"A secret blow is in preparation against those of the Religion. They propose to get rid of all the Protestants at once."
"What leads you to think so?"
"Why, they scarcely take pains to hide it," replied the baron. "Antoine Minard, President of the Parliament, said boldly at a council meeting at St. Germain that it was necessary to strike a decisive blow, if they did not wish to become a sort of republic like the Swiss States."
"What! he uttered the word 'republic'?" cried Gabriel, in surprise. "Doubtless he exaggerated the danger so that an exaggerated remedy might be applied."
"Not so much," rejoined La Renaudie, in a lower tone. "He did not exaggerate very much, in truth; for we, too, have changed our views somewhat since our meeting in Calvin's chamber, and Ambroise Paré's ideas do not seem so bold to us to-day; and then, you see, they are driving us to extreme measures."
"In that case," said Gabriel, eagerly, "I may be one of you sooner than I thought."
"That is pleasant to hear," cried La Renaudie.
"In what direction must I keep my eyes?" asked Gabriel.
"Upon the parliament," said the baron, "for there the issue will be joined. The Evangelical party has a strong minority there,—Anne Dubourg, Henri Dufaur, Nicolas Duval, Eustache de la Porte, and twenty others. To the harangues which call for the vigorous prosecution of heretics, the adherents of Calvinism reply by demanding the convocation of a general council to deal with religious affairs in accordance with the terms of the decrees of Constance and Bâle. They have right on their side; therefore it will be necessary to use violence against them. But we are watching, and do you watch with us."
"Very well," said Gabriel.
"Remain at your house in Paris until you are notified that we have need of you," continued La Renaudie.
"That will be painful for me," observed Gabriel; "but I will do it, provided that you do not leave me to pine in idleness too long. You have written and talked enough, I should think, and now you ought to lay aside words for deeds."
"That is my opinion," rejoined La Renaudie. "Hold yourself in readiness, and be tranquil."
They parted, and Gabriel walked thoughtfully away.
In his thirst for vengeance, was he not allowing his conscience to go astray somewhat? Already it seemed to be driving him on toward civil war; but since events would not come to him, he must go to them.
That same day he returned to his house in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul, where he found his faithful Aloyse alone. Martin-Guerre was no longer there; André had remained with Madame de Castro; Jean and Babette Peuquoy had returned to Calais with the intention of going thence to St. Quentin, whose gates had been opened to the loyal weaver by the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis.
Thus the master's return to his lonesome abode was more melancholy even than usual. Ah, but did not the motherly old nurse love him enough for all? We despair of picturing the worthy creature's joy when Gabriel informed her that he had come to stay with her for some time in all probability. He lived in most absolute secrecy and solitude, to be sure; but he was there by her side, and very rarely left the house. Aloyse could feast her eyes on him, and wait upon him. It was a long time since she had been so happy.
Gabriel, smiling sadly upon her, envied her loving heart its happiness. Alas! he could not share it with her. His life henceforth was even to himself a terrible enigma, of which he both dreaded and longed to know the solution.
Thus his days passed in impatience and apprehension, anxious and bored for more than a month.
As he had promised his nurse, he hardly ever left the house; but sometimes in the evening he would go and prowl around the Châtelet, and on his return would shut himself up for hours at a time in the funeral vault, whither the unknown bearers had secretly brought his father's body.
Gabriel seemed to take a gloomy pleasure in going back thus to the day when the outrage had been put upon him, that he might keep up his courage with his wrath.
When he looked upon the forbidding walls of the Châtelet, but above all when he contemplated the marble tomb where the sufferings of that noble life had finally found rest, the terrible morning when he had closed the eyes of his murdered father came back to him in all its horror.
Then his hands would move convulsively, his hair stand on end, and his chest heave with passion; and he would emerge from that terrible communion with the dead with his hatred renewed and more bitter than ever.
During such moments of anguish, Gabriel regretted having allowed his vengeance to follow in the wake of circumstances, for it seemed insupportable to him to have to wait for it.
His blood boiled to think that while he was waiting so patiently his murderous enemies were triumphant and joyous. The king sat peaceably on his throne at the Louvre. The constable was growing rich on the miseries of the people, and Diane de Poitiers rioting in infamous debauchery.
This state of things could not last. Since God's vengeance was sleeping, and the sufferings of the oppressed were growing daily greater, Gabriel determined that he would do without the help of God or man, or rather that he would constitute himself the instrument of divine justice and of human wrath.
Thereupon, carried away by an irresistible impulse, he would place his hand on the hilt of his sword, and make a motion as if to go and seek his revenge.
But then his conscience would awake and remind him of Diane de Castro's letter, written at Calais, in which his beloved had implored him not to undertake to chastise with his own hand, and not to strike even the guilty unless he were to do it involuntarily, and by the will of God.
Then he would read again that affecting missive, and involuntarily let his sword fall back into its scabbard. Stricken with remorse, he would resign himself once more to wait.
Gabriel was one of those men who are born for action, but have not executive ability. His vigor and energy were marvellous when supported by an army, or a small party, or even one great man; but he was not fitted by nature to carry out extraordinary achievements alone, even for a good object, and still less when they were to end in a crime. He was neither a powerful prince nor a startling genius by birth, and the power and the will to take the initiative were equally lacking in him.
When beside Coligny, and again when with the Duc de Guise, he had accomplished marvellous exploits. But now, as he had given Martin-Guerre to understand, his task was a very different one; instead of having enemies to fight in the open field, he had to chastise a king, and there was no one to assist him in that fearful work.
Nevertheless he still relied upon the same men who had formerly lent him their powerful aid,—Coligny the Protestant, and the ambitious Duc de Guise.
A civil war for the defence of religious truth, a revolution to assist in the triumph of a great genius,—such were the objects of Gabriel's secret hopes. The death or deposition of Henri II., or at all events his punishment, would be the result of either of the uprisings. Gabriel would show himself in the second rank, but as one worthy to be in the first. He would faithfully keep the oath he had sworn to the king himself; he would visit his perjury upon his children and his children's children.
If these two chances failed him, then he would have no other resource but to leave everything to God.
But it seemed at first as if these two chances were not likely to fail him. One day, it was the 13th of June, 1559, Gabriel received two letters almost at the same time.
The first was handed to him about five o'clock in the afternoon by a mysterious individual, who refused to deliver it except to himself in person, and would not deliver it to him until he had compared his features with the details of an exact description.
