite her tears.
"Now, Monsieur d'Exmès," he continued, "if your idea and the admiral's agree with mine, we shall not start for half an hour. It is not yet midnight; and in my judgment we ought not to reach St. Quentin till toward three o'clock. That is the time when sentinels get weary and relax their vigilance somewhat. Don't you think with me, Monsieur le Vicomte?"
"Most decidedly I do; and Monsieur de Coligny's instructions are in perfect accord with your opinion. At three in the morning he will expect us; and we ought to arrive then if we are ever to arrive."
"Oh, we shall get there, Monseigneur, allow me to assure you!" said Arnauld-Martin. "I made good use of my opportunity to examine the surroundings of the Walloon camp when I came by; and I can guide you by that road as safely as if I had been in the neighborhood for a fortnight."
"This is most marvellous, Martin!" cried Gabriel,—"such wonders accomplished in so short a time! Why, I shall have as much confidence henceforth in your intelligence as in your loyalty!"
"Oh, Monseigneur, if you will rely on my zeal and my discretion, I ask for nothing more!"
The crafty fellow's plot was so well contrived, and so favored by luck and his audacity, that since Gabriel's arrival the impostor had spoken nothing but the truth.
While Gabriel and Vaulpergues were deliberating aside as to what road they should take, he, for his part, was completing the details of his plan, so as not to interfere with the miraculous chances which had served him so well thus far.
This is what actually occurred. Arnauld, having escaped with Gudule's assistance from the camp where he was held a prisoner, had prowled about in the neighboring woods for eighteen hours, not daring to leave their shelter for fear of falling into the hands of the enemy. Toward evening he thought that he saw in the forest of Angimont the tracks of horsemen who must, he judged, be anxious to keep out of sight, or they would not have resorted to such impracticable paths. Therefore they must be Frenchmen lying in ambush, so Arnauld tried to overtake them, and succeeded. It was then that he dismissed Gudule with all possible speed; and the poor child returned, weeping, to the tents, expecting, no doubt, to find another lover there to take the place of the one she had lost. The first one of Vaulpergues's soldiers whom Arnauld fell in with called him Martin-Guerre; and for very good reasons he did not undeceive him. Listening with all his ears, and saying very little himself, he soon learned everything. Vicomte d'Exmès was expected to return that very night, after having notified the admiral at St. Quentin of Vaulpergues's approach, and bringing with him the necessary plans and instructions to facilitate throwing the detachment into the place. Martin-Guerre was with him, they said; so they naturally took Arnauld to be Martin, and questioned him about his master.
"He will soon be here," was his reply. "We came by different roads."
In his own mind he was considering what a fine thing it would be for him if he could attach himself to Gabriel. In the first place, his means of subsistence in these hard times would be assured; then he knew that his master, the constable, at present Philibert Emmanuel's prisoner, was suffering less, possibly, from the disgrace of his defeat and captivity than from the thought that his detested rival, the Duc de Guise, would soon be omnipotent at court, and would exercise unbounded influence over the king's mind. To dog the steps of a friend of Guise, then, would be to establish himself at the very fountain-head of information, which he could sell at a high price to the constable. Last of all, was not Gabriel personally an enemy of the Montmorencys, and the principal obstacle in the way of the marriage of Duc François with Madame de Castro?
Arnauld remembered all this, but could not avoid the reflection at the same time that the return of the true Martin-Guerre to his master's side might well upset all his fine plans. In order to avoid being convicted of imposture, he lay in wait for Gabriel's coming, hoping to be able to keep the credulous Martin-Guerre out of the way, or to get rid of him altogether. Imagine his delight, then, when Gabriel came up to him alone, and at once recognized him as his squire. Arnauld had spoken the truth without knowing it. After that he left everything to chance, and relying upon his patron the devil having led poor Martin into the toils of the Spaniards, he boldly assumed the rôle of the absentee, in which he succeeded admirably, as we have seen.
Meanwhile the conference between Gabriel and Vaulpergues came to an end; and when the three detachments were under arms, and ready to start on their respective routes, Arnauld insisted on accompanying Gabriel on the road which led by the Walloon camp. It was the road which the real Martin-Guerre was to have taken; and if they should happen to meet him, Arnauld wanted to be on the spot, so that he might make him disappear, or disappear himself, as need required.
But they passed the camp without seeing anything of Martin; and the thought of that trifling danger was soon lost sight of in the more serious peril which awaited him, as well as Gabriel and the little band of whom they made part, before the closely invested walls of St. Quentin.
Within the town the anxiety was no less acute, as may well be imagined; for the salvation or destruction of all depended almost entirely on the boldcoup-de-mainto be undertaken by Gabriel and Vaulpergues. So at two o'clock in the morning the admiral in person made the round of the points agreed upon between himself and Gabriel, enjoining upon the picked men, who were posted as sentinels at these important spots, the most watchful attention. Then he mounted to the belfry tower, whence he could overlook the whole town and all the neighborhood; and there, dumb and motionless, scarcely breathing, he listened in the silence, and looked out upon the night. But he heard only the deadened, far-off sound of the Spanish miners and the French counterminers; he saw naught but the tents of the enemy, and, farther away, the gloomy forest of Origny standing darkly out in the black night.
Unable to overcome his restlessness, the admiral determined to go to the spot where the fate of St. Quentin was to be decided. He came down from the tower, and on horseback, attended by several officers, rode to the Boulevard de la Reine, and up to one of the posterns at which Vaulpergues might be expected, and waited, standing on an angle of the ramparts.
Just as three o'clock was striking from La Collégiale, the hoot of an owl was heard from the heart of the marshes of the Somme.
"God be praised! there they are!" cried the admiral.
Monsieur du Breuil, at a sign from Coligny, using his hands as a speaking-trumpet, imitated distinctly the cry of the osprey.
Then a deathly silence followed. The admiral and his companions stood as if made of stone, their ears on the alert, and their hearts heating fast.
Suddenly a musket-shot was heard in the direction from which the cry had come; and almost at the same moment there was a general discharge, accompanied by sharp cries and a terrible uproar.
