"Sire, until to-morrow."
"Until to-morrow, Monsieur," the king replied.
But as he spoke Henri avoided Gabriel's eye; he even turned away, nor did he smile any longer, while Madame de Poitiers's face was beaming.
Gabriel, whom every one thought to see radiant with joy and hope, withdrew with grief and terror at his heart.
All the evening he haunted the neighborhood of the Châtelet.
He regained his courage to some slight extent when time passed without his seeing Monsieur de Montmorency leave the prison.
Then he felt the royal signet on his finger, and recalled the solemn words of Henri II., which left no chance for doubt, and which could not conceal a deception,—"The object of your sublime and holy ambition shall be restored to you."
Courage! The night which still separated Gabriel from the decisive moment seemed more than a year long.
What Gabriel thought and what he suffered during those mortal hours God only knows; for when he returned to his own house he said nothing to his retainers, nor even to his nurse. From that moment began an absorbed and concentrated dumb life, so to speak,—a life all action, and very sparing of words, to which he devoted himself strictly from this time on, as if he had tacitly taken vows of silence.
Consequently, the disappointed hopes, energetic resolutions, projects of love or vengeance,—everything, in short, that Gabriel thought or dreamed, or vowed in his own heart that night remained a secret between his noble heart and his God.
Not till eight o'clock could he present himself at the Châtelet, with the ring given him by the king,—the talisman which was to open all the doors, not to him alone, but to his father.
Until six in the morning Gabriel remained alone in his room, and refused to speak with any person.
At that hour he descended to the first floor, all clad and equipped as if for a long journey. He had asked the nurse the night before to give him all the money she could get together.
The people of his household were most earnest in offering their services to him. The four volunteers who had come in his suite from Calais were foremost in placing themselves at his disposal; but he thanked them most heartily, and dismissed them, retaining only the page André, the latest comer, and his nurse Aloyse.
"My good Aloyse," he began, "I am expecting from day to day the arrival of two guests, friends of mine, from Calais,—Jean Peuquoy and his wife Babette. It may be, Aloyse, that I shall not be here to receive them; but even in my absence,—nay, especially in my absence,—I beg you, Aloyse, to make them welcome, and treat them as if they were my brother and sister. Babette already knows you well from having heard me speak of you a hundred times. She will trust in you as a daughter in her mother; so I entreat you, in the name of your affection for me, to show her a mother's tenderness and indulgence."
"I promise you I will, Monseigneur," said the kind-hearted nurse, simply; "and you know that from me those words are sufficient. Have no anxiety about your guests, for they shall want for nothing in the way of bodily comfort."
"Thanks, Aloyse," said Gabriel, pressing her hand. "Now for you, André!" said he to the page whom Madame Diane de Castro had given him. "I have certain last commissions of grave importance which I must confide to a trusty hand, and I have selected you, André, to execute them, because you take the place of my faithful Martin-Guerre."
"I am at your command, Monseigneur," said André.
"Listen carefully to what I say," continued Gabriel. "In an hour I shall leave this house alone; if I return in a short time, you will have nothing to do,—or rather, I shall have different orders to give you. But it is possible that I may not return,—not to-day, that is, nor to-morrow, nor for a long time to come—"
The nurse, in despair, raised her clasped hands heavenward imploringly. André interrupted his master.
"Pardon, Monseigneur! you say that you may not return here for a long time?"
"Yes, André."
"And am I not to accompany you?—and perhaps not to see you again for a long while?" added André, who seemed both sorrowful and embarrassed at this information.
"That may well be, no doubt," said Gabriel.
"But Madame de Castro," rejoined the page, "before I quitted her intrusted to my care a message, a letter for Monseigneur—"
"And you have never yet given it to me, André?" said Gabriel, warmly.
"Pardon me, Monseigneur," André replied; "I was instructed not to deliver it unless you were to return from the Louvre either very sorrowful or in a state of angry excitement. Only in such case Madame Diane told me to give Monsieur d'Exmès the letter, which contained what might be a warning to him and perhaps a consolation."
"Give it me, quickly, give it me!" cried Gabriel. "Advice and consolation could not arrive more opportunely, I fear."
André drew from his doublet a letter very carefully wrapped up, and handed it to his new master; Gabriel hurriedly broke the seal, and withdrew to a window recess to read it.
This is what he read:—
MY FRIEND,—Amid all the anguish and all the dreams of this last night, which separates me from you, perhaps forever, the most terrible thought which has torn my heart is this:—It may be that, in carrying out the momentous and formidable duty which you are about to undertake with such brave heart, you may come in contact, nay, even in conflict, with the king. It may be that the unforeseen issue of your struggle will force you to hate the king, or even incite you to visit your wrath upon him.Gabriel, I do not yet know if he is my father, but I do know that he has until now cherished me as his child. The mere dread of your vengeance makes me shudder while I write, and its accomplishment would be my death-blow.And yet the duty which depends upon my own birth may perhaps compel me to think as you do; perhaps I, like you, may have to avenge him whom I shall hereafter know as my father upon him who has hitherto been a father to me,—frightful thought!But while doubt and darkness still hide the solution of this terrible enigma from my sight, while I am still ignorant on which side my hatred belongs and on which my love, Gabriel, I implore you,—and if you have loved me, you will obey me, Gabriel,—respect the person of the king.I can reason now, without passion at least, if not without emotion; and I feel, yes, I am sure, that it is not for man to punish man, but for God.So, dear friend, whatever happens, do not try to take from the hands of God the prerogative of chastisement, even to strike a criminal.If he whom I have until now called my father is guilty, and being only human, he may be, do not be his judge, far less his executioner. Have no fear; the Lord will judge him, and the Lord will avenge you more terribly than you could do yourself. Leave your cause fearlessly to His justice.Unless God makes you the involuntary and, in some sort, fatal instrument of His pitiless justice; unless He makes use of your hand in your own despite; unless you strike the blow unwillingly and without wishing it,—Gabriel, do not constitute yourself his judge, and above all things do not with your own hand carry out the sentence.Do this for love of me, my friend. In mercy's name I ask it; and it is the last prayer and the last despairing cry to your heart fromDIANE DE CASTRO.
MY FRIEND,—Amid all the anguish and all the dreams of this last night, which separates me from you, perhaps forever, the most terrible thought which has torn my heart is this:—
It may be that, in carrying out the momentous and formidable duty which you are about to undertake with such brave heart, you may come in contact, nay, even in conflict, with the king. It may be that the unforeseen issue of your struggle will force you to hate the king, or even incite you to visit your wrath upon him.
Gabriel, I do not yet know if he is my father, but I do know that he has until now cherished me as his child. The mere dread of your vengeance makes me shudder while I write, and its accomplishment would be my death-blow.
And yet the duty which depends upon my own birth may perhaps compel me to think as you do; perhaps I, like you, may have to avenge him whom I shall hereafter know as my father upon him who has hitherto been a father to me,—frightful thought!
But while doubt and darkness still hide the solution of this terrible enigma from my sight, while I am still ignorant on which side my hatred belongs and on which my love, Gabriel, I implore you,—and if you have loved me, you will obey me, Gabriel,—respect the person of the king.
I can reason now, without passion at least, if not without emotion; and I feel, yes, I am sure, that it is not for man to punish man, but for God.
