"Par ta foy, envoyras-tu pasAu vin, pour fournir le repasDu meilleur cabaret d'enferLe vieil ravasseur Lucifer?"[1]
"Par ta foy, envoyras-tu pasAu vin, pour fournir le repasDu meilleur cabaret d'enferLe vieil ravasseur Lucifer?"[1]
"Don't make such an infernal noise!" cried Arnauld; "suppose some party of the enemy should be passing near, and hear you?"
"Basta! I'm not afraid of them," said Martin; "what could they do to me? Hang me? It must be very fine to be hanged. You have made me drink too much, comrade. I, who am commonly as sober as a judge, don't know how to fight against drunkenness, and then, besides, I had been fasting, and I was almost starved; now I am thirsty."
"'Par ta foy, envoyras-tu pas—'"
"'Par ta foy, envoyras-tu pas—'"
"Be still!" said Arnauld. "Come, try to walk. Don't you mean to put up for the night at Auvray?"
"Oh, yes, I want to put up for the night," said Martin, "but not at Auvray; down here on the grass, beneath God's lanterns."
"Yes," retorted Arnauld; "and to-morrow morning some Spanish patrol will come along and discover you, and send you to take up your quarters with the Devil."
"With Lucifer, the old rake?" said Martin. "No, I prefer to pull myself together a bit, and drag myself as far as Auvray. It's this way, isn't it? Well, I'm off."
But it was absurd for him to talk about pulling himself together: for he described such marvellous zigzags that Arnauld saw clearly that without some help from him, Martin would speedily lose his way again,—that is to say, he would very likely be safe for the time; and that was just what the villain did not want.
"Come," said he to poor, drunken Martin; "I have a kind heart, and Auvray is not so very far away. I will go there with you. Just let me unhitch my horse; then I can lead him by the bridle, and give you my arm."
"Ma foi! I gladly accept," rejoined Martin; "I am not proud, and between ourselves I confess that I believe I am a little tipsy. I am still of the opinion that light wine of yours does not lack strength. I am very happy, but just a little tipsy."
"Well, let's be off; it's getting late," said Arnauld du Thill, starting off on the road by which he had come, with his double leaning on his arm, and heading straight for the postern gate of Noyon. "But to beguile the time," he added, "are you not going to tell me another amusing story about Artigues?"
"Shall I tell you the story of Papotte?" said Martin-Guerre. "Ah, poor Papotte!"
The epic of Papotte was rather too incoherent for us to undertake to reproduce here. It was almost finished when these two Dromios of the sixteenth century arrived in rather indifferent trim before the Noyon gate.
"There!" said Arnauld; "I have no need to go any farther. Do you see that gate h Well, that is the gate of Auvray. Knock there, and the watchman will open for you; you tell him that you are a friend of mine, and he will point out to you my house, only two steps from the gate. Go there, and my brother will welcome you and give you a good supper and a good bed. Now, comrade, let me shake your hand once more, and adieu!"
"Adieu! and many thanks," said Martin. "I am only a poor devil, and in no condition to realize all that you have done for me. But never fear, the good Lord, who is a just God, will know how to requite you. Adieu, my friend."
Strangely enough, these drunken predictions made Arnauld shudder, though superstition was not among his faults; and for a moment he thought of calling Martin back. But he was already knocking lustily at the postern.
"Poor devil, he is knocking at the door of his tomb!" thought Arnauld; "but, bah! this is childishness."
Meanwhile Martin, with no suspicion that his fellow-traveller was spying him from a distance, was shouting at the top of his voice,—
"Hallo there, watchman! Hallo, Cerberus! open the gate, blockhead! It is Bertrand, worthy Bertrand, who has sent me."
"Who goes there?" demanded the sentinel from within. "It's too late to come in. Who are you to be making such an uproar?"
"Who am I? You drunkard, I am Martin-Guerre, or Arnauld du Thill, if you please; or the friend of Bertrand, if you like that better. I am several people all at once, especially when I am in liquor. I am twenty rakes or so, who are going to give you a good sound drubbing if you don't open the gate for me at once."
"Arnauld du Thill! You are Arnauld du Thill?" asked the sentinel.
"Yes, I am Arnauld du Thill, twenty thousand cartloads of devils!" said Martin-Guerre, hammering away at the gate with feet as well as fists.
Then there was a noise behind the gate as of troops assembling at the call of the sentinel.
A man with a lantern opened the gate; and Arnauld du Thill, crouching behind the trees at a little distance, heard several voices crying out together in surprise,—
"Upon my word, it's he! It's he indeed, upon my soul!"
Poor Martin-Guerre, recognizing his tyrants, uttered a cry of despair, which struck upon Arnauld's heart in his hiding-place like a malediction.
Then he judged from the trampling and yelling that brave Martin, seeing that everything was lost, was making a stout fight for liberty; but he had only two fists against twenty swords. The noise grew less, then died gradually away until it ceased altogether. They had dragged Martin away, blaspheming and cursing.
"If he expects to smooth matters over with insults and blows—" said Arnauld, rubbing his hands.
When he could hear nothing more, he gave himself up to reflection for a quarter of an hour; for he was a very deep rascal, this same Arnauld du Thill. The result of his meditation was that he penetrated three or four hundred paces into the woods, tied his horse to a tree, laid his saddle and blanket upon the dead leaves, wrapped himself in his cloak, and in a few minutes was sleeping the deep sleep which God makes much easier for, the hardened villain than for the innocent.
He slept eight hours without stirring.
Nevertheless, when he awoke it was still dark; and he knew from the position of the stars that it must be about four o'clock in the morning. He rose and shook himself, and without disturbing his horse, crept softly out toward the high-road.
On the gallows which they had pointed out to him the night before, the body of poor Martin-Guerre was swinging gently to and fro.
A hideous smile flickered upon Arnauld's lips.
He approached the body without a quiver; but it was hanging too high for him to touch. Then he climbed up the gallows-post, sword in hand, and when he had reached the necessary height, cut the cord with his sword.
The body fell to the ground.
Arnauld came down again, removed an iron ring hardly worth the taking from the dead man's finger, searched in his breast and there found some papers which he carefully put away, put his cloak on again, and coolly walked away, without a look, without a prayer for the poor wretch whom he had worried so during his life, and whom he thus robbed in death.
He found his horse in the underbrush, saddled him, and started off at full speed toward Aulnay. He was well satisfied, villain that he was, for Martin no longer was an object of fear to him.
A half-hour later, just as the first glimmer of day began to appear in the east, a wood-cutter, chancing to pass that way, saw the gallows-cord cut, and the body lying on the ground. He drew near, fearful and curious at the same time, to the dead man, whose clothes were in disorder, and the cord loose around his neck; he was wondering whether the weight of the body had broken the cord, or if some friend had cut it, too late, no doubt. He even ventured to touch the body to make sure that it was really lifeless.
To his unbounded alarm, the body moved its head and hands, and raised itself upon its knees; and the terrified wood-cutter fled into the woods, crossing himself over and over again, and commending his soul to God and the saints.
