Misery did not indeed come to her by halves, poor child! The reparation which the false Martin-Guerre owed her was due not to herself alone, but to her child as well; for Babette was about to become a mother.
However, when she confessed her fault and its bitter consequences, she did not dare to tell Pierre and Jean that her future was without hope because Martin-Guerre was married.
She hardly admitted it even to her own heart. She would say to herself that it was impossible; that Monsieur d'Exmès must have been mistaken; and that God, who is kind and merciful, would not thus overwhelm and leave without resource a poor, wretched creature whose only fault had been that she had loved too well! She would artlessly repeat this childish reasoning to herself day after day, and would thus still retain some hope. She relied on Martin-Guerre; she relied on Vicomte d'Exmès. Why? Alas! she knew not; but still she hoped on.
Nevertheless, the absolute silence of both master and servant during those never-ending two months had been a fearful blow to her.
She waited with restless impatience, not unmixed with terror, for the 1st of January, which was the extreme limit of time allowed to Vicomte d'Exmès by Pierre Peuquoy.
So it was that the report, vague at first, and afterward indubitable, which spread through the city on December 31, that the French were marching upon Calais, caused her heart to leap with joy unspeakable.
She heard her brother and her cousin say that Vicomte d'Exmès would surely be among the assailants. Then of course Martin-Guerre would be there too; so Babette was justified in her hopes.
Nevertheless, she received with anguish at her heart Pierre Peuquoy's request, on the 1st of January, to come down into the parlor on the first floor, to have some conversation with Jean and himself as to what was best to be done under existing circumstances.
She made her appearance, pale and trembling, before this domestic tribunal, so to speak, which was, however, constituted of only those two men, who had an almost paternal fondness for her.
"My dear cousin, dear brother," she said with faltering voice, "here I am at your commands."
"Be seated, Babette," said Pierre, pointing to a chair which he had placed for her near his own.
Then he continued gently but very gravely,—
"At the beginning of our trouble, Babette, when our urgent questions and our alarm induced you to confess the sad truth to us, I am ashamed to remember that I had not sufficient control of myself to restrain my first impulse of anger and sorrow: I insulted you, I even threatened you; but fortunately for us both, Jean interposed."
"May God bless him for his kindness and his indulgence!" said Babette, turning to her cousin, with her eyes swimming in tears.
"Say no more about it, Babette; say no more about it," rejoined Jean, more moved than he cared to show. "I did very little indeed; and after all, the way to remedy your suffering was not to give you new cause for grief."
"So I finally realized," said Pierre. "Your repentance and your tears touched me too, Babette; my rage melted into pity, and my pity into tenderness; and I forgave you for staining our hitherto stainless name."
"Jesus will be merciful to you as you have been to me, my brother."
"Then, too," continued Pierre, "Jean reminded me that your misery might perhaps not be irreparable, and that he who had led you into error was bound legally and morally to extricate you from it."
Babette held her crimson face still lower. Singularly enough, when another than herself seemed to believe in the possibility of reparation, she herself lost all hope.
Pierre continued,—
"Despite that hope, which I welcomed with delight, of seeing your honor and ours re-established, Martin-Guerre has said never a word, and the messenger sent to Calais by Monsieur d'Exmès a month since brought no news of your seducer. But now the French are before our walls, I presume Vicomte d'Exmès and his squire are among them."
"You may be perfectly sure of that, Pierre," interposed Jean.
"I shall not contradict you, Jean. Let us assume that Monsieur d'Exmès and his squire are at this moment separated from us only by the walls and moats which protect us, or which protect the English, I should say. In that event, if we do see them again, Babette, how do you think that we ought to receive them,—as friends or foes?"
"Whatever you do will be well done, my brother," said Babette, in great alarm at the turn the conversation was taking.
"But, Babette," said her brother, "can you form no idea as to their intentions?"
"Indeed I cannot, God help me! I am simply waiting,—that's all."
"So, then, you don't know whether they are coming to save our honor, or to abandon us to our shame; whether the cannon which are playing an accompaniment to my words announce to us the approach of benefactors whom we ought to bless in our hearts, or treacherous villains who must be punished? Can you not tell me that, Babette?"
"Alas!" said Babette, "why do you ask such questions of me, poor wretched girl that I am, who know nothing except that I must pray and resign myself to my fate?"
"Why do I ask you that question, Babette? You remember what sentiments with regard to France and the French nation were instilled into us by our father. We have never looked upon the English as our fellow-countrymen, but as oppressors; and three months since, no music would have sounded more sweetly in my ears than that which fills them at this moment."
"Ah!" cried Jean, "to me it still sounds like the voice of my country calling me."
"Jean," rejoined Pierre, "the fatherland is nothing more than home on a grand scale; it is an enlargement of the family, an extension of the ties of blood. Ought we to sacrifice to it the lesser ties, the lesser family, the lesser home?"
"Mon Dieu! Pierre, what do you mean?" asked Babette.
"I mean this," Pierre replied: "in the rough plebeian work-stained hands of your brother, Babette, the fate of the city of Calais rests at this moment in all probability. Yes, these poor hands, blackened by my daily toil, have it in their power to deliver the key of France to her king."
"And can they hesitate?" cried Babette, who had imbibed with her mother's milk bitter hatred of the foreign yoke.
"Ah, my noble girl," said Jean, "truly you are deserving of our confidence!"
"Neither my heart nor my hands would hesitate for one moment," Pierre rejoined, "if I had it in my power to restore this fair city to King Henri's own hands, or to his representative, Monsieur le Duc de Guise. But the circumstances are such that we shall be compelled to use Monsieur d'Exmès as intermediary."
"Well, why not?" asked Babette, amazed at receiving such a reason for hesitation.
"Well," said Pierre, "however proud and happy I might be to be associated in so grand an achievement with him who was once our guest, it would be quite as distasteful to me to share the honor with a gentleman lacking bowels of compassion, who has helped to tarnish the honor of our name."
"What! you don't mean Monsieur d'Exmès, who is so kind-hearted and so loyal?"
"It is nevertheless true," said Pierre, "that your confidence in Monsieur d'Exmès, and Martin-Guerre's lack of conscience, have brought about your ruin; and yet you see that they both keep silent."
"But whatcouldMonsieur d'Exmès do or say?" asked Babette.
"He could have sent Martin-Guerre here as soon as he returned to Paris, my sister, and have ordered him to bestow his name upon you! He could have sent his squire here instead of that stranger, and thus have paid the debt due your heart and the money owed to me at the same time."
"No, no; he could not have done that," said honest Babette, sadly shaking her head.
"What! he was not at liberty to give an order to his own servant?"
"What good would have been done by that order?" said Babette.
"What good?" cried Pierre. "Is there no good in atoning fora crime, or in saving a fair name from shame? Are you losing your wits, Babette?"