So, dear friend, whatever happens, do not try to take from the hands of God the prerogative of chastisement, even to strike a criminal.
If he whom I have until now called my father is guilty, and being only human, he may be, do not be his judge, far less his executioner. Have no fear; the Lord will judge him, and the Lord will avenge you more terribly than you could do yourself. Leave your cause fearlessly to His justice.
Unless God makes you the involuntary and, in some sort, fatal instrument of His pitiless justice; unless He makes use of your hand in your own despite; unless you strike the blow unwillingly and without wishing it,—Gabriel, do not constitute yourself his judge, and above all things do not with your own hand carry out the sentence.
Do this for love of me, my friend. In mercy's name I ask it; and it is the last prayer and the last despairing cry to your heart from
DIANE DE CASTRO.
Gabriel read the letter twice from beginning to end; but meanwhile, André and the nurse could detect no sign of emotion on his pale face save the mournful smile which had become so familiar there.
When he had refolded Diane's letter and hidden it in his breast, he remained silent for a time, with bent head and in deep thought.
Then, as if awaking from a dream,—
"It is well," he said aloud. "The orders I have to give you, André, are not changed; and if, as I was saying, I do not soon return, whether you learn anything about me, or whether you do not hear my name mentioned, whatever happens or does not happen, remember my words,—this is what you are to do."
"I am listening, Monseigneur," said André, "and I will obey you in every detail; for I love you, and am your devoted servant."
"Madame de Castro," said Gabriel, "will be at Paris within a few days. Make arrangements to be informed of her arrival as soon as possible."
"It will be very easy to do that, Monseigneur."
"Go to her at once if you can," continued Gabriel, "and deliver this sealed package from me. Take especial care not to lose it, André, although it contains nothing of value to any one else,—a lady's veil, nothing more. But no matter! Do you yourself deliver this veil to her in person, and say to her—"
"What shall I say, Monseigneur?" asked André, seeing that his master was hesitating.
"No, say nothing to her," Gabriel resumed, "except that she is free, and that I give back to her all her promises, even that of which this veil is the pledge."
"Is that all, Monseigneur?" asked the page.
"That is all," said Gabriel. "But, André, if nothing has been heard of me, and you see that Madame de Castro is a little anxious, you may add—But for what good? No, add nothing, André. Ask her, if you choose, to take you back into her service. Otherwise, come back here and await my return."
"That is to say, Monseigneur, that you will surely come back?" asked the nurse, with tears in her eyes. "But when you said that perhaps we should not hear any more of you—"
"Perhaps that would be best, dear Mother," said Gabriel, "that you should hear nothing of me. In any event, hope for the best, and await my return."
"Hope, when you have disappeared from all eyes, even from those of your poor nurse! Ah, it is very hard to hope!" replied Aloyse.
"But who said that I should disappear?" returned Gabriel. "Ought I not to provide for every contingency? For my own part, never fear; whatever precautions I may take I rely upon embracing you again very soon, Aloyse, with all the gratitude of my heart. That is most probable; for Providence is a kind and loving mother to him who implores her protection. Did I not begin, too, by saying to André that all my injunctions to him would probably be useless and void in the almost certain event of my return to-day?"
"May God bless you for those dear words, Monseigneur!" cried poor Aloyse, moved beyond expression.
"Have you no other orders to give, Monseigneur, to be executed during your absence?—which may God make of brief duration!" asked André.
"Wait a moment," said Gabriel, as a thought seemed suddenly to occur to him. Seating himself at a table, he wrote the following letter to Coligny:—
MONSIEUR L'AMIRAL,—I propose to instruct myself in the principles of your religion, and you may count me as one of you after to-day.Whatever may be the instrument of my conversion, whether your persuasive words or some other motive, I, nevertheless, devote irrevocably to your cause and that of the oppressed religion my heart, my life, and my sword.Your very humble companion and good friend,GABRIEL DE MONTGOMMERY.
MONSIEUR L'AMIRAL,—I propose to instruct myself in the principles of your religion, and you may count me as one of you after to-day.
Whatever may be the instrument of my conversion, whether your persuasive words or some other motive, I, nevertheless, devote irrevocably to your cause and that of the oppressed religion my heart, my life, and my sword.
Your very humble companion and good friend,
GABRIEL DE MONTGOMMERY.
"Deliver this as well, if I fail to return," said Gabriel, handing the letter sealed to André. "And now, my dear friends, I must say adieu, and leave you. The time has come."
Half an hour later Gabriel knocked with trembling hand at the great door of the Châtelet.
Monsieur de Salvoison, the governor of the Châtelet who had received Gabriel at his first visit, had recently died, and the new governor was Monsieur de Sazerac.
It was to him that the young man was escorted. Anxiety, with its iron hand, had seized poor Gabriel's throat so tightly that he could not utter a single word; but he silently presented the ring which the king had given him to the governor.
Monsieur de Sazerac bowed gravely.
"I was expecting you, Monsieur," he said; "I received an hour ago the order in which you are interested. My instructions are, upon presentation of this ring, and without asking any other explanation from you, to deliver to you the nameless prisoner who has been detained for many years in the Châtelet under the designation of Number 21. Am I right, Monsieur?"
"Yes, yes, Monsieur," replied Gabriel, eagerly; for hope returning had restored his voice. "And this order, Monsieur le Gouverneur?"
"I am ready to execute, Monsieur."
"Oh, oh! Can it really be?" said Gabriel, shaking from head to foot.
"It surely is so," replied Monsieur de Sazerac, with an accent in which an indifferent person might have detected a shade of sadness and bitterness.
But Gabriel was too distracted and excited by his joy. "Ah, it is true, then!" cried he. "I do not dream. My eyes are open. My insane terrors were dreams; and you are really going to deliver this prisoner to me, Monsieur? Oh, I thank thee, my God! And thanks to thee, Sire! But come, let us go quickly, Monsieur, I beseech you."
He took two or three steps as if to lead the way before Monsieur de Sazerac; but his strength, so vigorous and inexhaustible in the face of suffering and danger, failed him in the excess of his joy. He was obliged to stop for a moment, for his heart was beating so violently and so fast that he thought he should suffocate.
Poor human nature was too weak to undergo such a tumult of conflicting emotions.
The almost despaired-of realization of such far-off hopes and the end and aim of his whole life,—the goal of his superhuman efforts suddenly attained; gratitude to the loyal king and the just God; filial love at last to be satisfied; another passion, still more ardent, to be at last decided for better or worse,—such a multitude of feelings, all aroused and excited at the same moment, made poor Gabriel's heart overflow.
But amid this inexpressible whirl of emotions and almost insane happiness, his least confused thoughts framed themselves into something like a hymn of thanksgiving to Henri II., to whom he owed this delirium of joy.
Gabriel repeated over and over again in his grateful heart his oath to devote his whole life to this truehearted king and his children. How, in God's name, could he for one moment have doubted so noble and excellent a monarch!
But at last, shaking off his ecstatic mood, he said to the governor, who had stopped beside him,—
"Pardon, Monsieur! Pardon this weakness which overcame me for a moment. Joy, you see, is sometimes too heavy a load to carry."
"Oh, do not apologize, Monsieur, I beg!" replied the governor, in a deep voice.
This time Gabriel noticed the tone in which he spoke, and fixed his eyes upon him.
