"I mean, Monseigneur, that they hoisted me up between earth and sky at the end of a hempen cord, which was firmly attached to a gibbet, otherwise called a gallows; and in all the tongues and patois with which they have belabored my ears that is commonly called being hanged, Monseigneur. Do I make myself clear?"
"None too clear, Martin; for to tell the truth, for a man that has been hanged—"
"I am in pretty good condition now, Monseigneur,—that's a fact; but you have not heard the end of the story yet. My suffering and my rage, when I saw myself being hanged, almost made me lose my consciousness. When I came to myself, I was stretched on the fresh grass, with the cord, which had been cut, still about my neck. Had some soft-hearted passer-by, moved by my plight, chosen to relieve the gallows of its human fruit? My misanthropy actually forbade my thinking that. I am more inclined to believe that some thief must have longed to plunder me, and cut the cord so that he might go through my pockets at his ease. The fact that my wedding-ring and my papers had been stolen justify me, I think, in making that assertion without doing injustice to the human race. However, I had been cut down in time; and despite a slight dislocation of my neck, I succeeded in escaping a fourth time, through woods and across the fields, hiding all day, and travelling with the greatest care at night, living on roots and wild herbs,—a most unsatisfactory diet, to which even the poor cattle must find great difficulty in getting accustomed. At last, after losing my way a hundred times, I succeeded in reaching Paris at the end of a fortnight, and in finding this house, where I arrived twelve days since, and where I have received rather a less hearty welcome than I expected, after such a rough experience. There is my story, Monseigneur."
"Well, now," said Gabriel, "as an offset to this story of yours, I can tell you quite a different one (entirely different, in fact), the details of which I have seen you perform with my own eyes."
"Is it the story of my number two, Monseigneur?" asked Martin, coolly. "Upon my word, if I may make so bold, and if you would be so kind as to tell it to me in a few words, I should be only too glad to hear it."
"Do you mock me, scoundrel?" said Gabriel.
"Oh, Monseigneur knows my profound respect for him! But, strangely enough, this double of mine has caused me a vast deal of trouble, has he not? He has led me into some cruel plights. Well, in spite of all that, I don't know why, but I am greatly interested in him. I believe, upon my word of honor, that in the end I shall be weak enough to love the blackguard!"
"Blackguard indeed!" said Gabriel.
The viscount may have been about to enter upon a catalogue of Arnauld du Thill's misdeeds; but he was interrupted by his nurse, who returned to the room, followed by a man in the garb of a peasant.
"Well, what doesthismean?" said Aloyse. "Here is a man who claims that he was sent here to announce your death, Martin-Guerre!"
"My death!" ejaculated Martin, turning pale at Dame Aloyse's terrible words.
"Oh, God be merciful unto me!" cried the peasant, as soon as he cast his eye upon the squire.
"Can it be that my other self is dead? God be praised!" said Martin. "Am I at last relieved from this continual changing back and forth? Bah! On the whole, upon reflection, I should be a little sorry if it is so, but still reasonably satisfied. Why don't you speak, friend? Speak!" he added, addressing himself to the bewildered peasant.
"Ah, Master," replied the latter, when he had looked closely at Martin and touched him with his hands, "how does it happen that you are here before me? I swear to you, Master, that I came as quickly as a man could come to do your errand, and earn the ten crowns; and unless you came in the saddle, Master, it is absolutely impossible for you to have passed me on the road, and in that case I must have seen you."
"To be sure; but, my good fellow, I never saw you before," said Martin-Guerre; "and yet you talk as if you knew me!"
"As if I knew you!" said the stupefied peasant. "Do you mean to say that you didn't send me here to say that Martin-Guerre had been hanged and was dead?"
"What! Martin-Guerre! Why, I am Martin-Guerre."
"You? Impossible! How could you have told of your own hanging?" rejoined the peasant.
"But why, where, and when did I tell you of such an atrocity?" asked Martin.
"Must I tell you the precise facts now?" said the peasant.
"Yes, everything."
"Notwithstanding the fact that you made up a story for me to tell."
"Yes; never mind that now."
"Well, then, since your memory is so short, I will tell you everything. So much the worse for you if you force me to do it! Six days ago, in the morning, I was at work hoeing my field—"
"Before you go any further, where is your field?" asked Martin.
"Do you want me to tell you the real truth, Master?" said the peasant.
"Why, of course I do, you beast!"
"Well, then, my field is behind Montargis! I was at work when you came along the road, with a travelling-bag on your back."
"'Well, well, my friend," said you, 'what are you doing? Come, why don't you speak?'
"'I am hoeing, Master. I am ready to answer your questions.'
"'How much does this work of yours pay you?'
"'Year in and year out, about four sous a day.'
"'Would you like to earn twenty crowns in two weeks?'
"'Oh, oh!'
"'Say yes or no.'
"'Yes, indeed, I should.'
"'Well, you must go at once to Paris. By making good speed, you will arrive in five or six days, at the latest. Ask your way to Rue des Jardins St. Paul, and find the house of Vicomte d'Exmès. It is to that house that I want you to go. The viscount will not be there; but you will find a good old soul called Aloyse, his nurse; and this is what you must say to her. Now, listen carefully! You will say: "I am from Noyon" (Noyon, you understand, not Montargis),—"I am from Noyon, where one of your acquaintances was hanged a fortnight since. His name was Martin-Guerre." (Be sure to remember that name Martin-Guerre). "Martin-Guerre has been hanged, after being robbed of the money he had about him, so that he might not complain of the robbery. But before he was taken to the gallows Martin-Guerre had time to beg me to come and let you know of his ill-fortune, so that, as he said, you might provide a new supply of money for his master's ransom. He promised me that you would give me ten crowns for my trouble. I waited until he was hanged, and then I came away."
"'There, that is what you are to say to the good woman. Do you understand?' you asked me.
"'Yes, Master," I replied; 'only you said twenty crowns in the first place, and now you only speak of ten.'
"'Fool!' said you, 'here are the other ten in advance.'
"'Very good,' I rejoined. 'But suppose this Aloyse asks me to describe the appearance of Martin-Guerre, for I never saw him, and I ought to be able to tell how he looks.'
"'Look at me.'
"I looked at you.
"'Very well; now you can describe Martin-Guerre, as if it were myself.'"
"How strange!" muttered Gabriel, who had been listening to this narration with most profound attention.
"Now," continued the peasant, "I am here, Master, ready to repeat the lesson you taught me (for you said it to me twice, and I know it by heart), and I find you here before me! It is very true that I loitered on the road, and drank up your ten crowns in the roadside cabarets, because I expected soon to have the other ten in my pocket; but at all events I am within the time you fixed. You gave me six days, and it was just six days ago that I left Montargis."
"Six days!" said Martin-Guerre, sadly and thoughtfully. "I came through Montargis six days ago! I was on the road to my own province six days ago! Your story is extremely probable, my friend," he continued, "and I believe it implicitly."