"Alas! no, unfortunately!" said the poor girl, weeping bitterly. "Those who lose their wits forget."
"Well, then," continued Pierre, "how, if you are in full possession of your reason, can you say that Monsieur d'Exmès has done right in not using his authority to compel your seducer to marry you?"
"To marry me! to marry me! Oh, how could he do so?" said Babette, in despair.
"What is to prevent him, pray?" exclaimed Jean and Pierre, with one voice.
Both had risen by an irresistible impulse. Babette fell upon her knees.
"Oh," she cried in her despair, "forgive me once more, dear brother! I wanted to conceal it from you. I concealed it even from my own heart! But now that you speak of our blighted honor, of France, and Monsieur d'Exmès, and unworthy Martin-Guerre, what can I do? Oh, my brain is in a whirl! You ask me if I am losing my wits. Truly I believe that I am. Come, you, who are calmer than I, tell me if I am mistaken, tell me if I was dreaming, or if what Monsieur d'Exmès told me was really true!"
"What Monsieur d'Exmès told you!" echoed Pierre, in alarm.
"Yes, in his room, the day of his departure, when I asked him to return the ring to Martin. I did not dare confess my fault to him, being a stranger. And yet he ought to have understood me; and if he did understand, how could he have told me?"
"What—what did he tell you? Go on!" cried Pierre.
"Alas! that Martin-Guerre was already married!" said Babette.
"Miserable wretch!" ejaculated Pierre Peuquoy, beside himself, and springing at his sister with uplifted hand.
"Ah! it is true, then!" said the poor child, in a faint voice; "I feel now that it is true."
She fell fainting upon the floor.
Jean had had time to seize Pierre around the waist and hold him back.
"What are you doing, Pierre?" said he, sternly. "It is not the unfortunate victim that you should strike, but the villain who caused her ruin."
"You are right," Pierre responded, already ashamed of his blind rage.
He stepped apart, stern and gloomy, while Jean, leaning over Babette, tried to resuscitate her. There was a long silence.
At last Babette opened her eyes, and seemed to be trying to remember.
"What has happened?" she asked.
She looked up with a wandering expression into the kind face of Jean Peuquoy bending over her.
Strangely enough, Jean seemed not to be very melancholy. There even was to be seen upon his pleasant face, mingled with deep pity, a sort of secret satisfaction.
"My good cousin!" said Babette, giving him her hand.
Jean Peuquoy's first words to the beloved sufferer were,—
"Don't give up hope, Babette; don't give up hope!"
But Babette's eyes fell at this moment upon the sombre and desolate figure of her brother, and she gave a convulsive start, for everything came back to her memory at once.
"Oh, Pierre, forgive me!" she cried.
As Jean made him an appealing gesture to urge him to be pitiful, Pierre advanced to his sister, raised her from the floor, and led her to a seat.
"Don't be alarmed," said he. "I have no ill-will against you. You have suffered too much. Don't be alarmed. I will say to you as Jean did, don't give up hope."
"Ah, what have I to hope for now?" she said.
"No reparation, to be sure, but vengeance, at all events," Pierre replied, frowning.
"And I," whispered Jean,—"I say to you, vengeance and reparation at the same time."
She looked at him in amazement. But before she could question him, Pierre resumed,—
"Once more, my poor sister, I forgive you. Your fault is surely no greater because a cowardly villain has deceived you twice. I love you, Babette, as I have always loved you."
Babette, happy even in her grief, threw herself into her brother's arms.
"However," continued Pierre, when he had embraced her, "my anger is by no means burned out; it is only shifted to other shoulders than yours. I repeat, I would like now to have under my foot that villanous perjurer and scoundrel Martin-Guerre!"
"Dear brother!" Babette interposed piteously.
"No! no pity for him!" cried the stern burgher. "But I owe an apology to his master, Monsieur d'Exmès; frankly, I must admit that."
"I told you so. Pierre," rejoined Jean.
"Yes, Jean, you were right, as you always are, and I was very unjust to a loyal gentleman. Now everything is explained. Nay, more, his very silence shows his delicate tact. Why should he have cruelly reminded us of an irreparable misfortune? I was wrong! And to think that I was almost on the point of allowing myself, through a grievous mistake, to give the lie to all the convictions and instincts of my whole life, and to make my beloved country, which is so dear to my heart, pay the penalty for an offence which never existed!"
"On what slight contingencies do the great events of the world turn!" was Jean Peuquoy's philosophical comment. "However, no harm has been done," he added; "and thanks to what Babette has told us, we know now that Vicomte d'Exmès has done nothing to make him unworthy of our friendship. Oh, I knew his noble heart; for I have never seen aught in him that did not compel my admiration, except his first hesitation when we broached the subject of taking our revenge for the capture of St. Quentin. But that very hesitation, in my opinion, he is endeavoring at this very moment to make amends for in most brilliant fashion."
The brave weaver raised his hand to call their attention to the loud booming of the cannon, which seemed to sound nearer every moment.
"Jean," said Pierre, "do you know what that bombardment is saying to us?"
"It tells us that Monsieur d'Exmès is there," Jean replied.
"Yes; but," he added in his cousin's ear, "it also tells us to 'remember the 5th!'"
"And we will remember it, Pierre, will we not?"
These whispered confidences alarmed Babette, who, with her mind still engrossed with the one thought, murmured,—
"What are they plotting together? Holy Virgin! If Monsieur d'Exmès is there, may God grant that Martin-Guerre be not with him!"
"Martin-Guerre?" Jean rejoined, having overheard her. "Oh, Monsieur d'Exmès must have dismissed the miserable scamp in disgrace! And he will have done well, even from the blackguard's own standpoint; for we would have challenged him and slain him the moment he set foot in Calais, would we not, Pierre?"
"I shall do that in any case," the brother replied in a tone of inflexible determination; "if not at Calais, then at Paris! I certainly shall kill him!"
"Oh," cried Babette, "this retaliation is just what I dreaded! Not for him whom I no longer love, nay, whom I despise, but for you, Pierre, and you, Jean, both so fraternally kind and so devoted to me!"
"So, Babette," said Jean Peuquoy, with emotion, "in a contest between him and me, your prayers would be offered up for me and not for him?"
"Ah," Babette replied, "that one question, Jean, is the most cruel punishment for my fault that you could inflict upon me. How could I hesitate for one instant to-day between you, who are so kind and indulgent to me, and him, so treacherous and so vile?"
"Thanks!" cried Jean. "It does me good to have you say so to me, Babette, and be sure that God will reward you for it."
"For my own part," Pierre rejoined, "I am sure that God will punish the culprit. But let us think no more about him, my cousin," he said to Jean; "for we have much else to do now, and only three days in which to make our preparations. We must go about, notify our friends, get our arms together—"
In a low voice he said once more,—
"Jean, we must remember the 5th!"
