Love Disdained.
Love Disdained.
Love Disdained.
By an extraordinary coincidence, the last word she had uttered as she fainted was the first upon her lips when she regained consciousness.
"Mercy!"
She prayed for mercy for the very man to whom she had herself prayed in vain.
Gabriel, at the sight of his idolized Diane, and the sound of her omnipotent voice, no longer was sensible of anything except her gentleness and his love for her. In his heart rage at once gave way to clemency.
"Do you wish him to live, Diane?" he asked his beloved.
"I beg it of you, Gabriel," said she; "for ought we not to give him time to repent?"
"So be it!" said the young man; "let the angel save the demon's life,—it is her proper role."
And still keeping Lord Wentworth, boiling with rage, under his knee, he said quietly to the Peuquoys and the archers,—
"Come here and bind this man while I hold him; then you can imprison him in his own dwelling until Monsieur de Guise determines his fate."
"No! kill me, kill me!" cried Lord Wentworth, struggling furiously.
"Do as I say!" said Gabriel, without loosing his hold. "I begin to think that life will be a greater burden to him than death."
Gabriel's orders were obeyed; and Lord Wentworth struggled and fumed and threatened in vain, for he was gagged and bound in an instant. Then two or three of the men took the ex-governor of Calais in their arms and carried him off, without ceremony.
Gabriel then turned to Jean Peuquoy, and said to him in his cousin's hearing,—
"My friend, I have already told Martin-Guerre the extraordinary story of his impersonation in your presence. You then deplored the cruel error which led to the punishment of an innocent man; and you asked for nothing better, I know, than to relieve as speedily as possible the terrible suffering he is at this moment undergoing for another. Do me a favor then—"
"I can guess what it is," brave Jean interrupted. "You desire me, do you not, to seek one Ambroise Paré, who may be able to save your poor squire? I fly to do it; and that he may be the better cared for, I will have him taken at once to our house, if it can be done without endangering his life."
Pierre Peuquoy, in a sort of stupefaction, listened to Gabriel and his cousin, and looked from one to the other, as if he was dreaming.
"Come, Pierre," said Jean, "you will help me in this. Oh! of course you are astonished, and do not understand; but I will explain everything to you as we go along, and I shall have no difficulty in making you see the matter as I now do; and then you will be the very first one—for I know you well—to wish to repair the wrong which you have unwittingly committed."
Thereupon, after saluting Diane and Gabriel, Jean left the room with Pierre, who had already begun to ask questions.
When Madame de Castro was left alone with Gabriel, she fell on her knees in the first impulse of pious gratitude, and raising her eyes and her hands toward heaven and to him who had been the instrument of her salvation,—
"I thank Thee, O God!" said she; "thrice over I thank Thee, for having saved me, and for having saved me by his hand!"
Then Diane threw herself into Gabriel's arms,—"And you, too, Gabriel," said she, "you, too, I must thank and bless. With my last conscious thought, I invoked my guardian angel, and you came to me. Thanks! oh, thanks!"
"Oh, Diane," he replied, "how I have suffered, and what a weary time it has been since I saw you last!"
"And I too have suffered, and have found the waiting weary," she cried.
They then began—at too great length to be dramatic, it must be confessed—to tell what each had endured and felt during their unhappy separation.
Calais, the Duc de Guise, vanquished and victors,—all were forgotten. All the strife and all the deadly passion which was rife about the two lovers did not reach them. Lost in their world of love and ecstasy, they no longer saw or heard the sights or sounds of the sad world around them.
When one has undergone so much grief and terror, the heart is enfeebled and softened to a certain extent by suffering, and though brave to overcome disaster, can no longer resist happiness. In this balmy atmosphere of chaste emotion, Diane and Gabriel gave themselves up without restraint to the sweet influences of peace and joy, to which they had so long been strangers.
To the scene of insane passion which we have described succeeded another similar, and yet widely different at the same time.
"How good it seems to be with you, my friend," said Diane. "Instead of the presence of that impious wretch whom I hated so, and whose love made me shudder, what ecstasy to have you near me, so reassuring, and so precious!"
"And I," rejoined Gabriel, "since our childhood, when we were happy without knowing it, do not remember, Diane, that I have ever known in my poor lonely, troubled life a single moment to be compared to this."
For a while they were silent, gazing in rapt enjoyment at each other.
Diane resumed:—
"Come and sit by me, Gabriel. Can you believe it, dear, this moment, which has united us once more in so unhoped-for a manner, I have nevertheless dreamed of and foreseen, even in my apparently hopeless captivity? I have always felt sure that my deliverance would come through you, and that in my supreme peril God would send you, my own knight, to rescue me."
"For my part, Diane," said Gabriel, "the thought of you has always led me on as a lover and guided my steps like a ray of light. Shall I make a confession to you and to my own conscience? Although many other potent motives might have urged me on, I never should have conceived the idea of taking Calais, Diane, which is mine alone, nor should I ever have had the courage to carry it out by resorting to such reckless expedients, had it not been that you were a prisoner here, and that my prophetic instinct of the danger which beset you encouraged and stimulated me. Except for my hope of rescuing you and the other holy purpose for which I live, Calais would still be in English hands. May God, in His mercy, not chastise me for having wished to do and having done what was right for selfish reasons only!"
Gabriel thought at that moment of the scene in the Rue St. Jacques, of the self-abnegation of Ambroise Paré, and the stern belief of the admiral that Heaven demands unstained hands to sustain a pure cause.
But Diane's beloved voice restored his confidence somewhat as she exclaimed,—
"God chastise you, Gabriel! God chastise you for being noble and generous!"
"Who knows?" said he, casting upward a look heavy with sad foreboding, as if he were asking the question of Heaven.
"Iknow," replied Diane, with a lovely smile.
She was so bewitching as she said it that Gabriel, in admiration of her beauty, and lost to every other thought, could not restrain the exclamation,—
"Oh, Diane, you are as beautiful as an angel!"
"And you as valiant as a hero, Gabriel," said Diane. They were seated side by side; their hands touched by accident and met in a fervent clasp. Darkness was beginning to fall.
Diane, with blushing cheeks, rose and walked away a few steps.
"Are you going, Diane? You are flying from me!" said the youth, sadly.
"Oh, no indeed!" said she eagerly, drawing near again. "With you it is very different; and I have no fear, dearest."
Diane was wrong; it was a different sort of danger that threatened her now, but danger nevertheless; and it might be that the friend was as much to be feared as the foe.
"That is right, Diane!" said Gabriel, taking the little hand, white and soft, which she surrendered to him once more; "that is as it should be. Let us enjoy a little happiness after all we have gone through. Let us give free play to our hearts to revel in their confidence and joy."
"Yes, indeed; it is so good to be near you, Gabriel!" Diane replied. "Let us forget the world and the uproar around us for a moment; let us enjoy to the full the unaccustomed sweetness of this hour. God, I think, will allow us to do so without anxiety or dread. You are right; else why have we suffered so?"