This letter read as follows:—
FRIEND AND BROTHER,—The hour has come; the persecutors have thrown away their masks. Let us thank God! Martyrdom leads to victory.This evening at nine o'clock call at the house with a brown door, Number 11 Place Maubert.You must strike three blows upon the door at regular intervals. A man will open it and will say to you, "Do not enter, for you cannot see clearly." You will reply, "I have my light with me." He will then lead you to a stairway with seventeen steps, which you must ascend in darkness. At the top another acolyte will thus accost you, "What do you seek?" Reply, "What is right." You will then be shown into an unfurnished room where some one will whisper in your ear the password, "Genève," to which you will reply with the counter-sign, "Gloire." Thereupon you will be at once conducted to those who have need of you to-day.Till this evening, friend and brother, prudence and courage. Burn this letter.L. R.
FRIEND AND BROTHER,—The hour has come; the persecutors have thrown away their masks. Let us thank God! Martyrdom leads to victory.
This evening at nine o'clock call at the house with a brown door, Number 11 Place Maubert.
You must strike three blows upon the door at regular intervals. A man will open it and will say to you, "Do not enter, for you cannot see clearly." You will reply, "I have my light with me." He will then lead you to a stairway with seventeen steps, which you must ascend in darkness. At the top another acolyte will thus accost you, "What do you seek?" Reply, "What is right." You will then be shown into an unfurnished room where some one will whisper in your ear the password, "Genève," to which you will reply with the counter-sign, "Gloire." Thereupon you will be at once conducted to those who have need of you to-day.
Till this evening, friend and brother, prudence and courage. Burn this letter.
L. R.
Gabriel called for a lighted lamp, burned the letter in the messenger's presence, and replied simply,—
"I will be there."
The man bowed and withdrew.
"Well," said Gabriel, "at last the Reformers are losing their patience."
About eight o'clock, as he was still deep in thought concerning La Renaudie's summons, Aloyse entered his room with a page in the Lorraine livery.
He brought a letter which read thus:—
MONSIEUR AND DEAR FRIEND,—I have been six weeks at Paris, having taken my leave of the army, where there was nothing more for me to do. I am assured that you also nave been at home for some time. Why have I not seen you? Have you forgotten me in these days of short memories and ingratitude? No, I know you too well; it is impossible.Come to me, pray. I will expect you, if you please, to-morrow morning at ten in my apartments at the Tournelles.Come, if only that we may condole with each other on the profit that has been made of our success.Your very affectionate friend,François de Lorraine.
MONSIEUR AND DEAR FRIEND,—I have been six weeks at Paris, having taken my leave of the army, where there was nothing more for me to do. I am assured that you also nave been at home for some time. Why have I not seen you? Have you forgotten me in these days of short memories and ingratitude? No, I know you too well; it is impossible.
Come to me, pray. I will expect you, if you please, to-morrow morning at ten in my apartments at the Tournelles.
Come, if only that we may condole with each other on the profit that has been made of our success.
Your very affectionate friend,
François de Lorraine.
"I will be there," said Gabriel to the page.
When the boy had withdrawn,—
"Well, well," he thought, "the ambitious man too is awake."
Thus encouraged by a twofold hope, he set out a quarter of an hour later for the Place Maubert.
The house Number 11 Place Maubert, where La Renaudie had appointed a rendezvous with Gabriel, belonged to an advocate named Trouillard. It was already vaguely pointed at among the people as a place of resort for heretics; and the fact that psalms were sometimes heard sung there in the evening gave some credibility to these dangerous rumors. But after all they were only rumors, and it had never occurred to the police to investigate them.
Gabriel had no difficulty in finding the brown door, and following his instructions, he knocked three times at regular intervals.
The door opened as if of itself, but a hand seized Gabriel's in the darkness within, and a voice said,—
"Do not enter, for you cannot see clearly."
"I have my light with me," replied Gabriel, following the formula prescribed by the letter.
"Enter, then," said the voice, "and follow the hand that guides you."
Gabriel obeyed, and took a few steps in that way; then the hand released its hold, and the voice said,—
"Go on by yourself now."
Gabriel felt with his foot the first step of a staircase; he ascended, counting seventeen steps, then stopped.
"What do you seek?" said a different voice.
"What is right," was his reply.
A door opened at once in front of him, and he entered a room very dimly lighted.
A man was there alone; he approached Gabriel and said in a low tone,—
"Genève."
"Gloire," returned the young count at once.
The man then struck a bell, and La Renaudie himself entered by a concealed door.
He came directly to Gabriel and pressed his hand affectionately.
"Do you know what took place in parliament to-day?" he asked.
"I have not left my house until now," replied Gabriel.
"You will learn all about it here, then," said La Renaudie. "You have not yet bound yourself to us, but no matter; we will bind ourselves to you. You shall know our plans, and our strength; there shall be nothing concealed from you henceforth in the affairs of our party, while you may remain free to act alone or with us as you choose. You have told me that you were one of us in spirit, and that is sufficient. I do not even ask your word as a gentleman not to disclose anything that you may see or hear. With you it is a needless precaution."
"Thanks for your confidence," said Gabriel, much affected. "I will give you no cause to repent it."
"Come in with me," continued La Renaudie, "and stay by my side; I will tell you the names of those of our brethren whom you do not know. You can judge for yourself of everything else. Come."
He took Gabriel's hand, pressed the secret spring of the concealed door, and together they entered a large oblong hall, where about two hundred persons were gathered.
A few torches scattered here and there cast only a dim light upon the moving groups. Otherwise there was no furniture, nor hangings, nor seats; a common wooden pulpit for the preacher or orator,—that was all.
The presence of a score or so of women explained, but did not justify (let us hasten to say), the scandalous reports which were spread among the Catholics as to these secret nocturnal meetings of the Reformers.
No one noticed the entrance of Gabriel and his guide. All eyes and all thoughts were fixed upon him who stood on the rostrum at that moment, a sectary of sad mien and grave speech.
La Renaudie told Gabriel his name.
"It is Nicolas Duval, a councillor of parliament," he said beneath his breath. "He is just beginning to describe what took place to-day at the Augustins. Listen."
And Gabriel listened.
"Our regular place of meeting at the palace," the orator continued, "being occupied by the preparations for the celebration of Princess Élisabeth's marriage, we sat temporarily for the first time at the Augustins; and in some mysterious way the appearance of that unaccustomed apartment made us from the very first feel a vague presentiment that something out of the usual course would occur.
"However, Giles Lemaître, the president, opened the sitting in the customary form; and there seemed to be nothing to justify the apprehensions by which some of us had been disturbed.