The first detachment was discovered.
"A hundred brave men gone already!" cried the admiral.
He came rapidly down from the boulevard, remounted his horse, and without another word rode in the direction of the Boulevard St. Martin, where he expected another part of Vaulpergues's company.
There he was seized again with the same anguish of soul. Gaspard de Coligny at this moment resembled a gambler who has staked his fortune upon three casts of the dice: the first cast was lost; what luck awaited him in the second?
Alas! the same cry was heard outside the ramparts, and the same answer made from the town; then, as if this second scene were merely a fatal repetition of the first, a sentinel gave the alarm again, and the rattle of musketry and the heart-rending shrieks told the terrified people of St. Quentin that a second combat—say rather, a second butchery had occurred.
"Two hundred martyrs!" said Coligny, in a grief-stricken voice.
And again throwing himself upon his horse, in two minutes he was at the postern of the faubourg, which was the third of the posts agreed upon between Gabriel and himself. He rode so quickly that he was the first man on the rampart; and his officers joined him there one by one. But listen as eagerly as they might, they could hear nothing but the groans of the dying in the distance and the shouts of the victors.
The admiral thought that all was lost. The enemy's camp was aroused. There could not be a Spanish soldier who was not awake now. He who was in command of the third party might well have thought best not to march right upon such deadly peril, and had probably withdrawn without hazarding a blow. Thus the third and last throw had failed the ruined gambler. Coligny kept saying to himself that very probably the last detachment had been surprised with the second, and that the noise of the two massacres had been combined.
A tear—a burning tear of despair and rage—rolled down the admiral's swarthy cheek. In a few hours the people, discouraged anew by this last calamity, would demand in loud tones that the place be surrendered; and even were they not to make such a demand, Gaspard de Coligny no longer deceived himself with the hope that with troops so exhausted and demoralized as his, the first assault would not open the gates of St. Quentin and of France to the Spaniards. And surely the assault would not be long in coming, and the signal for it would probably be given as soon as day broke, if not even at once during the darkness, while these thirty thousand men, bursting with pride over the slaughter of three hundred, were still drunk with their magnificent exploit.
As if to confirm Coligny's apprehensions, Du Breuil, the governor of the town, uttered the wordalertein his ear in a stifled voice; and as he turned toward him, he pointed out a body of men in the moat, dark and noiseless, who seemed to be marching out of the darkness toward the postern.
"Are they friends or foes?" asked Du Breuil, in a low voice.
"Silence!" whispered the admiral; "let us be on our guard in any event."
"How can they make so little noise?" said the governor. "I seem to see horses, and yet there is not a sound, and the very earth seems deadened beneath their steps! Really, they seem like phantoms!"
The superstitious Du Breuil crossed himself as a precautionary measure; but Coligny, grave and thoughtful, carefully watched the dumb black mass without fear and without sign of emotion.
When the new-comers were hardly fifty paces away, Coligny himself mimicked the cry of the osprey.
The hoot of the owl replied.
Thereupon the admiral, beside himself with joy, rushing to the guard at the postern, ordered it to be opened immediately; and a hundred horsemen, enveloped, men and beasts, in ample black cloaks, rode into the town without a sound. Then it could be seen that the hoofs of the horses, which beat so softly upon the ground, were wrapped in pieces of cloth filled with sand. It was due to their adoption of this expedient, which was suggested to them only when the two other detachments had been betrayed by the noise they made, that the third party had succeeded in making their way in unobstructed; and the man who had thought of this expedient, and who was in command of the party, was no other than Gabriel.
It was a small matter, no doubt, this reinforcement of a hundred men; but it would suffice to keep the two threatened positions defended for a few days, and, above all, it was the first happy circumstance of this siege, which had been so fruitful in disasters. The news of such good augury went through the town like the wind. Doors were thrown open, windows illuminated, and universal acclamations welcomed Gabriel and his men as they passed.
"No, no!—no rejoicing," said Gabriel, gravely and sadly. "Remember the two hundred poor fellows who fell down there."
He raised his hat as if to salute the heroic dead, among whom was the noble Vaulpergues.
"Yes," responded Coligny, "we pity them and honor them. But, Monsieur d'Exmès, what shall we say to you? How shall we thank you? At least, my friend, let me fold you in my arms, for you have already twice saved St. Quentin."
But Gabriel, pressing his hand warmly, again rejoined,—
"Monsieur l'Amiral, tell me that in ten days' time."
It was full time that the successful stroke should be accomplished, and the welcome succor be thrown into the town. Day was beginning to break; and Gabriel, completely worn out from having hardly closed his eyes for four days, was taken to the town-hall by the admiral, who gave him the next room to the one he himself occupied. There Gabriel threw himself upon the bed, and slept as if he would never wake.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon before his refreshing slumber, of which the poor youth, with all his anxiety, stood so much in need, was broken by Coligny's entrance. An assault had been made by the enemy during the day and gallantly repulsed, but another was threatened for the next day; and the admiral, who had had every reason thus far to. think well of Gabriel's advice, had come to ask it once more. Gabriel was soon out of bed and ready to receive Coligny.
"Just a word to my squire, Monsieur l'Amiral," said he, "and I am at your service."
"At your convenience, Vicomte d'Exmès," rejoined Coligny. "As the Spanish flag would be flying over this building at this moment but for you, I may well say to you, 'You are at home.'"
Gabriel went to the door, and called Martin-Guerre. He came at once, and Gabriel led him aside.
"My good Martin," said he, "I told you yesterday that I should have hereafter as much confidence in your intelligence as in your loyalty, and I will prove it to you. You must go at once to the ambulance at the Faubourg d'Isle. There you will inquire, not for Madame de Castro, but for the superior of the Benedictines, good Mother Monique; and it is she alone whom you must ask to say to Sister Bénie—you understand, to Sister Bénie—that Vicomte d'Exmès, on a mission at St. Quentin from the king, will call upon her within an hour, and that he entreats her to await him there. You see, Monsieur de Coligny is likely to keep me here some time; and in a matter of life and death, you know, one must always put duty before pleasure. So go, and let her know at least that my heart is with her."