"But no!" Aloyse eagerly interposed, "this man is evidently a liar, when he claims to have talked with you at Montargis six days ago, for you have not been out of these doors for twelve days."
"Very true," said Martin; "but my number two—"
"Then again," continued the nurse, "he says that it is only a fortnight since you were hanged at Noyon; while according to your own words it was a month ago."
"Yes, it certainly was," said the squire; "I was thinking when I woke this morning that it was just a month to-day. However, my other self—"
"Oh, nonsense!" cried the nurse.
"It seems to me," Gabriel interposed, "that this man has finally put us upon the right track."
"Oh, indeed you are not mistaken, kind sir," said the peasant. "Shall I receive my ten crowns?"
"Yes," said Gabriel; "but you must leave your name and address with us. We may have need of your testimony some day. I begin to detect some very evil doings, although my suspicions are not yet clearly defined."
"But, Monseigneur—" Martin began to remonstrate. Gabriel interrupted him sharply. "Enough of that!" said he. "Do you see to it, good Aloyse, that this man goes his way content. This matter shall be attended to in due time. But, do you know," he added, lowering his voice, "that I may perhaps have to take my revenge for treachery to the master before I deal with the treachery to the squire."
"Alas!" muttered Aloyse.
"It is now eight o'clock," continued Gabriel. "I shall not see my good people until my return; for I must be at the doors of the Louvre when they are opened. Even though I may not be able to obtain an audience of the king until noon, I can at least have some conversation with the admiral and Monsieur de Guise."
"And when you have seen the king, you will return here at once, will you not?" asked Aloyse.
"At once; don't you be anxious about me, my good nurse. Something seems to tell me that I shall come out victoriously from all these dark plots which intrigue and impudence are weaving around me."
"Indeed you will, if God heeds my earnest prayer," said Aloyse.
"I go," rejoined Gabriel. "You remain here, Martin, for I must go alone. Come, come, my good fellow, we shall justify you and deliver you from your other self in good time; but you see I have another justification and another deliverance to accomplish first of all. To our speedy meeting, Martin!au revoir, nurse!"
Each kissed the hand which the young man extended. Then he left the house, alone and on foot, wrapped in a great cloak, and with a grave and haughty mien directed his steps toward the Louvre.
"Alas!" thought the nurse, "even so I once saw his father depart, and he never returned."
Just as Gabriel, after crossing the Pont au Change, was walking through the Place de Grève, he noticed a man, enveloped like himself in a cloak, which was however of coarser material, and more carefully held in place than his own. More than that, this man was evidently trying to conceal his features beneath the broad brim of his hat.
Gabriel, although he thought at first that he recognized the figure and carriage of a friend, nevertheless pursued his way; but the unknown, as soon as he saw Vicomte d'Exmès, gave a sudden start, and after seeming to hesitate for a moment, stopped suddenly and said very cautiously, "Gabriel, my friend!"
At the same time he half disclosed his face, and Gabriel saw that he had not been mistaken.
"Monsieur de Coligny!" he exclaimed, without however raising his voice. "You here! and at this hour!"
"Hush!" said the admiral. "I confess that just at this moment I have no desire to be recognized and spied upon and followed. But when I saw you, my dear friend, after so long a separation, and so much anxiety on your account, I could not resist the temptation to accost you and grasp your hand. How long have you been in Paris?"
"Only since this morning," said Gabriel; "and I was on my way to see you at the Louvre first of all."
"Oh, well," said the admiral, "if you are not in too great haste, just walk a few steps with me. You must tell me what you have been about during your long absence."
"I will tell you all that I can tell the most loyal and devoted of friends," Gabriel responded. "But first, Monsieur l'Amiral, I know you will allow me to ask you a question on a subject which is of more interest to me than anything else in the world."
"I can imagine what that question will be," said the admiral. "But ought you not to be quite as well able to forecast my reply to it, my dear friend? You propose to ask me, do you not, whether I kept my promise to you,—whether I told the king of the glorious and indispensable part which you had in the defence of St. Quentin?"
"No, Monsieur l'Amiral," Gabriel replied; "really that is not what I was about to ask you; for I know, and have learned to trust in your word, and I am perfectly certain that your first thought on your return to Paris was to fulfil your promise, and to declare generously to the king, and to the king alone, that my efforts counted for something in St. Quentin's long resistance. In fact, I have no doubt that you exaggerated my small services in your narration to his Majesty. Yes, Monsieur, I know all that without asking. But what I do not know, and what it is of the greatest moment that I should know, is the reply of Henri II. to your kind words."
"Alas! Gabriel," said the admiral, "Henri made no other reply than to ask me what had become of you. I was very much puzzled what to tell him. The letter you left for me on your departure from St. Quentin was very far from explicit, and only reminded me of my promise. I told the king that I knew you had not fallen, but that you had been made prisoner in all probability, and from a feeling of delicacy had not wanted to inform me of it."
"And to that the king—?" asked Gabriel, eagerly.
"The king said, my dear friend: 'That is well!' and a smile of satisfaction hovered upon his lips. Then, when I was enlarging upon the magnificence of your feats of arms, and upon the obligations which you had laid upon France and her king, 'Enough of that!' Henri interposed, and haughtily changing the subject of conversation, compelled me to speak of something else."
"Yes, that is just as I supposed it would be," said Gabriel, with bitter irony.
"Courage, my friend!" rejoined the admiral. "Do you not remember that at St. Quentin I warned you that it was not safe to rely upon the gratitude of the great ones of the world?"
"Oh, yes!" said Gabriel, threateningly; "it was all very well for the king to choose to forget when he hoped that I was dead or in prison; but when I remind him of my rights, as I propose to do very soon, he will find that he has got to remember."
"And suppose his memory persists in being defective?" asked Monsieur de Coligny.
"Monsieur l'Amiral," said Gabriel, "when one has undergone an insult, one applies to the king to see justice done. When the king himself offers the insult, one has no resource but to apply to God for vengeance."
"I imagine, too," the admiral rejoined, "that if it should be necessary, you would constitute yourself the instrument of the divine vengeance."
"You have said it, Monsieur."
"In that case," Coligny resumed, "there is no better place nor time than the present to remind you of a conversation we once had on the subject of the persecuted religion, when I spoke to you of a sure means of punishing kings, while serving the cause of truth at the same time."
"Oh, yes! our conversation was just in my mind," said Gabriel. "My memory does not fail me, you see. I may at some time resort to your means, Monsieur,—against Henri's successors perhaps, if not against himself, since your remedy is equally efficacious against all kings."
"That being so," the admiral continued, "can you give me an hour of your time now?"
"The king does not receive till noon; my time belongs to you until that hour."
"Come with me where I am going, then," said the admiral. "You are of gentle birth, and I have seen your character put to the proof, so I will demand no oath from you. Promise me simply that you will preserve absolute silence as to the people you are about to see, and the things that you hear."