"The question that had been discussed the Wednesday preceding was reopened. It related to the regulation of religious opinion. Antoine Fumée, Paul de Foix, and Eustache de la Porte spoke successively in favor of toleration, and their eloquent and vigorous language seemed to have made a marked impression on the majority.
"Eustache de la Porte resumed his seat amid loud applause, and Henri Dufaur was just opening his mouth to complete the conquest of those who were still hesitating, when suddenly the great door opened, and the usher of parliament announced in a loud voice, 'The king!'
"The president did not seem in the least surprised, but descended hastily from his chair to meet the king. All the members arose in confusion, some altogether amazed, others very calm, as if they quite anticipated the event.
"The king entered, accompanied by the Cardinal de Lorraine and the constable.
"'I do not come to disturb your labors, Messieurs of the parliament,' he said in the first place, 'but to assist them.'
"After a few meaningless compliments, he concluded his remarks thus:—
"'Peace has been concluded with Spain; but the fomenters of scandalous heresies have taken advantage of the wars in which we have been engaged to gain a foothold in the kingdom; and they must be stamped out, now that the war is over. Why have you not ratified the edict against the Lutherans which I caused to be submitted to you? However, I repeat, go on freely in my presence with the deliberations you have already begun.'
"Henri Dufaur, who had the floor, boldly resumed his speech at the king's command, pleaded earnestly for liberty of conscience, and even ventured to add to his outspoken discourse some sorrowful but severe strictures upon the measures adopted by the king's government.
"'Do you complain of disturbances?' he cried. 'Very well, we know their author.' I might reply as Elias replied to Ahab, "It is thou who tormentest Israel!"'
"Henri II. bit his lips and turned pale, but said nothing.
"Then Dubourg rose, and gave utterance to still more direct and weighty remonstrances.
"'I consider, Sire,' said he, 'that there are certain crimes which should be pitilessly punished, such as adultery, blasphemy, and perjury, but which are condoned every day amid the prevailing licentiousness of the time. But of what are the men accused who are thus to be delivered over to the hand of the executioner? Is it oflèse-majesté? They never omit the name of the prince in their prayers. They have never preached revolution or treason. What! Because they have discovered the great vices and the shameful shortcomings of the Roman hierarchy, by the light of the Holy Scriptures, and because they have demanded that they should be reformed, have they assumed a license which makes them worthy of the stake?'
"Still the king never moved; but we could see that he was with difficulty restraining an outburst of indignation.
"Giles Lemaître, the president, basely essayed to foment his mute wrath.
"'Talk about heretics!' cried he, with feigned indignation. 'Let us deal with them as with the Albigenses; Philippe Auguste burned six hundred of them in one day.'
"This violent language perhaps served our cause better than the more moderate steadfastness of our friends. It became evident that the final result would be at least evenly balanced.
"Henri II. understood that, and determined to carry everything with a suddencoup d'état.
"'Monsieur le Président is right,' said he; 'we must put an end to these heretics, or they will escape us. To begin with, Monsieur le Connétable, let those two rebels be arrested on the spot.'
"With his finger he pointed out Henri Dufaur and Anne Dubourg, and then hurriedly left the hall, as if he could no longer contain himself.
"I need not tell you, friends and brothers, that Monsieur de Montmorency obeyed the king's orders. Dubourg and Dufaur were seized and carried away while occupying their seats as councillors of parliament, and we were left in utter consternation.
"Giles Lemaître alone found courage to speak:—
"'It is just,' said he. 'So may all those be punished who dare to fail of respect to the majesty of royalty!'
"But as if to give the lie to his words, the guards at that moment entered the hall, and proceeded to execute orders which they produced, by arresting De Foix, Fumée, and De la Porte, all of whom had spoken before the king appeared at all, and had confined themselves to defending the principle of toleration in matters of religion, without suggesting the least reproach against the sovereign.
"Thus it became evident that it was not for their remonstrances uttered in the king's presence, but simply for their religious opinions, that five members of parliament, inviolable by law, had been charged with a capital crime, by means of a shameful subterfuge."
Nicolas Duval ceased to speak. Mutterings of grief and anger had interrupted him twenty times, only to follow more closely than ever his description of that momentous and stormy session, which to us at this distance in time seems as if it must have been told of another assembly, and bears a startling resemblance to scenes that were enacted two hundred and thirty years later.
But there was this important difference,—that at the later epoch it was liberty and not royalty which had the last word to say!
The minister David followed Nicolas Duval upon the rostrum.
"Brothers," said he, "before we take counsel together, let us lift up our voices and our hearts to God with a psalm, that He may quicken the spirit of truth in us."
"Psalm forty!" cried several voices in the assemblage, and they all began to sing the stirring words of that psalm.
It was an extraordinary selection to calm excited imaginations. It was much more like a strain of menace, it must be confessed, than like a prayer for guidance.
But wrath was uppermost at that moment in those sturdy souls, and it was with marvellous impressiveness that all present joined in singing these verses, in which the lack of poetic talent was replaced by the emotion which animated them:—
"Gens insensés, où avez-vous les cœursDe faire guerre à Jésus-Christ?Pour soutenir cet Ante-Christ,Jusques à quand serez persécuteurs?Traîtres abominables!Le service des diables,Vous allez soutenant:Et de Dieu les éditsPar vous sont interditsÀ tout homme vivant."[1]
"Gens insensés, où avez-vous les cœursDe faire guerre à Jésus-Christ?Pour soutenir cet Ante-Christ,Jusques à quand serez persécuteurs?Traîtres abominables!Le service des diables,Vous allez soutenant:Et de Dieu les éditsPar vous sont interditsÀ tout homme vivant."[1]
The last stanza was especially significant:—
"N'empêchez plus la predication,De la parole et vive voixDe notre Dieu, le roi des rois!Où vous verrez sa malédiction,Sur vous, prompte s'étendre,Qui vous fera descendreAux enfers ténébreux,Où vous serez punisDes maux qu'avez commisPar tourmens douloureux."[2]
"N'empêchez plus la predication,De la parole et vive voixDe notre Dieu, le roi des rois!Où vous verrez sa malédiction,Sur vous, prompte s'étendre,Qui vous fera descendreAux enfers ténébreux,Où vous serez punisDes maux qu'avez commisPar tourmens douloureux."[2]
The psalm at an end, it was as if this appeal to God had relieved the oppressed heart at once; silence was restored, and the assemblage was in readiness to deliberate.
La Renaudie was the first to speak, in order to state concisely the condition of affairs and its import.