"She shall know it, Monseigneur," said Martin, eagerly; and he was off on the moment, leaving his master somewhat less impatient, as well as easier in his mind.
He made the best of his way to the ambulance at the Faubourg d'Isle, and asked for Sister Monique on all sides with much earnestness of manner.
The superior was pointed out to him.
"Ah, Mother!" said the cunning scamp, approaching her. "I am very glad to find you at last; my poor master would have been so cast down if I had not been able to execute my commission to you and Madame de Castro."
"Who are you, pray, my friend, and whence do you come?" asked the superior, surprised as well as grieved to find that Gabriel had kept so ill the secret she had confided to him.
"I come on behalf of Vicomte d'Exmès," rejoined the false Martin-Guerre, affecting a sort of simple-minded artlessness. "You must know Vicomte d'Exmès, I should think! The whole town is talking of nothing but him."
"To be sure!" said the superior; "I know our deliverer. We have prayed heartily for him. I had the honor of seeing him here yesterday; and I counted on seeing him again to-day after what he said."
"He is coming; yes, his Lordship is coming," continued Arnauld-Martin. "But Monsieur de Coligny delays him; and in his impatience he sent me on in advance to you and to Madame de Castro. Don't be astonished, Mother, that I know that name and pronounce it. Long time loyalty, put to the proof over and over again, justifies my master in trusting as implicitly in me as in himself; and he has no secrets from his trusty and devoted servant. I have only wit and intellect enough, so people say, to love him and protect him; but I have that instinct in good measure, at least, and no one can deny it me, by the relics of Saint Quentin! Oh, pardon me, Mother, for swearing so before you. I didn't realize what I was doing; and habit, you know, and the impulse of the heart—"
"It's all right!" said Mother Monique, smiling; "so Monsieur d'Exmès is coming, is he? He will be very welcome. Sister Bénie is very anxious to see him, to have news of the king, who sent him hither."
"Ha, ha!" Martin laughed in an idiotic way, and said, "The king, who sent him to St. Quentin, but not to Madame Diane, I suppose."
"What do you mean?" asked the superior.
"I say, Madame, that I, who love Vicomte d'Exmès as a master and as a brother, am truly glad that you, a woman so worthy of respect and endowed with such abundant authority, should interest yourself a little in the love-affairs of Monseigneur and Madame de Castro."
"The love-affairs of Madame de Castro!" cried the horrified superior.
"Yes, to be sure," responded the treacherous scoundrel. "Madame Diane must surely have confided everything to you, her real mother and her only friend?"
"She has spoken to me in a vague way of suffering in which her heart was involved," said the nun; "but of an unhallowed love, and of the viscount's name, I know nothing, absolutely nothing."
"Oh, yes, you deny it from modesty, no doubt," rejoined Arnauld, shaking his head very knowingly. "In truth, for my part, I think your conduct is very estimable; and I am very grateful to you for it. You are acting very bravely too! 'Ah!' you said to yourself, 'the king is opposed to the love of these children. Diane's father would be furiously angry if he should suspect that they ever saw each other! Oh, well! I, holy and upright woman that I am, will defy his royal Majesty and his paternal authority, and will lend the poor lovers the sanction of my approval and my character; I will arrange interviews for them, and will give new life to their hope and bid their remorse be still.' Indeed, the assistance you are rendering them is superb, is magnificent, do you understand?"
"Holy Virgin!" was all the superior could say, clasping her hands in terror and amazement, for her heart was timid and her conscience easily alarmed. "Holy Virgin! a father and a king defied, and my name and my life entangled in these intrigues!"
"Hold!" said Arnauld; "I see my master down there now, hurrying to thank you in person for your kind offices, and to ask you, the impatient youth, when and how he can, thanks to you, see his adored mistress once more."
Gabriel did come up at this moment, breathless and eager; but before he reached her side, the superior stopped him with a motion of her hand, and said, drawing herself up to her full height,—
"Not a step farther, and not a word, Monsieur le Vicomte! I know now by what title, and with what intentions, you desire to see Madame de Castro. Do not imagine that hereafter I shall lend a hand to forward your schemes, which are, I fear, unworthy of a gentleman. Besides, not only ought I to decline, but I do not choose, to listen to you any more; furthermore, I intend to use my authority to deprive Diane of every opportunity and every excuse for meeting you, whether in the parlor of the convent or in the ambulances. She is her own mistress, I know, and has not taken the vows which bind her to us; but so long as she thinks fit to remain in the convent, her chosen asylum, she may rely upon my protection to keep her honor safe, and not her love."
With a frigid bow the superior saluted Gabriel, who stood transfixed with astonishment; and then she withdrew without waiting for his reply, and without once turning toward him.
"What does all this mean?" asked the young man of his pretended squire, after a moment of speechless stupefaction.
"I know no more about it than you do, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld, who imposed a mask of consternation upon the delight he really felt. "Madame la Supérieure received me very ill, if I must say so, and declared that she was thoroughly acquainted with your designs, but that it was her duty to oppose them, and to do her best to advance the views of the king, and that Madame Diane no longer loved you, even if she had ever done so."
"Diane loves me no longer!" cried Gabriel, turning pale. "Alas! alas!" he continued, "so much the better perhaps! Meanwhile I wish to see her again, and to prove to her that I am neither indifferent to her nor guilty in her regard. This last interview, which I need to encourage me in my task, it is absolutely necessary that you should help me to obtain, Martin-Guerre."
"Monseigneur knows," replied Arnauld, with humility, "that I am the devoted instrument of his will, and that I obey him in all things, as the hand obeys the head. I will use every effort, as I have done up to this very moment, to procure for Monseigneur the interview which he craves with Madame de Castro."
Thereupon, laughing behind his cape, the crafty scamp followed Gabriel, as he returned in deep dejection to the town-hall.
In the evening, when the false Martin-Guerre, after making a circuit of the fortifications, found himself alone in his room, he drew from his breast a paper which he perused with an appearance of the liveliest satisfaction.
Arnauld du Thill's account with Monsieur le Connétable de Montmorency, from the day when he was forcibly separated from Monseigneur. (This account comprises public as well as private services.)