[1]"Old Lucifer, thou libertine,Wilt thou not send some wineFrom Acheron's best cabaretTo grace this feast of mine?"
[1]
"Old Lucifer, thou libertine,Wilt thou not send some wineFrom Acheron's best cabaretTo grace this feast of mine?"
"Old Lucifer, thou libertine,Wilt thou not send some wineFrom Acheron's best cabaretTo grace this feast of mine?"
The Constable de Montmorency, who had only returned to Paris the night before, after paying a royal sum by way of ransom, had presented himself at the Louvre to ascertain how the land lay; but Henri had received him with forbidding coolness, and had indulged himself in the highest encomiums upon the administration of the Duc de Guise, who had so arranged matters, he said, as to diminish, if not altogether to amend, the misfortunes of the kingdom.
The constable, pale with anger and jealousy, thought that he might at least hope to find some comfort from Diane de Poitiers. But the favorite also received him very coldly; and when Montmorency complained of such a reception, and gave voice to his fear that his absence had been a very bad thing for him, and that some more fortunate man than he had succeeded him in the good graces of the duchess, Madame de Poitiers rejoined impertinently,—
"Dame! of course you know the new by-word of the Parisian populace?"
"I arrived but now, Madame; and I do not know," the constable began hesitatingly.
"Oh, well! they say now, this scandal-loving populace, 'This is the motto of St. Laurent: he who forsakes his post, loses it.'"
The constable, with a blanched face, saluted the duchess, and left the Louvre with death at his heart.
When he reached his hotel and was alone in his own room, he cast his hat violently on the floor.
"Oh, these kings and these women!" he cried. "An ungrateful lot they are! They care for nothing but success."
"Monseigneur," said his valet, "there is a man asking leave to speak to you."
"Let him go to the devil!" retorted the constable. "I am in fine condition to receive visitors! Send him to Monsieur de Guise."
"Monseigneur, this man begged me to tell you his name, which he says is Arnauld du Thill."
"Arnauld du Thill!" exclaimed the constable, "that's a different matter. Show him in."
The valet bowed and withdrew.
"This fellow Arnauld," the constable reflected, "is clever, cunning, and avaricious,—more than that, he has no scruples and conscience. Oh, if he could only help me to be revenged on all these people! To be revenged, do I say? But what should I gain by that? He might possibly help me to make my way back into favor! He knows many things. It has already occurred to me to make use of my knowledge of this Montgommery affair; but it would be much better if I might learn something from Arnauld which would enable me to dispense with doing that."
At this moment Arnauld du Thill was ushered into the room.
Joy and impudence were struggling for the mastery in the rascal's expression. He bowed to the ground before the constable.
"I thought you were a prisoner," said Montmorency.
"So I was, Monseigneur, just as you were."
"But you seem to have got out of the difficulty," rejoined the constable.
"Yes, Monseigneur; I paid them in my money,—that is to say, I laughed at them instead. You used your money and I used my wits; and here we are both at liberty."
"Ah, you are an impudent scoundrel," said the constable.
"No, Monseigneur," rejoined Arnauld, "it was just my modest way of saying that I am out of money, that's all."
"Hum!" grumbled Montmorency; "what do you want of me?"
"Money, since I have none, Monseigneur."
"And why should I give you money?"
"Why, to pay me, Monseigneur," replied the spy.
"Pay you for what, pray?"
"For the intelligence I bring you."
"Tell me your news."
"Let me see your crowns."
"Villain! suppose I were to have you hanged?"
"A most contemptible way that of loosening my tongue, Monseigneur, to stretch my neck."
"He is so very audacious," thought the constable, "that he must know that I can't do without him."
"Well, fellow," he said, aloud, "I have no objection to making some slight further advance to you."
"Monseigneur is very kind," said Arnauld; "and I will not fail to remind him of his generous promise when he has settled up his outstanding debt to me."
"What debt?" asked the constable.
"Here is my account, Monseigneur," said Arnauld, producing the famous document which we have seen him at work on so often.
Anne de Montmorency cast his eyes over it.
"Yes," said he, "this paper contains, besides services which are entirely fanciful and imaginary, others which might have been very useful to me at the time when you rendered them, considering my situation at that time, but which at present serve no purpose except to make my regrets all the more poignant."
"Bah, Monseigneur! it may be that you exaggerate the extent of your disgrace," said Arnauld.
"What's that?" said the constable. "Do you know, then, pray, does everybody already know, that I am in disgrace?"
"People suspect as much; and so do I, Monseigneur."
"Very well, then, Arnauld," Montmorency rejoined bitterly; "you may very well suspect too that it is of no use to me at present that Vicomte d'Exmès and Diane de Castro were separated at St. Quentin, since in all probability the king and the grande sénéchale are no longer willing to give their daughter to my son."
"Mon Dieu, Monseigneur!" was Arnauld's response. "I imagine that the king would very gladly consent to give her to you if you could give her back to him."
"What do you mean?"
"I say, Monseigneur, that our sire, Henri II., ought to be very sad at heart at this moment, not only because of the loss of St. Quentin and the battle of St. Laurent, but also because of the loss of his dearly loved daughter Diane de Castro, who disappeared after the siege of St. Quentin without leaving any traces by which it is possible to tell what has become of her; for there have been twenty contradictory and inconsistent reports about her disappearance. Having only returned yesterday, of course you know nothing of all this, Monseigneur; I didn't know it myself until this morning."
"I had so many other things to think of," said the constable, "it was quite natural that I should be thinking of my present disgrace rather than of my past favor."
"Very true!" said Arnauld; "but would not that favor how back in your direction if you should say to the king something like this, for instance: 'Sire, you are sorrowing for your daughter, and searching for her everywhere, and asking news of her from every one you see; but I alone know where she is, Sire?'"
"Do you mean to say that you know, Arnauld?" asked Montmorency, eagerly.
"My trade is to know things," said the spy. "I told you that I had news to sell; and you see that my goods are not of poor quality. You should reflect on that, Monseigneur."
"I reflect," said the constable, "that kings have a way of remembering the defeats of their servants, but not their merits. When I have restored Henri's daughter to him, he will be beside himself with delight at first; all the wealth and all the honors in his whole realm would not be enough to requite me in the first flush of his gratitude. Then Diane will weep, and say that she would rather die than give her hand to any but her dear Vicomte d'Exmès; and the king, being entirely under her control, and dominated by my bitter foes, will remember the battle that I lost, and forget the child I have restored to him. So all my efforts will be pushed out of sight to accomplish the happiness of Vicomte d'Exmès."
"In that case it will be necessary," said Arnauld, with a smile of sinister meaning, "that Vicomte d'Exmès should disappear at the moment that Madame de Castro reappears. Ah, that would be a fine game, eh?"
"Yes; but I am reluctant to resort to such extreme measures," said the constable. "I know that your hand is sure, and your tongue discreet; but—"
"Oh, Monseigneur entirely mistakes my intention!" cried Arnauld, assuming an air of injured innocence. "Monseigneur does me great injustice! Monseigneur believed that I wished to get rid of this youth by a—violent process." (He made an expressive gesture.) "No, a thousand times no! I have a much better plan than that."