A quarter of an hour later, while Babette, in the solitude of her own chamber, was offering her thanks to God, without a clear idea of her reasons for doing so, the armorer and weaver were going about the city, intent upon the business they had in hand.
They seemed to have forgotten Martin-Guerre, who at that moment, we may say in passing, was in utter ignorance of the warm reception which awaited him in the good city of Calais, where he had never before set foot.
Meanwhile the cannon were thundering away incessantly; as Rabutin says, "charging and discharging, with fury inconceivable, their tempest of artillery."
Three days after the scene we have just described, on the 4th of January, in the evening, the French, despite Lord Wentworth's confident predictions, had made a great advance.
They had passed not only the bridge of Nieullay, but also the fort of the same name, of which they had been in possession since the morning, as well as of all the arms and stores which it contained.
From that strong position they could effectually bar the way against any Spanish or English reinforcements coming by land.
Such important results were surely well worth the three days of furious and mortal combat which they had cost.
"Is this a dream?" cried the haughty governor of Calais, when he saw his troops fleeing in disorder toward the city, despite his brave struggle to induce them to return to their posts.
To put the finishing touch to his humiliation, he had to follow them; for his duty required him to be the last to withdraw.
"Fortunately," remarked Lord Derby to him when they were safely within the walls,—"fortunately, Calais and the Old Château will be able to hold out two or three days longer, even with the few troops still at our disposal. The Risbank fort and the harbor are still open, and England is not far a way."
Lord Wentworth's council were unanimously of the opinion that their safety lay in that direction, and it was no longer time to heed the voice of pride. An express must be despatched at once to Dover. On the following day, at the latest, strong reinforcements would arrive, and Calais would be saved.
Lord Wentworth realized the situation, and decided to adopt this course. A vessel set sail at once, carrying an urgent message to the governor of Dover.
Then the council took measures to concentrate all their energies upon the defence of the Old Château, which was the vulnerable side of Calais, inasmuch as the sea, the sand-dunes, and a handful of the civic guard would be more than sufficient to protect the Risbank fort.
While the besieged were thus preparing to make a brave resistance at the probable points of attack, let us glance for a moment at the camp of the besieging army outside the city, and see particularly how Vicomte d'Exmès, Martin-Guerre, and their gallant recruits were employing themselves on this evening of January 4.
Being soldiers, not sappers and miners, and having no duties in connection with the digging of trenches or siege works, but serving only when there was fighting to be done or an assault to be made, they were now taking their well-earned rest. We need only draw aside the door of a tent pitched a little apart on the right of the camp to find Gabriel and his troop of volunteers. The tableau thus presented to view was picturesque and varied.
Gabriel, with bowed head, was sitting in a corner upon the only stool which the establishment could boast, apparently plunged in profound abstraction.
At his feet Martin-Guerre was fitting the buckle of a sword-belt. He looked anxiously at his master from time to time, but did not presume to interrupt the silent meditation in which he was absorbed.
Not far from them, on a sort of couch made of cloaks, a wounded man lay moaning. Alas! the sufferer was no other than the ill-fated Malemort.
At the other end of the tent the pious Lactance was telling his beads with great animation and fervency. Lactance had been unfortunate enough at the storming of Fort Nieullay that morning to knock on the head three of his brothers in Jesus Christ; for that he owed his conscience three hundredPatersand as manyAves. That was the ordinary penance which his confessor had laid upon him for those he killed; wounded men counted only for half.
Near him, Yvonnet, after having carefully cleaned and brushed his clothes, which were stained with mud and powder, was looking about to find some corner where the ground was not too damp, so that he might stretch himself and take a little rest, for the prolonged watching and toil were not well suited to his delicate constitution.
Two paces from Yvonnet, the two Scharfensteins, uncle and nephew, were making complicated calculations on their enormous fingers. They were figuring out the probable value of their morning's booty. The nephew had been fortunate enough to lay his hand upon a valuable suit of armor; and the worthy Teutons, with beaming countenances, were dividing in advance the money which they expected to receive for their rich prize.
The veterans, in a group in the centre of the tent, were playing at dice; and the players and bystanders alike were following with much interest the varying chances of the game.
A huge smoking torch fixed in the earth lighted up the pleased or disappointed faces, and cast an uncertain, flickering light upon the features of the others, with their contrasted expressions, which we have tried to describe and sketch in the half-darkness.
Gabriel raised his head, as poor Malemort uttered a more dolorous groan than usual, and said to his squire,—
"Martin-Guerre, what time is it now?"
"Monseigneur, I can't tell very accurately," Martin replied, for this stormy night has put out all the stars; "but I imagine that it is not far from six o'clock, for it has been dark more than an hour."
"The surgeon promised to come at six o'clock, did he not?"
"At six precisely, Monseigneur. See, some one raises the curtain; yes, there he is."
Vicomte d'Exmès cast his eyes upon the new arrival, and recognized him at the first glance. He had seen him but once before; but the surgeon's face was one of those which when once seen are never forgotten.
"Master Ambroise Paré!" cried Gabriel, rising.
"Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès!" said Paré, with a low bow.
"Ah, Master, I had no idea you were in camp, and so near us!" said Gabriel.
"I try always to be where I can be of the most service," the surgeon responded.
"Oh, I recognize your noble heart in that! and I am doubly glad that you are here to-day, for I need to avail myself of your knowledge and skill."
"Not for yourself, I trust," said Ambroise Paré. "Of whom do you speak?"
"It is one of my people," said Gabriel. "This morning, while charging in a sort of frenzy upon the retreating English, he received a lance-thrust in the shoulder from one of them."
"In the shoulder? It may not be a very serious matter, then," said the surgeon.
"I am afraid it is, however," said Gabriel, in a lower tone; "for one of the wounded man's comrades, Scharfenstein there, tried in such a rough and awkward fashion to pull out the lance-head that he broke it off, and the iron remained in the wound."
Ambroise Paré's face for a moment assumed an expression which augured ill for the sufferer.
"Let me see him," he said, with his accustomed calmness.
He was conducted to the patient's bed. All the veterans had risen and surrounded the surgeon, each one abandoning his game or his reckoning or whatever he was engaged in. Lactance alone continued to mumble his beads in his corner; for when doing penance for his doughty deeds he never allowed himself to be interrupted except to perform others.
Ambroise Paré removed the bandages in which Malemort's shoulder was enveloped, and examined the wound very carefully. He shook his head doubtfully, as if in dissatisfaction, but said aloud,—
"This is nothing."
"Ho, ho!" grumbled Malemort. "If it is nothing, can I go and fight again to-morrow?"
"I don't think so," said Ambroise Paré, probing the wound.
"Ah! you hurt me a bit, did you know it?" said Malemort.
"Yes, I suppose I do," was the surgeon's reply; "but courage, my friend!"
"Oh, I am brave enough," said Malemort. "After all, this has been tolerable so far. Will it be much worse when you have to extract that infernal piece of iron?"