For having (while held a prisoner after the battle of St. Laurent, and being taken before Philibert Emmanuel) advised that general to release the constable without ransom, upon the specious pretext that Monseigneur would do less harm to the Spaniards with his sword than good by his advice to the king. . . . fifty crowns.
For having escaped by a clever trick from the camp where he was held, and having thus saved Monsieur le Connétable the expense of his ransom, which in his generosity he would not have hesitated to pay in order to recover so faithful and valuable a servant . . . one hundred crowns.
For having skilfully guided by little-known paths the detachment which Vicomte d'Exmès was leading to the relief of St. Quentin and of Monsieur l'Amiral de Coligny, the well-loved nephew of Monsieur le Connétable . . . . . . . . . . . twenty livres.
There was more than one other item in Master Arnauld's list quite as impertinently greedy as these. When he had read them all through, he took his pen, and added the following:—
For having, under the name of Martin-Guerre, entered the service of Vicomte d'Exmès, and while in such service denounced said viscount to the superior of the Benedictines as the lover of Madame de Castro, and thus insured the separation of these two young people, according to the best interests of Monsieur le Connétable . . . two hundred crowns.
"That is not very dear," said Arnauld; "and this last item quite outdoes all the others. The sum total is very satisfactory. It amounts nearly to a thousand livres, and with a little imagination we can put it up to two thousand; and when I have my hand on them,ma foi! I will go out of business, take a wife, and be a good father to my children, and church-warden of my parish somewhere in the provinces, and thus fulfil the dream of my whole life, and the honorable end of all my wicked deeds."
Arnauld went to bed and slept on these virtuous reflections.
The next day he was commissioned by Gabriel to go in search of Diane once more; and we can guess how he acquitted himself of the commission. Leaving Monsieur de Coligny, Gabriel himself began to investigate and make inquiries. But about ten in the morning the enemy made a furious assault; and he had to hasten to the boulevards. As usual, Gabriel performed prodigies of valor, and acted as if he had two lives to lose.
He did have two to save; besides, if he made himself conspicuous by his gallantry, doubtless Diane would hear his name talked of.
Gabriel was returning in a state of utter exhaustion from the point where the assault had taken place, with Gaspard de Coligny, when two men, passing very near him, mentioned the name of Sister Bénie. He left the admiral, and running after the men, asked them eagerly if they knew anything of her whose name they had mentioned.
"Oh,mon Dieu! no, Captain, no more than yourself," replied one of them, who was no other than Jean Peuquoy. "In fact, I was just expressing some anxiety about her to my companion here; for no one has seen the lovely brave girl all day long, and I was just saying that after such a brisk engagement as we have just had, there are many poor wounded fellows who are much in need of her nursing and her heavenly smile. But we shall soon know if she is seriously ill; for it will be her turn to do night duty with the ambulance to-morrow. She has never missed her turn yet; and there are too few of the nuns, and they relieve one another too frequently, to be willing or able to get along without her except in case of absolute necessity. We shall see her to-morrow evening, then, no doubt; and I shall thank God for one poor invalid's sake, for she knows how to comfort and encourage them like a real Notre Dame."
"Thanks, my friend, thanks!" said Gabriel, pressing Jean Peuquoy's hand warmly, and leaving the good man much surprised at being so honored.
Gaspard de Coligny had heard Jean Peuquoy, and noticed Gabriel's delight. When they were walking together again, he said nothing to him on the subject at first; but when they were once in the house and by themselves in the room where the admiral kept his papers and issued his orders, he said to Gabriel with his pleasant smile,—
"You take a very lively interest, I see, my friend, in this nun, Sister Bénie."
"The same interest that Jean Peuquoy takes," replied Gabriel, blushing; "the same interest that you take yourself, no doubt, Monsieur l'Amiral, for you must have noticed, as I have, how sorely our wounded need her, and what a beneficial influence her words and her very presence exert upon them and upon all the combatants."
"Why do you try to deceive me, my friend?" said the admiral. "You must have very little confidence in me that you try thus to lie to me."
"What, Monsieur l'Amiral!" responded Gabriel, more and more embarrassed; "who has been able to make you believe—"
"That Sister Bénie is no other than Madame Diane de Castro, and that you are deeply in love with her?"
"You know that?" cried Gabriel, amazed beyond measure.
"Why should I not know it?" rejoined the admiral. "Is not Monsieur le Connétable my uncle! Is there anything at court that he doesn't know all about? Has not Madame de Poitiers the king's ear, and has not Monsieur de Montmorency Diane de Poitiers's heart? As very weighty interests of our family are apparently involved in all this, I was naturally informed of the whole business, so that I might be on my guard, and render every aid to forward the schemes of my noble relative. I had not been a day at my post in St. Quentin, to defend the place or to die here, when I received an express from my uncle. It was not, as I supposed at first, to inform me of the movements of the enemy and the constable's proposed operations. By no means! The messenger had risked a thousand dangers to notify me that Madame Diane de Castro, the king's daughter, was at the convent of the Benedictines at St. Quentin under an assumed name, and that I must keep a strict watch over her movements. Then again, yesterday a Flemish messenger, bribed by Monsieur de Montmorency in his captivity, inquired for me at the southern gate. I fancied that he had come from my uncle to tell me to take courage; that it was for me to re-establish the glory of the Montmorencys, sullied by the defeat of St. Laurent; and that the king would infallibly add other reinforcements to those brought hither by you, Gabriel; and that I must in any event die in the breach rather than deliver St. Quentin. But no, no! the purchased messenger came not to bring me any such stirring words to encourage and sustain me; and I was grievously mistaken. The man was only instructed to notify me that Vicomte d'Exmès, who had come in the night before upon the pretence of fighting and dying here, was in love with Madame de Castro, who is betrothed to my cousin, François de Montmorency, and that the meeting of the lovers might have a bad effect upon the vast plans being matured by my uncle; but that luckily I was governor of St. Quentin, and it was my duty to devote all my energies to the task of keeping Madame Diane and Gabriel d'Exmès apart; and, above all, to prevent their having any conversation together, and thus to contribute to the elevation and power of my house!"