Nowhere could a more kindly, open, and honest face be found. Everything about this prison-governor indicated sincerity and kindness of heart.
Strangely enough, the emotion which at that moment was depicted upon the good man's features, while he observed Gabriel's exuberant happiness, was heartfelt compassion.
Gabriel caught the singular expression, and every vestige of color fled from his cheeks as a presentiment of evil laid hold upon his heart.
But such was his nature that this ill-defined dread, suddenly intruding upon his happiness, served only to impart renewed energy to his valiant soul y and standing proudly erect, he said to the governor,—
"Come, Monsieur, let us go. I am strong again now, and quite ready."
Gabriel and Monsieur de Sazerac thereupon went down into the prison, preceded by a valet carrying a torch.
Gabriel found gloomy souvenirs at every step, and recognized at the windings of the corridors and on the staircases the dark walls which he had seen before, and the sombre impressions which he had experienced on his former visit without being able to explain them.
When they reached the iron door of the dungeon in which he had, with so strange a feeling at his heart, visited the haggard, dumb prisoner, he stopped abruptly.
"He is there," said he, with beating heart.
But Monsieur de Sazerac sorrowfully shook his head.
"No," he replied, "he is no longer there."
"What!" ejaculated Gabriel. "No longer there! Are you mocking me, Monsieur?"
"Oh, Monsieur!" said the governor, in mild reproach.
A cold sweat moistened Gabriel's brow.
"Pardon, pardon," he murmured. "But what do your words imply? Oh, tell me; speak quickly!"
"I am very much grieved to inform you, Monsieur, that last evening the secret prisoner confined here was transferred to a floor below this."
"Ah!" said Gabriel, bewildered. "Why was that, pray?"
"He had been warned, Monsieur, as I think you know, that if he should so much as make an attempt to speak to any person whatsoever, if he uttered the slightest exclamation, and muttered a name, even in response to a question, he would be immediately transferred to a deeper and more terrible and deadly dungeon than his own."
"I know all that," muttered Gabriel, in so low a tone that it did not reach the governor's ear.
"Once before, Monsieur," continued Monsieur de Sazerac, "the prisoner had ventured to disobey that order, and it was then that he was transferred to this dungeon which is before us, and which you have seen,—harsh and cruel enough, God knows. It seems, Monsieur, or so I have been told, that you were informed when you visited the prison before of the doom of eternal silence which he was compelled to undergo, even though alive."
"Yes, yes," said Gabriel, almost insane with impatient dread. "Well, Monsieur?"
"Yesterday evening," continued Monsieur de Sazerac, with sorrow and commiseration in his tones, "just before the outer doors were closed for the night, a man came to the Châtelet,—a man of eminence, whose name I cannot mention."
"No matter; go on!" exclaimed Gabriel.
"This man," pursued the governor, "gave orders that he should be taken to the cell of Number 21. I accompanied him alone. He spoke to the prisoner without at first obtaining a reply, and I hoped that the old man would come out triumphantly from this ordeal; for full half an hour he maintained an immovable silence in the face of all the importunities and provocations that were showered upon him."
Gabriel breathed a deep sigh, and raised his eyes to heaven, but said not a word to interrupt the governor's dolorous recital.
"Unfortunately, the prisoner at last, upon something which was whispered in his ear, rose to a sitting posture, tears gushed from his stony eyes, and he spoke, Monsieur. I was instructed to narrate all these particulars to you, so that you might the more readily believe my word as a gentleman when I add, 'The prisoner spoke.' I declare to you, with sorrow, but upon my honor, that I myself heard him."
"And then?" asked Gabriel, brokenly.
"Thereupon," replied Monsieur de Sazerac, "I was required, in spite of my earnest remonstrances and my entreaties, to fulfil the inhuman duty which my office imposed upon me,—to obey a power higher than mine, and which would have been at no loss to find more willing instruments had I refused,—and to cause the prisoner to be transferred by his dumb jailer to the dungeon beneath this."
"The dungeon beneath this!" cried Gabriel. "Ah, let us go quickly, for I am bringing him deliverance at last!"
The governor sadly shook his head; but Gabriel saw not the motion, for he was already rushing down the slippery and dilapidated steps which led to the lowest depths of the gloomy prison.
Monsieur de Sazerac took the torch from the hands of the attendant, whom he dismissed with a motion, of his hand, and followed Gabriel, with his handkerchief over his mouth.
At every step the air grew fouler and more suffocating. When they reached the foot of the staircase they were fairly gasping for breath, and the feeling was instinctive that nothing could live more than a few moments in that atmosphere, save the unclean creatures they were crushing beneath their feet.
But Gabriel never thought of that. He took from the governor's trembling hands the rusty key that he handed him, and opening the heavy, worm-eaten door, rushed headlong into the dungeon.
By the light of the torch a form could be distinguished in a corner stretched upon a heap of foul straw.
Gabriel threw himself upon the body, drew it from the corner, and tried to restore it to life, crying,—
"Father, father!"
Monsieur de Sazerac fairly shook with horror at that cry.
The arms and the head of the old man fell back inert and lifeless under Gabriel's caressing hands.
Gabriel, still kneeling beside the lifeless mass, raised his pale, bewildered countenance, and cast a glance of ominous tranquillity around him. He seemed to be questioning himself and pondering deeply; and his almost unnatural calm touched and alarmed Monsieur de Sazerac more than all the outcry and sobbing in the world would have done.
Suddenly, as if the idea that life might not be extinct had just occurred to him, he hurriedly placed his hand over the heart of the corpse.
For a moment or two he felt and listened eagerly.
"Nothing!" he then said in a firm but gentle voice, which was terrible for those very qualities; "nothing!—the heart no longer beats, but the flesh is still warm."
"What a marvellously strong constitution!" the governor muttered; "he might have lived for a long time to come."
All this time the eyes had remained open. Gabriel leaned over and closed them with reverent touch. Then he imprinted a respectful and loving kiss, the first and the last, upon the poor wasted lids, which had been wet with so many bitter tears.
"Monsieur," observed Monsieur de Sazerac, hoping to divert Gabriel from his terrifying contemplation of the inert body before him, "if the deceased was dear to you—"
"Dear to me, Monsieur!" Gabriel interrupted; "why, yes,—he was my father."
"Very well, Monsieur, if you desire to pay the last sad honors to his memory, I am directed to allow you to remove the body from this place."
"Ah, indeed!" replied Gabriel, with the same terrible calmness. "He is strictly just with me, then, and is keeping his word to me with great exactitude, I must confess. You must know, Monsieur le Gouverneur, that he swore to restore my father to me. He is restored to me: behold him! I recognize the fact that there was no undertaking to restore him to me alive."
He laughed a harsh, unpleasant laugh.
"Come, courage!" rejoined Monsieur de Sazerac. "It is time now to say adieu to him for whom you weep."
"I am doing so, as you see, Monsieur."
"Yes, but I mean that you really must leave this place at once. The air that we breathe here is not fit for human lungs, and a longer stay in this poisonous miasma might be very dangerous."
"Here is a proof of it before our eyes," said Gabriel, pointing to the body of his father.
"Come, come, we must be going!" replied the governor, taking the poor fellow's arm to force him away.
"Yes, yes, I will follow you," said Gabriel; "but for God's sake, leave me here a few moments longer!"
Monsieur de Sazerac made a sign of assent, and withdrew as far as the door, where the air was less noxious and heavy.