"What is it, pray?" asked the constable, with unfeigned interest.
"Let us first arrange our own little matters, Monseigneur. Suppose that I tell you the place where the lost damsel is to be found. I insure the absence and silence of your son's dangerous rival, at least for the length of time necessary to conclude his marriage. These are two notable services, Monseigneur. Now, in return, what will you do for me?"
"What do you ask?"
"You are reasonable, and I will be the same," rejoined Arnauld. "In the first place, you will settle, will you not, without haggling, the little account for past services, which I had the honor to present to you just now?"
"Very well," replied the constable.
"I knew that we should have no difficulty on this first point, Monseigneur. The total is an insignificant sum, and the whole amount is hardly enough to cover the expenses of my journey, and for certain gifts which I expect to buy before I leave Paris. But then, money isn't the only thing in the world."
"What!" said the astonished and almost alarmed constable, "can it really be Arnauld du Thill who says that money isn't the only thing in the world?"
"Even Arnauld du Thill, Monseigneur, but no longer the needy and avaricious Arnauld du Thill whom you formerly knew. No; another Arnauld, content with the moderate fortune he has—earned, and no longer desirous, alas! of anything except to pass the rest of his life in peace in the country where he was born, under his paternal roof-tree, and amid the friends of his childhood, in the bosom of his family. That was always my dream, Monseigneur; and I have ever looked forward to that as the peaceful and delightful termination of my—troubled life."
"Yes," said Montmorency, "if it is necessary to go through the tempest in order to enjoy calm weather, you will surely be happy, Arnauld. But have you made your fortune?"
"Only a moderate one, Monseigneur,—only a moderate one. Ten thousand crowns is a fortune for a poor devil like me, especially in my humble village, and in the bosom of my modest family."
"Your family! your village!" rejoined the constable; "you whom I supposed to be without home or kinsfolk, and to be living on your wits in a second-hand coat, and under an assumed name."
"My real name is Martin-Guerre, Monseigneur, and Arnauld du Thill an assumed one, in truth. I was born at the village of Artigues, near Rieux, where my wife and children now live."
"Your wife!" echoed old Montmorency, more and more bewildered. "Your children!"
"Yes, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld, in the most comically sentimental tone imaginable; "and I ought to notify you, Monseigneur, not to count upon any further services from me, and that these two suggestions which I have just made will be the very last I can undertake to carry out. I am going to withdraw from business, and lead an honest life henceforth, surrounded by the affectionate regard of my people, and the esteem of my fellow-citizens."
"That's all very fine!" said the constable; "but if you have become so modest and pastoral that you don't care to talk about money any more, what price do you ask for these secrets which you say that you possess?"
"I ask for something more, and yet less, than money, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld, this time in his natural tone; "I ask for an honor,—not for honors, of course, but just a little honor, of which I am very much in need, I confess."
"Explain yourself," said Montmorency, "for you are speaking in enigmas."
"Well, then, Monseigneur, here it is: I have had a writing prepared which attests that I, Martin-Guerre, have been in your service for so many years as—as squire (we must draw on our imagination a bit); that during all that time I have conducted myself as a trusty and faithful and most devoted servant; and that this devotion, Monseigneur, you have desired to repay by giving me a sufficient sum to enable me to pass the rest of my life in comfort. Place your seal and your signature at the foot of that document, Monseigneur, and we shall be quits."
"Impossible!" was the constable's response. "I should render myself liable to a charge of forgery—that is to say, to be branded as a forger and a felon—if I signed such a mass of lies."
"They are no lies, Monseigneur, for I have always served you faithfully, according to my own lights; and I assure you that if I had saved all the money I have obtained from you heretofore, it would amount now to more than ten thousand crowns. So you do not expose yourself to any charge of falsifying; and besides, do you think that I don't render myself liable to very grave penalties in order to bring about the happy result of which you have only to reap the fruits?"
"Wretch! Such a comparison—"
"Is perfectly fair, Monseigneur," Arnauld retorted. "Each of us is in need of the other, and equality is the daughter of necessity. The spy restores you your credit, so you must do as much for the spy. Come, no one hears us, Monseigneur, so no false shame! Ratify the bargain; it is a good one for me, but even better for you. Give and take, you know. Sign, Monseigneur!"
"No, not till afterward," rejoined Montmorency. "Give and take, as you say. In the first place, I must know the means you propose to use to arrive at this twofold result which you promise me. I must know what has become of Diane de Castro, and what will become of Vicomte d'Exmès."
"Very well! Except as to some minor details, I am ready to satisfy you on these two points, Monseigneur; and you will be forced to agree that chance and myself together have arranged things excellently well for your interest."
"Go on!" said the constable; "I am listening."
"As far as Madame de Castro is concerned, she was neither slain nor carried away, but simply made prisoner at St. Quentin, being included among the fifty notable persons who were to be held to ransom. Now, why has not the one into whose hands she has fallen made public his capture? How is it that Madame de Castro herself has not sent any information of her whereabouts? As to that, I am entirely in the dark. To tell the truth, I thought she was already free, and expected to find her here in Paris when I arrived. It was only this morning that I learned from the public reports that nothing was known at court of her whereabouts, and that this fact was by no means the least of Henri's causes of anxiety. It may be that in these troublous times Madame Diane's messages may have been misdirected or gone astray; or perhaps some other mystery may be hidden under this delay. But at all events, I can put at rest all doubt, and say positively where, and in whose hands, Madame de Castro is."
"That information would indeed be very valuable," said the constable. "Where is the place, and who is the man?"
"Wait a moment, pray, Monseigneur!" said Arnauld. "Have you no wish to be equally well informed as to Vicomte d'Exmès? For although it is a good thing to know the whereabouts of our friends, it is even more advantageous to be posted as to those of our enemies."
"Oh, a truce to your proverbs!" said Montmorency. "Where is this D'Exmès?"
"Also a prisoner, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld. "Who is there who hasn't been a prisoner more or less in these times? It has been quite the fashion. Well, Vicomte d'Exmès has followed the fashion, and he is a prisoner."
"But he surely will be at no loss to let his whereabouts be known," was the rejoinder of the constable. "He must have friends and plenty of money; no doubt he will procure the wherewithal to pay his ransom, and will be down upon us very soon."
"You are quite right in your conjectures, Monseigneur. Yes, Vicomte d'Exmès has money; and he is very impatient to be at liberty, and proposes to pay his ransom at the earliest possible moment. In fact, he has already sent a messenger to Paris to procure the price of his freedom and hasten back to him with it."
"What can we do, then?" asked Montmorency.
"Fortunately for us, though unfortunately for him," Arnauld continued, "the person whom he has sent to Paris in such hot haste is myself, Monseigneur,—no other than myself, who am in Vicomte d'Exmès's service as squire, under my real name of Martin-Guerre. You see that you can call me a squire without falsehood."