"No, for here it is," said Ambroise Paré, triumphant, holding up, so that Malemort could see, the lance-head he had succeeded in removing.
"I am very much obliged, Monsieur le Chirurgien," said Malemort, courteously.
A murmur of admiring wonder welcomed the masterly skill of Ambroise Paré.
"What! is it all over?" said Gabriel. "Why, it's perfectly marvellous."
"We must agree too," rejoined Ambroise, smiling, "that the wounded man was not afraid of pain."
"Nor the operator unskilful, by the Mass!" cried a new-comer behind the soldiers, whose entrance nobody had noticed amid the general anxiety.
But at the well-known voice all stood aside respectfully.
"Monsieur le Duc de Guise!" said Paré, recognizing the features of the commander-in-chief.
"Yes, Master," rejoined the new-comer, "Monsieur de Guise; and I am amazed and delighted with your superb skill. By my patron, Saint François, I have just been watching at the hospital some downright blockheads of doctors, who have done more harm to our soldiers with their instruments, I swear, than the English with their weapons. But you extracted this iron stake, upon my word, as easily and gently as if it had been a gray hair. And I do not know you! What is your name, Master?"
"Ambroise Paré, Monseigneur," said the surgeon.
"Well, Master Ambroise Paré," said the duke, "I promise you that your fortune is made,—on one condition, however."
"And may I know what the condition is, Monseigneur?"
"That if I get wounded or bruised, which is very possible, especially in these days, you will take charge of me and treat me with as little ceremony as you showed this poor devil."
"Monseigneur, I will do it," said Ambroise, bowing. "All men are equal in suffering."
"Hum!" rejoined François de Lorraine, "you will try, in the case I have mentioned to you, that they may be equal also in the matter of being cured."
"Will Monseigneur permit me now," said the surgeon, "to close and bandage this man's wound? There are many other wounded men who are in need of my services to-day."
"Do so, Master Ambroise Paré," the duke replied. "Go on without paying any more heed to me. I am in haste to see you on your way to deliver as many patients as possible from the hands of our cursed bunglers. Besides, I must speak with Monsieur d'Exmès."
Ambroise Paré at once set about dressing Malemort's wound.
"Monsieur le Chirurgien, I thank you again," said the patient; "but if you will excuse me, I have still another favor to ask of you."
"What is that, my fine fellow?" asked Ambroise.
"Well, it's like this, Monsieur le Chirurgien," said Malemort. "Now that I can no longer feel that horrible stump in my flesh, it seems to me as if I were almost well."
"Yes, almost," said Ambroise, pressing the ligatures together.
"Well, then," said Malemort, in a modest but unembarrassed tone, "will you be kind enough to say to my master, Monsieur d'Exmès, that if there is any fighting to-morrow, I am in perfectly fit condition to take part in it!"
"You fight to-morrow!" cried Ambroise Paré. "Ah! you must not think of it!"
"Oh, I beg your pardon, but I can't help thinking of it," rejoined Malemort, sadly.
"My poor fellow," said the surgeon, "just remember that I order a week of perfect rest,—at least a week in bed, and a week of light diet!"
"Light diet, so far as food is concerned, if you please," said Malemort, "but not abstinence from battle, I beg you."
"You are insane!" resumed Ambroise Paré; "if you but raise your head, the fever will seize you, and you will be a dead man. I said a week, and I will not take off an hour."
"Oh!" roared Malemort, "in a week the siege will be at an end. I shall never get my fill of fighting."
"What a blood-thirsty fellow he is!" said the Duc de Guise, who had been listening to this singular dialogue.
"That is Malemort all over," said Gabriel, smiling; "and I beg you, Monseigneur, to give orders to have him taken to the hospital, and carefully watched there; for if he hears the noise of a mêlée, he is quite capable of trying to get out of bed, in spite of everything."
"Oh, well, that's a very simple matter," said the Duc de Guise. "Give orders yourself to his comrades to carry him there."
"But, Monseigneur," Gabriel rejoined with some embarrassment, "it is quite possible that I shall have work for my brave fellows to do to-night."
"Oho!" said the duke, looking in surprise at Vicomte d'Exmès.
"If Monsieur d'Exmès wishes," said Ambroise Paré, who had drawn near them after he had dressed the wound, "I will send two of my assistants with a litter to take this wounded fire-eater away."
"I am very much obliged to you, and gladly accept your offer; I commend him to your most watchful care," said Gabriel.
Malemort gave vent to another despairing roar.
Ambroise Paré withdrew, having taken leave of the Duc de Guise. At a sign from Martin-Guerre, all but Monsieur d'Exmès retired to the farther end of the tent, and Gabriel was left tête-a-tête with the general directing the siege.
When Vicomte d'Exmès was left alone with the Duc de Guise, he began the conversation thus,—
"Well, Monseigneur, are you content?"
"Yes, my friend," François de Lorraine replied,—"yes, I am content with the results so far attained, but I confess I am very anxious as to the future. It was this anxiety which drove me out of my tent to-night to wander about the camp, and come to you for encouragement and advice."
"But what is there new?" asked Gabriel. "I should imagine that the result so far has surpassed all your anticipations, has it not? In four days you have made yourself master of two of the outworks of Calais; besides, the defenders of the city itself and the Old Château cannot hold out more than forty-eight hours longer."
"Very true," said the duke; "but they can hold out that length of time, and that will be quite long enough to foil all our plans, and save themselves."
"Oh, Monseigneur must allow me to express my doubts of that," said Gabriel.
"No, my friend, my long experience does not mislead me," rejoined the Duc de Guise; "except for some unexpected piece of good fortune, or some occurrence beyond human foresight, our undertaking has failed. Believe me when I say this."
"But why?" asked Gabriel, with a smile, which contrasted strangely with the gloomy prognostications of the duke.
"I will tell you in two words, upon the basis of your own plan. Listen carefully to what I say."
"I am all attention," said Gabriel.
"The extraordinarily hazardous experiment into which your youthful enthusiasm seduced my more cautious ambition," continued the duke, "had no possible chance of success except in the isolation and complete surprise of the English garrison. Calais was impregnable, we were agreed, but might be taken by surprise. We reasoned out our insane enterprise along that line, did we not?"
"And up to the present moment," was Gabriel's reply, "the facts have borne us out in our reasoning."
"They have indeed," said the duke; "and you have demonstrated, Gabriel, that your judgment of men is as keen and far-seeing as your perception of facts; and that you had studied the disposition and character of the governor of Calais as carefully as the interior plan of his seat of government. Lord Wentworth has not belied a single one of your conjectures. He believed that his nine hundred men and his formidable outposts would suffice to make us repent of our reckless freak. He despised us too much to be alarmed, and did not deign to call a single company to his assistance, either from any other part of the continent or from England."