With a graceful movement which was common with her when she was a child, she laid her lovely head upon Gabriel's shoulder; her great velvety eyes slowly closed, and her hair brushed the lips of the ardent youth.
It was he then who rose, shuddering and bewildered.
"Well, what is it?" said Diane, opening her drooping eyes in wonder.
He fell on his knees before her, pale as a ghost, and threw his arms about her.
"Oh, Diane, Diane! I love you!" he cried from the bottom of his heart.
"And I love you, too, Gabriel," Diane replied, fearlessly, and as if in obedience to an irresistible impulse of her heart.
How their faces came nearer together; how their lips met; how in that long, sweet kiss, their very souls were blended, God only knows; certain it is that they did not know themselves.
But suddenly Gabriel, who felt his reason trembling in the vertigo of happiness, tore himself away from Diane.
"Diane, leave me!" he almost shrieked, with a note of horror in his voice, "let me fly!"
"Fly! and why, pray?" she asked wonderingly.
"Oh, Diane, Diane! if you should turn out to be my sister!" replied Gabriel, beside himself.
"Your sister!" echoed Diane, overwhelmed, paralyzed. Gabriel checked himself, dismayed and like one stunned by his own words; drawing his hand across his burning brow, he asked in a loud voice,—
"What did I say?"
"What did you say, really?" said Diane. "Must I believe it to be literally true, that fearful word? What is the key to this terrible mystery? Can I really be your sister? Oh,mon Dieu!"
"My sister? Did I tell you that you were my sister?" said Gabriel.
"Ah, it is true, then!" cried Diane, gasping for breath.
"No; it is not, cannot be true! I do not know it, and who can know it? Besides, I ought not to have said a word of all this to you. It is a secret involving life and death which I have sworn to keep. Ah, Heaven have pity upon me! I have preserved my self-control and my reason amid suffering and misfortune; must it be that the first drop of happiness which passes my lips should intoxicate me even to insanity and forgetfulness of my oath!"
"Gabriel," rejoined Madame de Castro, gravely, "God knows that it is no vain and purposeless curiosity which moves my words; but you have said either too much or too little for my peace of mind. Now you must finish."
"Impossible, impossible!" cried Gabriel in terror.
"And why impossible?" said Diane. "Something in my heart assures me that these dread secrets concern me quite as nearly as yourself, and that you have no right to conceal them from me."
"That is very true," Gabriel rejoined, "and you have certainly as much right as I to this suffering. But since the burden bears upon me alone, ask me not to share it with you."
"But I do ask it, and desire, nay, I demand my rightful share of your burdens," Diane returned; "and to go still further, Gabriel, I implore you! Will you refuse me?"
"But I have sworn to the king!" exclaimed Gabriel anxiously.
"You have sworn?" rejoined Diane. "Very well, keep your oath loyally to strangers or to indifferent persons, nay, even to your friends, and it will be well done of you. But with me, who, as you admit, have as deep an interest as yourself in this mystery, can you, ought you, to preserve this baleful silence? No, Gabriel, not if you have any pity for me. My doubts and anxiety on this subject have already torn my heart enough. In this matter, if not, alas! in the other events of your life, I am, in a measure, your second self. Do you perjure yourself, pray, when you muse upon your secret in the solitude of your own conscience? Do you think that my loyal and sincere heart, tried by so many bitter tests, will not be as steadfast as yours to retain and hold in trust the secret of joy or sorrow confided to it, and which belongs to it as much as to you?"
The soft and soothing tones of Diane's voice flowed on, moving the young man's inmost soul, as if it were an instrument obedient to her words.
"And then, Gabriel, since fate forbids our being bound together by the ties of happy love, how can you have the heart to deny me the only communion of feeling which is permissible for us,—that of sorrow? Shall we not suffer less if we suffer together? Is it not, then, very sad to think that the only bond which can unite us still keeps us apart?"
Feeling that Gabriel, though half convinced, was still in doubt, she resumed,—
"Besides, you must beware! If you persist in your silence, why should I not adopt the same language with you which caused you so much terror and anguish just now,—why, I know not,—but which you yourself, after all, long ago taught my lips and my heart? Surely your betrothed has the right to tell you over and over again that she loves you, and none but you. Your promised wife in God's sight may surely, with a chaste caress, put her head upon your shoulder and her lips to your forehead thus—"
But Gabriel, with a sinking heart, again put Diane aside, with a shudder.
"No!" he cried, "have pity on my reason, Diane, I implore you. So you really wish to know the terrible secret in all its details? Well, in the face of a possible crime, I allow it to pass my lips. Yes, Diane, you must take in their literal meaning the words which I let bill in my agony a moment ago. Diane, it is possible that you are the daughter of the Comte de Montgommery, my father; it is possible that you are my sister."
"Holy Virgin!" murmured Madame de Castro, overwhelmed by this revelation. "But how can it be?" she added.
"I should have preferred," said Gabriel, "that your pure and peaceful life should never have come to know aught of this mystery, so full of terror and crime. But I am confident, alas! that in the end my strength alone would not have been sufficient to prevail against my love. So you must assist me against yourself, Diane, and I will tell you all."
"I listen, Gabriel, in terrible dread, but with attention," said Diane.
Gabriel then narrated everything to her: how his father had loved Madame de Poitiers, and in the eyes of all the court had seemed to be favored by her; how the dauphin, the present king, had become his rival; how the Comte de Montgommery had disappeared one day, and how Aloyse had come to know, and had revealed to his son what had taken place. But that was the extent of the nurse's information; and since Madame de Poitiers obstinately refused to speak, the Comte de Montgommery alone, if he were still living, could tell the secret of Diane's birth.
When Gabriel had finished the lugubrious history, Diane cried,—
"This is indeed frightful! But whatever be the issue, my friend, there is misery in store for us. If I am the Comte de Montgommery's daughter, you are my brother Gabriel; if I am the king's daughter, you are the rightfully outraged enemy of my father. So that in either event we must be parted."
"No, Diane," Gabriel replied, "our wretchedness, thank God, is not altogether hopeless. Since I have begun to tell you the whole story, I will go on to the end. I feel, too, that you were in the right; it has encouraged me to confide in you; and my secret, after all, has only left my heart to be shared by yours."
Gabriel then told Madame de Castro of the strange and perilous bargain he had made with Henri II., and the king's solemn promise to restore the Comte de Montgommery to freedom if the Vicomte de Montgommery, after having defended St. Quentin against the Spaniards, should wrest Calais from the English.
Now Calais had been for an hour a French city, and Gabriel thought that he might say with all modesty that he had had a large share in bringing about that glorious result.
As he continued, the light of hope began to chase away the gloom from Diane's face as the light of dawn dissipates the darkness.