"I promise not to lisp a word," said Gabriel.
"Follow me, then," said the admiral, "and if you meet with injustice at the Louvre, you will at least have your revenge in your own hands in advance; follow me."
Coligny and Gabriel crossed the Pont au Change and the Cité, and were swallowed up in the labyrinth of lanes and alleys which then existed in the neighborhood of Rue St. Jacques.
Coligny stopped at the beginning of Rue St. Jacques, before the low door of a house of mean exterior. He knocked: first a wicket in the door was opened, and then the door itself, when the invisible sentinel had recognized the admiral.
Gabriel, following in the steps of his noble guide, passed through a long dark passage-way, and ascended three flights of worm-eaten stairs. When they were almost under the roof, Coligny knocked three times with his foot at the door of the highest and most wretched-looking apartment in the whole house. The door opened, and they went in.
They found themselves in a room of considerable size, but gloomy, and quite bare. Two narrow windows—one looking upon Rue St. Jacques, and the other upon a back alley—admitted only a very uncertain light. There was no furniture save four stools and an oak table with twisted legs.
At the admiral's entrance, two men, who seemed to be expecting him, rose to greet him; a third remained discreetly apart, standing at the front window, and merely bowed low to Coligny from that distance.
"Theodore," said the admiral to the two men who had welcomed him, "and you, Captain, I have brought with me to present to you a friend, who is at all events to be your friend—our friend—hereafter, if he cannot yet be so called."
The two strangers bowed silently to Vicomte d'Exmès. Then the younger, he who was called Theodore, began to talk with Coligny in a low tone, and with much animation. Gabriel walked away a few steps to leave them more at liberty, and was thus able to scrutinize at his leisure the men to whom the admiral had presented him, but whose names even he did not know.
The captain had the strongly marked features and determined bearing of a man of resolution and action. He was tall and dark and sinewy. One needed not to be a keen observer to read audacity in his expression; eager, burning zeal, in the fire of his eyes; and an energetic, forceful will, in his sternly compressed lips.
The companion of this haughty adventurer was rather more like a courtier; he was a graceful cavalier with a well-formed and jolly face, a keen glance, and refined and easy bearing. His dress, which was strictly in accord with the latest fashion, was in strong contrast with the garb of the captain, which was simple almost to the point of austerity.
As for the third individual, who had remained standing at some distance from the others, his striking countenance could but attract notice despite his attitude of reserve; his broad forehead and the piercing keenness of his eye were enough to indicate to the least observant the man of thought, and, let us say at once, the man of genius.
Coligny, having exchanged a few words with his friend, drew near Gabriel.
"I beg your pardon," said he; "but I am not the only master here, and I had to consult my associates before disclosing to you where and in whose company you are."
"Am I to know now!" asked Gabriel.
"If you wish, my friend."
"Where am I, pray?"
"In the poor chamber where the son of the cooper of Noyon, Jean Calvin, held the first secret meetings of those of the Reformed religion, and whence he almost had to march to the stake. But to-day he is at Geneva, triumphant and almost omnipotent; the crowned heads of the world have to reckon with him; and the memory of him alone is enough to make the damp walls of this wretched hole more glorious than the golden arabesques of the Louvre."
At the mention of the great name of Calvin, Gabriel bared his head. Although the impetuous youth had hardly concerned himself hitherto about matters of religion or morals, yet he would have been far behind his age if the austere and toilsome life, the sublime and awe-inspiring character, the bold and imperious doctrines of the law-maker of the Reformed religion had not more than once engrossed his thoughts.
However, he rejoined calmly,—
"And who are these whom I see around me in the venerated master's chamber?"
"His disciples," was the admiral's reply,—"Theodore de Bèze, his pen; La Renaudie, his sword."
Gabriel saluted the charming writer who was to be the historian of the Reformed Church, and the adventurous soldier who was to be the abettor of the Tumulte d'Amboise.
Theodore de Bèze returned Gabriel's salutation with the courteous grace which was natural to him, and said with a pleasant smile,—
"Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès, although your introduction here has been accompanied with so many precautions, pray do not look upon us as very dark and dangerous conspirators. I hasten to assure you that if the leaders of our sect meet secretly here three times a week, it is only to exchange information as to the religion, and to receive, it may be, a neophyte, who, as he believes in our principles, asks to share our perils; or some man whom on account of his personal qualities we are anxious to win over to our cause. We are obliged to the admiral for bringing you hither, Monsieur le Vicomte, for you are surely one of the latter class."
"And I, gentlemen, am of the former," said the stranger, who had thus far stood aloof; and as he spoke, he came forward rather shyly and modestly. "I am one of those humble dreamers upon whom the light of your principles has fallen in his darkness, and who longs for a closer view of them."
"But it will not be long, Ambroise, ere you will be numbered among the most illustrious of our brotherhood," said La Renaudie, speaking for the first time. "Yes, gentlemen," he continued, turning to Coligny and De Bèze, "he whom I now present to you, still an humble practitioner, it is true, and still young, as you see, will nevertheless be in due time, I will answer for it, one of the bright and shining lights of the religion, for he is a great worker and a profound thinker; and we may well exult that he has sought us out of his own will, for we shall point with pride to the name on our rolls of the surgeon Ambroise Paré."
"Oh, Monsieur le Capitaine!" exclaimed Ambroise.
"By whom has Master Ambroise Paré been instructed in our principles?" asked Théodore de Bèze.
"By Chaudieu the minister, who introduced me to Monsieur de la Renaudie," Ambroise replied.
"And have you already made the solemn abjuration?"
"Not yet," replied the surgeon. "I desire to be entirely sincere, and not to take any vows except upon thorough acquaintance with the matter. I confess that I still have some doubts; and certain points are still too obscure forme to be able to join you irrevocably and without reservation. It is to have these cleared away that I have longed to meet the leading men of the religion, and have made up my mind to go, if necessary, to Calvin himself; for truth and liberty are the ruling passions of my life."
"Well said!" cried the admiral; "and be assured, Master, that no one of us could ever wish to strike a blow at your rare and proud independence of thought."
"What did I tell you?" rejoined La Renaudie, triumphantly. "Will he not be an invaluable conquest for our faith? I have seen Ambroise Paré in his library; I have seen him at the bedside of the sick (yes, I have seen him too on the battlefield); and everywhere, whether combating error and prejudice, or caring for the wounds and sufferings of his fellow-creatures, he is always thus,—calm, cool, superior to the vicissitudes of fortune, always master of others and of himself."
Gabriel here interposed, much moved by what he saw and heard.
"May I be allowed one word? I know now where I am; and I can imagine what motive induced my generous friend, Monsieur de Coligny, to bring me to this house, where are met those whom King Henri calls his heretics, and looks upon as his mortal enemies. But I have certainly more need to be educated in the faith than has Master Ambroise Paré. Like him, I have been a man of action; but, alas! I have done but little thinking, and he would be doing a great service to a new inquirer into all these new ideas, if he would consent to enlighten me as to the reasons or motives which have inclined his noble intellect to the Reformed sect."