"I did indeed succeed in conjecturing how his arrogant pride would comport itself under such circumstances."
"Thanks to his overweening self-conceit," resumed the Duc de Guise, "we carried Fort Ste. Agathe almost without striking a blow, and the Nieullay fort after three days of successful fighting."
"So that at this moment," said Gabriel, cheerfully, "any bodies of English or Spaniards, coming by land to the rescue of their countrymen or their allies, will find the batteries of the Duc de Guise ready to exterminate them, instead of Lord Wentworth's cannon to second their assault."
"They will be on their guard, and will not approach very near," said the duke, smiling; for the young man's buoyant hopefulness was beginning to infect him.
"Well, then, have we not gained an important point?" said Gabriel.
"No doubt, no doubt," replied the duke; "but unfortunately it is not all, nor is it even the most important part. We have closed one of the roads by which outside reinforcements might enter Calais, and one of the gates of the city. But another gate and another road are still open."
"What one, pray, Monseigneur?" asked Gabriel, pretending to be in doubt.
"Cast your eye upon this map, drawn by Maréchal Strozzi, from the plan you furnished him," said the commander-in-chief. "Calais may be relieved at these two opposite points,—by the Nieullay fort, which covers the approaches on the landward side—"
"But which covers them for our benefit now," Gabriel interrupted.
"Very true," rejoined the duke; "but here on the ocean side, protected by the sea itself, by the marshes and sand-dunes, is the Risbank fort, do you see?—or if you choose to call it so, the Octagonal Tower,—a fort which commands the whole harbor, and makes it impossible for attacking vessels to enter. Let an express be sent to Dover, and in a few hours the English ships will transport hither enough troops and supplies to enable the place to hold out for years. Thus the Risbank fort protects the city, and the sea protects the Risbank fort. Now, Gabriel, do you know what Lord Wentworth has done since his last misfortune?"
"Perfectly well," rejoined Vicomte d'Exmès, calmly. "Lord Wentworth, acting upon the unanimous opinion of his council, has sent an express in hot haste to Dover, to make up for his culpable delay, and expects to receive by this time to-morrow the reinforcements of which he has at last admitted the need."
"Well, you have not finished?" said Monsieur de Guise.
"I confess, Monseigneur, that I cannot look ahead much further," replied Gabriel. "I have not the prescience of God."
"No more than human prescience is needed here," said François de Lorraine; "but since yours stops halfway, I will finish for you."
"I should be glad if Monseigneur would condescend to tell me what will ensue, in his opinion," said Gabriel, bowing respectfully.
"It is very simple," said Monsieur de Guise. "The besieged, reinforced, if need be, by all England, will be enabled after to-morrow to face us at the Old Château with a superior force, if not an absolutely invincible one. If, notwithstanding, we still maintain our position, every Spaniard and Englishman in France will come down upon us here in the suburbs of Calais like the winter's snow from Ardres and Ham and St. Quentin; and when they decide that their numbers are sufficient, they will take their turn at besieging us. I agree that they will not be able to take the Nieullay fort without some difficulty; but they will easily repossess themselves of Fort Ste. Agathe, and then they will have us at their mercy between two fires."
"Such a catastrophe would indeed be terrible," said Gabriel, coolly.
"Yet it is only too likely to happen," rejoined the duke, passing his hand despondently over his brow.
"But surely, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "you have not failed to consider the means of preventing such a disaster?"
"I am thinking of nothing else, upon my soul!" said the Duc de Guise.
"Well?" asked Gabriel, carelessly.
"Well, our only chance,—and a very precarious and hopeless chance it is, alas!—is, in my opinion, to make a desperate assault upon the Old Château to-morrow, under any circumstances. Nothing will be in readiness, I am aware, even though we were to pass the whole night in most assiduous and unremitting labor. But there is no other course for us to take; and it is less foolhardy than it would be for us to await the arrival of reinforcements from England. The 'French fury,' as they call it in Italy, may possibly succeed, by dint of its extraordinary impetuosity, in storming these inaccessible walls."
"No, it will be helplessly shattered against them," rejoined Gabriel, coldly. "Pardon me, Monseigneur, but it seems to me that at this moment the French army is neither sufficiently strong nor sufficiently weak thus to attempt the impossible. A fearful responsibility rests upon you, Monseigneur. It is probable that we should be finally beaten back after we had lost half of our force. What does the Duc de Guise mean to do in that event?"
"Not to expose himself to total ruin, to a complete overthrow, at all events," said François de Lorraine, gloomily; "but to withdraw from before these cursed walls with such troops as I have left, and save them until better days dawn for our king and country."
"What, the victor of Metz and Renty retreat!" cried Gabriel.
"That is certainly much better than not knowing when one is beaten, as was the case with the constable on the day of St. Laurent," said the Duc de Guise.
"And yet," continued Gabriel, "it would be a disastrous blow to the glory of France, as well as to Monseigneur's reputation."
"Alas! who knows that so well as I?" exclaimed the duke. "See upon what slender threads depend success and fortune! If I had succeeded, I should have been a hero, a transcendent genius, a demigod; I fail, and I shall be henceforth only a vain and presumptuous fool, who well deserved the disgrace of his fall. The self-same undertaking which would have been called magnificent and marvellous, had it turned out happily, will draw upon me the ridicule of all Europe, and postpone if it does not destroy in the germ all my plans and hopes. To what do the paltry ambitions of this world lead!"
The duke ceased to speak, apparently a prey to bitter chagrin. There was a long silence, which Gabriel was very careful not to break.
He desired to give Monsieur de Guise ample opportunity to gauge the terrible difficulties of the crisis with his experienced eye.
When he considered that the duke must have probed them to the bottom, he said,—
"I see, Monseigneur, that you are at present involved in one of those periods of doubt and anxiety which come to the greatest of men in the midst of their greatest works. One word, however: Surely no such lofty genius, no such consummate general, as he to whom I have the honor of speaking, could have lightly engaged in so momentous an enterprise as this, unless the smallest details, the most unlikely contingencies, had all been discussed at the Louvre. You must have worked out in advance favorable results for all possible sudden changes of fortune, and remedies for all possible ills. How does it happen, then, that you are hesitating and seeking anew for them now?"
"Mon Dieu!" said the Duc de Guise, "your youthful enthusiasm and confidence fascinated and blinded me, I believe, Gabriel."
"Monseigneur!" said Gabriel, reproachfully.
"Oh, don't feel wounded, I beg, for I bear you no ill-will for it, my friend! I still admire your design, which was both a grand and a patriotic one. But stern reality is very fond of destroying our fairest dreams. Nevertheless, I remember distinctly that I laid before you certain objections, founded upon the possibility of this very extremity to which we are now reduced, and that you removed my scruples."
"And how, Monseigneur, please?"