All this was said with a bitterness and melancholy that were very perceptible; but Gabriel thought of nothing but the blow aimed at his hopes.
"And so, Monsieur," he said to the admiral, with bitter anger at his heart, "it was you who denounced me to the superior of the Benedictines, and who, faithful to your uncle's instructions, count, no doubt, upon taking from me, one by one, all the chances which I may still have of finding Diane and seeing her again."
"Hold your peace, young man!" cried the admiral, with an unspeakably proud expression. "But I forgive you," he added more gently; "for your passion blinds you, and you have not yet had time to know Gaspard de Coligny."
There was so much noble and dignified kindness in the tone in which these words were uttered that all Gabriel's suspicions vanished like mist, and he was deeply ashamed that he had entertained them for one moment.
"Pardon me!" he said, stretching out his hand to Gaspard. "How could I ever have thought that you would allow yourself to be led into such intrigues? A thousand pardons, Monsieur l'Amiral!"
"Oh, it's all right, Gabriel!" rejoined Coligny; "and I know that your impulses are youthful and pure. No, indeed, I do not mingle in such underhand practices; on the contrary, I despise them and those who have conceived them. In such performances I can see no glory, but only shame for my family; and far from wishing to profit by them, I blush at them. If these men, who build up their fortune by such means, scandalous or not; who, in their haste to gratify their ambition and their greed, never heed the sorrow and the desolation of those who are as good as they; who would even, to arrive a little sooner at their goal, pass over the dead body of their mother-land,—if these men are my kinsmen, it must be the punishment which God inflicts upon me for my pride, and with which He recalls me to humility; it is an encouragement to me to show myself harsh toward myself and just to my neighbors, as a means of redeeming the sins of my relatives."
"Yes," rejoined Gabriel, "I know that the honor and virtue of the days of the apostles dwell in your breast, Monsieur l'Amiral; and I beg your pardon once more for having for one moment spoken to you as to one of the fine gentlemen without faith or law whom I have learned too well to despise and detest."
"Alas!" said Coligny, "we should rather pity them,—these poor fools who are ambitious of nothing, these wretched, blinded Papists. But," he continued, "I forget that I am not speaking to one of my brothers in religious matters. Never mind, Gabriel; you are worthy of being one of us, and you will come to us sooner or later. Yes; God, in whose hands all means are holy, will lead you to the right, I foresee, through this very passion; and this unequal conflict in which your love will cause you to hurl yourself against a corrupt court will end in bringing you into our ranks some day. I shall be happy to sow in your breast, my friend, the first seeds of the divine harvest."
"I knew, Monsieur l'Amiral," said Gabriel, "that you were of the Reformed religion; and that very fact has led me to esteem the persecuted sect. Nevertheless, you see, I am weak in mind, being feeble in heart; and I am sure that I shall always profess the same religion that Diane does."
"Oh, well!" said Gaspard, in whom, as in most of his sect, the fever of proselytism was at its height,—"oh, well! if Madame de Castro is of the religion of virtue and truth, she is of our faith, and so will you be, Gabriel. So will you be, I say again, because that dissolute court, rash youth, against which you are taking up arms, will overcome you; and you will burn to be revenged. Do you believe that Monsieur de Montmorency, who has set his heart upon the king's daughter for his son, will consent to give up that rich prize to you?"
"Alas! perhaps I shall not dispute it with him," said Gabriel. "Only let the king remain true to his sworn promise to me—"
"Sworn promise!" exclaimed the admiral. "Do you talk of sworn promises in connection with the man who, after he had commanded the parliament to discuss the question of liberty of conscience freely before him, had Anne Dubourg and Dufaur burned at the stake for having pleaded the cause of the reform, relying upon the royal word?"
"Oh, don't say so, Monsieur l'Amiral!" cried Gabriel. "Don't tell me that King Henri will not keep the solemn promise that he has given me; for in that event not my faith alone would rise in rebellion, but my sword too, I fear: I would not become a Huguenot, but a murderer."
"Not if you become a Huguenot," rejoined Gaspard. "We may be martyrs, but shall never be assassins. But your vengeance, though it be not a bloody one, may be none the less terrible, my friend. You will assist us with your youthful ardor and your zealous devotion in a work of renovation which is likely to be more depressing to the king than a thrust of the sword. Remember, Gabriel, that it is our purpose to wrest from him his iniquitous and monstrous privileges; remember that it is not in the Church alone, but in the government that we are striving to introduce reforms which will be helpful to the worthy, but a menace to the wicked. You have seen whether I love France and serve her. Well, then, I am for these reforms partly because I see in them the true greatness of my country. Oh, Gabriel, Gabriel, if you had but read once the convincing arguments of our Luther, you would see how soon the spirit of investigation and liberty which breathes in them would put a new soul in your body, and open a new life before you."
"My life is my love for Diane," was Gabriel's response; "and my soul is in the sacred task which God has imposed upon me, and which I trust to accomplish."
"The love and the task of a man," said Gaspard, "which may surely be reconciled with the love and the task of a Christian. You are young, and do not see clearly, my friend; but I foresee only too plainly, and my heart bleeds to say it to you, that your eyes will be opened by misfortune. Your generosity and your purity of soul will sooner or later bring grief upon you in that licentious and scandalous court, just as tall trees attract the lightning in a storm. Then you will call to mind what I have said to you to-day. You will learn to know our books,—this one, for instance;" and the admiral took up a volume that was lying open on the table. "You will understand these outspoken and stern, but just and noble words, which are spoken to us by one as young as yourself, a councillor of the Bordeaux parliament, named Étienne de la Boétie. And then you will say, Gabriel, in the words of this vigorous work, 'La Servitude Volontaire': 'What a misfortune, or what a crime it is to see an infinite number of men not obeying, but servilely following,—not being governed, but tyrannized over by one individual, and not by a Hercules or a Samson, but by one little man, generally the most faint-hearted and effeminate in the whole land.'"