Gabriel, on his knees by the side of the dead man, and with head bent and hands hanging at his side, remained mute and motionless for some moments, praying or dreaming.
What said he to his dead father? Did he ask those lips, which Death's pitiless finger had closed too soon, for the solution of the enigma he was trying to unravel? Did he swear to the sainted victim that he would avenge him in this world, independently of God's vengeance in the world to come? Did he scan those already decomposing features, to conjecture what sort of man had been this father of his whom he now saw for the second time, and to dream of the peaceful and happy life that might have been in store for him under his watchful care? Did his thoughts dwell upon the past or the future; upon the affairs of this world, or the divine power of the Lord; upon vengeance or forgiveness?
The subject of this sombre communion between a dead father and his son remained forever a secret between Gabriel and his God.
Four or five minutes had passed; and breathing had become a painful and laborious task to these two men who had descended to these pestilential depths,—one in the performance of a holy duty, and the other led by an instinct of humanity.
"Again, I beg you to come away," said the kind-hearted governor to Gabriel. "It is full time that we should go up into the air."
"I am coming," said Gabriel, "I am coming."
He took his father's icy hand in his, and kissed it tenderly; he leaned over his damp and decomposing forehead, and left a kiss there, too.
All this passed without a tear. Alas! he could not weep.
"Au revoir!" said he; "au revoir!"
He rose with the same wonderfully calm and steadfast bearing and expression, whatever passions and emotions may have been rending his heart and soul.
He cast a last look at his father, and wafted a last caress to him, then followed Monsieur de Sazerac with slow and measured step.
On their way to the upper regions he asked to be shown the dark, cold cell where the prisoner had passed so many years of sorrow and despair, and which he, Gabriel, had once entered without embracing his father.
He spent a few moments there of silent meditation, and eager, though hopeless, interest.
When he and the governor had ascended to light and life once more, Monsieur de Sazerac could not repress a shudder of horror and pity as the daylight fell upon the features of the young man, whom he invited to his own room; for his chestnut locks had become silvery white.
After a short interval he said to him, in a voice trembling with emotion,—
"Is there nothing I can do for you now, Monsieur? You have but to ask, and I shall be more than happy to gratify any wish of yours with which my duties do not conflict."
"Monsieur," replied Gabriel, "you told me that I should be allowed to render the last honors to the dead. This evening I shall send some bearers here; and if you will kindly have the body placed in a coffin, and allow them to take it away, they will see that the prisoner is interred in the tomb of his ancestors."
"It shall be done, Monsieur," replied Monsieur de Sazerac; "but I must warn you that one condition was imposed upon the granting of this privilege."
"What was that, Monsieur?" asked Gabriel, coldly.
"That you should, in accordance with your agreement, cause no scandal or disturbance."
"I will keep that promise, too," said Gabriel. "The men will come by night, and without any knowledge as to the burden they are carrying will transport the body to the Rue des Jardins St. Paul, to the funeral vault of the counts of—"
"Pardon, Monsieur!" the governor interposed hurriedly; "I do not know the prisoner's name, nor is it my wish or my duty to know it. I have been compelled by the obligations of my office and the word I have given to maintain silence with you upon many matters; and you should be quite as reserved with me."
"But I for my part have nothing to conceal," replied Gabriel, proudly. "It is only the guilty who wish to cover their tracks."
"While you are only one of the unfortunates," said the governor. "After all, that is not much better, is it?"
"Besides," continued Gabriel, "I have already surmised the matters about which you have kept silence; indeed, I could tell you myself. For instance, this powerful individual who came here last evening, and who wished to talk with the prisoner so that he might make him speak—well, I could tell you almost the exact words of the talisman which finally induced my father to break silence,—the silence whereon depended the feeble remnant of his life, for which he had up to that time struggled bravely with his murderers."
"What! you say that you know?" said Monsieur de Sazerac, in amazement.
"I am sure of it," was Gabriel's reply. "The individual in question said to the poor old man, 'Your son lives!' or, perhaps, 'Your son has covered himself with renown!' or, again, 'Your son is coming to set you free!' He spoke to him of his son, at all events—the villain!"
The governor let fall an exclamation of astonishment.
"And at the mention of his son," continued Gabriel, "the wretched father, who had up to that time succeeded in restraining himself even before his most implacable foe, could not overcome a joyful impulse, and though he had remained dumb under all the provocation of his hatred, cried for joy when his love was awakened. Tell me, Monsieur, do I say truly?"
The governor bent his head without replying.
"It must be true, since you deny it not," Gabriel continued. "You can see how fruitless was your endeavor to conceal from me what this influential man said to the wretched captive. And as for the name of this all-powerful person, it was in vain also for you to pass that over in silence. Do you wish that I should name him to you?"
"Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!" cried Monsieur de Sazerac, earnestly. "We are alone, it is true, but be careful. Are you not afraid?"
"I have already told you," said Gabriel, "that I have nothing to fear. Well, then, Monsieur, this man's name was Monsieur le Connétable, Duc de Montmorency. The executioner's mask has fallen off, you see."
"Oh, Monsieur!" ejaculated the governor, looking fearfully around.
"As to the prisoner's name and mine," pursued Gabriel, calmly, "those you do not know. But there is no reason why I should not tell them to you. Moreover, you may have already met me, and may meet me again during your life; then, too, you have been kind and considerate in this supreme moment of my existence; and when you hear my name in men's mouths, as may very well be the case within a few months, it will be well that you should know that he of whom they are talking is the same whom you have made your debtor to-day."
"I shall be most happy," said Monsieur de Sazerac, "to learn that fate has not continued to be so relentless toward you."
"Oh, such questions have no more interest for me!" said Gabriel, gravely. "But, in any event, let me tell you that since my father's death last night in this prison I am the Comte de Montgommery."
The governor of the Châtelet stood as if turned to stone, and could find no word to say.
"And now, adieu, Monsieur," added Gabriel; "adieu. Accept my warmest thanks; may God protect you!"
He saluted Monsieur de Sazerac, and left the gloomy precincts of the prison with a firm step.
But when the fresh air and the bright light of day recalled him to himself, he stayed his steps a moment, dizzy and tottering. The actuality of life came too suddenly upon him as he emerged from that hell.
However, as the passers-by began to look askance at him, he asserted his will, and walked away from the deathly spot.
In the first place he bent his steps to a lonely corner of the Place de Grève. There he took out his tablets, and wrote these words to his nurse:—
MY GOOD ALOYSE,—Do not expect me, for I shall not return to-day. I must be alone for a time, to move about, and think, and wait. But have no anxiety about me; I shall surely see you again.This evening arrange matters so that everything will be quiet in the house at an early hour. You alone must sit up, and open the door to four men who will knock at the great door a little before midnight, when the street is deserted.I ask you personally to conduct these men, laden as they will be with a sorrowful but priceless burden, to the family burial-vault; point out to them the open tomb in which they must place him whom they will have in charge, and watch carefully the preparations for the interment; then, when they are at an end, give each of the men four golden crowns, guide them back to the door without noise, and return at once to the tomb to kneel and pray as you would for your master and your father.I will pray also at the same hour, but far away from the spot. It must be so. I feel that the sight of that tomb might excite me to reckless and violent deeds, and I must ask counsel rather from God in solitude.Au revoir, dear Aloyse,au revoir. Remind André of his commission to Madame de Castro, and do not yourself forget my guests, Jean and Babette Peuquoy.Au revoir, and God be with you!GABRIEL DE M.