When Gabriel had finished, she remained silent for a moment in deep thought; then she said firmly, holding out her hand to him,—
"Poor Gabriel! doubtless we have as much to think about and suffer in the future as we have had in the past. But let us not stop there, my friend. We must not allow ourselves to become weak and timid. For my part, I will do my best to be strong and brave like you and with you. The important thing now is to set to work and unravel our fate one way or the other. Our agony is drawing to a close, I believe. You have now kept and more than kept your promise to the king, and he, I trust, will redeem his to you. It is upon that expectation that we must henceforth base all our thoughts and hopes. What do you mean to do now?"
"Monsieur le Duc de Guise," replied Gabriel, "was my illustrious confidant, and was accessory to all that I undertook to do here. I know that, except for him, I could have done nothing; but he knows as well that he could have done nothing without me. He, only, can and ought to bear witness to the king of the part I have taken in this new conquest. I have so much the more reason to expect this act of justice from him because he promised me solemnly, for the second time, within a few days, to give that testimony. Now I am going at once to remind Monsieur de Guise of his undertaking, also to request from him a letter to his Majesty, and since my presence here is no longer essential, to start at once for Paris—"
Gabriel was still speaking eagerly, and Diane listening with her eyes beaming with hope, when the door opened, and Jean Peuquoy appeared, discomposed, and in apparent consternation.
"Well, what is it?" asked Gabriel, anxiously. "Is Martin-Guerre worse?"
"No, Monsieur le Vicomte," replied Jean. "Martin-Guerre has been taken to our house by my efforts, and Master Ambroise Paré has already seen him. Although amputation of the leg was deemed necessary, Master Paré thinks that we may be sure that your gallant squire will survive the operation."
"Splendid news!" said Gabriel. "Ambroise Paré is doubtless with him still?"
"Monseigneur," replied the burgher, sadly, "he was obliged to leave him to attend another wounded man, more illustrious and more hopeless."
"Who is it, pray?" asked Gabriel, changing color. "Maréchal Strozzi, Monsieur de Nevers—?"
"Monsieur le Duc de Guise, who lies dying at this moment," said Jean.
Gabriel and Diane simultaneously uttered a cry of grief.
"And I was just saying that we were nearing the end of our agony," said Madame de Castro, after a moment's silence. "Oh,Mon Dieu!mon Dieu!"
"Call not upon God, Madame," said Gabriel, with a sad smile. "God is just, and justly chastises my selfishness. I took Calais only for my father's sake and yours. It is God's will that I should have taken it for the good of France."
Nevertheless, hope was not yet dead for Gabriel and Diane, since the Duc de Guise was breathing still. The unhappy creatures seized eagerly at the least chance, as the drowning man clutches at a straw.
Vicomte d'Exmès left Diane's side to go and ascertain for himself the extent of this catastrophe which had befallen them just when continued ill-fortune had seemed to be relaxing its rigorous severity.
Jean Peuquoy, who accompanied him, related to him on the way what had happened.
Lord Derby, being summoned by the mutinous citizens to capitulate before the time fixed by Lord Wentworth, had sent a flag of truce to the Duc de Guise to arrange the preliminaries.
Nevertheless, fighting still continued at several points, and was made still more desperate during these final struggles, by the wrath of the vanquished and the impatience of the victors.
François de Lorraine, who was as daring a soldier as he was a skilful general, appeared in person at the spot where the affray seemed to be hottest and most dangerous.
It was at a breach already half carried on the other side of a ditch, which was completely filled with débris.
The Duc de Guise on horseback, and a shining mark for the missiles which were aimed at him from all sides, calmly urged on his men by his words and his example.
Suddenly he saw above the breach the white flag of truce.
A haughty smile spread over his noble features; for it was the definitive assurance of his victory that he saw approaching.
"Hold!" he cried in the midst of the mêlée to those who surrounded him. "Calais surrenders! Down with your arms!"
He raised the visor of his helmet, and putting spurs to his horse, rode forward a few paces with his eyes fixed on the white flag, the symbol of his triumph and of peace.
Darkness, moreover, was beginning to fall, and the uproar had not ceased.
An English man-at-arms, who probably had not seen the flag of truce nor heard amid the din the Duc de Guise's order to his men, sprang at his horse's rein, and threw him back upon his haunches; and as the absorbed duke, without so much as noticing the obstacle which thus arrested his progress, drove the spurs in again, the trooper struck him in the face with his lance.
"I was not able to learn," continued Jean, "what part of Monsieur de Guise's face was struck; but it is certain that it is a terrible wound. The handle of the lance broke off, and the iron remained in the wound. The duke, without a word, fell forward upon the pommel of his saddle. It seems that the Englishman who dealt the fatal blow was torn to pieces by the furious French soldiers; but alas! that could not help Monsieur de Guise. He was carried from the field like one dead. Since then he has not regained consciousness."
"So that Calais is not ours?" asked Gabriel.
"Oh, indeed it is!" replied Jean. "Monsieur le Duc de Nevers received the flag of truce, and imposed most advantageous conditions, like a conqueror. But the gain of such a city will hardly compensate France for the loss of such a hero."
"Mon Dieu! Do you look upon him as already beyond help, then?" said Gabriel, shuddering.
"Alas! alas!" was the weaver's only reply, with a sorrowful shake of the head.
"Whither are you leading me at this pace?" continued Gabriel. "Do you know where they have taken him?"
"To the guard-house of the Château-Neuf, so Master Ambroise Paré was told by the man who brought him the terrible news. Master Paré was anxious to go to him at once, so Pierre went to show him the way, and I came to tell you. I foresaw that it would be a very important matter for you, and that under the circumstances there would doubtless be something for you to do."
"I have only to grieve like the others,—yes, even more than the others," said Gabriel. "But," added he, "as well as I can distinguish objects in the darkness, I should say we were near our destination."
"This is the Château-Neuf," said Jean.
Citizens and soldiers, an enormous, excited crowd eager and muttering, filled all the approaches to the guard-house whither the Duc de Guise had been carried. Questions, conjectures, and remarks of all sorts were passing from mouth to mouth among the restless groups, like the rustling wind among the echoing shades of a forest.
Gabriel and Jean Peuquoy had great difficulty in making their way through this closely packed crowd as far as the steps of the guard-house, the entrance to which was guarded by a strong party of pikemen and halberdiers. Some of them held lighted torches, which cast their lurid rays upon the moving mass of people.
Gabriel started as he saw by the flickering light of the torches Ambroise Paré standing at the foot of the steps, motionless, with contracted brows, and convulsively pressing his folded arms against his heaving chest. Tears of grief and rage were glistening in his handsome eyes.
Behind him stood Pierre Peuquoy, as gloomy and cast down as he.
"You here, Master Paré!" cried Gabriel. "What are you doing here, pray? If Monsieur le Duc de Guise has still a breath of life in his body, your place is at his side."
"Ah! you must not say so to me, Monsieur d'Exmès," retorted the surgeon, quickly, when raising his eyes he recognized Gabriel. "Tell me if you have any authority over these stupid guards."
"What! Do they refuse to let you pass?" asked Gabriel.