"And have you not executed your commission, you blackguard?" said the constable. "Have you not your pretended master's ransom already in your pocket?"
"Indeed I have, Monseigneur, you may be quite sure, for one doesn't leave such things on the ground. Consider, too, that not to take the money would be to arouse suspicion. I took it to the last crown,—for the good of the undertaking. But don't be alarmed! I shall put off taking it to him for a long while, on one pretext or another. These ten thousand crowns are just what I need to help me to pass the rest of my life piously and honestly; and I should be supposed to owe them to your generosity, Monseigneur, on the strength of the paper you are going to sign."
"I will not sign it, you villain!" cried Montmorency. "I will not knowingly become the accomplice of a thief."
"Oh, Monseigneur," said Arnauld, "what a harsh name that is to apply to a stern necessity, which I submit to so that I may do you a service! What! I allow my devotion to you to stifle the voice of my conscience, and you recompense me thus for it? Oh, well, so be it! Let us send Vicomte d'Exmès this sum of money, and he will be here as soon as Madame Diane, if not before her. Whereas, if he should not receive it—"
"Well, if he should not receive it?" said the constable.
"We should gain so much time, Monseigneur. In the first place, Monsieur d'Exmès will wait patiently a fortnight for my return. There is naturally some delay about procuring ten thousand crowns; in fact, his nurse didn't hand them to me till this morning."
"Did that poor creature trust you, then?"
"She trusted me, supported as I was by the viscount's ring and handwriting, Monseigneur. Besides, she knew me perfectly well. Well, then, we will say a fortnight of patient waiting, a week of anxious waiting, and another week of hopeless waiting. It will be a month, or a month and a half, before Vicomte d'Exmès will send another messenger in search of the first. But the first will be hard to find; and if it is not easy to get together ten thousand crowns, it will be almost impossible to get ten thousand more. Thus you will have ample time to marry your daughter twenty times over, Monseigneur; for Vicomte d'Exmès will be as completely out of sight as if he were dead for more than two months, and will not reappear, living and furious with rage, before the beginning of the new year."
"Yes, but he will come back!" said Montmorency; "and the very first day he will set about finding out what has become of his good squire, Martin-Guerre, will he not?"
"Alas, Monseigneur," rejoined Arnauld, piteously, "the answer to be made to him, I regret to inform you, will be that faithful Martin-Guerre, on his way back to his master with the ransom which he had been sent after, unluckily fell into the hands of a party of Spaniards, who, having probably rifled his pockets and robbed him, cruelly hanged him at the gates of Noyon to assure his silence."
"What's that? Do you mean to be hanged, Arnauld?"
"I have been, Monseigneur; see how zealous I am in your service. It will only be as to the date of the execution that the various versions of the story will differ somewhat. But can one believe plundering soldiers who are interested in concealing the truth? Come, Monseigneur!" continued the audacious fellow, gayly but with determination in his tone; "believe that my precautions have been very carefully taken, and that with an experienced blade like myself there is not the slightest danger that your Excellency will ever be compromised. If prudence were banished from earth, it would take refuge in the heart of a hanged man. Besides, I say again, you will only be declaring what is true. I have served you for a long while, as a number of your people can bear witness as well as yourself; and you have given me quite ten thousand crowns in all, be sure of that. Do you want me to give you a receipt for it?" added the scamp, magnificently.
The constable could not restrain a smile.
"Yes," said he, "I do, varlet; if at the end of the account—"
Arnauld interrupted.
"Come, come, Monseigneur," said he; "you are only quibbling about the form now, and what do superior minds like ours care for form? Just sign without any more ado."
He spread out upon the table before Montmorency the document which needed only his signature.
"But in the first place, the name of the city where Diane de Castro is confined, and of the man whose prisoner she is?"
"Name for name, Monseigneur; put yours at the foot of this paper, and you shall have the others."
"Very good," said Montmorency.
He dashed off the bold scrawl which served him for a signature.
"And the seal, Monseigneur?"
"There it is; now are you satisfied?"
"As thoroughly as if Monseigneur had given me the ten thousand crowns."
"Well, then, where is Diane?"
"In the hands of Lord Wentworth at Calais," replied Arnauld, trying to grasp the document from the hand of the constable, who still held on to it.
"One moment," said he; "and Vicomte d'Exmès?"
"At Calais, in the hands of Lord Wentworth."
"Then he and Diane see each other?"
"No, Monseigneur; he lives at the house of an armorer, one Pierre Peuquoy, while she is an inmate of the governor's house. Vicomte d'Exmès has no more idea than you, I am willing to swear, that she is so near him."
"I must hasten to the Louvre," said the constable, relaxing his hold on the paper.
"And I to Artigues," cried Arnauld, in triumph. "Good luck, Monseigneur! Try not to be a constable who is laughed at again."
"Good luck, blackguard! and try not to be hung for good."
Thereupon each went his way.
Nearly a month elapsed at Calais without bringing about any change in the situation of those whom we left there to their great regret. Pierre Peuquoy was always working away diligently at his armor; Jean Peuquoy had begun to weave again, and in his leisure moments finished some ropes of extraordinary length; Babette Peuquoy was always weeping.
Gabriel's waiting had gone through the various phases sketched by Arnauld du Thill to the constable. He had waited patiently the first fortnight, but had begun then to grow impatient.
He now visited Lord Wentworth only on very rare occasions; and his calls were always very brief. There had been coolness between them ever since Gabriel had rashly interfered in the fictitious family affairs of the governor.
The latter too, we take great pleasure in saying, grew more and more gloomy from day to day; but the cause of his uneasiness was not the three messages which had been sent at short intervals since Arnauld's departure, from the King of France. All three made, as may well be imagined, the same demand,—the first politely, the second sharply, and the third with threats: they demanded the liberty of Madame de Castro for such ransom as the governor of Calais chose to name. But to all three he had made the same reply,—that he proposed to keep Madame de Castro as an hostage to be exchanged in case of need during the war for some prisoner of importance, or to be returned to the king without ransom when peace should be concluded. He was strictly within his rights; and intrenched behind his strong walls, he defied Henri's anger.
So it was not the royal anger which worried him, although he could but ask himself how the king had learned of Diane's captivity; the real source of his anxiety was the indifference, every day more contemptuous, of his fair prisoner. Neither humility nor assiduous attention had availed to lower the proud and disdainful spirit of Madame de Castro. She was always the same—calm and sad and dignified—before the passionate governor; and whenever he ventured to utter a word of his love (although it must in justice be said that he never violated the bounds which his title as a gentleman imposed upon him), an expression, at once mournful and haughty, broke poor Lord Wentworth's heart and wounded his pride. He did not dare to speak to Diane either of the letter she had written to Gabriel or of the attempts made by the king to procure his daughter's liberty, so much did he dread a bitter word or a satirical reproof from those lovely but cruel lips.