MY GOOD ALOYSE,—Do not expect me, for I shall not return to-day. I must be alone for a time, to move about, and think, and wait. But have no anxiety about me; I shall surely see you again.
This evening arrange matters so that everything will be quiet in the house at an early hour. You alone must sit up, and open the door to four men who will knock at the great door a little before midnight, when the street is deserted.
I ask you personally to conduct these men, laden as they will be with a sorrowful but priceless burden, to the family burial-vault; point out to them the open tomb in which they must place him whom they will have in charge, and watch carefully the preparations for the interment; then, when they are at an end, give each of the men four golden crowns, guide them back to the door without noise, and return at once to the tomb to kneel and pray as you would for your master and your father.
I will pray also at the same hour, but far away from the spot. It must be so. I feel that the sight of that tomb might excite me to reckless and violent deeds, and I must ask counsel rather from God in solitude.
Au revoir, dear Aloyse,au revoir. Remind André of his commission to Madame de Castro, and do not yourself forget my guests, Jean and Babette Peuquoy.Au revoir, and God be with you!
GABRIEL DE M.
Having written this letter, Gabriel sought and found four men of the people,—laborers, that is to say.
He gave each of them four crowns in advance, and promised them as many more. In order to earn their wages, one of them was to take a letter to its address immediately; then, all four were to present themselves at the Châtelet a little before ten that same evening, to receive at the governor's hands a coffin, and convey it secretly and silently to the Rue des Jardins St. Paul, to the same house to which the letter was addressed.
The poor workmen overwhelmed Gabriel with their gratitude, and as they left him, in high glee over the windfall, they promised to fulfil his orders to the letter.
"Well, I have at least made four honest fellows happy," said Gabriel, with sorrowful pleasure, if we may be allowed the expression.
Then he pursued a course which led him out of the city, and on his way he passed the Louvre. Wrapped in his cloak, and with arms folded upon his breast, he stood for some moments gazing at the royal abode.
"Now it is for us two to settle our account," he muttered, with a glance of defiance. He resumed his journey, and as he went along there recurred to his memory the horoscope which Master Nostradamus had written long ago for the Comte de Montgommery, and which, in the master's own words, he had found by a remarkable coincidence to be exactly appropriate for his son, according to the laws of astrology,—
"En joûte, en amour, cettuy toucheraLe front du roy,Et cornes ou bien trou sanglant mettraAu front du roy.Mais le veuille ou non, toujours blesseraLe front du roy.Enfin, l'aimera, puis, las! le tueraDame du roy."
"En joûte, en amour, cettuy toucheraLe front du roy,Et cornes ou bien trou sanglant mettraAu front du roy.Mais le veuille ou non, toujours blesseraLe front du roy.Enfin, l'aimera, puis, las! le tueraDame du roy."
Gabriel reflected that curious prediction had already been fulfilled from point to point in his father's case; for the Comte de Montgommery in his youth had wounded King François I. in the face with a burning brand, and had afterward been King Henri's rival in love, and had been slain only the evening before by that very "lady of the king," who had loved him.
Up to that time Gabriel also had been loved by a queen,—Catherine de Médicis.
Would his destiny too be realized to the end? Would his vengeance or his fate decree that he should overthrow and wound the king "in the tilting-field?"
If that should happen, it would be a matter of indifference to Gabriel whether the king's lady who had loved him should slay him sooner or later.
Poor Aloyse, whose life for many years had been passed in waiting, in solitude, and in suffering, again sat two or three endless hours at the window, to see if she could not catch a glimpse of her beloved young master.
When the laborer to whom Gabriel had intrusted the letter knocked at the door, Aloyse rushed to open it. "News at last!" she thought.
News at last, indeed, and terrible news! Aloyse, after the first few lines, felt a mist coming before her eyes, and to conceal her emotion hastened to return to her own room, where she finished with much difficulty the perusal of the fatal missive, the tears streaming from her eyes the while.
However, hers was a stout heart and a valiant soul; so she collected her energies, wiped away her tears, and left her room to say to the messenger,—
"It is well! Until this evening, when I shall expect you and your companions."
André the page questioned her anxiously, but she bade him wait till the following day for answers to his questions. Until then she had enough to think of and to do.
When evening had fallen, she sent the people of the household to bed in good season.
"The master will surely not return to-night," she told them.
But when she was left alone she thought,—
"Ah! the master will return; but, alas! it will be the old master, not the young one,—it will be the dead, and not the living. For what body would he command me to see entombed in the vault of the counts of Montgommery, unless it were that of the Comte de Montgommery himself? Oh, my noble lord, for whom my poor Perrot died, have you at last gone to join your faithful servant? But have you carried your secret with you to the tomb? Oh, mystery of mysteries!—mystery and terror everywhere! But no matter! Though I know and understand nothing, though I hope not, still will I obey; it is my duty, and I will do it. Oh, my God!"
Aloyse's sorrowful revery ended in a fervent prayer. It is the habit of the human soul, when the burden of life becomes too heavy to bear, to seek help and shelter in God's bosom.
About eleven o'clock, the streets being then entirely deserted, a loud knocking was heard at the great door. Aloyse started and turned pale, but summoning all her fortitude, she took a torch in her hand, and descended to admit the men who bore the sad burden. She received with a deep and respectful salute the master who thus returned to his own house after such a long absence. Then she said to the bearers, "Follow me with as little noise as possible. I will show you the way." Going in advance with her light, she led them to the funeral vault.
When they had reached the spot, the bearers placed the coffin in one of the open tombs, and put the cover of black marble in place; then the poor fellows, who had been taught by suffering to look with holy awe upon death, removed their caps, and falling on their knees, offered a short prayer for the soul of the unknown dead.
When they had risen, the nurse led them back in silence, and on the threshold slipped into the hand of one of them the sum Gabriel had promised; whereupon they vanished like dumb spectres, without having uttered a single word.
Aloyse returned to the tomb, and passed the rest of the night on her knees, praying and weeping.
The next morning André found her pale but calm; she said to him simply,—
"My child, we must never lose hope; but it is useless for us to expect Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès any longer. So you must set about executing the commissions with which he charged you in case he did not return at once."
"Very well," said the page, sorrowfully. "I will start at once then to go and meet Madame de Castro."
"In the name of your absent master, I thank you for your zeal, André," said Aloyse.
The boy did as he promised, and set out the same day. He inquired for the noble traveller he was seeking at every halting-place on the road, but did not meet her until he reached Amiens.
Diane de Castro had but just arrived at that city, with the escort with which the Duc de Guise had furnished her as the daughter of Henri II. She had stopped to rest a few hours at the house of Monsieur de Thuré, the governor of the place.
As soon as Diane espied the page, she changed color; but controlling herself with an effort, she made a sign to him to follow her into the next room. When they were alone, she asked him,—
"Well, André, what have you for me?"
"Nothing but this, Madame," the page replied, handing her the package containing the veil.
"Ah, it is not the ring!" cried Diane.
That was as far as her observation went at first; but she soon collected herself somewhat, and a prey to that insatiable curiosity which makes the unfortunate eager to anticipate the extremity of their sorrow, she eagerly interrogated André.