"They will not listen to a word," rejoined Ambroise Paré. "Oh, to think that God should make so precious an existence depend upon such paltry distinctions!"
"But you must go in," said Gabriel. "Your presence is indispensable there."
"We begged at first," said Peuquoy, interposing, "and then we threatened. They replied to our prayers with laughter, and to our threats with blows. Master Paré tried to force his way in, but was forcibly repulsed, and wounded by the handle of a halberd, I think."
"It's easily understood," said Ambroise Paré, bitterly. "I have no gold collar or spurs; I have nothing but a keen glance and a sure hand."
"Wait," said Gabriel, "I will soon make them admit you."
He walked toward the steps of the guard-house, but a pikeman bowing respectfully as he saw him, barred his way.
"Pardon me," said he with deference, "but we have received orders to allow no one whatever to go in."
"Blackguard!" said Gabriel, still keeping command over himself, however; "do your orders apply to Vicomte d'Exmès, captain of his Majesty's Guards, and Monsieur de Guise's friend? Where is your leader that I may speak to him?"
"Monseigneur, he is on guard at the inner door," replied the pikeman, still more humbly.
"I will go to him, then," rejoined Gabriel, haughtily; "Come, Master Paré, follow me."
"Monseigneur, you may pass, since you demand it," said the soldier; "but this man cannot pass."
"Why so?" asked Gabriel. "Why cannot the surgeon be admitted to the wounded man?"
"All the surgeons, doctors, and quacks," replied the pikeman, "all those at least who are recognized and licensed, have already been summoned to Monseigneur's bedside. Not one is missing, so we are informed."
"Ah, that is just what alarms me!" said Ambroise Paré, with contemptuous irony.
"This man has no license in his pocket," the soldier continued. "I know him well. He has saved more than one poor fellow's life in the camp, it is true; but he is not the man for dukes."
"Less talk!" cried Gabriel, stamping his foot angrily. "It is my desire that Master Paré should go in with me."
"Impossible, Monsieur le Vicomte."
"I have said that it is my desire, blackguard!"
"Pray remember," the soldier replied, "that my orders compel me to disobey you."
"Ah," cried Ambroise, sadly, "the duke may be dying while this absurd discussion is going on!"
This cry would have scattered all Gabriel's hesitation to the winds, even if the impetuous youth had found it possible to hesitate longer at such a crisis.
"So you really wish that I should treat you as if you were Englishmen!" he cried to the halberdiers. "So much the worse for you, then! Monsieur de Guise's life is worth twenty such lives as yours, after all. We will see if your pikes will dare to cross with my sword."
The blade flashed from the scabbard like a ray of light, and drawing Ambroise Paré after him, he ascended the steps of the guard-house.
There was so much of menace in his whole look and bearing; there was so much force in the physician's calm and determined demeanor; and the mere personality, to say nothing of the expressed will of a man of gentle birth, had so much prestige at that epoch,—that the guards were subdued, and stood aside with their weapons lowered, less in deference to the viscount's sword than to his name.
"Let him pass!" cried a voice among the populace. "They have the appearance of having been sent by God to save the Duc de Guise."
Gabriel and Ambroise Paré reached the door of the guard-house without further hindrance.
In the narrow porch through which they had to pass to reach the main hall, the lieutenant in command of the men outside was stationed, with three or four soldiers.
Vicomte d'Exmès, without stopping, said to him briefly and in a tone which called for no reply,—
"I am bringing another surgeon to see Monseigneur."
The lieutenant bowed, and allowed him to pass without the least objection.
Gabriel and Paré entered the hall.
The attention of all present was too deeply absorbed in the sad business in hand to notice their arrival.
It was truly a harrowing and fearful sight which was presented to their gaze.
In the centre of the hall, oil a camp bed, lay the Duc de Guise, motionless and unconscious, the blood streaming from his head.
His face was pierced from side to side; the iron head of the lance, having entered the cheek beneath the right eye, had passed through his head to that portion of the neck immediately below the left ear, and the broken fragment projected half a foot from the gaping wound, which was frightful to look upon.
Around the bed were grouped some ten or twelve physicians and surgeons, utterly bewildered amid the general despair.
They were doing nothing whatever beyond looking on and talking.
Just as Gabriel came in with Ambroise Paré, one of them was saying aloud,—
"Thus, having consulted together, we are under the painful necessity of announcing our unanimous opinion that Monsieur le Duc de Guise is mortally wounded, beyond hope of recovery: for in order to afford any chance of saving his life, the fragment of the lance must be withdrawn from the wound, and to extract it would be to kill Monseigneur beyond peradventure."
"So, then, you prefer to let him die!" rang out the determined voice of Ambroise Paré from behind the foremost lookers-on. He had from that distance seen with a glance the really almost hopeless condition of the illustrious patient.
The surgeon who had spoken raised his head to discover his bold critic, and failing to do so, he resumed,—
"Who would be so rash as to venture to lay his impious hands upon that august face, and run the risk, without chance of success, of causing the death of such a sufferer?"
"I!" said Ambroise Paré, stepping forward with head erect into the group of surgeons.
And without paying any further attention to those who surrounded him, or to the exclamations of surprise elicited by his word, he leaned over the duke to get a nearer view of the wound.
"Ah! It is Master Ambroise Paré," said the surgeon-in-chief, contemptuously, as he recognized the madman who dared to utter an opinion different from his. "Master Ambroise Paré forgets," he added, "that he has not the honor of being numbered among the surgeons of the Duc de Guise."
"Say rather," retorted Ambroise, "that I am his only surgeon, since his regular attendants all abandon him. Besides, the Duc de Guise, a few days since, after an operation which I performed successfully under his eyes, chose to say to me, and very seriously if not officially, that hereafter he should avail himself of my services in case of need. Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès, who was present, can bear me out in what I say."
"I declare that what he says is true," said Gabriel.
Ambroise Paré had already turned his attention once more to the seemingly lifeless body of the duke, and was carefully examining the wound.
"Well," asked the surgeon-in-chief, with an ironical smile, "after your examination do you still persist in your desire to extract the iron from the wound?"
"Most certainly I do," said Ambroise Paré, resolutely.
"What wonderful instrument do you propose to use?"
"My hands, to be sure," replied Ambroise.
"I protest with all my force," cried the infuriated surgeon, "against any such profanation of Monseigneur's last hours."
"And we join in your protest," shouted all his associates.
"Have you any means of saving the prince's life to propose?" asked Ambroise Paré.
"No, it is impossible," was the unanimous chorus.
"He is mine, then," said Ambroise, extending his hands over the body as if to take formal possession of it.
"We withdraw, then," said the surgeon-in-chief, and he and his associates made a movement toward the door.
"What do you propose to do?" was the question put to Ambroise on all sides.
"The Duc de Guise is dead to all that transpires," he replied, "and I propose to act as if he were really dead."
With these words, he removed his doublet, and rolled up his sleeves.
"The idea of performing such experiments on Monseigneur,tanquam in anima vili," said an old physician, shocked at these preparations, and clasping his hands in horror.