"No interested motive at all," replied Ambroise Paré; "for to succeed in my profession it would be for my interest to conform to the belief of the court and the princes. So it is not interested motives, but the force of reason, Monsieur le Vicomte, as you suggest: and if the illustrious persons before whom I am now speaking authorize me so to do, I will try to set forth my reasons in a few words."
"Go on! go on!" cried Coligny, La Renaudie, and Theodore de Bèze at once.
"I will be brief," rejoined Ambroise, "for my time does not belong to me. In the first place, I tried to disentangle the leading idea of the Reform from all theories and formulas. The brushwood once cut away, these are the principles which I laid bare, for which I would most assuredly submit to persecution in every form."
Gabriel was listening with admiration which he made no attempt to conceal, to this disinterested expounder of the truth.
Ambroise Paré continued.
"Religious and political domination, the Church and royalty, have hitherto substituted their regulations and their laws for the will and reasoning of the individual. The priest says to every man, 'Believe this;' and the prince, 'Do thus and so.' Now, matters have gone on in this way so long that men's minds remained as the minds of babes, and had perforce to lean upon this double discipline to make their way through life. But now wefeelthat we are strong, and hence weare. Nevertheless the prince and the priest, the Church and the king, are unwilling to lay down one jot of the authority which has become a principle of existence with them. It is against this anachronism of iniquity that the Reformed religionprotests, in my view. Hereafter let every soul examine carefully its belief, and reason out its submission to this domination; and then I believe we shall see the regeneration to which our efforts are devoted. Am I wrong, gentlemen?"
"No, but you go too far and too fast," said Theodore de Bèze; "in this bold way of mingling politics and moral questions—"
"Ah! it is that very boldness which attracts me," Gabriel interrupted.
"But it is not boldness; it is logic!" rejoined Ambroise Paré. "How can that which is fair and just in the Church not be equally so in the State? How can you disavow as a rule of action that which you admit as a rule of thought?"
"There is the spirit of revolution in the bold words you have uttered, Master," cried Coligny, thoughtfully.
"Of revolution?" Ambroise coolly rejoined. "Why, I am talking about revolution."
The three leaders looked at one another in surprise. Their looks seemed to say, "This man is much stronger even than we supposed."
Gabriel did not forget for a moment the engrossing anxiety of his whole life; but he was now applying to it what he had just heard, and was lost in thought.
Theodore de Bèze said most earnestly to the outspoken surgeon,—
"It is absolutely necessary that you should join us. What do you ask?"
"Nothing more than the privilege of conversing with you now and then, and of submitting to your intelligence and knowledge such difficulties as I still encounter."
"You shall have more than that," said Theodore de Bèze; "you shall correspond directly with Calvin."
"Such an honor for me!" cried Ambroise Paré, flushing with delight.
"Yes, it is essential that you should know him, and he you," rejoined the admiral. "Such a disciple as you are deserves a master like him. You hand your letters to your friend La Renaudie, and we will see that they reach Geneva. We will also hand you his replies. They will not be long in coming. You have heard of Calvin's extraordinary powers of application; and you will be satisfied."
"Ah," said Ambroise Paré, "you give me my reward before I have done anything to merit it. How have I deserved so great a favor?"
"By being what you are, my friend," said La Renaudie. "I knew that you would win their hearts at the first stroke."
"Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times!" Ambroise responded. "But," he added, "I regret to say that I must leave you, there are so many patients awaiting me."
"Go, go!" said Théodore de Bèze; "your reasons are too sacred for us to try to keep you. Go! Do what is right as you believe what is true."
"But as you leave us," Coligny interposed, "rest assured that you leave none behind you but friends, or, as we say of those of our religion, 'brothers.'"
Thus they took leave of him heartily and cordially; and Gabriel, warmly pressing his hand, was not behindhand in this friendly parting.
Ambroise Paré went his way, with joy and pride in his heart.
"Truly one of the elect!" cried Théodore de Bèze.
"What scorn for the commonplace!" said La Renaudie.
"What uncalculating, unreserved devotion to the cause of humanity!" said Coligny.
"Alas!" rejoined Gabriel, "how paltry must my selfishness appear beside such self-abnegation, Monsieur l'Amiral! I do not, like Ambroise Paré, subordinate facts and persons to ideas and principles; but on the contrary, ideas and principles to facts and persons. The Reformed religion will be for me, as you know too well, not an end, but a means. In your noble, unselfish struggle I should take part to serve my own purposes. I feel that my motives are too personal and selfish for me to dare to defend so pure and holy a cause, and you would do very well at this moment to spurn me from your ranks as unworthy to serve therein."
"Surely you traduce yourself, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Theodore de Bèze. "Even though you should obey less exalted impulses than those of Ambroise Paré, still the ways of the Lord are many, and one does not find the truth by travelling on one road to the exclusion of all others."
"Yes," said La Renaudie, "we very seldom listen to such professions of faith as that you have just heard, when we address to those whom we wish to enlist in our cause the question, 'What do you ask?'"
"Oh, well," Gabriel responded with a sad smile; "to that question Ambroise Paré answered: 'I ask whether justice and right are really on your side.' Do you know what my reply would be?"
"No," Théodore de Bèze replied; "but we are ready to answer you on every point."
"I should ask," Gabriel rejoined, "'Are you sure that you have on your side sufficient material power and sufficient members to make a good fight, even if not to conquer?'"
Once more the three enthusiasts exchanged looks of wonder. But their wonder had not the same meaning as before.
Gabriel looked at them in gloomy silence. Theodore de Bèze, after a pause, replied,—
"Whatever may be the feeling that prompts that inquiry, Monsieur d'Exmès, I agreed in advance to answer you on every point, and I will keep my promise. We have with us not only common-sense, but strength as well, thank God! The progress of our principles has been rapid and undeniable. Three years ago a Reformed church was founded at Paris; and the great cities of the kingdom—Blois, Tours, Poitiers, Marseilles, and Rouen—all have churches of their own. You can see for yourself, Monsieur d'Exmès, the enormous crowds which are attracted by our meetings at the Pré-aux-Clercs. People, nobility, and courtiers give up their pleasure-making to come and sing with us Clement Marot's French hymns. We intend next year to determine our numbers by a public procession; but at the present time, I venture to say that we have a fifth of the population with us. We may therefore without presumption call ourselves a party, and may reckon, I think, upon inspiring our friends with confidence, our enemies with dismay."
"That being so," said Gabriel, coolly, "I may very possibly before long enrol myself among the former and assist you to combat the latter."
"But suppose you had found us not so strong?" asked La Renaudie.
"Then I confess that I should have sought other allies," replied Gabriel, still firmly and calmly.
La Renaudie and Theodore de Bèze both made a movement of astonishment.