"Did Monsieur d'Exmès intrust you, besides this, with no writing for me?"
"No, Madame."
"But surely you must have some verbal message to give me?"
"Alas!" the page replied, shaking his head, "Monsieur d'Exmès said only that he gave you back all your promises, Madame, even to that of which this veil is the pledge; he added nothing to that."
"But under what circumstances did he send you to me? Had you given him my letter? What said he after reading it? When he put this package in your hands, what did he say? Speak, André! You are devoted and faithful, I know, and my whole future depends on your answers; the very least word may serve as a guide and consolation to me in the darkness which surrounds me."
"Madame," said André, "I will tell you all that I know; but that all is very little."
"Oh, go on, speak, pray speak!" cried Madame de Castro.
André thereupon told her faithfully—omitting nothing, for Gabriel had not enjoined secrecy upon him—all that his master before his departure had charged Aloyse and himself to do, in the event that his absence were prolonged. He told of the young man's hesitation and his bitter suffering; that after reading Diane's letter he had seemed at first to be on the point of speaking, but had ended by saying nothing except a few vague and indefinite words. In fact, André kept his promise, and forgot nothing,—not a gesture, or a half-uttered word, or a failure to speak. But he had said truly that he knew scarcely anything, and his story only contributed to Diane's doubt and uncertainty.
She looked mournfully at the black veil, the lone messenger from her lover, and the true symbol of her destiny. It seemed as if she were questioning its sombre folds, and seeking help and counsel from them.
"One of two things must have happened," she said to herself. "Either Gabriel has learned that he is really my brother, or he has lost all hope of ever penetrating the fatal mystery. I have only to choose between these two calamities. Yes, it must be so, and I have no more illusions on which I can feed my hope. But ought not Gabriel to have spared me this cruel uncertainty? He gives me back my word; but why? Oh, why does he not confide to me what is going to become of him, and what he means to do? Ah, this silence terrifies me more than all the anger and all the threats in the world!"
Diane questioned her very soul to know whether she would do better to follow her first plan, and enter some convent in Paris or the Provinces, never to leave its walls again; or whether it was not her duty to return to court, try to see Gabriel once more, and beg him to tell her the truth as to what had occurred and as to his future plans, and whatever happened, to watch over the life of the king, her father, which might perhaps be in danger.
Of her father? But was Henri II. her father? Might she not prove herself to be the impious and guilty daughter of her real father in trying to impede the righteous vengeance which strove to punish or even to slay the king? A frightful alternative!
But Diane was a woman, and an affectionate and noble-hearted woman. She said to herself that in any event there might be repentance for anger, but that no one could repent of having forgiven; and so, carried away by her naturally kindly disposition, she determined to return to Paris, and until she should have reassuring news of Gabriel and his designs, to remain by the king's side to safeguard and defend him. Even Gabriel himself might have need of her intervention, who could say? When she should have saved the two beings who were dearest of all on earth to her, it would be time to take refuge in God's bosom.
Having determined upon this course, Diane, the brave-hearted, hesitated no longer, but continued her journey to Paris.
She reached her destination three days later, and went at once to the Louvre, where she was welcomed by Henri with unfeigned delight and a wealth of affection truly paternal.
But, in spite of all her endeavors, she could not force herself to adopt any except a sorrowful and cold demeanor in receiving these proofs of fondness; and the king himself, remembering Diane's affection for Gabriel, oftentimes felt embarrassed and moved in his daughter's presence. She reminded him of certain matters which he would have much preferred to forget.
Thus he no longer dared to mention her alliance to François de Montmorency, which had been formerly projected, and so Madame de Castro's mind was at rest upon that point at least.
She had, however, many other subjects of anxiety. Neither at the Montgommery mansion, nor at the Louvre, nor in fact anywhere, was any definite news of Gabriel to be had.
The young man had in a certain sense disappeared.
Days and weeks and whole months rolled by, and Diane in vain made inquiries directly and indirectly; no one could say what had become of Gabriel.
Some persons thought that they had met him, always sombre and gloomy. But no one had spoken to him; the suffering soul which they had taken for Gabriel had always shunned them, and vanished at their first attempt to approach him. Moreover, no two agreed as to the locality where they had encountered Vicomte d'Exmès. Some said at St. Germain, some at Fontainebleau, others at Vincennes, and some even located him in Paris. What reliance could be placed upon such contradictory reports?
Yet many of them were right. For Gabriel, spurred on by a terrible remembrance and by still more terrible thoughts, could not remain two days in the same place. A never-ending need of action and movement drove him from a locality as soon as he arrived there. On foot or in the saddle, in town or country, he must always be in motion, pale and forbidding in appearance, and like Orestes of old haunted by the Furies.
His wanderings, too, kept him always out-of-doors; and he never entered within the walls of a house except when driven by absolute necessity.
On one occasion, however, Master Ambroise Paré, who had come back to Paris, his patients being all cured, and hostilities somewhat relaxed in the North, was surprised by a visit at his own house from his old acquaintance Vicomte d'Exmès. He received him with the deference due to one of gentle birth and the cordiality with which one welcomes a friend.
Gabriel, like a man newly returned from foreign lands, interrogated the surgeon upon matters which everybody knew all about.
Having in the first place asked him about Martin-Guerre, who, thoroughly cured, was probably on his way to Paris at that time, he questioned him about the Duc de Guise and the army. In that quarter matters had progressed marvellously. Le Balafré was before Thionville; Maréchal de Thermes had taken Dunkirk; Gaspard de Tavannes had taken possession of Guines and the province of Oie. In fact, the English no longer held one foot of ground in the whole kingdom, as François de Lorraine had sworn should be the case.
Gabriel listened with grave face, and apparently with little interest, to this good news.
"I am obliged to you, Master," he said to Ambroise Paré; "I rejoice to learn that our enterprise at Calais will not be without enduring results for France, at all events. Nevertheless it was not curiosity to hear of these matters which was my principal reason for coming to you. Master, long before I came to admire you for your great skill at the bedside of the wounded, I remember that certain words I heard you speak moved me deeply; it was one day last year in the little house on the Rue St. Jacques. Master, I have come to talk with you about these matters of religion, which your keen insight has penetrated so to the core. You have definitively embraced the cause of the Reformed religion, I suppose?"
"Yes, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Ambroise Paré, firmly. "The correspondence which the great Calvin was kind enough to enter into with me has removed my last doubts and my last scruples. I am now the most thoroughly devoted reformer of them all."
"Well, then, Master," said Gabriel, "will you not share your knowledge with a neophyte of the best intentions? I speak of myself. Will you not strengthen my doubting faith, as you would put in place a broken limb?"
"It is my duty to comfort and relieve the souls of my fellow-creatures as well as their bodies, when I can do so," said Ambroise Paré. "I am quite at your service, Monsieur d'Exmès."
For more than two hours they talked together, Ambroise ardent and eloquent, Gabriel calm and sorrowful, but a docile pupil.
At the end of that time Gabriel rose, and said to him, as he warmly pressed his hand,—
"Thanks! This conversation has done me much good. Unfortunately The time has not yet come when I can openly declare myself one of your number. It is necessary that I should wait yet a little while, even in the best interests of the Religion itself. Otherwise my conversion might well expose your holy cause to persecution some day, or to calumny at least. I know what I am saying. But now I understand, thanks to you, Master, that you and your fellows are really marching in the right path, and from this moment, believe that I am with you in heart, if not bodily. Adieu! Master Ambroise, adieu! We shall soon meet again."