"Yes," replied Ambroise, without raising his eyes from the sufferer. "I am going to treat him, not as a man, not even as a beast of the field, but as an inanimate thing. See!"
He placed his foot boldly upon the duke's chest.
A subdued sound of commingled terror, doubt, and menace ran through the assemblage.
"Take care, Master!" said Monsieur de Nevers, touching Ambroise Paré on the shoulder; "take care! If you fail I will not answer for the anger of the duke's friends and servants."
"Ah!" said Ambroise, with a sad smile, as he turned toward the speaker.
"Your head is in danger," said another.
Ambroise Paré looked up to Heaven as if for strength; then he rejoined with melancholy gravity,—
"So be it! I will endanger my own head in an attempt to save this one. But you can at least," he added, looking proudly around, "leave me to work in peace."
All stepped aside with a sort of respectful deference to the power of genius.
In the solemn silence no further sound was heard except the stertorous breathing of the wounded man.
Ambroise Paré placed his left knee upon the duke's chest; then, leaning over, he took the wooden part of the lance in his hands, as he had said, and moved it to and fro, gently at first, afterwards with more force.
The duke started as if in terrible pain.
The faces of all who were present were pallid with horror.
Ambroise himself stopped for a moment, as if afraid to proceed. The sweat of anguish moistened his forehead; but he set to work again almost immediately.
After a minute, which seemed more than an hour long, the iron at last came from the wound.
Ambroise Paré cast it away with a shudder, and quickly stooped over the yawning orifice.
When he rose, his features were illuminated with a joyous light. But in a moment his serious mood returned, and falling on his knees, he raised his hands to God, while a tear of happiness rolled down his cheek.
It was a sublime moment. Without a word from the great surgeon, every one understood that once more there was hope. The duke's attendants wept hot tears of joy, and some even kissed the skirt of Ambroise Paré's coat.
But no one spoke, waiting for him to say the first word.
He spoke at last, his grave voice trembling with emotion,—
"I will answer now for the life of Monseigneur de Guise."
In an hour, in truth, the duke had recovered consciousness, and even the power of speech.
Ambroise Paré finished dressing the wound; and Gabriel was standing beside the bed to which the surgeon had caused his august patient to be removed.
"So, Gabriel," said the duke, "I owe to you not only the taking of Calais, but my life as well; for it seems that you brought Master Paré to my bedside almost by force."
"Yes, Monseigneur," Ambroise interposed; "save for Monsieur d'Exmès's intervention, they would not have allowed me to come near you."
"God bless my two saviors!" said François de Lorraine.
"I implore you not to talk so much, Monseigneur," said the surgeon.
"Well, I will hold my peace; but just one word,—one question."
"What may it be, Monseigneur?"
"Do you think, Master Paré," asked the duke, "that the results of this horrible wound will be to affect my health or my reason?"
"I am sure not, Monseigneur," said Ambroise; "but I fear that a cicatrix will remain,—a scar (balafré)—"
"A scar!" cried the duke; "oh, that is nothing! It is an adornment to a warrior's features; and the sobriquet ofBalafréis one that I should not object to in the least."
It is well known that his contemporaries and posterity were of the Duc de Guise's opinion, who from that time (as well as his son after him) was surnamedLe Balafréby his generation and by history.
We go forward to the 8th of January,—the day succeeding that on which Gabriel d'Exmès had finally restored to the King of France Calais, his fairest city, which had been lost to him for so many years, and the Duc de Guise, his greatest captain, who had been in imminent danger of death.
But we have no longer to deal with questions involving the future fate of nations; we are at present to occupy ourselves with matters of private and domestic import. From the breach in the walls of Calais and the sick bed of François de Lorraine we pass to the living-room in the dwelling of the Peuquoys.
It was in that room on the lower floor of the house that Jean had decided to lodge Martin, in order to avoid the fatigue of ascending the stairs; and it was there that Ambroise Paré had, the evening before, with his usual skill and success, performed upon the brave squire the amputation that he deemed necessary.
So that certainty had taken the place of what had before been only hope. Martin-Guerre was still in a state of great exhaustion, it is true; but his life was saved.
It would be impossible to describe the regret of Pierre Peuquoy—his remorse, rather—when he learned the truth from Jean. His stern but honest and loyal soul could not obtain its own forgiveness for such a bitter mistake. The honest armorer was constantly urging upon Martin-Guerre to ask or to accept all that he possessed,—his heart and his strong arm, his property and his life.
But we know already that Martin-Guerre had pardoned Pierre Peuquoy,—nay, more, had approved what he had done,—without waiting for him to express his sorrow therefor.
Thus they were on the best of terms; and we must not be surprised to find a sort of domestic council—similar to the one at which we have already been present during the bombardment—in progress at the bedside of Martin-Guerre, who was as one of the family thenceforth.
Vicomte d'Exmès, who was to start for Paris that same evening, was admitted to their deliberations, which were, all things considered, of a less painful nature to the gallant allies of the Risbank fort than on the previous occasion.
In truth, the reparation which was due to the honor of the Peuquoy name was not now beyond the bounds of possibility. The real Martin-Guerre was married; but there was nothing to indicate that Babette's seducer was, and it only remained to find the villain.
Thus it happened that Pierre's expression was calmer and more kindly, but Jean's was very sorrowful, while Babette seemed to be in the deepest dejection.
Gabriel looked from one to another in silence; and Martin-Guerre, stretched upon his bed of pain, was in despair at the thought that he could do nothing for his new-found friends, except furnish them with vague and unsatisfactory information as to the personal appearance of his double.
Pierre and Jean had just returned from the bedside of Monsieur de Guise; for the duke had refused to delay any longer the expression of his gratitude to the brave, patriotic burghers for the effective and glorious part they had taken in the surrender of the city; and Gabriel had introduced them to him at his urgent request.
Pierre was proudly and joyously describing to Babette the details of the presentation.
"Yes, my dear sister," he was saying, "when Monsieur d'Exmès had told the Duc de Guise of our co-operation in all this, in terms which were certainly too flattering and highly colored, the great man deigned to express his satisfaction to Jean and myself with a gracious consideration which I, for my part, shall never forget, though I should live for more than a hundred years. But he gladdened and touched my heart above all by adding that he was anxious to serve us in some way, and asking me in what way he could do so. Not that I was interested for myself, Babette,—you know me too well for that; but do you know what favor I mean to ask of him?"
"No, indeed I do not, my brother," murmured Babette.
"Well, dear sister," continued Pierre, "as soon as we have found the wretch who so basely betrayed you,—and we shall find him, never fear!—I will ask Monsieur de Guise to assist me with his influence in making him save your good name. We have ourselves neither power nor riches, and some such support as his may be necessary to help us to obtain justice."
"Suppose that you fail of obtaining justice, even with his support, cousin?" asked Jean.