"You promised me," said the Duc de Guise, "that if we succeeded in a few days in gaining possession of the two forts of Ste. Agathe and Nieullay, the secret arrangement that you had with persons in the town would place the Risbank fort in our hands, and thus Calais might be shut off from all hope of reinforcement by sea or land. Yes, Gabriel, I remember, and you must remember yourself, that you gave me that assurance."
"Very well!" said Gabriel, without the least symptom of anxiety or embarrassment.
"Well," rejoined the duke, "your hopes deceived you, did they not? Your friends in Calais have failed to keep their word, as was to be expected. They are evidently not yet certain of our success, and are timid; consequently they will not show themselves until it is too late to do us any good."
"Pardon me, Monseigneur, but who told you that?" asked Gabriel.
"Why, your very silence, my dear fellow. The time has come when our secret allies ought to come to our assistance, in which event they might perhaps save us. They give no sign, and your lips are sealed; therefore I conclude that you no longer rely upon them, and that we must renounce all hope of succor from that quarter."
"If you knew me better, Monseigneur," was Gabriel's response, "you would know that I never like to talk when I can act."
"What's that? Do you still have hopes?" asked the Duc de Guise.
"Yes, Monseigneur, since I am still living," Gabriel replied, in a grave and melancholy tone.
"And the Risbank fort?"
"Shall be in your hands when necessary, unless I am dead."
"But, Gabriel, it will be necessary to-morrow,—to-morrow morning!"
"Then we shall have it to-morrow morning!" replied Gabriel, calmly,—"that is, I say again, unless I fall; but in that event you cannot reproach one who has given his life in the attempt for his failure to keep his word."
"Gabriel," said the Duc de Guise, "what is it that you have in mind to do? Is it to face some mortal peril or to hazard some insane chance? I do not wish it; I do not wish it! France is only too much in need of such men as you."
"Be not at all alarmed, Monseigneur," rejoined Gabriel. "Though the danger be great, the end to be attained is even greater, and the enterprise is well worth the risk which attends it. You need only think how to profit by the result, and leave the means to me. I am only responsible for myself; but you are responsible for every man in the army."
"At least tell me what I can do to second your plan?" said the duke. "What part have you assigned to me?"
"Monseigneur," Gabriel replied, "if you had not done me the honor to come to my tent this evening, it was my intention to seek you in your own quarters, and to make a request."
"Go on,—speak!" said the duke, earnestly.
"To-morrow, the 5th of the month, at daybreak, Monseigneur,—that is to say, about eight o'clock, the nights being very long in January,—I ask you to station a look-out with keen sight on the promontory from which the Risbank fort can be seen. If the English flag is still waving there at that time, take the chances of the desperate assault you have resolved upon, for I shall have failed; in other words, I shall be dead."
"Dead!" cried the duke. "You see, Gabriel, that you are fearing your own destruction."
"In that event, waste no time in vain regrets for me, Monseigneur," said the youth; "only let everything be in readiness, and devote all your energy to your last effort; and I pray God to give you means of success! Let every man share in the attack! The reinforcements from England cannot possibly arrive before noon; therefore you will have jour hours of heroism before you in which to prove, ere you beat the retreat, that the French are as fearless as they are prudent."
"But, Gabriel, assure me again that you have some chance of success."
"Yes, indeed I have; be sure of that, Monseigneur. Therefore wait calmly and patiently, like the strong man that you are. Do not give the word too quickly for a headlong assault; I beg of you not to stake all upon that cast until it is actually necessary. Last of all, you need only keep Maréchal Strozzi and the miners quietly at work on the siege lines; and let your soldiers and artillerymen await the favorable moment for an assault, if at eight o'clock you are informed that the standard of France is flying over the Risbank fort."
"The standard of France over the Risbank fort!" cried the duke.
"A glance at it in such position," rejoined Gabriel, "will cause the ships on their way from England to retrace their steps without loss of time."
"I agree with you there," said Monsieur de Guise. "But, my dear friend, how will you do it?"
"Let me keep my secret, I implore you, Monseigneur," said Gabriel. "If you knew my extraordinary design, you might perhaps try to dissuade me from it. But it is no longer time to reflect and hesitate. Moreover, in all this I neither compromise the army nor yourself. These men here, the only ones whom I propose to employ, are all my own volunteers, and you agreed to leave me free to do as I would with them. I propose to accomplish my purpose unaided, or to die in the attempt."
"But why this pride?" asked the duke.
"It is not pride, Monseigneur; but I wish to requite as well as I can the priceless favor which you were good enough to promise me at Paris, and which I trust you remember."
"What priceless favor are you talking about, Gabriel?" said the duke. "I am supposed to have a good memory, especially where my friends are concerned; but I am ashamed to confess that in this instance I do not remember."
"Alas! Monseigneur," Gabriel rejoined, "it is a very important matter for me, however! This is what I asked of you: if it should be proved to your satisfaction that in the execution as well as the conception of the project, the taking of Calais was due to me, and to me alone, I begged you not to give me the credit in public, for that credit would belong to you, as leader of the expedition, but simply to announce to King Henri II. the share which I had had under your orders in the conquest. You then graciously allowed me to hope that reward would be accorded me."
"What! Is that the invaluable favor to which you allude, Gabriel?" asked the duke. "The deuce take me if I thought of that! But, my dear fellow, that will be no reward whatever, but a simple act of justice; and in secret or in public, as you choose, I shall be ever ready and willing to recognize and bear witness as I ought to your services and your deserts."
"My ambition does not go beyond what I have asked, Monseigneur," said Gabriel. "If the king be informed of my efforts, he has it in his power to bestow upon me a reward which would be worth more to me than all the honor and good fortune in the world."
"The king shall know all that you may have done for him, Gabriel. But can I do nothing more for you!"
"Indeed, Monseigneur, I have one or two other demands to make upon your good-will."
"Tell me," said the duke.
"In the first place," said Gabriel, "I must have the countersign, so that I may be able to leave camp with my people at any hour of the night I choose."
"You have only to say 'Calais and Charles,' and the sentinels will allow you to pass."
"Then, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "if I fall, and your assault succeeds, I venture to remind you that Madame Diane de Castro, the king's daughter, is Lord Wentworth's prisoner, and has an indisputable claim upon your courteous protection."
"I will remember my duty as a man and a gentleman," rejoined the duke. "And then?"
"Lastly, Monseigneur, I am about to contract to-night a considerable debt to a fisherman of this coast, named Anselme. If Anselme dies with me, I have written to Master Elyot, who has charge of my property, to provide for the maintenance and well-being of his family, deprived as they will be of his support. But for greater security, Monseigneur, I would be deeply obliged if you would see that my orders are executed."
"It shall be done," said the duke. "Is that all?"
"It is, Monseigneur," Gabriel replied. "But if you never see me again, think of me sometimes, I beg, with a little regret, and speak of me as one for whom you had some esteem, whether it be to the king, who will surely be glad to hear of my death, or to Madame de Castro, who may perhaps be grieved. Now I will detain you no longer, but will bid you hire well, Monseigneur."