Diane had noticed that the servant who had dared to undertake to deliver her billet was no longer to be seen about the house, and fully understood that desperate chance had failed her. However, she did not lose her courage, the pure and noble girl waited and prayed. She trusted in God, and in death, in case of need.
On the last day of October, which Gabriel had fixed on in his own mind as the limit to his term of waiting for Martin-Guerre's return, he determined to call upon Lord Wentworth and ask, as a favor, his leave to send another messenger to Paris.
About two o'clock he left the Peuquoy house, where Pierre was polishing a sword, Jean weaving one of his enormous ropes, and w here for several days past, Babette, with eyes red from weeping, had been wandering from room to room, unable to speak, and betook himself straight to the governor's mansion.
Lord Wentworth was busy about something or other at the moment, and sent word to Gabriel begging him to wait five minutes, when he would be entirely at his service.
The hall to which Gabriel had been shown looked out upon an interior courtyard. Gabriel drew near the window to look out into the court, and mechanically ran his fingers back and forth over the panes. Suddenly, beneath his very fingers, his attention was attracted by letters drawn upon the glass with a diamond ring. He looked at them more closely, and was able to make out with perfect distinctness these words:Diane de Castro.
It was the signature which was missing at the end of the mysterious letter he had received the month before.
A film came over Gabriel's eyes, and he had to lean against the wall to avoid falling. His presentiments had not lied, then! Diane! It was indeed Diane, hisfiancéeor his sister, whom this dissolute Wentworth actually had in his power! It was to her, the pure and lovely creature, that he dared to speak of his passion.
With an involuntary gesture Gabriel carried his hand to the hilt of his missing sword.
At that moment Lord Wentworth came in.
As he had done on the first occasion, Gabriel, without uttering a word, led him to the window, and pointed out to him the accusing signature.
At first Lord Wentworth turned pale; then asserting that mastery over himself which he possessed in an eminent degree,—
"Well," said he, "what is it?"
"Is that not the name of the mad kinswoman whom you are obliged to hold under restraint here, my Lord?" said Gabriel.
"It may be so; what then?" retorted Lord Wentworth, haughtily.
"If it be the case, my Lord, I know this kinswoman of yours,—a very distant relative, no doubt. I have seen her very often at the Louvre. I am her devoted slave, as every French gentleman should be of a daughter of the house of France."
"And then?" said Lord Wentworth.
"Then, my Lord, I demand of you an explanation of your reason for retaining and treating as you do a prisoner of her station?"
"And suppose I refuse, Monsieur, to oblige you with an explanation, as I have already refused the King of France?"
"Refused the King of France!" echoed Gabriel, in amazement.
"To be sure," replied Lord Wentworth, with unfailing self-possession. "An Englishman, it seems to me, owes no explanation of his actions to a foreign monarch, especially when his own nation is at war with that monarch. So, Monsieur d'Exmès, what if I decline to be called to account by you as well?"
"I should demand that you give me satisfaction, my Lord," cried Gabriel.
"And you would hope to kill me, no doubt," replied the governor, "with the sword which you only wear by my leave, and which I have the right to demand of you at this moment."
"Oh, my Lord! my Lord!" cried Gabriel, in a fury of passion, "you shall pay me for this too."
"So be it, Monsieur," replied Lord Wentworth; "and I will not deny my debt when you have settled yours."
"Powerless!" fairly shrieked Gabriel, wringing his hands,—"powerless at the very moment when I should like the strength of ten thousand men!"
"It is really pretty hard for you," Lord Wentworth continued, "that propriety and law alike bind your hands; but you must confess that it would be altogether too convenient a way for a prisoner of war and a debtor to obtain his freedom and discharge his debt simply by cutting the throat of his creditor and his foe."
"My Lord," said Gabriel, struggling to recover his self-control, "you know that I sent my squire to Paris a month since to procure the sum of money which causes you so much anxiety. Can Martin-Guerre have been wounded or slain on the road, in spite of your safe-conduct? Has he been robbed of the money he was bringing me? That is what I cannot say. The sad fact is that he does not return; and I had just come to beg you to let me send another messenger to Paris, since you have no faith in the word of a gentleman, and have never offered to let me go myself to procure my ransom. Now, my Lord, you no longer have the right to refuse me what I ask, or rather I have the right now to say that you fear to have me at liberty and that you don't dare to give me back my sword."
"To whom would you say that, pray," said Lord Wentworth, "in an English city under my immediate authority, and where you should be looked upon in no other light than as a prisoner and an enemy?"
"I would cry it aloud, my Lord, to every man who has sense and feeling; to every man who has a noble heart or a noble name; to your officers, who understand affairs in which honor is involved; to your workmen even, whom their instinct would enlighten. And all would agree with me against you, my Lord, that in not granting me the means of leaving this place, you have shown your unfitness to be the commander of gallant soldiers."
"But you don't reflect, Monsieur," was Lord Wentworth's cold response, "that rather than let you spread the spirit of mutiny among my men, I have only to say the word, only to raise my hand, to have you cast into a dungeon where you could accuse me only to the deaf and speechless walls."
"Alas! that is too true, ten thousand tempests!" muttered Gabriel, with compressed lips and clinched fists.
The man of sensibility and emotion was being shattered against the impassibility of the man of iron and brass.
But a single word changed the whole face of affairs, and at once put Gabriel and Wentworth on an equal footing again.
"Dear Diane! dear Diane!" said the younger man, in his anguish; "to be able to do nothing for you in your hour of need!"
"What did you say, Monsieur?" asked Lord Wentworth, trembling. "You said, I think, 'dear Diane!' Did you say it, or did I misunderstand you? Can it be that you too love Madame de Castro?"
"Well, then, if I must say it, I do indeed love her!" cried Gabriel. "You love her too, you say! But my love is as pure and devoted as yours is base and cruel. Yes, before God and His angels I love her to adoration."
"What was all that you said, then, about the daughter of France, and the protection that every French gentleman owed to such an one in misfortune?" rejoined Lord Wentworth, quite beside himself. "Ah! you love her, do you? And you are the man whom she loves, no doubt; and whose memory she invokes when she wishes to torment me. You are the man for love of whom she despises mine! the man without whom she might love me perhaps! Ah! are you the man whom she loves?"
Lord Wentworth, but a short time before so mocking and disdainful, now regarded the man who was honored by Diane's affection with a sort of respectful terror; while Gabriel, on hearing his rival's words, raised his glad and triumphant face ever higher and higher.
"Ah, indeed she does love me, then!" cried he; "she still thinks of me! She calls for me, you say? Oh, well, if she calls for me, why, I will go to her,—yes, help her and rescue her. Come, my Lord, take my sword, gag me, bind me, imprison me, and I shall still find a way to help her and save her, since she still loves me, my saintly Diane! Since she still loves me, I dare you and defy you; and though you have arms in your hands and I am unarmed, I am sure of overcoming you, with Diane's love for my buckler."
"True, true; I can well believe it," muttered Lord Wentworth, overwhelmed.