"Brothers," said he, from where he stood on the floor, "being thus brought face to face with an unprecedented proceeding which overturns all preconceived notions of right and justice, we have now to decide what course of conduct should be adopted by the adherents of the Reformed religion. Shall we still suffer our burdens patiently, or shall we act? Such are the questions which each one of us must propound to his own conscience and answer according to its dictates. You see that our oppressors propose nothing less than a general massacre, and propose to strike us out from the list of the living, as one erases a badly written word from a manuscript. Shall we wait like sheep for the fatal blow; or shall we rather (since law and justice are thus violated by those very persons whose sacred duty it is to protect them) try to do justice with our own hands, and to that end temporarily substitute force for law? It is for you to reply, friends and brothers."
La Renaudie made a short pause, as if to afford time for all their intellects to digest the momentous question; then he resumed, desirous at once to facilitate and hasten the conclusion:—
"Those whom the cause of religion and of truth should hand together are unfortunately, as we all know, divided into two factions,—that of Geneva, and that of the nobility; but when face to face with danger and a common foe, it is fitting, it seems to me, that we should have only one heart and one will. The members of both factions are alike invited to state their opinions and suggest the remedies that occur to them. The advice which offers the best chance of success should be unanimously adopted, from whatever quarter it comes; and now, my friends and brothers, speak freely and confidently."
La Renaudie's speech was followed by a considerable period of hesitation.
Those who listened to him were lacking in just those two qualities, courage and confidence; and in the first instance, notwithstanding the bitter indignation which really filled all their hearts, the power of royalty then enjoyed such great prestige that the Reformers, who were novices at conspiring, did not dare to express at once and without reserve their ideas on the subject of armed rebellion. They were devoted to their opinions, and determined as a body; but each individual recoiled before the responsibility of striking the first blow. They were all ready to follow, but no one dared to lead.
Then, too, as La Renaudie had said, they were suspicious of one another; neither of the two parties knew whither the other would lead it; and their objects were, in truth, too dissimilar to make the choice of roads and guides a matter of indifference to them.
The Geneva faction were really aiming at the foundation of a republic, while that of the nobility simply desired to bring about a change of dynasty.
The elective forms of Calvinism, the principle of equality which was everywhere inculcated by the new church, tended directly toward the republican system as it was in vogue in the Swiss cantons; but the nobility did not wish to go so far, and would have been content, in accordance with the advice of Élisabeth of England, to depose Henri II., and replace him with a Calvinist king. The Prince de Condé's name was whispered about as a suitable selection.
It would be difficult to imagine two more diametrically opposed elements co-operating in a common cause.
Therefore, Gabriel saw regretfully that after La Renaudie's address the two almost hostile camps eyed each other askance, without appearing to think of drawing conclusions from the premises he had so boldly laid down.
A moment or two passed in this unfortunate indecision, amid a confused murmuring of many voices. La Renaudie could but ask himself whether he had not, by being too blunt and outspoken, unwittingly done away with all the effect of Nicolas Duval's recital; but having started on that course, he determined to put everything to the touch, to win or lose all, and so he thus addressed a thin, puny little man with bristling eyebrows and bilious appearance, who made one of a group near him:—
"Well, Lignières, are you not going to speak to our brothers, and tell them what you have at heart?"
"So be it!" replied the little man, and his gloomy countenance lighted up. "I will speak; but I will not yield an inch, or extenuate anything."
"Go on,—you are among friends," said La Renaudie. While Lignières was on his way to the rostrum the baron whispered to Gabriel,—
"That is a dangerous instrument to make use of Lignières is a fanatic,—whether in good or bad faith I know not,—who urges everything to extremes, and is always more repellent than attractive. But no matter! We must know at any price what we have to rely upon, must we not?"
"Yes," said Gabriel, "so that all these closed hearts may open to emit the truth."
"Lignières and his doctrines hot from Geneva will wake them up, never fear," rejoined La Renaudie.
The orator plunged at oncein médias res.
"The law has brought about its own condemnation," said he. "What resource remains? An appeal to force, and nothing else. You ask what we ought to do! If I do not reply to that question, here is something which will reply for me."
He held up a silver medal.
"This medal," he continued, "is far more eloquent than any words of mine. For the benefit of those who are too far away to see it I will say what it represents. It bears the image of a flaming sword cutting off the blossom of a lily, whose stalk bends and falls near by; the sceptre and the crown are rolling in the dust."
Then he added, as if he feared that he might be misunderstood,—
"Medals ordinarily serve to commemorate accomplished facts; may this one serve as prophetic of something yet to occur! I will say no more."
Indeed, he had said enough. He came down from the pulpit amid the plaudits of an inconsiderable portion of the assembly, and the in mutterings of a much larger number.
But the general attitude was of stupefied silence.
"Well," said La Renaudie, in a low voice, to Gabriel, "that is clearly not the right chord to strike. We must try another."
"Monsieur le Baron de Castelnau," he continued aloud, addressing a young man of thoughtful appearance and handsomely clad, who was leaning against the wall ten feet from him,—"Monsieur de Castelnau, have you not a word to say to us?"
"I might perhaps have had nothing to say independently; but I should like to say a word or two in reply," the young man responded.
"We are all attention," said La Renaudie.
"This young man," he added, speaking in Gabriel's ear again, "belongs to the party of the nobility; and you should have seen him at the Louvre the day you brought the news of the capture of Calais. Castelnau is frank, loyal, and brave. He will set up his flag as boldly as Lignières, and we shall see if he will be received any more warmly."
Castelnau mounted one of the steps of the rostrum, and spoke from that slight elevation.
"I will begin," he said, "like the orators who have preceded me. We have been iniquitously attacked; let us use like weapons to defend ourselves. Let us do in the open field, amid the panoply of war, what they have done in parliament among the red robes! But I differ in opinion from Monsieur de Lignières as to the rest. I, too, have a medal to show you. Here it is; it is not his. From a distance it seems to you to resemble the crowns from the royal mint which we carry in our purses, and in fact, like them, it does bear the stamp of a crowned head; but in lieu of 'Henricus II, rex Galliæ,' its legend reads, 'Ludovicus XIII., rex Galliæ.'[3]I have done."
The Baron de Castelnau left his place with his head proudly erect. His allusion to the Prince de Condé was flagrant. Those who had applauded Lignières muttered at his words, and vice versa.
But the large majority of those present were still motionless and speechless between the two minorities.
"What do they want, pray?" Gabriel softly asked La Renaudie.
"I am afraid that they don't want anything," was the baron's reply.
At that moment the advocate Des Avenelles asked a hearing.