"Ah!" cried Coligny, "do not judge him, my friends, too hastily or too harshly. I have seen him at work at the siege of St. Quentin; and when one puts his life in peril, as he did there, it bespeaks no ordinary soul. But I know that he has a holy and terrible duty to perform, which leaves no part of his devotion at his own disposal."
"And in default of my devotion, I would like to offer you at least my sincerest aid," said Gabriel. "But in very truth I cannot give myself up to your service absolutely and without consideration; for I am devoted to a necessary and formidable task, which has been imposed upon me by the wrath of God and the wickedness of man, and while that task remains unfinished, I beg you to pardon me, for I am not the arbiter of my own fate. The destiny of another takes precedence of mine at all times, and wherever I may be."
"One may devote oneself to a man as well as to an idea," said Theodore de Bèze.
"And in such a case," added Coligny, "we shall be happy, my friend, to serve you, just as we shall be proud to avail ourselves of your services."
"Our good wishes will go with you; and we will stand ready to assist you in case of need," said La Renaudie.
"Ah! you are heroes and saints as well," cried Gabriel.
"But take care, young man," said the stern La Renaudie, in his familiar and yet noble language,—"take care, when once we have called you our brother, to be worthy of the name. We may admit a private devotion into our ranks; but the heart sometimes deceives itself. Are you perfectly certain, young man, that when you believe yourself to be entirely devoted to thoughts of another, no personal consideration whatever has its influence on your actions? In the object which you are striving to accomplish, are you absolutely and truly disinterested? Are you, in short, urged on by no passion of your own, though it may be the most generous and worthy of passions?"
"Yes," added Theodore de Bèze, "we do not ask for your secrets; but search your heart, and tell us that if you were justified in revealing to us all its feelings and all its plans, you would not feel the least embarrassment in so doing, and we will believe your word."
"In speaking thus, my dear friend," said the admiral, in his turn, "it is to impress upon you that a pure cause must be upheld with clean hands; otherwise one would only bring misfortune upon his cause and himself."
Gabriel listened to and looked at the three men one after another, who were as stern to others as to themselves, and who, standing around with keen, serious mien, were questioning him as friends and judges at once.
At their words he turned pale and red by turns.
He questioned his own conscience. Being a man of impulse and action, he was doubtless too little accustomed to reflect and inquire into his own motives. At this moment he asked himself in alarm, whether in his filial devotion his love for Madame de Castro was not an element of very great weight; whether he was not at heart as anxious to learn the secret of Diane's birth as to procure the old count's liberty; whether, in short, in this matter of life or death he was really as unselfish as he must be according to Coligny to deserve God's favor.
Fearful doubt!—whether by some selfish mental reservation he might not compromise his father's welfare in the sight of God.
He shuddered in anxious uncertainty. A circumstance, seemingly unimportant, awoke his nature to action once more.
Eleven o'clock struck from the church of St. Severin.
In an hour he would be in the king's presence.
With a firm voice he said to the leaders of the Reformed sect:—
"You are men of the Golden Age; and those who are most irreproachable in their own sight find their self-esteem debased and saddened when they compare themselves with your ideal. Yet it is not possible that all of your party should be such as you are. That you, who are the head and the heart of the religion, should keep a close and strict watch upon your purposes and your acts is necessary and beneficial; but if I throw myself into your cause, it will not be as a leader, but as a common soldier simply. Stains upon the soul only are indelible; those upon the hand may be washed away. I will be your hand,—that's all. I venture to ask, Have you the right to refuse the aid of this bold and daring hand?"
"No," said Coligny; "and we accept it here and now, my friend."
"And I will stake my life that it will rest upon the hilt of your sword as pure and unstained as it is valiant," added Theodore de Bèze.
"The very hesitation," said La Renaudie, "which our rather rough and exacting words caused in your scrupulous heart is our sufficient guarantee. We know how to judge men's characters."
"Thanks, gentlemen," said Gabriel,—"thanks from my heart for not depriving me of the confidence of which I am so much in need in the hard task which I have before me; thanks to you especially, Monsieur l'Amiral, who have thus, as you promised, furnished me in advance with the means of punishing a breach of faith, even if committed by an anointed king. Now I am obliged to leave you, gentlemen, and I will say, not adieu, butau revoir. Although I may be of those who obey the course of events rather than abstract ideas, I believe, nevertheless, that the seeds you have sown to-day will bear fruit hereafter."
"We hope so, for our own sakes," said Theodore de Bèze.
"I must not hope so for my sake," rejoined Gabriel; "for, as I have avowed, it will be only bitter misfortune which will drive me to adopt your cause. Adieu once more, gentlemen; I must now go to the Louvre."
"I will go with you," said Coligny. "I must repeat to Henri II. in your presence what I have already told him once in your absence. Kings have but short memories; and we must not allow this one to forget or to deny. I will go with you."
"I should not have ventured to ask this favor of you, Monsieur l'Amiral," cried Gabriel; "but I accept your offer most gratefully."
"Let us go, then," said Coligny.
As soon as they had left Calvin's chamber, Theodore took his tablets, and wrote these names:—
Ambroise Paré,
Gabriel, Vicomte d'Exmès.
"It seems to me," said La Renaudie, "that you are a little hasty in enrolling these two men among us. They have made no promises whatever."
"They are ours," replied De Bèze. "One is in search of the truth, and the other fleeing from injustice. I tell you they are ours, and I shall write Calvin to that effect."
"This will have been a great day for the religion, then."
"Indeed it will," said Theodore; "we shall have made the conquest of a profound philosopher and a valiant soldier,—a mighty brain and a strong arm, a winner of battles and a sower of ideas. You are right; it is really a great day."
When Gabriel, accompanied by Coligny, reached the portals of the Louvre, he was overwhelmed by the first words that reached his ears.
The king did not receive that day!
The admiral, notwithstanding he held that high rank and was the nephew of Montmorency, was too gravely suspected of heresy to have much credit at court. As for Gabriel d'Exmès, the captain of the Guards, the ushers of the royal suite had had ample time to forget his face and his name. The two friends were rewarded for their trouble only by being permitted to pass beyond the outer doors.
Within it was still worse. They wasted more than an hour in parleying and bribing and threatening. As rapidly as they succeeded in inducing one halberdier to allow them to pass, another barred their way. All the varieties of dragon, more or less formidable, which watch over the safety of kings seemed to be multiplied tenfold to impede their passage.
But when by sheer persistence they had succeeded in penetrating as far as the great gallery which led to the king's closet, they found it impossible to go farther; the orders were too strict. The king, closeted with the constable and Madame de Poitiers, had given express instructions that he was not to be disturbed on any pretext.
It was necessary that Gabriel should wait till evening if he wished for an audience.
Waiting, weary waiting, when he believed that he was about to reach the goal which he had been striving for through so much difficulty and suffering! The few hours still to be passed seemed to Gabriel more terrible and more to be dreaded than all the perils which he had hitherto defied and overcome.