Gabriel, without further elucidation of his words, took his leave of the surgeon-philosopher, and left the house.
In the early days of the following month,—May, 1558,—he appeared for the first time since his mysterious departure at his own home in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul.
There were new-comers there. Martin-Guerre had returned a fortnight previously, and Jean Peuquoy and his wife Babette had been living there for three months.
But God had not decreed that Jean's devotion should be put to the final test, nor perhaps that Babette's fault should go wholly unpunished. A few days before, she had been prematurely delivered of a dead child.
The poor mother had wept bitterly, but had bowed her head in humble acceptance of a grief which seemed like an expiation to her repentant heart; and as Jean Peuquoy had generously offered his sacrifice to her, so she in her turn for his sake resigned herself to the hand of God.
Moreover, the comforting affection of her husband and Aloyse's motherly encouragement did not fail the sweet child in her affliction.
Martin-Guerre, with his wonted good-humor, did his best to console her.
One day, as the four were sitting in friendly converse together, the door opened, and to their great amazement and still greater joy the master of the house, Vicomte d'Exmès himself, suddenly appeared, walking slowly and with a grave and sober face.
Four exclamations were heard as one; and Gabriel was quickly surrounded by his two guests, his squire, and his nurse.
When their first transports of delight had subsided, Aloyse began eagerly to question him whom in words she called her lord and master, but who was always her child in the language of her faithful heart.
What had become of him during his long absence? What did he mean to do now? Did he not intend at last to remain among those who loved him so dearly?
Gabriel laid a finger on his lips, and with a mournful but firm glance, imposed silence upon Aloyse's loving anxiety.
It was clear that he did not choose to explain his movements in the past or in the future, or that he could not.
But he took his turn at asking questions of Jean and Babette about their own affairs. Had they wanted for anything? Had they any recent intelligence of their good brother Pierre at Calais?
He tenderly expressed his sympathy for Babette, and tried to comfort her so far as it is possible to comfort a mother who is weeping for her child.
Thus Gabriel passed the remainder of the day amid his friends and his retainers, always kind and affectionate toward them, but never for an instant shaking, off the melancholy which overshadowed him like a black pall.
As for Martin-Guerre, who never once took his eyes off his dear master, found again at last, Gabriel spoke with him and inquired about his health with much interest. But throughout the whole day he never breathed a word of the promise he had made him months before, and seemed to have forgotten the engagement he had entered into to punish the wretch who had stolen his name and his honor, and had persecuted poor Martin with impunity for so long.
Martin himself was too respectful and too unselfish to direct his master's mind to the subject.
But when it was evening Gabriel rose, and said in a tone which admitted neither contradiction nor remonstrance, "I am obliged to leave you now."
Then turning to Martin-Guerre, he added,—
"My good Martin, I have been busy in your behalf during my travels, and unknown as I was, I have inquired and investigated; and I believe that I have at last found traces of the real truth of the matter in which you are interested; for I have not forgotten my engagement with you, Martin."
"Oh, Monseigneur!" cried the squire, overjoyed and embarrassed at the same time.
Gabriel continued, "I say again, I have collected sufficient proofs to justify me in believing that I am on the right track. But now I must have your assistance, my friend. At the end of this week, start for your own province, but do not go directly there. Be at Lyons one month from to-day. I will meet you there at that time, and we will take measures for acting together."
"I will do as you say, Monseigneur," said Martin-Guerre; "but shall I not see you again, meanwhile?"
"No, no, I must be alone henceforth," Gabriel replied, vigorously. "I am going away again now; and do not try to hinder me, for it would simply cause me needless pain. Adieu, my dear friends. Martin, remember,—at Lyons, a month hence."
"I will await you there, Monseigneur," said the squire.
Gabriel took leave with great warmth of Jean Peuquoy and his wife, pressed Aloyse's hands in his, and without seeming to notice the good soul's grief, set out once more to resume that wandering life to which he seemed to have condemned himself.
Six weeks later than the events last described, on the 15th of June, 1558, the green vine which clung to the brown walls of the finest house in the village of Artigues, near Rieux, served as a background for a picture of rural domesticity which while somewhat homely in character was not entirely without significance.
A man who, to judge from his dusty boots, had been walking quite a considerable distance, was sitting upon a wooden bench, carelessly holding his feet toward a woman who was on her knees before him busily unlacing his boots.
The man was frowning, the woman smiling.
"Haven't you finished yet, Bertrande?" said he, crossly. "You are so clumsy and slow that you almost drive me out of my wits."
"There, it's all done, Martin," said the woman, softly.
"There, it's all done, is it?" growled the pretended Martin. "Now where are my other boots? I'll wager that you didn't even think to bring them to me, you fool. So I shall have to go barefoot until you fetch them."
Bertrande disappeared within the house, and in less than a second returned with another pair of boots, which she hastened with her own hands to draw on her lord and master's feet.
Doubtless these individuals have been recognized as Arnauld du Thill, still masquerading under the name of Martin-Guerre, and now as always domineering and brutal, and Bertrande de Rolles, infinitely softened and brought to her senses by bitter experience.
"Where is my glass of beer?" asked Martin, in the same surly tone.
"It is all ready, dear," said Bertrande, timidly, "and I am just going to get it for you."
"I always have to wait," said the other, stamping with impatience. "Come, be quick about it, or I'll—"
An expressive gesture completed his sentence. Bertrande went and came again with the swiftness of light. Martin took from her hands a brimming glass of beer, which he swallowed in one draught with evident satisfaction. "That's good," he condescended to say as he handed the empty glass to his wife.
"My poor love, are you warm?" she ventured to ask, wiping her rough-spoken spouse's forehead with her handkerchief. "Here, put on your hat, for fear of the draught. You are very tired, aren't you?"
"What!" growled Martin; "don't I have to fall in with the customs of this idiotic neighborhood, and on every anniversary of our wedding go round among all the villages hereabout to ask a pack of accursed relatives to dinner? Upon my word, I had forgotten this absurd custom, if you had not reminded me of it yesterday, Bertrande! However, I have made the rounds, and in two hours the whole tribe of hungry kinsfolk will be upon us."
"Thanks, dear," said Bertrande. "You are quite right; it is an absurd custom, but a peremptory one, to which we must submit, if we would not be looked upon as arrogant and scornful."
"Well reasoned," replied Martin, ironically. "And have you done your part, sluggard? Is the table laid in the orchard?"
"Yes, Martin, as you ordered."
"Have you been to invite the judge also?" asked the affectionate spouse.
"Yes, Martin; and he said that he would do his best to be present at the feast."
"Do his best!" cried Martin, angrily. "That isn't enough; hemustcome! You must have given the invitation wrong. I count upon gaining some influence over this judge, as you know perfectly well; but you always try to displease me. His presence was the only thing which reconciled me in the least to this tedious custom and the useless expense of this ridiculous anniversary."
"Ridiculous to celebrate the anniversary of our wedding!" rejoined Bertrande, while her eyes filled with tears. "Ah, Martin, to be sure, you are a learned man now; you have travelled much, and seen many things, and can afford to despise the old usages of the province; but no matter. This anniversary reminds me of a time when you were less harsh and more loving to your poor wife."