"This is their man, I fancy," La Renaudie remarked. "Des Avenelles is my host when I am in Paris,—an honest and sagacious fellow, but too cautious, almost to timidity even. His word will be law with them."
Des Avenelles from the beginning justified La Renaudie's prediction.
Said he: "We have listened to many bold and even audacious words; but has the moment really arrived to utter them? Are we not going a little too fast? We are shown a very worthy and lofty purpose, but not a word is said as to the means of attaining it. They must needs be criminal. My heart is more oppressed by the severities to which we are subjected than that of any other member of this assemblage. But when we have so many prejudices to overcome, should we add to the burden by casting upon the cause of our religion the odium of an assassination?—yes, of an assassination; for you cannot obtain by any other means the result which you dare to propose."
Des Avenelles was interrupted by almost unanimous applause.
"What did I say?" whispered La Renaudie. "This advocate is the real expositor of their views."
Des Avenelles continued,—
"The king is in the very bloom and flower of his vigor. To wrest the throne from him, he must be hurled headlong from it. What living man would take upon himself that act of violence? Kings are divine, and God only has the right to govern them. Ah, suppose that some accident, some unforeseen ill, some blow struck by a private hand, should take away the king's life at this moment, and leave the guardianship of an infant monarch in the hands of those arrogant subjects who are our veritable oppressors!—then it would be this guardianship, and not royalty itself, the Guises and not François II., against whom our attacks would be directed. Civil war would be not only justifiable but laudable, and revolution a sacred duty, and I would be the first to cry, 'To arms!'"
This energetic moderation moved the assembly to admiration; and fresh tokens of approbation were showered upon Des Avenelles as a recompense for his prudent courage.
"Ah!" muttered La Renaudie to Gabriel, "I regret now having asked you to come, for you will begin to compassionate us."
But Gabriel, lost in thought, was saying to himself,—
"No, I have no right to reproach them for their weakness, for it is much like my own. While I was secretly relying upon them, they seem to have been relying upon me."
"What do you mean to do, pray?" cried La Renaudie to his triumphant host.
"To maintain a legal attitude and wait!" replied the advocate, firmly. "Anne Dubourg, Henri Dufaur, and three others of our friends in parliament have been arrested; but who says that they will dare to convict them, or even to accuse them? My opinion is that any overt act of violence on our part would result simply in provoking reprisals on the part of those in authority. And who knows that our moderation may not be the salvation of the victims? Let us have the tranquillity of conscious strength, and the dignity which befits a righteous cause. Let us leave all the wrong-doing to our persecutors. Let us wait. When they see that we are moderate in our demands, but resolute, they will think twice before declaring war upon us,—just as I implore you, friends and brothers, to think twice before you give them the signal for reprisals."
Des Avenelles ceased, and the applause was renewed.
The advocate, vain of his success, desired to confirm his victory.
"Let all who agree with me raise their hand," he added.
Almost every hand was raised to assure Des Avenelles that he had spoken the mind of the gathering.
"Let us see, then," said he: "our decision is—"
"To decide nothing at all," interposed Castelnau.
"To postpone until a more favorable moment any extreme measures," Des Avenelles concluded, casting an angry glance at the interrupter.
The minister David suggested singing another psalm to beseech God to deliver the poor prisoners.
"Come, let us be going," said La Renaudie to Gabriel; "all this annoys and angers me. These people only know how to sing. They have nothing seditious but their psalms."
When they were on the street they walked along in silence, both deeply absorbed in their reflections.
At the Pont Notre Dame they parted, La Renaudie returning to the Faubourg St. Germain, and Gabriel going toward the Arsenal.
"Adieu, Monsieur d'Exmès," said the former. "I am sorry to have caused you to waste your time thus. But believe me, I pray, when I assure you that this is not our last word. The prince, Coligny, and some of our most reliable heads were absent this evening."
"My time with you has not been wasted," replied Gabriel. "You will be convinced of that very shortly."
"So much the better, so much the better," rejoined La Renaudie. "Nevertheless, doubt—"
"Have no doubt at all," said Gabriel. "It was necessary for me to know if the Protestants were really beginning to lose patience. It is of more use to me than you can imagine to have learned that they are not tired out yet."
[1]"Ye men of wrath, why thus conspire yeTo wage mad war against your Saviour Christ,By showing favor to this Anti-Christ,Till ye yourselves shall persecutors be?Ye doers of evil,The works of the Devil,You thus are upholding:And with impious handsFrom the Lord's high commandsAre the people withholding."
[1]
"Ye men of wrath, why thus conspire yeTo wage mad war against your Saviour Christ,By showing favor to this Anti-Christ,Till ye yourselves shall persecutors be?Ye doers of evil,The works of the Devil,You thus are upholding:And with impious handsFrom the Lord's high commandsAre the people withholding."
"Ye men of wrath, why thus conspire yeTo wage mad war against your Saviour Christ,By showing favor to this Anti-Christ,Till ye yourselves shall persecutors be?Ye doers of evil,The works of the Devil,You thus are upholding:And with impious handsFrom the Lord's high commandsAre the people withholding."
[2]"No longer now, with loud unseemly noise,Seek to delay the utterance of the wordOf the great King of Kings, our God the Lord!Else shall His malediction from the skies,Upon ye descending,To woe never-endingIn hell's darkest recessConsign ye, to languishIn torment and anguishYour sins to redress."
[2]
"No longer now, with loud unseemly noise,Seek to delay the utterance of the wordOf the great King of Kings, our God the Lord!Else shall His malediction from the skies,Upon ye descending,To woe never-endingIn hell's darkest recessConsign ye, to languishIn torment and anguishYour sins to redress."
"No longer now, with loud unseemly noise,Seek to delay the utterance of the wordOf the great King of Kings, our God the Lord!Else shall His malediction from the skies,Upon ye descending,To woe never-endingIn hell's darkest recessConsign ye, to languishIn torment and anguishYour sins to redress."
[3]These two rare and curious medals are to be seen to-day in the "Cabinet des Médailles."
[3]These two rare and curious medals are to be seen to-day in the "Cabinet des Médailles."
The disaffection of the Protestants having failed him, there remained still one more hope of assistance for Gabriel in his thirst for vengeance; namely, that furnished by the ambition of the Duc de Guise.
Consequently he was very prompt the next morning at ten o'clock in keeping the appointment François de Lorraine had made with him at the Tournelles.
It was evident that the young Comte de Montgommery was expected; for as soon as his name was announced he was shown into the presence of him who was now called the conqueror of Calais, thanks to Gabriel's daring scheme.