Without listening to the kind words with which the admiral sought to console him, and to urge patience upon him, he stood at the window looking gloomily at the rain which had begun to fall from the sombre sky, a prey to anger and anguish, restlessly feeling the point of his sword.
How to overturn and pass by the stupid guards who prevented him from making his way to the king's apartment, and perhaps to his father's liberty? Such thoughts filled his brain, when suddenly the curtain before the door of the royal antechamber was lifted, and a fair and blooming figure seemed to the saddened youth to light up the gray, rainy atmosphere.
The little queen-dauphine, Mary Stuart, was passing through the gallery.
Gabriel, as if by instinct, uttered a cry, and stretched out his arms toward her.
"Oh, Madame!" he said, hardly conscious of what he was doing.
Mary Stuart turned, recognized Gabriel and the admiral, and came up to them with her ever-ready smile.
"So you have returned at last, Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès," said she. "I am very glad to see you again; I have heard much talk about you of late. But what are you doing at the Louvre at this early hour, and what is your wish?"
"To speak to the king! to speak to the king, Madame!" Gabriel replied in a stifled voice.
"Monsieur d'Exmès," it was the admiral who spoke, "has really much need to speak to the king without delay. It is a very serious matter for him, and for the king as well; but all these guards prevent his entering, and attempt to put him off till this evening."
"As if I could wait till evening!" cried Gabriel.
"I believe," said Mary Stuart, "that his Majesty is just finishing some important despatches. Monsieur le Connétable de Montmorency is still with the king, and really I am afraid—"
A piteous glance from Gabriel prevented Mary from finishing her sentence.
"Well, we will see," she resumed. "I will take the risk."
She made a sign with her little hand. The guards respectfully fell back, and Gabriel and the admiral were at liberty to pass.
"Oh, thanks, Madame!" said the eager youth. "Thank you, who, in every respect like an angel, always appear to comfort or to aid me in my suffering."
"The way is clear," responded Mary Stuart, smiling. "If his Majesty is very angry, do not betray the angel's share in your entrance, except at the last extremity, I beg of you."
She inclined her head graciously to Gabriel and his companion, and was gone.
Gabriel was already at the door of the king's cabinet. There was in the last antechamber one more usher who undertook to oppose their entrance. But just then the door opened; and Henri himself appeared on the threshold, just giving some last instructions to the constable.
The king's distinguishing characteristic was not resolution. At the sudden appearance of Vicomte d'Exmès, he recoiled, and even forgot to be angry.
Gabriel's great virtue was firmness. He bowed low before the king in the first place.
"Sire," said he, "deign to accept my most respectful homage."
Then turning to Monsieur de Coligny, who was following him, and whom he wished to relieve from the embarrassment of speaking first,—
"Come, Monsieur l'Amiral," said he, "and in accordance with the kind promise you made me, be kind enough to remind his Majesty of the part that I took in the defence of St. Quentin."
"What is all this, Monsieur?" cried Henri, beginning to recover his self-control. "How is it that you intrude yourself thus upon us, without authorization or announcement? How do you dare to call upon Monsieur l'Amiral in our presence?"
Gabriel, who was as bold at such momentous crises as he was before the enemy, and who well understood that it was no time to lose his courage, replied in a perfectly respectful but determined tone,—
"I thought, Sire, that your Majesty was always ready when justice was to be done, even to the meanest of your subjects."
He had taken advantage of the king's backward movement to walk boldly into the cabinet, where Diane de Poitiers, pale as death, and half reclining upon her couch of carved oak, watched the actions and words of the audacious young man, without power to speak a word, so great was her anger and surprise.
Coligny had entered also upon the heels of his impetuous friend, and Montmorency, as much stupefied as the others, had followed his example.
There was a moment of silence. Henri turned to his mistress with an inquiring look; but before he had resolved upon any course for himself or she had had time to suggest one to him, Gabriel, who knew well that at that moment he held a very advantageous position, said again to Coligny with an imploring and at the same time dignified accent,—
"I beseech you to speak, Monsieur l'Amiral!" Montmorency quickly shook his head at his nephew, but brave Gaspard took no note of it.
"Indeed I will speak," said he, "for both my duty and my promise require me to do so.
"Sire," he resumed, addressing the king, "I here repeat to you, in brief, and in presence of Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès, what I thought it my duty to tell you in greater detail before his return. It is to him, and to him alone, that we owe the prolonged defence of St. Quentin, even beyond the time fixed by your Majesty."
The constable made a meaning movement. But Coligny, looking steadily at him, nevertheless went calmly on,—
"Yes, Sire, three times and more Monsieur d'Exmès saved the town, and had it not been for his courage and energy, France, beyond a doubt, would not have been at this hour on the road to safety, in which we may hope that she may henceforth be able to maintain herself."
"Come, come! you are too modest or too obliging, my nephew!" cried Monsieur de Montmorency, utterly unable to restrain his impatience any longer.
"No, Monsieur, I am just and truthful," said Coligny, "nothing more. I contributed my own share and with all my strength to the defence of the town which was intrusted to me. But Vicomte d'Exmès rekindled the courage of the people, which I looked upon as already dead beyond redemption; he succeeded in throwing into the town reinforcements which I had no idea were in the neighborhood; last of all, he frustrated a surprise attempted by the enemy, which I had not foreseen. I say nothing of the way in which he bore himself in the mêlée; we all did our best. But what he did with his own hand and brain, the enormous share of glory that he won for himself on that occasion, may well lessen or even render vain and illusory all of mine,—that I proclaim aloud."
Turning to Gabriel, the brave admiral added,—
"Is it thus that I ought to speak, my friend? Have I carried out my agreement to your satisfaction? Are you content with me?"
"Oh, I thank and bless you from the bottom of my heart, Monsieur l'Amiral, for your loyalty and virtue," said Gabriel, deeply touched, and pressing Coligny's hands. "I expected no less of you. But look upon me, I beg, as bound to you forever. Yes, from this hour, your creditor has become your debtor, and will remember his debt, I swear to you."
Meanwhile the king, frowning and with downcast eyes, was beating his foot impatiently on the floor, and seemed deeply vexed.
The constable gradually approached Madame de Poitiers, and exchanged a few words with her in an undertone.
They seemed to have come to some decision, for Diane began to smile; and her diabolical and feminine grimace made Gabriel shudder, as he happened to be looking at the beautiful duchess at that moment.
However, Gabriel found strength to add,—
"I will keep you no longer, Monsieur l'Amiral. You have done more than your duty toward me; and if his Majesty will deign now to grant, as my first reward, the favor of a private interview—"
"Later, Monsieur, later; I do not say no," said Henri, quickly, "but just now it is impossible."
"Impossible!" cried Gabriel, sorrowfully.
"Why impossible, Sire?" Diane interrupted pleasantly, to Gabriel's great surprise, and the king's as well.