"Those are indeed not only dangerous, but bold words, and stimulating to the intellect," said Gabriel. "You are quite right, too, Monsieur l'Amiral; it may be that rage will some day drive me into your ranks, and that oppression will lead me to espouse the cause of the oppressed. But until that time comes, you see, my life is too full to admit these new ideas which you have laid before me; and I have too much to do to leave me time to read books."
Nevertheless, Gaspard de Coligny continued to urge upon him warmly the doctrines and ideas which were then fermenting in his mind like new wine, and the conversation was prolonged to great length between the passionate young man and his earnest elder,—the one as determined and impetuous as action, the other grave and serious as thought.
Moreover, the admiral was hardly at fault in his gloomy forebodings; and misfortune was preparing to fertilize the seeds which this interview had sown in Gabriel's ardent soul.
It was a calm and beautiful August evening. In the sky, which was of a deep blue studded with stars, the moon had not yet risen; but the night was so much the more full of mystery, more dreamy, and more enchanting.
This mild tranquillity was in striking contrast with the commotion and uproar which had lasted through the day. The Spaniards had made two assaults in quick succession, and had been twice beaten back; but not before they had killed and wounded a larger number than the few defenders of the town could afford to lose. The enemy, on the other hand, had a strong reserve of fresh troops to replace those who were wearied in the contests of the day. So that Gabriel, always on his guard, feared that the two assaults were intended simply to exhaust the strength of the garrison and relax their vigilance, and that a third assault or a nocturnal surprise might have more chance of success. Meanwhile ten o'clock struck from La Collégiale, and nothing took place to confirm his suspicions. Not a light was to be seen among the Spanish tents. In the camp, as in the town, nothing could be heard but the monotonous cry of the sentinels; and the camp itself, like the town, seemed to be reposing after the severe labors of the day.
Consequently Gabriel, after making one last tour of the fortifications, thought that he might for a moment relax the unintermitted watch which he had kept over the town, like a son over his dying mother. St. Quentin had already held out four days since the young man's arrival. Four days more, and he will have kept the promise he made the king; and it will remain only for the king to be true to his.
Gabriel had ordered his squire to attend him, but without saying where he was going. Since his ill-luck of a day or two before with the superior, he had begun to have some suspicions of Martin-Guerre's intelligence, if not of his loyalty. So he had forborne to tell him of the precious information he had procured from Jean Peuquoy; and the false Martin-Guerre, who supposed he was accompanying his master merely on a circuit of the walls, was surprised to see him turn his steps toward the Boulevard de la Reine, where the principal ambulance had been established.
"Are you going to see some wounded man, Monseigneur?" said he.
"Silence!" was Gabriel's only reply, placing his finger to his lips.
The principal ambulance, which Gabriel and Arnauld reached at this moment, was quite near the ramparts, and not far from the Faubourg d'Isle, which was the most dangerous point, and the one consequently where relief was most essential. It was a large building which had been used before the siege as a storehouse for provisions, but had been placed at the disposal of the surgeons when the need became urgent. The mild summer night made it possible to leave the door in the centre open, to renew and freshen the air. From the foot of the steps, which led up to an outside gallery, Gabriel was able to look into this abode of suffering, where lamps were always kept burning.
It was a heart-rending spectacle. Here and there were a few blood-stained beds prepared in great haste; but such luxuries were reserved for the privileged few. The greater part were stretched on the floor, on mattresses or coverlets, or in some cases on straw simply. Sharp or plaintive moans were continually calling the surgeons or their assistants from all sides; but they, in spite of their zeal, could not hear them all. They attended to dressing those wounds which were most in need of it, and performed the most pressing amputations; the others had to wait. The trembling of fever or the convulsions of agony made the poor wretches twist and turn on their pallets; and where in some corner one of them lay at full length, motionless and without a sound, the winding-sheet laid upon his face told only too plainly that he would nevermore move or complain.
Before this sad and heart-rending picture the strongest and hardest hearts would have lost their courage and their callousness. Even Arnauld du Thill could not repress a shudder; and Gabriel's face became as pale as death.
But all at once a sad smile appeared upon the young man's pallid countenance. In the midst of this Inferno overflowing with suffering, like that described by Dante, a calm and radiant angel, a sweet and lovely Beatrix, burst upon his sight. Diane, Sister Bénie rather, passed tranquilly and sadly in and out among these poor sufferers.
Never had she seemed more beautiful to the dazzled Gabriel. Indeed, at the fêtes of the court, gold and diamonds and velvet did not so well become her as did the coarse woollen dress and white nun's stomacher in that dismal ambulance. With her lovely profile, her modest demeanor, and her look of consolation and encouragement, she might have been taken for the very incarnation of Pity, descending to this home of suffering. The most vivid imagination of a Christian soul could not picture her in more admirable guise; and nothing could be so affecting as to see this peerless beauty lean over the emaciated faces disfigured by anguish, and this king's child holding out her lovely hand to these nameless, dying soldiers.
Gabriel involuntarily thought of Madame Diane de Poitiers, engrossed at that moment, no doubt, with extravagant trifling and shameless amours; and marvelling at the marked contrast between the two Dianes, he said to himself that God had surely endowed the daughter with such virtues to redeem the faults of the mother.
While Gabriel, who was not ordinarily addicted to the habit of dreaming, thus lost himself in his reflections and his comparisons without taking heed of the flight of time, within the ambulance quiet gradually succeeded to the former confusion. The evening was already well advanced; the surgeons completed their rounds; and the bustle and the noise ceased. Silence and repose were enjoined upon the wounded men; and soothing draughts made it easier for them to obey the injunction. Here and there a pitiful moan would be heard, but no more of the almost incessant, heart-rending shrieks of pain. Before another quarter of an hour had elapsed, everything became as calm and quiet as such suffering can be.
Diane had said her last words of comfort and hope to her patients, and had urged rest and patience upon them after the physicians, and more effectively than they. All did their best to obey her voice, so sweet in its imperiousness. When she saw that the prescriptions ordered for each one were at hand, and that for the moment there was no further need of her, she drew a long breath, as if to relieve her breast from its oppressive burden, and drew near the exterior gallery, meaning, no doubt, to take a breath or two of fresh air at the door, and to obtain a little surcease of the wretchedness and weakness of man by gazing upon the stars in God's heaven.