Le Balafré came eagerly forward to meet him, and grasped both his hands affectionately.
"Ah, here you are at last, my forgetful friend," said he. "I have been obliged to send for you, to follow you into your retirement, and if I had not done so God only knows when I should have seen you! Why is it? Why have you not been to visit me since my return?"
"Monseigneur," said Gabriel, in a low tone, "much distressing anxiety—"
"Ah! There it is! I was sure of it!" the duke interrupted him. "So they were false, were they, to the promises they made you h They deceived you, and insulted and tormented you. Oh, I was very suspicious that there was some infamy at the bottom of it all! My brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine, who was present when you arrived at the Louvre from Calais, and heard you spoken of as the Comte de Montgommery, imagined, with his priestly keenness, that you were destined to be the dupe or the victim of those people. Why did you not apply to him? He might have been of some assistance to you in my absence."
"I thank you, Monseigneur," replied Gabriel, gravely, "but you are mistaken, I assure you. All their promises to me were redeemed with the utmost exactitude."
"Oho, but you have such a way of saying it, my friend!"
"I speak as I feel, Monseigneur; but I will repeat that I make no complaints, and that the promises upon which I relied have been fulfilled—to the letter. So let us talk no more of my affairs, I beg, for you know that subject of conversation was never agreeable to me, and it is to-day more painful than ever. I ask you, Monseigneur, in pity not to insist upon your kindly meant inquiries."
The duke was struck with Gabriel's dolorous tone.
"Very well, my friend," said he; "I shall be afraid now of touching unintentionally upon some one of your scarcely healed scars, and I will question you no further about yourself."
"Thanks, Monseigneur," was Gabriel's reply, in a dignified tone, by no means free from emotion.
"But I wish you to be sure of this," continued Le Balafré, "that at all times and places, and for any purpose whatsoever, my influence, my fortune, and my life are at your service, Gabriel; and that if I am ever to be so fortunate as that you should need my help, you have but to hold out your hand to grasp mine."
"Thanks, Monseigneur," Gabriel said again.
"That being agreed between us," said the duke, "on what subject is it your pleasure that we should converse?"
"Why, of yourself, Monseigneur," replied the young count,—"of your glory and of your future plans; those are the subjects which interest rue. In them you will find the magnet which has drawn me to you in all haste at your first call."
"My glory? my plans for the future?" retorted François de Lorraine, with a shake of the head. "Alas! those are gloomy subjects of conversation for me as well."
"What mean you, Monseigneur?" Gabriel exclaimed.
"What I say, my friend. Yes, I confess that I did think I had won some renown; it seemed to me that my name deserved to be pronounced with some respect in France to-day, and with a certain degree of awe throughout Europe. And since my not unworthy past made it my duty to think of the future, I was forming plans based upon my reputation, and dreaming of great achievements,—great for my country, and for myself as well. I would have accomplished them, I have faith to believe—"
"Well, Monseigneur?" said Gabriel, inquiringly.
"Well, Gabriel, since my return to this court six months since, I have ceased to believe in my glory, and have abandoned all my plans."
"Why so, in God's name?"
"Why, in the first place, don't you know of the shameful treaty with which they have crowned our victories? If we had been forced to raise the siege of Calais, if the English still had the gateways of France in their hands,—in short, if defeat at all points had demonstrated the insufficiency or incompetency of our forces, and the impossibility of continuing an unequal conflict, we could not have been asked to sign a more unfavorable and dishonorable treaty than that of Cateau-Cambrésis."
"That is true, Monseigneur," Gabriel remarked; "and every one grieves to think that such a magnificent harvest yielded so little fruit."
"Oh, well," rejoined the duke; "how can you expect me to sow for people who know so little about reaping? And then, too, have they not forced me to remain ingloriously idle by this glorious peace of theirs? There is my sword, doomed for a long time to rust in its scabbard. War everywhere at an end, at whatever cost, puts an end at the same time to my fair dreams of glory; and between ourselves that was one of the main objects sought to be accomplished."
"But you are no less mighty even in this forced inaction, Monseigneur," said Gabriel. "You are respected at court, worshipped by the people, and dreaded by foreign nations."
"Yes, I believe I am beloved at home, and feared abroad," Le Balafré replied; "but do not tell me, my friend, that I am respected at the Louvre. While they are thus publicly reducing to nought the certain results of our success, they are threatening my private influence as well. When I returned from the North, whom did I find in greater favor than ever? That insolent, beaten hound of St. Laurent fame,—that Montmorency, whom I detest!"
"Oh, no more than I do, surely!" muttered Gabriel.
"It was by his influence and for his own purposes that this peace for which we are all blushing was concluded. Not content with thus making my efforts appear of less account, he was very careful to look after his own interests in the treaty, and to have the amount of his ransom after being taken prisoner at St. Laurent repaid to him,—for the second or third time, I believe! To such a degree does he speculate upon his defeat and disgrace."
"And does the Duc de Guise enter upon a rivalry with such as he?" asked Gabriel, with a disdainful smile.
"He shudders at the thought, my friend; but you can see that it is forced upon him! You can see that Monsieur le Connétable is protected by something stronger than glory or renown,—by some person more powerful than the king himself! You can see that my services can never equal those of Madame Diane de Poitiers, whom may the lightning wither!"
"Oh, that God might listen to you!" muttered Gabriel.
"What has that woman done to the king, in Heaven's name?" continued the duke. "Are the people really in the right when they speak of philters and charms? For my part, I believe that they are bound together by some stronger tie than love. It cannot be passion alone which thus indissolubly connects them; it must be fellowship in crime. I would swear that remorse has a place among their souvenirs of the past, and that they are more than lovers,—they are accomplices!"
The Comte de Montgommery shivered from head to foot.
"Do you not agree with me, Gabriel?" Le Balafré asked him.
"I do, indeed, Monseigneur," replied Gabriel, in a hollow voice.
"And to put the finishing touch to my humiliation," the duke went on, "do you know, my friend, what reward I found awaiting me here at Paris, over and above the monstrous treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis? The immediate revocation of my appointment as lieutenant-general of the kingdom. These extraordinary functions became unnecessary in time of peace, so I was told; and without a word of warning, without even a word of thanks, they erased that title, just as one throws upon the dust-heap a piece of drapery which is of no further use."
"Is it possible that no more consideration than that was shown you?" cried Gabriel, desirous to add fuel to the fire which was burning in that incensed heart.