The Duc de Guise rose to go.
"Pray banish your gloomy thoughts, my friend," said he. "I leave you, so that you may be perfectly free to go on with your mysterious project; but I confess that until eight o'clock to-morrow, I shall be very anxious and shall find it hard to sleep. But it will be principally because of the obscurity which hides your operations from me. Something tells me that I shall see you again; therefore I will not say adieu."
"Thanks for the augury, Monseigneur," said Gabriel; "for if you see me again, it will be in Calais when it shall have become a French city."
"And in that event," said the duke, "you can fairly boast of having rescued the honor of France, and mine as well, from bitter peril."
"Small craft, Monseigneur, sometimes save large men-of-war," said Gabriel, bowing.
The Duc de Guise, at the door of the tent, gave Gabriel's hand a cordial grasp, and withdrew in deep thought to his headquarters.
When Gabriel returned to his seat after escorting Monsieur de Guise to the door, he made a sign to Martin-Guerre, who at once left his occupation and went out, seeming to need no further instructions.
The squire came back after about fifteen minutes, accompanied by a pale, emaciated individual, whose clothes were almost falling from his body.
Martin approached his master, who was again absorbed in thought. The other occupants of the tent were playing or sleeping, as their fancy dictated.
"Monseigneur," said Martin-Guerre, "this is our man."
"Oh, yes!" said Gabriel; "so you are Anselme the fisherman, of whom Martin-Guerre has spoken to me?" he added, turning to the new-comer.
"Yes, Monseigneur, I am Anselme the fisherman," was the reply.
"Do you know the service in which we desire your aid?" asked Vicomte d'Exmès.
"Your squire has told me, Monseigneur; and I am ready."
"Martin-Guerre ought also to have told you," continued Gabriel, "that in this expedition your life will be in danger as will our own."
"Oh," rejoined the fisherman, "he had no need to tell me that; for I knew it as well as he, or even better."
"And still you came?" said Gabriel.
"Here I am, at your service," Anselme replied.
"Very good, my friend; it is the deed of a noble heart."
"Or of a hopeless existence," was the response.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Gabriel.
"Why, by our Lady!" said Anselme. "Every day I take my life in my hand for the sake of bringing home a few fish, and very often I come home empty-handed. So there is very little merit in risking my tanned skin for you to-day, when you promise, whether I live or die, to care for the future welfare of my wife and my three children."
"Very true," said Gabriel; "but the danger that you face every day is uncertain, and hidden from you in a measure. You never go to sea during a gale. But this time the risk is perceptible and unmistakable."
"Indeed," replied the fisherman, "it is perfectly certain that one must be a madman or a saint, to venture upon the water on such a night as this. But that is your affair; and it is not for me to find fault, if you choose to do it. You have paid me in advance for my boat and my body. But you will owe the Holy Virgin a fine candle of pure wax if we arrive safe and sound."
"Even when we have arrived, Anselme," Gabriel resumed, "your labors are not at an end. Having rowed us safely across, you will be called upon to fight, and do a soldier's work after having done duty as a sailor. Don't forget that you are about to incur dangers of two sorts."
"It's all right," said Anselme; "but don't be too discouraging in what you say. Your orders shall be obeyed. You guarantee the lives of those who are dear to me, and I give you mine. The bargain is struck, and let us say no more about it."
"You are a brave fellow!" said Gabriel. "As to your wife and children, let your mind be quite easy; for they shall want for nothing. I have written to my agent Elyot my wishes on that point; and Monsieur le Duc de Guise will himself see that they are carried out."
"That is more than you were called upon to do," said the fisherman; "and you are more generous than a king. I will play no tricks with you. You need only have given me sufficient money to relieve me from embarrassment during these hard times, and I would have expected nothing further. But if I am satisfied with you, I hope that you will not be disappointed in me."
"Let us see," said Gabriel; "will your boat hold fourteen?"
"She has held twenty, Monseigneur."
"You will need strong arms to help you row, will you not?"
"Yes, indeed," said Anselme; "for I shall have my hands full with the helm and the sail, if we can carry sail."
"We have three men," said Martin-Guerre,—"Ambrosio, Pilletrousse, and Landry,—who can row as if they had never done anything else in their lives, and I myself can swim with a pair of oars as easily as with my arms."
"Well, well," said Anselme, joyously, "I shall quite have the appearance of a smart sea-captain with so many fine fellows in my crew! There is one point on which Master Martin has thus far left me in ignorance, and that is the precise spot where we are to land."
"The Risbank fort," Gabriel replied.
"The Risbank fort! Did you say the Risbank fort?" cried the stupefied fisherman.
"Certainly I did," said Gabriel; "what objection have you to offer to that?"
"Oh, nothing," rejoined Anselme, "except that it is hardly possible to land at that point, and that I personally have never cast anchor there. It's nothing but rocks."
"Do you refuse to guide us?" asked Gabriel.
"My faith! no; I will do my best, though I am but little acquainted with that part of the coast. My father, who like myself was born a fisherman, used to say; 'We must not try to lord it over fish or customers.' I will take you to the Risbank fort if I can. A nice little trip we shall have!"
"At what hour must we be ready to start?" asked Gabriel.
"You want to reach there at four, I believe?" returned Anselme.
"Between four and five; no later."
"Very well! from the point where we must embark so as not to be seen and arouse suspicion, we must reckon upon two hours of sailing; the most important thing is not to tire ourselves unnecessarily on the water. From here to the creek is about an hour's march."
"Then we should leave the camp about one hour after midnight?" said Gabriel.
"That will be about right," Anselme replied.
"Well, then, I will go and tell my men," said Gabriel. "Do so, Monseigneur," said the fisherman. "I will ask your leave to lie down with them and sleep until one o'clock. I have said farewell at home; the boat is already carefully hidden and safely moored, so that I have nothing to call me away."
"You are quite right, Anselme," said Gabriel; "lie down for awhile, for you will have enough to tire you before this night is over. Martin-Guerre, you may tell your companions now."
"Ho, there, you fellows! You gamblers and sleepy heads!" cried Martin-Guerre.
"What is it? What's the matter?" they cried, rising and drawing near.
"Thank Monseigneur; for there is a special expedition on foot for one o'clock," said Martin.
"Good! very good! splendid!" was the hearty chorus of the veterans.
Even Malemort added his joyful shout to these unequivocal demonstrations of satisfaction.
But at that very moment four of Ambroise Paré's assistants appeared to carry the wounded man to the hospital.
Malemort was loud in his protestations.
But notwithstanding his cries and struggles, they put him upon a litter and held him there. In vain did he pour most bitter reproaches upon his comrades, even calling them deserters and traitors, since they were despicable enough to go into battle without him. No notice was taken of his epithets; and he was carried off cursing and swearing.