"What! do you think, Madame—?" stammered Henri.
"I think, Sire, that a king's most pressing duty is to render to each one of his subjects that which is his due. Now, your debt to Monsieur d'Exmès is one of the most well-founded and sacred of all debts in my opinion."
"No doubt, no doubt!" said Henri, who began to read the signals in the favorite's eyes; "and I wish—"
"To hear at once what Monsieur d'Exmès has to say," Diane finished his sentence. "That is right, Sire, and no more than justice."
"But his Majesty knows," said Gabriel, more and more lost in amazement, "that it is essential that I should speak with him alone?"
"Monsieur de Montmorency was just about to retire as you came in, Monsieur," rejoined Madame de Poitiers; "and you have yourself taken the trouble to tell Monsieur l'Amiral that you would detain him no longer. As for myself, as I was a witness of the contract the king made with you, and can even, if need be, remind his Majesty of its exact terms, perhaps you will allow me to remain."
"Most assuredly, Madame; I ask you to do so," murmured Gabriel.
"My nephew and myself will take our leave, then, of his Majesty and of you, Madame," said Montmorency.
He made a sign of encouragement, as he passed, to Diane, of which she seemed in no need, however.
For his part Coligny ventured to press Gabriel's hand; then he followed his uncle from the room.
The king and the favorite remained alone with Gabriel, who was in a state of alarm at the unexpected and mysterious protection accorded to him by Diane de Castro's mother.
In spite of his marvellous self-control, Gabriel could not prevent the blood from leaving his cheeks nor his voice from quivering when after a moment's pause he said to the king,—
"Sire, it is in fear and trembling, and yet with implicit confidence in your kingly word, that I venture, having only yesterday escaped from captivity, to recall to your Majesty's mind the solemn engagement that you deigned to enter into with me. The Comte de Montgommery still lives, Sire; otherwise you would long ago have stayed my voice."
He stopped with a terrible oppression at his heart. The king remained motionless and mute. Gabriel resumed:
"Well, then, Sire, since the Comte de Montgommery still lives, and since according to Monsieur l'Amiral's testimony, I did prolong the resistance of St. Quentin beyond the limit fixed by your Majesty, I have more than kept my promise; now I beg you to keep yours. Sire, give me back my father!"
"Monsieur!" said Henri, hesitatingly.
He looked anxiously at Diane de Poitiers, whose tranquillity and self-possession seemed to be quite undisturbed.
Nevertheless, it was a difficult position for the king. Henri had grown used to thinking of Gabriel as dead or in captivity, and had not prepared himself with a reply to his terrible demand.
In the face of this hesitation Gabriel's heart was torn with anguish.
"Sire," he continued, in an almost despairing tone, "it is impossible that your Majesty has forgotten! Your Majesty must remember our solemn interview; what I undertook to do in the prisoner's behalf, and your Majesty's reciprocal undertaking with me."
The king was touched in spite of himself at the grief and alarm of the noble youth; the generous instincts in him awoke.
"I remember it all," he said to Gabriel.
"Ah, Sire, thanks!" cried Gabriel, with eyes shining with delight.
But Madame de Poitiers at this moment calmly interposed,—
"Doubtless the king remembers it all, Monsieur d'Exmès; but you yourself seem to have forgotten."
A flash of lightning from a cloudless sky could not have terrified Gabriel more than these words.
"What have I forgotten, Madame, pray?" the young man murmured.
"One half of your task, Monsieur," Diane replied. "You said to his Majesty,—and if these are not your exact words, I at least give their sense,—'Sire, to purchase the freedom of the Comte de Montgommery, I will arrest the enemy in his triumphal march toward the heart of France.'"
"Well, did I not do it?" asked the bewildered Gabriel.
"Oh, yes!" replied Diane, "but you added: 'And even, if it be necessary, the assailed shall become the aggressor, and I will seize one of the towns of which the enemy is in possession.' That is what you said, Monsieur. Therefore it seems to me that you have done but half of what you agreed to do. What answer have you to that? You held St. Quentin for a certain number of days; it was well done, I do not deny. You have shown us the town defended as you promised; but where is the town taken?"
"Oh,mon Dieu,mon Dieu!" It was all Gabriel in his utter despair could find strength to say.
"You see," Diane resumed with the samesang-froid, "that my memory is even better and more at my command than yours. Yet I venture to hope that now you remember."
"Yes, it is true, I do remember now!" cried Gabriel, in bitterness of spirit. "But when I said that, I meant simply to say that in case of need I would accomplish the impossible; for is it possible at this time to take any town from the hands of the Spaniards or the English? Is it, Sire? Your Majesty, by allowing me to go, tacitly accepted the first of my offers, without giving me to understand that after such an heroic effort and a long term of captivity I should be called upon to carry out the second. Sire, it is to you—to you—that I appeal; one town for the freedom of one man,—is not that enough? Will you not be content with such a ransom; and must it be that on account of a mere foolish word which escaped me in the exaltation of my spirit, you will impose upon me, a weak human Hercules, another task a hundred times harder than the first,—yes, Sire, even impossible, and understood to be so?"
The king made a motion of his lips, as if to speak, but the grande sénéchale made haste to forestall him.
"Is it, pray, any easier and more practicable, is there any less of danger or of madness, despite your promises, in setting free a dangerous prisoner, who was guilty of the crime oflèse-majesté? You offered to do the impossible in order to obtain the impossible, Monsieur d'Exmès; and it is not fair that you should demand the fulfilment of the king's word when you have not kept your own promise in full. The duties of a sovereign are no less weighty than those of a son; enormous, nay, superhuman services rendered the State can alone produce such a condition of things as would justify his Majesty in nullifying the laws of the State. You have a father to save,—very well; but the king has France to protect."
And with a look which was a fit commentary to her words, Diane reminded Henri of the great danger of allowing the old Comte de Montgommery and his secret to rise from the tomb.
But Gabriel, making a last effort, stretched out his hands to the king, and cried,—
"Sire, it is to you—to your sense of right, to your kind heart—that I appeal. Sire, hereafter, aided by time and circumstance, I bind myself to win back a town for my country, or to die in the attempt. But meanwhile, Sire, for very pity's sake, let me see my father!"
Henri, taking counsel from the penetrating gaze of Diane and her whole demeanor, responded, steadying his voice,—
"Keep your promise to the end, Monsieur; and I swear before God that then, and then only, will I fulfil mine. My word is worth as much as yours."
"That is your last word, Sire?" asked Gabriel.
"That is my last word."
Gabriel bent his head for a moment, overwhelmed and vanquished, and altogether beside himself from his fearful repulse.
In one moment he revolved in his mind a whole world of thoughts.