"Why should they show more consideration to a superfluous servant?" said the duke, with clinched teeth. "As for Monsieur de Montmorency, that is another affair altogether. He was and he remains constable. That, mind you, is an honor of which they do not think of depriving him, and which he has earned by forty years of defeat and failure! Oh, by the cross of Lorraine, if the war-wind blows again, they may come and go on their knees to me and implore me, and call me the savior of my country! I will send them to their constable then; let him save them if he can. That is his business, and the duty that devolves upon the office he holds. But for myself, since they condemn me to idleness, I accept the sentence, and will take my ease until the dawn of better days."
Gabriel, after a pause, replied with much gravity of manner,—
"This determination on your part is a grievous one, Monseigneur, and I greatly deplore it; for I was just about to make a proposition to you—"
"Useless, my friend, useless!" exclaimed Le Balafré. "My mind is made up. And then, too, I repeat, and you know it as well as I, the peace has taken from us every hope of renown."
"Pardon, Monseigneur," rejoined Gabriel, "but the peace is the one thing that makes my plan feasible."
"Really?" said François de Lorraine, tempted in spite of himself. "Pray, is it some bold stroke like the siege of Calais?"
"Something still bolder, Monseigneur."
"How can that be?" exclaimed the duke. "Upon my word, you have succeeded in arousing my curiosity thoroughly."
"May I tell you about it, then?"
"To be sure you may; in fact, I beg you to do so."
"Are we quite alone?"
"Entirely; not a living soul is within the sound of our voices."
"Well, then, Monseigneur," Gabriel began resolutely, "this is what I have to say to you: This king and this constable choose to dispense with your services; why do not you dispense with them? They have ejected you from the office of lieutenant-general of the kingdom; assume it once more on your own responsibility."
"How do you mean? Explain yourself!" said the duke.
"Monseigneur, foreign princes fear you, the people adore you, and the army is at your command to a man; you are already more of a king in France than the king himself. You are king by right of genius, he only because the crown is on his head. Dare to speak with the voice of a master, and the nation will listen to you like obedient subjects. Will Henri II. be any stronger in the Louvre than you in your camp? He who now speaks to you will be proud and happy to be the first to address you as 'your Majesty.'"
"Well, this is an audacious and daring scheme of yours, Gabriel," commented the Duc de Guise.
But he did not give the least sign of irritation; on the contrary, his features wore a smile under their simulated expression of surprise.
"If it is an audacious scheme, it is a heart of extraordinary daring to which I propose it," replied Gabriel, firmly. "I speak for the good of France. We need a great man for king. Is it not calamitous that all your ideas of grandeur and of conquest should be thus disgracefully impeded by the caprice of a wanton and the jealousy of a favorite? If you were once at the helm with unfettered hands, where would your genius stop? You would renew the glory of Charlemagne."
"You know the house of Lorraine can trace its descent from him!" said Le Balafré, eagerly.
"Who could doubt it after seeing you in action?" replied Gabriel. "Be in your turn another Hugh Capet for the Valois."
"Yes, but suppose I should be only a Constable de Bourbon?"
"You slander yourself, Monseigneur. The Constable de Bourbon called foreigners to his assistance,—foes they were too. You need make use of none but your own country's forces."
"But where are these forces, which, according to you, are at my disposal?" asked Le Balafré.
"Two parties are offered to you," was Gabriel's reply.
"Who are they, pray?—for you see I allow you to go on, as if all this were something more than a mere figment of your imagination. Who are these two parties?"
"The army and the Protestants, Monseigneur," Gabriel answered. "You have it in your power to assume the position of a military chieftain at once."
"A usurper!" exclaimed Le Balafré.
"Say a conqueror! But if you would prefer, Monseigneur, be the king of the Huguenots."
"How about the Prince de Condé?" said the duke, smiling.
"He is fascinating and clever, but you are great and brilliant. Do you suppose that Calvin would hesitate between you?—and there is no doubt that the son of the cooper of Noyon is the dictator of his party. Say one word, and to-morrow you have at your command thirty thousand Reformers."
"But I am a Catholic prince, Gabriel."
"Glory is the true religion of heroes like yourself, Monseigneur."
"I should involve myself in trouble at Rome."
"That will be an excuse for making yourself her master."
"Ah, my friend, my friend!" rejoined the duke, looking keenly at Gabriel, "you hate Henri II. bitterly!"
"As much as I love you, I confess," said the youth, with noble frankness.
"I prize your sincerity, Gabriel," said Le Balafré, with a more serious manner; "and to prove it to you, I will lay bare my heart to you."
"And my heart will close its door forever upon what you may confide to it."
"Listen, then," continued the duke. "I will confess that I have before now sometimes dreamed of this end which you suggest to me to-day. But I think you will agree with me, my friend, in this, that when one sets out with such a goal in view, he should at least be reasonably sure of reaching it, and that to hazard such a step prematurely is to invite destruction."
"True," replied Gabriel.
"Very well," the duke went on, "do you really consider that the time is ripe for the fulfilment of my ambition? Preparations for so momentous a stroke should be made long beforehand, and men's minds must be made up and ready to second them. Now, do you believe that the people have accustomed themselves in advance, so to speak, to the idea of a change of dynasty?"
"They are accustomed to it," said Gabriel.
"I doubt it," returned the duke. "I have commanded armies, have defended Metz and taken Calais, and have twice been lieutenant-general of the kingdom; but all that is not sufficient. I have not yet come near enough to royal power. Doubtless there are discontents, but factions are not a people. Henri II. is young, clever, and brave, and he is the son of François I. There is no such danger in delay as to make one dream of dispossessing him."
"And so you hesitate, Monseigneur?" asked Gabriel.
"I do more than that, my friend, I refuse," replied Le Balafré. "Ah, if Henri II. should die suddenly to-morrow, by accident or disease—"
"So he thinks of that as well!" said Gabriel to himself. "Well, Monseigneur, if that unexpected blow should fall, what would you do?" he continued aloud.
"Then," rejoined the duke, "with a young and inexperienced king, altogether under my influence, I would become in some sort the regent of the kingdom. And if the queen-mother or Monsieur le Connétable undertook to act in opposition to me; if the Protestants raised a revolution,—if, in short, the State should be in danger and needed a firm hand at the helm, opportunities would arise of themselves, and I should become almost necessary. In such a case your scheme might be very welcome, my friend, and I would gladly hearken to you."
"But until then," said Gabriel,—"until this very improbable death of the king?"
"I will resign myself to wait, my friend, and will content myself with preparations for the future. And if the seeds sown in my mind bear fruit only for my son, it will be because God so willed it."
"Is this your last word, Monseigneur?"