"How," said Martin-Guerre, "we must make our final arrangements, and assign to every man the part he is to play and his position."
"What sort of job have we on hand?" asked Pilletrousse.
"Oh, a sort of assault," replied Martin.
"Then I will be the first one to scale the wall!" cried Yvonnet.
"Very well," said the squire.
"No, that isn't fair!" exclaimed Ambrosio. "Yvonnet always monopolizes the first place in times of danger. Really, it seems as if he thinks of nobody but himself."
"Let him have his way," said Gabriel, interposing. "In the hazardous ascent that we are about to make, the foremost will be the least exposed, I imagine. As a proof of my belief, I propose myself to be the last to ascend."
"Then Yvonnet will be cheated," cried Ambrosio, laughing.
Martin-Guerre assigned to each man his place in the order of march, as well as his number in the boat and in the assault. Ambrosio, Pilletrousse, and Landry were notified that they would have to row. In fact, everything that could be was arranged beforehand, so as to avoid confusion and misunderstanding as far as possible.
Lactance took Martin-Guerre aside for a moment.
"Pardon me," said he; "but do you imagine there is any killing to be done?"
"I am not sure; but it is very possible," Martin replied.
"Thanks," returned Lactance; "in that case I think I will say my prayers and do penance in advance for three or four dead men and as many wounded."
When everything was settled, Gabriel advised his men to obtain an hour or two of sleep. He undertook to awaken them himself when it was time.
"Yes, I shall be glad to get a little sleep," said Yvonnet; "for my poor nerves are terribly excited this evening, and I need above all things to be cool and fresh when I am fighting."
In a few moments not a sound was to be heard within the tent save the regular breathing of the veterans and the monotonousPater nostersof Lactance.
Soon the last-mentioned noise also ceased, for drowsiness had at last overcome Lactance, and he too was asleep.
Gabriel alone was awake and deep in thought.
Toward one o'clock he awoke his men one by one. They all rose and equipped themselves in silence. Then they went softly from the tent and left the camp.
At the words, 'Calais and Charles,' uttered in a low voice by Gabriel, the sentinels allowed them to pass unquestioned.
The little band, under the guidance of Anselme the fisherman, took its way through the fields, along the shore. Not a word was uttered. Nothing was to be heard save the moaning of the wind, and the melancholy voice of the sea in the distance.
It was a dark and stormy night. Not a soul was to be seen along the road traversed by our adventurers. Even if they had met any one, it was more than probable that they would have passed unnoticed; but had they been seen, they would certainly have been mistaken for phantoms at that hour and in such darkness.
Within the city, there was also one man who at that hour was still awake.
It was Lord Wentworth, the governor, although, relying upon the reinforcements for which he had sent to Dover as being sure to arrive on the morrow, he had retired to his own house, hoping to obtain some rest.
He had not slept, in truth, for three days, exposing himself continually, it must be said, at the points of greatest danger with untiring gallantry, and was always to be found wherever his presence was required.
On the evening of January 4 he had paid a visit to the breach of the Old Château, had personally posted the sentinels, and had reviewed the civic militia, who were intrusted with the simple duty of defending the Risbank fort.
But notwithstanding his intense weariness, and although everything was secure and quiet, he could not sleep.
A vague dread, absurd but not to be driven away, kept his eyes wide open as he lay on his bed.
Yet all his precautions were well taken; the enemy could not possibly venture upon a night attack, relying upon so trifling a breach as that in the Old Château. As for the other points, they would protect themselves with the aid of the swamp and the ocean.
Lord Wentworth said all this to himself a thousand times, and yet he could not sleep.
He seemed to feel something floating in the night air about the city which told him of a terrible danger from an invisible foe.
In his disordered fancy that enemy was not Maréchal Strozzi, nor the Duc de Nevers; it was not even the great François do Guise.
What! Could it be that it was his former prisoner, whom his bitter enmity had enabled him to recognize several times in the distance from the summit of the fortifications? Was it really that madman. Vicomte d'Exmès, Madame de Castro's lover?
What a ridiculous adversary for the governor of Calais in his strong city, still so impregnably guarded!
However, Lord Wentworth, whatever the reason may have been, could neither overcome this indefinable dread nor explain it.
But he felt its presence, and he could not sleep.
The Risbank fort, which on account of its eight faces was also called the Octagonal Tower, was built, as we have said, at the entrance of Calais Harbor, in front of the sand-dunes; and its black and frowning mass of granite towered aloft upon another mass, as forbidding and quite as colossal, of solid cliff.
The sea, when the tide was high, broke against the cliff, but never touched the lowest courses of the stone walls of the fort.
Now, the sea was running very high and very threateningly on the night of the 4th of January, 1558, and toward four o'clock in the morning of the 5th it gave forth that resounding but mournful moaning which makes it resemble an ever restless and despairing soul.
Suddenly, a short time after the sentinel who was stationed upon the platform of the tower from two o'clock to four had been relieved by him whose tour of duty ran from four to six, a sound like a human cry, as if uttered by lungs of brass, made itself distinctly heard amid the tempest, over the moaning of the sea.
Then the newly arrived sentry might have been seen to start, listen attentively, and lean his cross-bow against the wall, after he had made sure of the source of this strange sound. Next, when he had satisfied himself that no eye was upon him, he lifted, with a mighty arm, his sentry-box from the rock, and drew from beneath it a pile of rope which assumed the shape of a long knotted ladder, which he securely fastened to the pieces of iron fixed in the battlements.
Finally he attached the various pieces of rope firmly together, and lowered them over the walls, when two heavy pieces of lead quickly carried the ends down upon the rock on which the fort was built.
The ladder was two hundred and twelve feet long, and the fort two hundred and fifteen feet high.
Scarcely had he completed his mysterious operation when the night patrol appeared at the top of the steps leading to the platform. As the sentinel was standing near his box, the patrol asked and received the countersign, and passed on without noticing anything out of the regular course.
The sentinel, much relieved in his mind, anxiously awaited what was to follow. It was already quarter past four.
At the foot of the cliff was a boat manned by fourteen men, who, after more than two hours of hard and almost superhuman labor, had succeeded in reaching the Risbank fort. A wooden ladder was placed against the cliff. It reached up to a sort of excavation in the rock, were five or six men might stand at once.
One by one, and in absolute silence, the bold adventurers mounted the ladder from the boat, and without stopping at the excavation, continued clambering up the cliff, using both their feet and hands, and taking advantage of every inequality in the face of the rock.
Their purpose was to reach the foot of the tower. But the darkness was intense, and the rock slippery; their fingers were torn and bleeding, and one of them lost his footing, and rolled helplessly down until he fell into the sea.
Luckily the last of the fourteen men was still in the boat, trying vainly to make her fast before trusting himself to the ladder.