"Yes," said Martin, with a sardonic smile; "and when my wife was less loving and more of a termagant to me; when she even forgot herself so far sometimes as to—"
"Oh, Martin, Martin!" cried Bertrande, "do not recall those times; for they make me blush, and I find it hard now to explain my own actions."
"And so do I. When I think that I could ever have been such an ass as to put up with—Ah, ah! let us leave the subject! My disposition is much changed, and yours as well,—I am glad to do you that justice. As you say, Bertrande, I have seen a good deal since those days. Your unbearable temper, which drove me out into the world to get rid of you, also compelled me to gain experience; and when I returned here last year, I succeeded in rearranging matters in their proper order. To effect that result, I had only to bring with me another Martin, called 'Martin Club.' So now everything goes along to my satisfaction, and we certainly have a most united household."
"That is true, thank God!" said Bertrande.
"Bertrande!"
"Martin!"
"Go at once," said he, with the tone of an absolute master,—"go back at once to the judge of Artigues, renew your invitation, and obtain his formal promise to be present at our feast; if he does not come, remember that I will wreak my disappointment on you alone."
"I will go at once," said Bertrande, suiting the action to the word.
Arnauld du Thill followed her retreating form for a moment with a satisfied expression; then, being left alone, he stretched himself lazily on the bench, drinking in the fresh air, and blinking with the selfish and disdainful comfort of a man happy in having nothing to fear and nothing to wish for.
He did not notice a man, apparently a traveller, who with the aid of a cane was walking laboriously along the road,—which was quite deserted, that being the hottest hour of the day. As the traveller saw Arnauld, he stopped in front of him.
"Pardon me, my friend," said the stranger. "Is there not, pray, in this village of yours an inn where I may rest and dine?"
"No, there is not," replied Arnauld, without moving; "you will have to go to Rieux, two leagues from here, before you will come across an innkeeper's signpost."
"Two leagues more!" exclaimed the wayfarer; "and I am quite exhausted now. I would willingly give a pistole for a chance to lie down, and for something to eat at this moment."
"A pistole!" said Arnauld, ever on the alert, as of old, when money was to be had. "Well, my good fellow, we can give you, if you wish, a bed in a corner here; and as for dinner,—why, we are going to have an anniversary feast to-day, and one guest more will make no difference. How does that suit you?"
"Perfectly," replied the stranger; "for, as I told you, I am almost fainting with fatigue and hunger."
"Very well; it's a bargain, then," said Arnauld; "you may remain here for a pistole."
"I will pay in advance," said the traveller.
Arnauld du Thill sat up to take the money, and at the same time raised his hat, which had concealed his eyes and his face.
The stranger was then able to see his features; and at the first glance he cried, recoiling in amazement,—
"My nephew, Arnauld du Thill!"
Arnauld looked carefully at him, and turned pale; but he soon collected himself.
"Your nephew?" said he. "Why, I don't know you! Who are you?"
"You don't know me, Arnauld?" exclaimed the stranger; "you don't know your old uncle, your mother's own brother, Carbon Barreau, to whom you have been the source of so much trouble,—as indeed you have been to the whole family?"
"By my faith, no!" said Arnauld, with an insolent laugh.
"What! do you deny me and yourself as well?" rejoined Carbon Barreau. "Tell me, do you mean to say that you did not cause your mother, who was my sister, to die of grief,—a poor, lone widow, whom you abandoned at Sagias ten years ago? Ah! you may not recognize me, hard heart; but I know you well."
"I have no idea what you mean," replied Arnauld, brazenly, entirely cool and collected. "My name is not Arnauld, but Martin-Guerre; and I am not from Sagias, but belong in Artigues. The old men in the neighborhood have known me from my birth, and will swear to my identity; and if you want to be laughed at, you have only to repeat your statement before my wife, Bertrande de Rolles, and all my kinsfolk."
"Your wife! your kinsfolk!" said Carbon Barreau, in bewilderment. "Pardon! Is it possible that I am mistaken? No; it cannot be! Such a resemblance—"
"At the end of ten years it is hard to verify," Arnauld interrupted. "Come, your sight is growing dim, my good friend! My real uncles and relatives you can see and talk with yourself very soon."
"Oh, very well! In that case," replied Carbon Barreau, who began to be convinced, "you may well boast of your resemblance to my nephew, Arnauld du Thill."
"I never heard of him except from you," said Arnauld, sneeringly, "and I never have boasted of it yet."
"Ah, when I said that you might boast of it," returned the good man, "I did not mean that there was any cause for pride in resembling such a rascal, far from it! I am in a position to say, since I am one of the family, that my nephew was the most infernal blackguard imaginable. And indeed when I reflect, it seems very improbable that he should still be alive, for the villain must have been hung long before this."
"Do you think so?" retorted Arnauld, not without bitterness.
"I am sure of it, Monsieur Martin-Guerre," said Carbon Barreau, with an air of conviction. "However, it doesn't offend you, does it, to have me speak in such terms of the scoundrel, since you are not he, my good host?"
"Not in the least," said Arnauld, decidedly ill at ease, however.
"Ah, Monsieur," continued the uncle, who was rather inclined to chatter, "how many times have I congratulated myself, in speaking to his poor weeping mother, on having remained unmarried, and having had no children to dishonor my name and ruin my life, as that vile good-for-nothing did for her."
"Let me see; that is true," said Arnauld to himself. "Uncle Carbon had no children,—no heirs, that is to say."
"What are you thinking, Master Martin?" asked the stranger.
"I was thinking," Arnauld replied in his sweetest tones, "that in spite of your assertions to the contrary, Messire Carbon Barreau, you would be very happy to-day if you had a son, or even, in default of a son, this same evil-disposed nephew, whom you seem to regret so little, but who would at least be something for you to love, and somebody to whom you could hand down your property when you die."
"My property?" said Carbon Barreau.
"Yes, to be sure, your property," replied Arnauld. "You who scatter pistoles around with so lavish a hand cannot be poor; and this Arnauld, whom I resemble, would be your heir, I suppose.Pardieu! I am inclined to regret to a certain extent that I am not he."
"Arnauld du Thill, if he is not hung, would really be my heir," returned Carbon Barreau, gravely. "But he will derive no great advantage from that fact, for I am not rich. I offer a pistole for the privilege of resting a while and for a little refreshment, because I am overborne with weariness and hunger; but that does not prevent my purse from being light,—too light, alas!"
"Hum!" said Arnauld, incredulously.
"Don't you believe me, Master Martin-Guerre? As you please. It is no less true that I am now on my way to Lyons, to see the President of the Parliament, where I acted as usher for twenty years, who offers me shelter and sustenance for the rest of my days. He sent me twenty-five pistoles to pay my few small debts, and the expenses of the journey, large-hearted man that he is! But what I have left of that sum is all that I own in the world. Therefore my heritage is too trifling a matter for Arnauld du Thill, even were he alive, to take the trouble to claim it. That is why—"
"Enough of this, dotard!" Arnauld du Thill rudely interrupted him, in high ill-humor. "Do you suppose I have time to listen forever to your twaddle? Just give me your pistole and go into the house, if you choose. You shall dine in an hour's time, and can sleep after that, and then we shall be quits. That does not require so much talk."