She leaned upon a sort of stone balustrade; and her look, bent upward to the sky, failed to perceive at the foot of the steps, and within ten feet of her, Gabriel in a perfect ecstasy of delight at the sight of her, as if he were standing before some heavenly apparition.
A sharp movement on the part of Martin-Guerre, who did not seem to share in his ecstasy, brought our lover back to earth again.
"Martin," said he, in a low voice to his squire, "you see what a marvellous chance is within my grasp. I must and will take advantage of it, and speak—alas! perhaps for the last time—to Madame Diane. Do you meanwhile see that no one interrupts us, and keep watch a little apart, remaining nevertheless within call. Go, my faithful fellow; go."
"But, Monseigneur," Martin began to object, "are you not afraid that Madame la Supérieure—"
"She is in another room probably," said Gabriel. "At all events, I must not hesitate, in view of the necessity which may hereafter separate us forever."
Martin seemed to yield, and moved away, swearing to himself.
Gabriel drew a little nearer Diane; and restraining his voice so as to arouse the attention of no one else, he called her name softly,—
"Diane! Diane!"
Diane was startled; and her eyes, which had hardly got used to the darkness, did not detect Gabriel at first.
"Did some one call me?" she said. "Who is it?"
"I," Gabriel replied, as if Medea's monosyllable were enough to reveal his identity to her.
In good sooth it was; for Diane, without pursuing her inquiries any further, rejoined in a voice trembling with feeling and surprise:—
"You, Monsieur d'Exmès! Is it really you? And what do you want of me in this place and at this hour? If, as I have been told, you bring me news of the king my father, you have delayed it long, and you have chosen place and time very ill; if not, you know that there is nothing I can listen to from you, and nothing I want to hear. Well, Monsieur d'Exmès, you do not reply. Do you not understand me? You say nothing? What does this silence mean, Gabriel?"
"'Gabriel!' It is well with us, then!" cried the youth. "I made no reply, Diane, because your cold words froze my blood, and because I hadn't the strength to call you 'Madame,' as you called me 'Monsieur.'"
"Do not call me 'Madame,' and call me 'Diane' no more. Madame de Castro is no longer here. It is Sister Bénie who stands before you. Call me 'sister,' and I will call you my brother."
"What! What do you say?" cried Gabriel, recoiling in terror. "I call you my sister! Why in God's name do you ask me to call you my sister?"
"Why, it is the name by which every one knows me now," said Diane. "Is it such a terrible name, pray?"
"Yes, yes, indeed it is! Or rather, no! Forgive me; I am mad. It is a lovely and dear name. I will accustom myself to it, Diane; I will accustom myself to it—my sister."
"You must," Diane responded with a sad smile. "Besides, it is the real Christian title which will be suitable for me henceforth; for although I have not yet taken the vows, I am even now a nun at heart, and I soon shall be one in fact, I hope, when I shall have obtained the king's consent. Do you bring me that consent, my brother?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Gabriel, in a tone wherein reproach and grief were mingled.
"Mon Dieu!" said Diane, "there is not the least bitterness in my words, I assure you. I have suffered so much recently among men that I have naturally sought shelter with God. It is not anger which rules my actions and my words, but sorrow."
Indeed, there was in Diane's speech an accent that told of sadness and suffering; and yet in her heart that sadness was mingled with an involuntary joy which she could not conceal at the sight of Gabriel, whom she had long ago believed to be lost to her love and to the world, and whom she found to-day vigorous and manly, and, it might be, still fond of her.
And so, without wishing, almost without knowing it, she had descended two or three steps, and drawn on by an invincible power, had come so much nearer to Gabriel.
"Listen," said he. "This cruel misunderstanding which is rending our hearts must come to an end. I can no longer bear the thought that you do not understand me, that you believe in my indifference to you or (who knows?) in my hatred for you. That terrible suspicion worries me even in the midst of the sacred and difficult task which it is for me to accomplish. But come a little apart, my sister. You still trust in me, do you not? Let us move away from this spot, I beg you. Even if we cannot be seen, we may be overheard; and I have reason to fear that some one may desire to interrupt our interview,—this interview which, I tell you, my sister, is essential to my reason and my peace of mind."
Diane reflected no longer. Such words from such lips were omnipotent with her. She ascended two steps to look into the hall and see if she was needed; and finding everything quiet, she at once went back to Gabriel, resting her hand confidingly in the loyal one of her faithful knight.
"Thanks," said Gabriel. "Moments are precious; for what I fear, do you know, is that the superior, who knows of my love now, would object to our having this explanation, deep and pure though my love for you is, my sister."
"That explains, then," said Diane, "why, after having told me of your arrival and of your wish to see me, good Mother Monique, informed by some one, no doubt, of the past, which I confess I had partly concealed from her, has kept me from leaving the convent for three days, and would have kept me in this evening too if my turn to do night duty in the ambulance had not arrived, and I had not insisted upon fulfilling my sad duty. Oh, Gabriel, is it not wrong in me to deceive her,—my sweet and venerable friend?"
"Must I then tell you again that with me it is as if you were with your brother, alas! that I ought to and will hush the impulses of my heart, and speak to you only as a friend should speak, but a friend who is ever devoted to you, and would gladly die for you, but who will listen to his melancholy rather than his love, never fear?"
"Speak, then, my brother!" said Diane.
"My brother!"—that horrible and yet delightful name always reminded Gabriel of the strange and mysterious alternative which his destiny had laid before him, and like a magic word drove away the burning thoughts which the silent night and the ravishing beauty of his beloved might well have awakened in the young man's heart.
"My sister," said he, in a steady voice, "it was absolutely necessary that I should see you and speak with you, so that I might address two prayers to you. One relates to the past, the other to the future. You are kind and obliging, Diane; and I know you will grant them both to a dear friend who may perhaps never meet you more on his path through life, and whom a fatal and perilous mission exposes to the risk of death at every moment."