"Thus it would no longer be generous in me to challenge you to single combat," said Gabriel; "so call your guards and tell them to confine me, if you choose. To be in prison near her and at the same time would be of itself a sort of happiness."
A long silence ensued.
At last Lord Wentworth said, with much apparent hesitation, "You asked me, I believe, to allow a second messenger to set out for Paris to procure your ransom?"
"Such was my purpose, my Lord, when I called upon you."
"In your discourse you seem to have reproached me," continued the governor, "for not having had faith in your honor as a gentleman, and for refusing to allow you to go yourself to procure your money, with your word for my security?"
"Very true, my Lord."
"Well, Monsieur," said Wentworth, "you may set out to-day; the gates of Calais will be opened to you; your request is granted."
"I understand," said Gabriel, bitterly,—"you wish to separate me from her. But suppose I refuse to leave Calais now?"
"I am master here, Monsieur," was Lord Wentworth's reply; "and it is not for you to refuse or to accept my commands, but to submit to them."
"Very well, then," said Gabriel, "I will go, my Lord, but without any especial gratitude for your generosity, I warn you."
"Nor have I any need of your thanks, Monsieur."
"I will go," said Gabriel; "but be sure that I shall not long remain your debtor, and that I shall soon come back, my Lord, to pay all my debts at once. Then I shall no longer be your prisoner, nor will you be my creditor, and there will no longer be any reason why the sword which I wear should not cross with yours."
"I might refuse this combat, Monsieur," said Lord Wentworth, rather gloomily; "for the chances between us would not be equal. If I should kill you, she would hate me all the more bitterly; whereas if you should kill me, the result would be to make her love you the more dearly. But no matter, I must and do accept. But are you not afraid," he added sombrely, "of driving me to extremities? When almost all the advantage is with you, might I not be justified in making an unfair use of those which I can still call my own?"
"God on high and the nobility of every country on earth would be your judges, my Lord," said Gabriel, shuddering, "if you should be such a coward as to wreak your vengeance upon those whom you are unable to vanquish, by oppressing those who are unable to defend themselves."
After a pause, Lord Wentworth said,—
"It is three o'clock, Monsieur, and you have until seven—the hour when the inner gates are closed—to make your preparations and leave the town. I will meanwhile give my orders that you be allowed to pass free."
"At seven o'clock, my Lord, I shall have left Calais."
"And be sure," resumed Wentworth, "that you shall never re-enter it again alive, and that even if you should succeed in slaying me in single combat without the walls, my precautions will be taken, and well taken (you may trust my jealousy for that), so that you shall never possess—nay, you shall never even see Madame de Castro again."
Gabriel had already taken some steps on his way from the room; he stopped at the door on hearing these last words.
"What you say is quite impossible, my Lord," he rejoined; "for it is very necessary that I should see Diane again, sooner or later."
"However, it shall not be, Monsieur, I swear to you, if the will of the governor of a city or the last words of a dying man are to be respected."
"Itshallbe, my Lord,—I know not how, but I am sure of it."
"In that case, Monsieur," said Wentworth, with a scornful smile, "you will have to take Calais by assault."
Gabriel reflected a moment.
"I will take Calais by assault, my Lord," said he. "Au revoir!"
He saluted and left the room, leaving Lord Wentworth as if turned to stone, and in doubt as to whether he ought to smile or be alarmed.
Gabriel returned at once to the house of Pierre Peuquoy.
He found Pierre polishing the hilt of his sword, Jean making knots in his rope, and Babette sighing.
He repeated to his friends the conversation he had had with the governor, and announced his approaching departure. Not even did he conceal from them the possibly reckless remark with which he had taken leave of Lord Wentworth.
Then he said,—
"Now I am going to my room to make my preparations, and I leave you to your swords, Pierre; you, Jean, to your ropes; and you to your sighs, Babette."
He went, as he had said, to put everything in order for his departure in all haste. Now that he was free, time seemed to creep along until he could get to Paris to rescue his father, and return to Calais to rescue Diane.
When he left his room half an hour later, he found Babette on the landing.
"Are you going, Monsieur le Vicomte?" she asked. "Shall you no more ask me why I weep so much?"
"No, my child; for I hope that when I come back you will have ceased to weep."
"I hope so too, Monseigneur," said Babette, "You expect to come back, then, do you, in spite of the governor's threats?"
"I promise you that I will, Babette."
"And your squire, Martin-Guerre, too, I suppose?"
"Yes, to be sure."
"Are you sure that you will find Martin-Guerre at Paris, however, Monsieur d'Exmès?" rejoined the young girl. "He is not a dishonest man, is he? Of course he hasn't appropriated your ransom? He is not capable of an act of—infidelity?"
"I would be willing to take my oath to his loyalty," said Gabriel, rather surprised at these questions. "Martin has an uncertain disposition, especially since a short time ago; and it is as if there were two different men in his body,—one simple-minded, and very quiet in his ways; the other crafty and noisy. But aside from this variable character, he is a trusty and faithful servant."
"And no more likely to betray a woman than to deceive his master, is he?"
"Oh, that is another matter," said Gabriel; "and I confess that I would not answer for him there."
"Well, then, Monseigneur," said poor Babette, turning pale, "will you be kind enough to hand him this ring? He will know from whom it comes and what it means."
"I will give it to him, Babette," said Gabriel, recalling the last evening before his squire's departure,—"I will give it to him; but the person who sends it knows, I presume, that Martin-Guerre is married."
"Married!" shrieked Babette. "Then, Monseigneur, keep the ring,—throw it away, do anything with it, rather than give it to him."
"But, Babette—"
"Thanks, Monseigneur, and adieu!" whispered the poor child.
She made her escape to the second floor, and had hardly got to her chamber and fallen upon a chair when she fainted.
Gabriel, grieved and anxious over the suspicion which then first crossed his mind, descended the staircase of the old house, deep in thought.
At the foot of the stairs he met Jean Peuquoy, who came up to him with a very mysterious air.
"Monsieur le Vicomte," said the burgher, in a low voice, "you are continually asking me why I am making ropes of such length. I cannot allow you to depart, after your admirably worded farewell to Lord Wentworth, without imparting to you the key to the riddle. By joining together with small transverse cords two long, strong ropes, as the one I am making, Monseigneur, one obtains a ladder of great length and strength. This ladder, when one is a member of the civic guard, as Pierre has been for twenty years, and I for three days, can easily be conveyed in sections and placed under the sentry-box on the platform of the Octagonal Tower. Then, some dark morning in December or January, just for curiosity's sake, we might when on sentry duty attach an end of each rope firmly to these pieces of iron when they are cemented into the battlements, and let the other ends drop into the sea, some three hundred feet below, where some hardy boatman might chance to find himself at that moment."
"But, my dear Jean—" interrupted Gabriel.
"Never mind that, Monsieur le Vicomte," rejoined the weaver. "But if you will excuse me, I should like before you leave to give you something as a souvenir of your devoted servant, Jean Peuquoy. Here is a sort of plan of the walls and fortifications of Calais. I have made it for my own amusement, during those everlasting walks that have surprised you so. Hide it under your doublet, and when you are at Paris look at it now and then for my sake, I beg you."