He would be revenged upon the ungrateful king and his perfidious favorite; he would throw in his lot with those of the Reformed religion; he would accomplish the destiny of the Montgommeries; he would strike Henri a mortal blow, even as Henri had struck the old count; he would cause Diane de Poitiers to be banished from court in disgrace, and bereft of all her honors. Henceforth that should be the one aim of his will and his life; and far removed and impossible as its accomplishment might seem to be for a simple gentleman, he would find a way to accomplish it.
And yet his father meanwhile might die twenty times over. The avenger was very well; but the savior was better. In his position, it was hardly more difficult to capture a town than to punish a king; but the former end was holy and glorious, the other criminal and impious: in the one case he would lose Diane de Castro forever; in the other who could say that he might not win her?
Everything that had happened since the fall of St. Quentin passed before Gabriel's eyes like a flash.
In one tenth of the time that it takes us to write all this the gallant and ever-ready heart of the young man had begun to throw off its depression. He had made a resolution, formed his plan, and thought that he could see in the distance a favorable result.
The king and his mistress marvelled, and were almost afraid, as they saw him raise once more his pallid but tranquil face.
"So be it," was all he said.
"You are resigned, are you?" asked Henri.
"I have made my decision," Gabriel replied.
"How? Explain yourself," said the king.
"Listen to me, Sire. Any attempt that I should make to put into your hands a town to pay for the one which the Spaniards have taken from you would seem to you hopeless, impossible, the act of a madman, would it not? Be frank with me, Sire, and you too, Madame,—is not this really your opinion?"
"It is true," Henri replied.
"I fear so," added Diane.
"In all probability this attempt will cost me my life, and produce no other result than to cause me to be looked upon as an absurd fool," Gabriel continued.
"It was not I who proposed it to you," said the king.
"Doubtless, your wisest course would be to give it up," Diane rejoined.
"I have told you, however, that I have resolved upon it," said Gabriel.
Neither Henri nor Diane could restrain an admiring exclamation.
"Oh, be careful!" cried the king.
"Of what?—of my life?" retorted Gabriel, laughing aloud. "I sacrificed that long, long ago. But, Sire, there must be no misunderstanding and no subterfuges this time. The terms of the bargain we are making together before God are now clear and precise. I, Gabriel, Vicomte d'Exmès, Vicomte de Montgommery, will bear myself in such fashion that by my means some town which is to-day in the power of the Spaniards or the English shall fall into your hands. This town shall be no paltry village or hamlet, but a strong place, of as much importance as you can desire. There is no ambiguity there, I think."
"No, truly not," said the king, uneasily.
"And you," Gabriel resumed, "Henri II., King of France, do also on your part bind yourself to open the doors of my father's dungeon, at my first demand, and to give up to me the Comte de Montgommery. Do you so bind yourself? Is it done?"
The king noticed Diane's incredulous smile, and said,—
"I give you my word."
"Thanks, your Majesty. This is not all, however. You can well afford to give one guarantee more to this poor maniac, who is hurling himself into the abyss before your very eyes. You must be indulgent to those who are about to die. I ask of you no signed writing, which might compromise you,—doubtless, you would refuse it; but here is a Bible, Sire; place your royal hand upon it, and take this oath: 'In exchange for a town of the first class, the recovery of which I shall owe to Gabriel de Montgommery alone, I pledge myself upon the holy gospels to restore Vicomte d'Exmès's father to liberty; and I declare in advance that if I prove false to this oath, said viscount is freed from all allegiance to me and mine. I say that whatever he may do to punish me for my false swearing will be well done, and absolve him before God and man for any crime against my person.' Take that oath, Sire."
"By what right do you ask it of me?" said Henri.
"I told you, Sire, by the right of one who is soon to die."
The king still hesitated; but the duchess with her disdainful smile made a sign to him that he might take the required oath without fear.
She really believed that for the moment Gabriel had lost his reason; and she shrugged her shoulders in pity.
"Very well; I consent," said Henri, with a fatal impulse.
With his hand on the gospel, he repeated the words of the oath which Gabriel dictated.
"At least," said the young man, when the king had done, "this will suffice to spare your remorse. Madame Diane is not the only witness to our new contract, for God also has witnessed it. Now, I have no more time to lose. Adieu, Sire. In two months from now I shall be no longer among the living, or my father will be in my arms."
He bowed low before the king and the duchess, and left the room in haste.
Henri, in spite of himself, remained for a moment thoughtful and grave; but Diane laughed merrily.
"Come, why don't you laugh, Sire?" said she. "Surely you see that this madman is lost, and that his father will die in prison. You may safely laugh, Sire."
"I am laughing," said the king, suiting the action to the word.
The Duc de Guise, since he had borne the title of Lieutenant-General of the kingdom, occupied apartments in the Louvre itself. The ambitious chief of the house of Lorraine thus slept, or rather lay awake, every night in the royal dwelling of the kings of France.
What waking dreams did he have beneath that chimera-haunted roof? His dreams had taken a great stride forward since the day when he confided to Gabriel, in his tent before Civitella, his designs upon the throne of Naples. Would he be content now? Being a guest in the royal palace, would he not say to himself that before long he might well become its master? Did he not already feel vaguely the pressure of a crown about his temples? Did he not with a complacent smile contemplate the good sword which, more powerful than the magician's wand, might transform his hopes to reality?
We may imagine that even as early as this, François de Lorraine did harbor such thoughts; for consider! Did not the king himself, by calling him to his assistance in his distress, justify his wildest ambition? To intrust to him the welfare of France at such a time was to recognize him as the first captain of his age! François I. would not have been so modest! No, he would have girded on the sword of Marignan. But Henri II., although of great personal courage, lacked the will to command and the force to execute.
The Duc de Guise said all this to himself; but he also told himself that it was not enough to be able to justify his rash hopes in his own eyes, but that he must justify them in the eyes of France; that he must by glorious services and signal success purchase his right and carve out his own destiny.
The fortunate general who had had the opportunity to arrest the second invasion of Charles V. at Metz knew very well that he had not yet accomplished so much that he could venture to try for the whole. Even when at this time he had driven back to the frontier the Spanish and the English, still it was not enough. In order that France might throw herself into his hands, or allow him to take her to himself, he must not only repair her losses, but must make conquests for her.
Such were the-reflections which had preoccupied the great mind of the Duc de Guise since his return from Italy.
He was going over them again on this very day when Gabriel de Montgommery was concluding his new, apparently insane, yet sublime agreement with Henri II.
Alone in his room, François de Guise, standing at the window, was looking into the courtyard with eyes that saw not, and mechanically thrumming upon the glass with his fingers.
One of his people knocked softly at the door, and upon receiving the duke's permission to enter, announced Vicomte d'Exmès.
"Vicomte d'Exmès!" said the Duc de Guise, who had a memory like Cæsar's, and who also had the best of reasons for remembering Gabriel. "Vicomte d'Exmès! My young companion in arms of Metz and Renty and Valenza! Show him in, Thibault; show him in at once!"
The valet; bowed and left the room to introduce Gabriel.