"Thanks to my good right arm," Pierre replied energetically, "vengeance at least will not fail me. And yet," he added in a lower voice, and glancing timidly at Martin-Guerre, "I must confess that violence has been productive of but little good thus far."
For a moment he said no more, but was lost in thought. When he shook off his absorption, he was surprised to see that Babette was weeping.
"What makes you weep, pray, my sister?" he asked.
"Ah, I am very unhappy!" cried Babette, sobbing as if her heart would break.
"Unhappy, and why? I believe that in the future the clouds will break away, and—"
"No, they will grow even darker," she said.
"No, no, everything will come all right; make your mind easy," said Pierre. "There can be no hesitation between a reparation which brings nothing but pleasure in its train, and a terrible vengeance. Your lover will come back to you; you will be his wife—"
"But suppose I refuse to marry him?" cried Babette. Jean Peuquoy could not forbear a joyous movement, which did not escape Gabriel's notice.
"Refuse to marry him!" exclaimed Pierre, surprised beyond measure. "Why, you loved him!"
"Yes, I did love him," said Babette; "for he was suffering; besides he seemed to love me, and showed respect and tenderness for me. But the man who deceived me, who lied to me and abandoned me, who appropriated the language, the name, and perhaps the very clothes of another, to lay siege to and surprise a poor, trusting heart—ah, that man I hate and I despise!"
"But if he were willing to marry you?" said Pierre. "It would only be because he was driven to do it, or because he hoped for favors from the Duc de Guise. He would bestow his name upon me either from fear or avarice. No, no, I pray I may never see him again!"
"Babette," replied Pierre, sternly; "you have no right to say, 'I pray I may never see him again.'"
"My dear brother, for mercy's sake! for pity's sake!" cried Babette, weeping piteously, "do not force me to marry a man whom you have yourself called a villain and a coward."
"Babette, think of your dishonored name!"
"I prefer to blush a moment for my misplaced love rather than to blush for my husband all my life."
"Babette, think of your fatherless child!"
"It would be far better for him, I think, to be without a father who would detest him, than to lose his mother who will adore him; and his mother, if she marries that man, will surely die of shame and chagrin."
"So, Babette, you turn a deaf ear to all my remonstrances and entreaties?"
"I implore your affection and your pity, my brother."
"Very well, then," said Pierre, "my affection and my pity will reply to your words, sorrowfully but firmly. As it is necessary above all things, Babette, that you should possess the esteem of others and retain your good name, and as I prefer your unhappiness to your dishonor, since being dishonored your unhappiness will be twofold,—I, your elder brother, the head of your family, wish you to understand that you should marry, if he agrees, the man who betrayed you, and who alone has the power to-day to give you back the honor he has stolen. The law and our religion endow me with an authority over you, which I forewarn you I must use in case of need, to compel you to take a step which, to my mind, is required by your duty toward God, your family, your unborn child, and yourself."
"You condemn me to death, brother," replied Babette, in an altered voice. "It is well; and I bow to your will, since it is my fate and my punishment, and not a soul intercedes for me."
As she spoke, she looked at Gabriel and Jean Peuquoy, who were both silent,—the latter because he was suffering keenly, the other because he wished to see what course events would take.
But at Babette's direct appeal, Jean could no longer restrain himself; and addressing his words to her, but turning to Pierre, he rejoined with a bitter irony, which was hardly in accord with his character,—
"Why do you wish that any one should intercede for you, Babette? Is it because this thing that your brother demands of you is not altogether just and wise? His way of looking at the affair is indeed admirable. He has deeply at heart your honor and that of his family; and to maintain that honor intact, what does he do? He forces you to marry a forger. Truly it is marvellous! To be sure, this scoundrel when once he is taken into the family will probably bring everlasting dishonor upon it by his conduct. It is certain that Monsieur d'Exmès, now present, will not fail to demand from him, in the name of Martin-Guerre, a bitter reckoning for his basely false impersonation, and that this will probably lead to your having to go before the judges, Babette, as the wife of this low-lived appropriator of a name. But what does it matter? You will none the less belong to him by a valid title, and your child will none the less be the recognized and acknowledged son of the false Martin-Guerre. You will die perhaps of the disgrace of being his wife, but your maiden reputation will remain unsullied in everybody's eyes."
Jean Peuquoy uttered these sentiments with a degree of indignant warmth which surprised Babette herself.
"I should hardly have known you, Jean," exclaimed Pierre in amazement. "Is it really you, who speak thus?—you, who are generally so moderate and calm."
"It is just because of my moderation and calmness," replied Jean, "that I am able to view more dispassionately the situation into which you are inconsiderately plunging us to-day."
"Do you believe, pray," rejoined Pierre, "that I would accept with any better grace the infamy of my brother-in-law than my sister's shame? No; if we find Babette's betrayer, I am in hopes that, after all, his fraud may have done no harm except to ourselves and Martin-Guerre; and in that event I rely upon good Martin's friendship for us to cause him to desist from making a complaint, the result of which would fall upon the innocent equally with the guilty."
"Oh," said Martin-Guerre from his bed, "there is no vindictiveness in my nature, and I have no desire for the death of the sinner. If he but pays his debt to you, I will discharge him from any claim I have against him."
"All that is very fine so far as the past is concerned," retorted Jean, who seemed only moderately delighted over the squire's forgiving disposition. "But the future,—who will answer for the future?"
"I will be always on the watch," replied Pierre. "Babette's husband shall never be out of my sight, and it will be best for him to remain an honest man and walk in the straight path, or else—"
"You will inflict justice upon him yourself, will you not?" Jean interposed. "It will be full time. Babette, meanwhile, will have been sacrificed all the same."
"Very well; but you must remember, Jean," retorted Pierre, rather out of patience, "that if it is a difficult position, I simply am meeting it. I did not bring it about. Have you, who talk so finely, been able to devise any other plan than that which I suggest?"
"Yes, of course there is another resource," said Jean.
"What is it?" asked Pierre and Babette in one breath,—Pierre, it must be said, quite as eagerly as his sister.
Vicomte d'Exmès said not a word, but listened with redoubled intentness.
"Oh, well," said Jean, "may it not be possible to find some honest man, who, more moved than alarmed by Babette's ill-fortune, would agree to give her his name?"
Pierre shook his head incredulously,—
"We must not hope for that," said he. "Any one who would close his eyes to such a thing must be either in love or a coward. In either event, we should be obliged to admit strangers or indifferent friends into our sad secret; and although Monsieur d'Exmès and Martin are no doubt our most loyal friends, still I deeply regret that circumstances have made them acquainted with facts which ought never to have been known outside of the family."
Jean Peuquoy replied with an emotion which he tried in vain to hide,—
"I would not suggest a coward to Babette for her husband; but as to your other supposition, Pierre, may we not consider that, too? Suppose that some one were in love with my cousin; suppose that he, also, had been made acquainted by circumstances with her fault, but had learned of her repentance at the same time, and had resolved to assure himself a peaceful and happy future, to forget the past, which Babette surely would like well to efface by her virtue and goodness hereafter,—suppose all this were true; what would you say, Pierre; and you, Babette?"