Gabriel tried to interrupt again, but Jean gave him no time; pressing the hand which the young man held out to him, he took his leave with these words:—
"Au revoir, Monsieur d'Exmès. You will find Pierre waiting at the door to pay his respects to you; they will supplement mine."
Pierre was standing in front of his house, holding Gabriel's horse by the bridle.
"Thanks for your kind hospitality, Master," said the viscount. "I shall very soon send you, even if I do not bring it myself, the money which you have been polite enough to advance me. I will add to it, if you please, a slight gratuity for your people. Meanwhile, be good enough to offer your dear sister this little brilliant on my behalf."
"I accept it for her," said the armorer, "on the condition that you will accept in return something in my line,—this horn which I have hung to your saddle-bow. I made it with my own hands; and I should recognize its blast even over the roaring of the stormy ocean,—for instance, on any of the mornings of the 5th of each month, when I am on guard from four o'clock to six, on the Octagonal Tower, which faces the sea."
"Thanks!" said Gabriel, pressing Pierre's hand in a way which showed that he understood him.
"As to these arms, which you have wondered to see me making in such great quantities," continued Pierre, "I am inclined to be sorry that I have such a large stock on hand; for if Calais should be besieged some day, the faction among us which still sympathizes with France might get possession of these arms, and make a dangerous diversion in the very heart of the city."
"Very true!" cried Gabriel, pressing the brave citizen's hand with still greater warmth.
"With this I wish you a pleasant journey and good luck, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Pierre. "Adieu, and to our speedy meeting!"
"To our speedy meeting!" said Gabriel.
He turned and waved a last farewell to Pierre as he stood upon his threshold; to Jean, who had his head out of a window on the first floor; and to Babette too, who was watching his departure from behind a curtain on the second floor.
Then he put spurs to his horse, and was off at a gallop.
Orders had been sent to the city gate by Lord Wentworth, and no objection was made to the departure of the prisoner, who soon found himself well on the road to Paris, alone with his anxiety and his hopes.
Would he be able to effect his father's deliverance on his arrival at Paris; or Diane de Castro's on his return to Calais?
The roads of France were no safer for Gabriel than for his squire; and he was obliged to exert all his wit and quickness of intellect to avoid obstacles and delays. In fact, it was not till the fourth day after leaving Calais, notwithstanding all his haste, that he finally reached Paris.
But the dangers of the journey caused Gabriel less anxiety, on the whole, than his uneasiness with regard to its termination. Although he was not naturally much addicted to dreaming, his lonely journey almost forced him to think unceasingly of his father's captivity and Diane's, of his means of rescuing those dear and cherished beings, of the king's promise, and of what he must do if Henri failed to keep it. But no! It was not to such an end that Henri II. was the first gentleman of Christendom. The fulfilment of his oath was, no doubt, painful to him; very likely he was awaiting Gabriel's return to remind him of it before issuing his pardon to the old count; but surely he would pardon him. And if he did not?
Gabriel, whenever that desolating thought crossed his mind, felt as if a sword were piercing his heart. He would drive his spurs into his horse, and put his hand to his sword; and generally it was the sad and sweet thought of Diane de Castro which would remove his anger and soothe his troubled soul.
It was with a mind harrowed by doubt and anguish that he at last reached the gates of Paris on the morning of the fourth day. He had travelled all night; and the pale light of dawn was just beginning to break as he rode through the streets in the neighborhood of the Louvre.
He drew rein before the royal mansion, still closed and silent, and asked himself whether he should wait there or go on; but his impatience made him loathe the thought of doing nothing. He determined to go at once to his own house, Rue des Jardins St. Paul, where he might at least hope to hear some tidings of what he feared at the same time that he longed to know.
His road thither took him by the frowning turrets of the Châtelet.
He stopped for a moment before the sinister portal. A cold perspiration bedewed his forehead. His past and his future lay hidden behind those humid walls; but Gabriel was not the man to allow his feelings to monopolize much time which he might usefully devote to action. He therefore shook off his gloomy thoughts, and went on his way, saying simply, "Allons!"
When he reached his home, which he had not seen for so long a time, a light was shining through the windows of the lower hall. The zealous Aloyse was already astir.
Gabriel knocked, uttering his name at the same time. Two minutes after he was in the arms of the worthy soul who had been like a mother to him.
"Ah! is it really you, Monseigneur? Is it really you, my own dear boy?"
She could find strength to say no more than that. Gabriel, having embraced her most affectionately, drew back a step or two, the better to look at her.
There was in his look an unspoken question clearer than words could make it.
Aloyse understood, and yet she hung her head, and made no reply.
"Is there no news from the court, then!" the viscount asked at length, as if not content with the answer implied by her silence.
"Nothing, Monseigneur," replied the nurse.
"Oh, I expected as much! If anything had occurred, good or bad, you would not have failed to tell me at the first kiss. Do you know nothing!"
"Alas! no."
"I see how it is," rejoined the young man, bitterly. "I was a prisoner,—dead perhaps! One does not pay his indebtedness to a prisoner, much less to a dead man. But I am here now, alive and free, and there must be a reckoning with me: whether willingly or by force, it must and shall be!"
"Oh, be careful, Monseigneur!" cried Aloyse.
"Have no fear, nurse. Is Monsieur l'Amiral at Paris!"
"Yes, Monseigneur. He has called and sent here ten times to learn if you had returned."
"Good! And Monsieur de Guise?"
"He also has returned. It is to him that the people are looking to repair the misfortunes of France and the suffering of the citizens."
"God grant," said Gabriel, "that he find no sufferings for which there is no remedy!"
"As to Madame de Castro, who was supposed to be dead," continued Aloyse, hurriedly, "Monsieur le Connétable has discovered that she is a prisoner at Calais; and they hope soon to effect her release."
"I knew it, and, like them, I hope so," said Gabriel, meaningly. "But," he resumed, "you say nothing of the reason why my captivity has been so prolonged,—nothing of Martin-Guerre and his delayed return. What has become of Martin, pray?"
"He is here, Monseigneur, the sluggard, the dolt!"
"What! Here? How long has he been here? What is he doing?"
"He is upstairs, in bed and asleep," said Aloyse, who seemed to speak of Martin with some bitterness. "He says that he is not very well, pretending that he has been hanged!"
"Hanged!" cried Gabriel. "For stealing the money for my ransom,—is that it?"
"The money for your ransom, Monseigneur? You just say a word to that threefold idiot about the money for your ransom! You will see what answer he will make. He will not know what you mean. Just imagine, Monseigneur, he arrived here, very eager, and in great haste; and after reading your letter, I counted out to him ten thousand beautiful crowns. Away he went again, without losing a moment. A few days later whom should I see coming back but Martin-Guerre, crestfallen and with a most pitiful expression. He claimed that he had not received a sou from me. Having been taken prisoner himself some time before the fall of St. Quentin, he had no idea, he said, of your whereabouts for three months past. You had intrusted no mission to him. He had been beaten and hung! He had succeeded in making his escape, and had just returned to Paris for the first time since the war. Such are the romances with which Martin-Guerre entertains us from morning till night when your ransom is mentioned."