"Oh, don't say that! don't say that!" cried Madame de Castro, almost fainting, and proving the extent of her love in her distraction and horror at the thought.
"I say it to you, my sister," Gabriel responded, "not to alarm you, but that you may not refuse me a pardon and a favor. The pardon is for the terror and grief which my delirious utterances must have caused you the day when I saw you last at Paris. I cast terror and desolation into your poor heart. Alas, my sister, it was not I who spoke to you; it was the fever in my blood. I did not know what I said, upon my word! And a terrible revelation, which had been made to me that very day, and which I could scarcely keep to myself, filled my soul with madness and despair. Perhaps you remember, my sister, that it was just after leaving you that I was stricken with that long and painful illness which almost cost me my life or my reason?"
"Do I remember it, Gabriel!" cried Diane.
"Do not call me Gabriel, if you please! Call me always your brother, as you did just now,—call me your brother! That name, which terrified me at first, I find it necessary to hear now."
"As you choose, my brother," said Diane, with amazement.
At that moment, fifty paces from them, the regular tramp of a body of men on the march was heard, and Sister Bénie, full of terror, pressed close to Gabriel.
"Who is that?Mon Dieu! they will see us!" she exclaimed.
"It is one of our patrols," answered Gabriel, much disturbed.
"But they will pass very near us, and will recognize me or hail us. Oh, let me go in, quick, before they come any nearer! Let me go, I pray!"
"No; it is too late!" said Gabriel, detaining her. "To attempt to fly now would be to expose yourself. Come this way, rather,—come up here, my sister!"
And followed by the trembling Diane, he hastily mounted a stairway, hidden by a stone buttress, which led to the very walls. There he ensconced Diane and himself between an untenanted sentry-box and the battlements.
The patrol passed within twenty paces without seeing them.
"Well, this certainly is a poorly guarded point!" said Gabriel, in whom his dominant thought was always on the alert.
But his mind at once reverted to Diane, who was hardly at her ease yet.
"You may feel safe now, my sister," said he; "the danger is over. But now listen to me, for time passes, and my two burdens are still heavy on my heart. In the first place, you have not told me that you forgive my madness, and so I am still carrying this weary load of the past."
"Does one forgive the madness of fever and the ravings of despair?" said Diane. "No, my brother, we must pity and comfort them rather. I bore you no ill-will; no, I wept for you. And now that I see that you are restored to life and reason, I am resigned to the will of God."
"Ah, my sister, it is not resignation alone that you should feel!" cried Gabriel; "you must be hopeful too. That is why I was anxious to see you. You have lifted my burden of remorse for the past, and I thank you; but you must also remove the weight of anguish which weighs upon my heart for your future. You are, as you well know, one of the principal objects for which I live. It is necessary that my mind should be tranquillized as to that object, so that I may only have to concern myself, as I go my way, with the perils of the road; it must be that I may count upon finding you waiting for me at the end of my journey with a welcoming smile, sad if I fail, and joyous if I succeed, but in any event with the welcoming smile of a friend. With that object in view, there should be no misunderstanding between us. Meanwhile, my sister, it will be necessary that you should trust my word, and have a little confidence in me; for the secret which lies at the root of all my actions does not belong to me. I have sworn not to reveal it; and if I wish that the promises made to me should be kept, I must in my turn keep the promises that I have made to others."
"Explain yourself," said Diane.
"Ah," rejoined Gabriel, "you see how I hesitate and beat around the bush, because I am thinking of the garb that you wear, and of the name of sister, by which I am calling you, and, more than all else, of the profound respect for you that dominates my heart; and I do not wish to say one word to awake distressing memories or elusive hopes. And yet I must say to you that your beloved image has never been effaced, has never even faded in my soul, and that no person and no event can ever weaken it."
"My brother!" Diane interrupted, confused and delighted at the same time.
"Oh, hear me to the end, my sister!" said Gabriel. "I say again, nothing has changed, and nothing will ever change, this ardent—devotion which I have consecrated to you; and more than that, I am only too happy to think and to say that whatever happens to me, it will always be not only my blessed privilege, but my bounden duty, to love you. But what is the nature of this sentiment? God only knows, alas! but we shall soon know too, I hope. Meanwhile, this is what I have to ask of you, my sister: trusting in the Lord and your father, do you leave everything to Providence and my friendship, hoping nothing, but not despairing either. Understand me, pray! You told me long ago that you loved me; and pardon my presumption, but I seem to feel in my heart that you can love me still if our fate so wills. Now, my wish is to lessen the too distressing effect of my mad words when I parted from you at the Louvre. We must not deceive ourselves with vain imaginings, nor, on the other hand, believe that everything is over for us in this world. We must wait. In a short time I shall come to you and say one of two things. Either this: 'Diane, I love you; remember our childhood and your promises. You must be mine, Diane; and we must resort to every possible means to obtain the king's consent.' Or else I shall say to you: 'My sister, an irresistible fatality stands in the way of our love, and opposes our happiness; we are in no way to blame for it, and it is something more than human—yes, almost divine—which stands between us, my sister. I give you back your promise; you are free. Give your life to another; you cannot be blamed for it, nor even, alas! are you to be pitied. No; our tears, even, would be out of place. Let us bow our heads without a word, and accept with resignation our inevitable destiny. You will always be dear and holy in my eyes; but our two lives, which may still, thank God! be lived side by side, can never be united.'"
"What a strange and fearful enigma!" Madame de Castro, lost in terrified thought, could not refrain from saying.
"An enigma," responded Gabriel, "of which I can give you the key-word at that time, no doubt. Until then it will be in vain that you seek to discover the secret, my sister; so be patient, and pray. Promise me, at least, that you believe in my loyalty to you, and that you will no longer cherish the purpose of renouncing the world to bury yourself in a cloister. Promise me that you will have faith and hope, even as you have already had charity."
"Faith in you and hope in God; yes, I can readily promise that now, my brother. But why do you wish me to promise to return to the world if I am not to go thither in your company? Is not my heart enough? And why do you wish that I should give my life to you as well, when, after all, it may not be to you that I devote it? Within and without, everything is dark, O God!"