"Oh, that cannot be! It is a dream!" cried Babette, whose eyes, nevertheless, were illumined with a ray of hope.
"Do you know such a man, Jean?" asked Pierre, in a matter-of-fact way; "or is it not a mere supposition on your part,—as Babette says, a dream?"
Jean Peuquoy, at this straightforward question, hesitated and stammered, and was very ill at ease.
He did not notice the silent, but deep and attentive interest with which Gabriel was following his every motion; he was entirely absorbed in observing Babette, who, breathing fast, and with eyes cast down, seemed to be battling with an emotion which the honest weaver, little skilled in such matters, knew not how to interpret.
He did not draw from it any deduction favorable to his hopes, for it was in a piteous sort of voice that he answered his cousin's direct interrogatory,—
"Alas, Pierre, it is only too probable! I confess that all that I have said is only a dream. In truth, it would not be sufficient for the fulfilment of my dream that Babette should be dearly loved; there must be a little love on her side as well, otherwise she would still be wretched. Now, the man who would be willing thus to buy his own happiness from Babette at the price of forgetfulness would doubtless have to make excuses for some disadvantages on his own side; he would probably not be young nor handsome,—in a word, not lovable. Thus there is no likelihood that Babette would consent to become his wife, and that is why all that I have said is, I fear, nought but idle dreaming."
"Yes, it was a dream," said Babette, sadly, "but not for the reasons that you give, my cousin. The man who would be generous enough to come to my rescue by such devotion, though he should be the most withered and ugly of his sex, ought to be young and beautiful in my sight; for his very act would show a freshness of soul which is not always to be found in the youth of twenty; nor can such kind and generous thoughts fail to leave the imprint of nobleness upon the features. I should find him worthy of my love, too, for he would have given me the greatest proof of his affection that woman could receive. My duty and my pleasure would be to love him all my life and with all my heart, and so that would be very easy. But the impossible and improbable part of your dream, my cousin, would be to find any one capable of such self-abnegation for a poor girl, without charm, and dishonored as I am. There may be men noble enough and kind-hearted enough to entertain for an instant the idea of such a sacrifice, and that is a great deal; but upon reflection, even they would hesitate, and withdraw at the last moment, and I should fall once more from hope to despair. Such, my good Jean, are the real reasons why what you said was nought but a dream."
"And what if it were the truth after all?" said Gabriel suddenly rising from his chair.
"What, what do you say?" cried Babette, completely bewildered.
"I say, Babette, that this devoted, generous heart does exist," replied Gabriel.
"Do you know the man?" asked Pierre, deeply moved.
"I do know him," replied the young man, smiling. "He loves you indeed, Babette, but with the affection of a father as well as of a lover,—an affection which longs to cherish and forgive you. Thus you may accept without reservation this sacrifice of his, in which is no possibility of error, and which is induced only by most tender compassion and most sincere devotion. Besides, you will give as much as you receive, Babette: you will receive honor, but you will bestow happiness; for he who loves you stands alone in the world, joyless, with no interests to make life sweet to him and nothing to hope for in the future. But you will bring him all these things; and if you consent, you will make him as happy to-day as he will make you some day hereafter. Do I not speak the truth, Jean Peuquoy?"
"But, Monsieur le Vicomte, I am ignorant," stammered Jean, trembling like a leaf.
"Very true, Jean," continued Gabriel, still smiling; "there is really one thing that you don't perhaps know; that is, that Babette feels for him by whom she is beloved, not only profound esteem and deep-seated gratitude, but a holy affection. Babette, although she has not guessed it, has felt a vague presentiment of this love of which she is the object, and was at first relieved in her own heart, then touched by it, and finally made happy by the thought of it. Her violent aversion for the villain who deceived her dates from that time. That is why she went on her knees to her brother a moment ago to implore him not to insist on her union with that wretch, whom she only thought that she loved, in the mistaken innocence of her pure, young heart, and whom she loathes to-day with all the force with which she loves him who holds out a hand to rescue her from shame. Am I wrong, Babette?"
"Really, Monseigneur, I don't know," said Babette, with a face as white as the driven snow.
"One doesn't know, and the other is ignorant," resumed Gabriel. "What, Babette, and you, Jean, do you know nothing of your own inmost hearts? Are you ignorant of your own dearest thoughts? Come, come, that isn't possible! I am not the first to make it clear to you, Babette, that Jean loves you. Surely, Jean, you suspected before I spoke, that you were beloved by Babette?"
"Oh, can it be so?" cried Pierre Peuquoy, in a perfect ecstasy of delight; "oh, no, it would be too much happiness!"
"But just look at them!" said Gabriel to him.
Babette and Jean were gazing at each other, still irresolute and half incredulous.
Then, Jean read in the eyes of Babette such fervent gratitude, and Babette so moving an appeal in those of Jean, that both were convinced and persuaded at the same moment.
Without knowing how it came about, they were locked in each other's arms.
Pierre Peuquoy was so entirely overcome that he could not utter a word; but he pressed Jean's hand with a fervor more eloquent than all the words of all the languages in the world.
As for Martin-Guerre, he sat up in bed, despite the risk, and with eyes swimming in tears of joy, clapped his hands with a will at this unexpected dénouement.
When the first transport of joy had somewhat subsided, Gabriel said,—
"Now we will arrange matters thus. Jean Peuquoy must marry Babette as soon as possible; but before finally taking up their abode with their brother, I insist that they pass a few months in my house at Paris. In that way Babette's secret, the sad cause of this happy marriage, will be buried forever in the five faithful hearts of those who are here present. There is a sixth, to be sure, who might betray the secret; but he, if he ever learns Babette's fate, which is not likely, will not have it in his power to annoy them for long—that I will answer for. So, my dear kind friends, you may live henceforth in perfect content and peace, and have no fear of the future."
"Ah, my noble, high-souled guest!" said Pierre, kissing Gabriel's hand.
"To you, and you alone," said Jean, "do we owe our happiness, even as the king owes Calais to you."
"And every morning and evening," added Babette, "we will pray fervently to God for the welfare of our savior."
"Yes, Babette," Gabriel replied, deeply moved, "yes, I thank you for that thought: pray God that your savior may now have the power to save himself."
"Why?" Babette Peuquoy replied to the melancholy and doubting tone of Gabriel's last words, "are you not successful in everything you undertake?—in the defence of St. Quentin and the capture of Calais as well as in arranging a happy marriage for poor Babette?"
"Yes, it is true," said Gabriel, with a sad smile; "God seems to have decreed that the most insuperable and most alarming obstacles in my path should vanish like magic at my approach; but, alas! that is no proof, my dear child, that I shall finally attain the end which I so earnestly desire."
"Ah," said Jean Peuquoy, "you have made too many others happy, not to be happy yourself at last."