"Explain yourself, nurse," said Gabriel. "Martin-Guerre could not have appropriated that money, I would take my oath. He surely is not a dishonest man, and he is loyally devoted to me."
"No, Monseigneur, he is not dishonest; but he is mad, I am afraid,—so mad that he hasn't an idea or a memory; sufficiently insane to require care, believe me. Although he may not be vicious yet, he is dangerous, to say the least. I am not the only one who saw him here either, for all your people overwhelm him with their testimony. He really received the ten thousand crowns, which Master Elyot had some difficulty in getting together for me at such short notice."
"Nevertheless," said Gabriel, "Master Elyot must get together as much more, and even more quickly; indeed, I must have a still larger sum. But we need not worry about that at present. It is broad daylight at last. I am going to the Louvre now to speak with the king."
"What, Monseigneur! without a moment's rest?" said Aloyse. "Besides, you forget that it is only seven o'clock and that you would find the doors closed; they are barely opened at nine."
"That's true," said Gabriel,—"two hours more to wait! Give me the patience to wait two hours, O Lord, as I have already waited two months! At all events, I shall be able to find Monsieur de Coligny and Monsieur de Guise," he continued.
"No, for in all likelihood they are at the Louvre," said Aloyse. "Besides, the king doesn't receive before noon, and you cannot see him earlier than that, I fear. So you will have three hours to converse with Monsieur l'Amiral, and Monsieur le Lieutenant-Général of the kingdom,—that, you know, is the new title with which the king at the present grave crisis has clothed Monsieur de Guise. Meanwhile, Monsieur, you surely will not refuse to eat something, and to receive your old and faithful servants, who have so long wished in vain for your return."
Just at this moment—as if to occupy the young man's mind and effectually beguile his weary waiting—Martin-Guerre, apprised doubtless of his master's arrival, burst into the room, paler even from joy than from the suffering he had undergone.
"What! Is it you? Is it really yourself, Monseigneur?" he cried. "Oh, what happiness!"
But Gabriel gave a very cold reception to the poor squire's transports of delight.
"If by good luck I am here at last, Martin," said he, "you must agree that it is not by your efforts: for you did your very best to leave me a prisoner forever."
"What! you too, Monseigneur!" said Martin, in consternation. "You too, instead of putting me right at the first word, as I hoped, accuse me of having had those ten thousand crowns. Who knows what will come next? Perhaps you will even go so far as to say that you commissioned me to receive them and bring them to you?"
"Of course I did," said Gabriel, quite stupefied with surprise.
"So, then," rejoined the poor squire, in a dull voice, "you believe me, Martin-Guerre, to be capable of basely appropriating money which did not belong to me,—money designed to procure my master's liberty?"
"No, Martin, no," replied Gabriel, earnestly, touched by the tone in which his faithful servant spoke. "My suspicions have never, I swear, led me to suspect your honesty; and Aloyse and I were just saying that very thing. But the money was stolen from you or you lost it on the road when you were coming back to me."
"Coming back to you!" echoed Martin. "But where, Monseigneur? Since we left St. Quentin together may God strike me dead if I know where you have been! Where was I to come back to you?"
"At Calais. Martin. However light and foolish your brain may be, you surely can't have forgotten Calais!"
"How in the world could I forget what I never knew?" said Martin-Guerre, calmly.
"Why, you miserable wretch, do you mean to perjure yourself in that matter?" cried Gabriel.
He said in a low voice a few words to the nurse, who thereupon left the room. Then he approached Martin.
"How about Babette, ingrate?" said he.
"Babette! What Babette?" asked the wondering squire.
"The one you ruined, villain."
"Oh, yes!—Gudule!" said Martin. "You are wrong about the name. It is Gudule, Monseigneur, not Babette. Oh, yes, poor girl! But I tell you honestly that I did not lead her astray; she had fallen before. I swear to that."
"What! still another?" rejoined Gabriel. "But this last one I know nothing about; and whoever she may be, she can have no such cause of complaint as Babette Peuquoy."
Martin-Guerre did not dare to lose his patience; but if he had been of equal rank with the viscount, he would not have kept himself so well in hand.
"One moment, Monseigneur," said he. "They all say here that I am mad; and by Saint Martin! I verily believe I shall go mad just from hearing myself called so. However, I still have my reason and my memory, or the deuce take me! And in case of need, Monseigneur, although I have had to undergo harsh treatment and misery sufficient for two,—still, in case of need, I will narrate to you faithfully from point to point everything that has befallen me during the three months that have elapsed since I parted from you. At least," he hastened to add, "so much of it as I remember in my own person."
"To tell the truth, I should be very glad to hear how you account for your extraordinary conduct," said Gabriel.
"Very well! Monseigneur, after we left St. Quentin together to join Monsieur de Vaulpergues's relieving party, and after we had separated, each to take a different road (as you must remember), events happened just as you had foreseen. I fell into the hands of the enemy. I tried, as you had enjoined upon me, to pay my way with impudence; but a most extraordinary thing occurred,—the soldiers claimed to recognize me as having been their prisoner before!"
"Come, come!" said Gabriel, interrupting him; "see how you are wandering already!"
"Oh, Monseigneur," resumed Martin, "in the name of mercy, let me tell my story as I know it! It is difficult for me to understand matters myself. You may criticise when I am done. As soon as the enemy recognized me, Monseigneur, I confess that I resigned myself to my fate; for I knew—and in reality you yourself know as well as I, Monseigneur—that there are two of me, and that very often, and without giving me any warning whatever, my other self makes me do his pleasure. Perhaps I should say, then, 'Weacceptedourfate;' for hereafter I shall speak of myself—ofus, that is—in the plural. Gudule—a pretty little Flemish girl, whom we had carried off—also recognized us, which cost us, I may say parenthetically, a perfect hailstorm of blows. Truly, we ourselves alone failed to recognize ourselves. To tell you all the misery which followed, and into the hands of how many different masters, all endowed with different dialects, your unfortunate squire fell, one after the other, would take too long, Monseigneur."
"Yes; pray shorten your self-condolence."
"I pass over these and worse sufferings. My number two, I was informed, had already escaped once; and they beat me almost to a jelly for his fault. My number one—whose conscience I have in my keeping, and whose martyrdom I am relating to you—succeeded in escaping once more, but was foolish enough to allow himself to be caught, and was left for dead on the spot, notwithstanding which I ran away a third time; but being entrapped a third time, by the double treason of too much wine and a chance acquaintance, I showed fight, and laid about me with all the fury of despair and drunkenness. In short, after having mocked me and tortured me most of the night in most barbarous fashion, my executioners hanged me toward morning."
"Hanged you!" exclaimed Gabriel, believing that the squire's mania was surely becoming hopeless. "They hanged you, Martin! What do you mean by that?"