"I accept the omen, Jean," replied Gabriel, "and there could be no more favorable augury of my own success than to leave my friends in Calais peaceful and happy. But you know that it is necessary that I should leave you now, perhaps to become immersed in sorrow and in tears—who can tell? Let us at all events leave no regrets behind, and let us arrange everything in which we are interested."
So they fixed a day for the wedding, which Gabriel, to his great regret, was not able to attend, and then agreed upon the day upon which Jean and Babette were to start for Paris.
"It may be," said Gabriel, sadly, "that you will not find me at home to welcome you. I hope that will not be the case, but I may perhaps be obliged to be absent from Paris and the court for a time. But let that make no difference about your coming. Aloyse, my good old nurse, will entertain you in my behalf as well as I myself could do. You and she must, however, give a thought now and then to your absent host."
Martin-Guerre had to remain at Calais, notwithstanding all his remonstrances and entreaties. Ambroise Paré declared that his convalescence would be very slow and tedious, and meanwhile he would require the most constant care and watchfulness. Therefore his choler was of no avail, and he was obliged to yield.
"But as soon as you are entirely well, my faithful fellow," said Vicomte d'Exmès, "come to Paris; and whatever may befall, I will fulfil my promise to you, never fear, and deliver you from your strange persecutor. Now I am doubly bound to do it."
"Oh, Monseigneur, think of yourself, not of me," said Martin-Guerre.
"Every obligation will be met," Gabriel resumed; "but I must say 'adieu,' my good friends, for it is time for me to return to Monsieur de Guise. I have asked certain favors of him in your presence, which he will accord me, I think, in consideration of the services I have been fortunate enough to render during these recent occurrences."
But the Peuquoys refused to take leave of Gabriel thus. They insisted upon meeting him at the Paris gate at three o'clock, to see him once more and say farewell to him there.
Martin-Guerre was the only one who had to say his last words to his master at this moment, and they were not uttered without regret and sorrow. But Gabriel comforted him somewhat with a few of the kind expressions which came so naturally to his lips.
A quarter of an hour later Vicomte d'Exmès was ushered into the presence of the Duc de Guise.
"Oh, there you are, my ambitious young friend!" said the duke, as he saw him come in.
"My only ambition has been to do my best to second your efforts, Monseigneur," said Gabriel.
"Oh, from that point of view you have shown no ambition at all," rejoined Le Balafré (we may henceforth give the duke that name, or, more properly speaking, that title). "I call you ambitious, Gabriel," he continued playfully, "because of the innumerable extravagant requests you have made upon me; and upon my word I am not sure that I can satisfy you."
"I based them rather upon what I knew of your benevolence than upon my own poor merits," said Gabriel.
"You have a very high opinion of my benevolence, then," said the Duc de Guise, with mild raillery. "I leave it to you, Monsieur de Vaudemont," he continued, turning to a gentleman seated beside his bed, who had just come to visit him,—"I leave it to you to say if any one should be allowed to present such paltry requests to a prince."
"Consider that I erred in what I said, then, Monseigneur," Gabriel responded, "and that I based my requests upon my own merits and not upon your benevolence."
"Another blunder!" cried the duke; "for your gallantry is a hundred times beyond my power to recompense. Now just listen for a moment, Monsieur de Vaudemont, and let me tell you of the unprecedented favors which Monsieur d'Exmès asks at my hands."
"I venture to predict, Monseigneur," said the Marquis de Vaudemont, "that they are sure to be absurdly small, both in proportion to his merit and your power. However, let me hear them."
"In the first place," continued the duke, "Monsieur d'Exmès asks me to take back to Paris with me the little band of volunteers whom he enlisted at his own expense and for his own purpose, but meanwhile to make such use as I please of them. He reserves only four men to serve as his own suite on his journey to Paris. And these brave fellows, whom he thus lends to me under pretense of recommending them to me, are no others, Monsieur de Vaudemont, than the incarnate fiends who accompanied him in that marvellous escalading expedition which ended in the capture of the impregnable Risbank fort. Well, which of us renders the other a service in this transaction, Monsieur d'Exmès or myself?"
"I must confess that Monsieur d'Exmès does," said the Marquis de Vaudemont.
"And by my faith, I accept this new obligation," resumed the duke, gayly. "I shall not allow your eight fellows to spoil in idleness, Gabriel. As soon as I can leave my bed I will take them with me on my expedition against Ham; for I do not propose to leave the English one foot of earth in our dear France. Malemort himself, the everlastingly wounded man, will be on hand, too; for Master Pare has promised that he shall be cured as soon I am."
"He will be very fortunate, Monseigneur," said Gabriel.
"So, then, there is your first request granted, and with no great effort on my part. In the second place, Monsieur d'Exmès reminds me that Madame Diane de Castro, the king's daughter, whom you know, Monsieur de Vaudemont, is here at Calais, where she has been held prisoner by the English. Vicomte d'Exmès, realizing how deeply I am engrossed with other matters, has very opportunely reminded me to assure this lady of the royal blood of the protection and respect which are her due. Does, or does not Monsieur d'Exmès render me a service in this matter also?"
"Without the slightest doubt," replied the Marquis de Vaudemont.
"The second point is settled, then," said the duke. "My orders are already given; and whilst I am reputed to be an indifferent courtier, I am altogether too sensible of my duty as a gentleman, to forget at this time the consideration which is due to the person and exalted rank of Madame de Castro; therefore, a suitable escort will be ready to accompany her to Paris, when and how she chooses."
Gabriel expressed his gratitude only by a deep inclination, fearing that he might betray the interest and importance which that promise had for him.
"In the third place," resumed the Duc de Guise, "Lord Wentworth, the English governor of this city, was taken prisoner by Monsieur d'Exmès. In the terms of capitulation granted to Lord Derby, we bound ourselves to admit him to ransom; but Monsieur d'Exmès, to whom both prisoner and ransom belong, permits us to show ourselves still more liberal. In fact, he asks for our authority to send Lord Wentworth to England without requiring him to pay any price for his freedom. Will not this action give great éclat to our courtesy, even beyond these narrow limits; and does not Monsieur d'Exmès thereby render us once more a service of real value?"
"Undoubtedly, as is demonstrated by Monseigneur's noble appreciation of it," said Monsieur de Vaudemont.
"Make your mind easy, Gabriel," said the duke; "Monsieur de Thermes has gone, on your behalf and mine, to set Lord Wentworth at liberty and return his sword to him. He may leave the city as soon as he desires."
"I thank you, Monseigneur," said Gabriel; "but do not give me credit for too much magnanimity. I am only requiting Lord Wentworth for various courtesies he extended to me when I was myself his prisoner, and giving him at the same time a lesson in fair dealing and probity; I doubt not he will understand the allusion and the implied reproof."
"You have more reason than any one else to deal sternly with him upon such questions," said the duke in all seriousness.
"Now, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, much disturbed to find the principal object of his solicitude ignored by the Duc de Guise, "allow me to remind you of the promise you were good enough to make me in my tent on the eve of the capture of the Risbank fort."