"It is my last word," replied the duke. "But I am no less grateful to you, Gabriel, for having had this confidence in my destiny."
"And I, Monseigneur, am grateful to you for having had so much confidence in my discretion."
"Yes," rejoined the duke; "it is understood that all that has passed between us is as if it had never been said."
"Now I will take my leave," said Gabriel, rising.
"What, already!" exclaimed the duke.
"Yes, Monseigneur, I have learned what I desired to know. I will remember your words; they are safely buried in my heart, yet I will remember them. Excuse me, but it was essential for me to ascertain whether the royal ambition of the Duc de Guise was still slumbering. Adieu, Monseigneur."
"Au revoir, my friend."
Gabriel left the Tournelles even more gloomy and anxious than when he had entered there.
"So," said he to himself, "both the human auxiliaries upon whom I thought I could rely have failed me. I have none but God to look to now!"
Diane de Castro in her apartments in the royal palace was meanwhile leading a miserable existence of grief and mortal terror.
Yet every tie was not broken that bound her to him who had loved her so dearly. Almost every week André the page was sent to the Rue des Jardins St. Paul, to make inquiries of Aloyse concerning Gabriel's welfare.
The information which he brought back to Diane was far from reassuring. The young Comte de Montgommery was always the same,—moody and anxious and gloomy. The good nurse could not speak of him that her eyes did not fill with tears, and her cheeks lose their color.
Diane hesitated fora long while. Finally, one morning during this same month of June she took a decided step in order to put an end to her dread.
She wrapped herself in a very modest cloak, hid her face under a veil, and left the Louvre at an hour when people were scarcely stirring there, accompanied by André alone, with the purpose of visiting Gabriel at his house.
Since he avoided her and made no sign, she would go to him.
Surely a sister might visit her brother! Indeed, was it not her duty to warn him or console him?
Unfortunately, all the courage which it had cost Diane to resolve upon that step was to be in vain.
Gabriel also selected the lonely hours of the early morning for his wanderings, which he had by no means abandoned; and when Diane knocked with trembling hand at the door of his house, he had already been gone more than half an hour.
Should she await his return? It was always uncertain, and a too long absence from the Louvre might expose Diane to slander.
But no matter; she determined to wait at least until the expiration of the time she had set aside for the visit.
She inquired for Aloyse, for she also desired to see her, and question her with her own lips.
André escorted his mistress into an unoccupied room, and went to inform the nurse.
Not for many years, not since the happy days of Montgommery and Vimoutiers, had Aloyse and Diane met,—the woman of the people and the daughter of the king.
Yet both their lives had been engrossed by the same thought, and anxiety upon the same subject still filled their days with dread, and robbed their nights of sleep.
So when Aloyse, coming hurriedly into the room, would have bowed low before Madame de Castro, Diane threw herself into the good woman's arms, and warmly embraced her, saying as she used to say in the old days,—
"Dear nurse!"
"What, Madame!" exclaimed Aloyse, moved to tears, "do you really remember me? Do you recognize me?"
"Do I remember you! do I recognize you!" returned Diane; "you might as well ask me if I remember Enguerrand's house, or if I would recognize the Château de Montgommery!"
Meanwhile Aloyse with clasped hands was looking at Diane more attentively.
"How beautiful you are!" she cried, sighing and smiling at once.
She smiled, for she had dearly loved the young girl who had developed into the beautiful lady before her. She sighed, for as she dwelt upon her lovely features she could better estimate Gabriel's wretchedness.
Diane understood this look, which was both melancholy and enraptured, and hastened to say, with a slight blush,—
"I have not come to talk of myself, nurse."
"Is it of him, then?" said Aloyse.
"Of whom else, pray? for to you I can lay bare my heart. How unfortunate that I did not find him! I came to console him and myself at the same time. How is he? Always dejected and despairing, is he not? Why has he not been once to the Louvre to see me? What does he say? What is he doing? Tell me, oh, pray tell me, nurse!"
"Alas! Madame," replied Aloyse, "you are quite right in thinking that he is dejected and despairing. Imagine—"
Diane interrupted her.
"Wait a moment, good Aloyse," said she; "before you begin I have a word to say. I could stay here till to-morrow listening to you, you know, without growing weary, or without noticing the flight of time. But I must return to the Louvre before my absence is noticed. So promise me one thing: when I have been here an hour, whether he has returned or not, tell me so, and send me away."
"But, Madame," said Aloyse, "I am quite capable of forgetting the hour myself, and I should not grow weary of talking to you any sooner than you would of listening to me, you see."
"What can we do, then?" asked Diane. "I dread the effect of our combined weakness."
"Let us intrust the difficult duty to some third person," said Aloyse.
"The very thing! André."
The page, who had remained in an adjoining room, undertook to rap at the door when an hour had passed.
"And now," said Diane, taking her seat by the nurse's side, "we can talk at our ease, and tranquilly, if not joyfully."
But this interview, though of the deepest interest to these two afflicted creatures, was nevertheless full of difficulty and bitterness.
In the first place, neither of them knew how far the other was cognizant of the terrible secrets of the Montgommery family.
Then, too, in what Aloyse did know of her young master's later life there were many troublesome matters which she was afraid to mention. In what way could she explain his long absences, his sudden returns, his preoccupation, and his silence?
At last, however, the good nurse did tell Diane all that she knew,—that is to say, all that she had seen; and Diane while listening to her doubtless experienced a delicious pleasure in hearing Gabriel spoken of, mingled though it was with deep grief at learning such sad news of him.
In truth, Aloyse's revelations were not of a nature calculated to calm Madame de Castro's apprehensions, but rather to rekindle them; for this earnest and impassioned witness of the young count's anguish and suffering brought vividly before Diane's mind all the torments by which his life was harassed.
Diane became more and more fully persuaded that if she wished to save those whom she loved it was high time for her to intervene.
An hour is quickly gone, no matter how painful the subject of conversation. Diane and Aloyse were startled and amazed when Andre's rap was heard at the door.
"What! already?" they cried in one breath.
"Well, be it so!" said Diane. "I am going to stay just a quarter of an hour longer."
"Be careful, Madame!" said the nurse.
"You are right, nurse; I must and will go now. But one word: in all that you have told me of Gabriel you have omitted—I mean, does he never speak of me?"
"Never, Madame, I must agree."
"Oh, it is better so!" sighed Diane.
"And he would do better still never even to think of you any more."
"Do you believe, nurse, that he does think of me, then?" asked Madame de Castro, eagerly.
"I am only too sure of it, Madame," said Aloyse.
"Nevertheless, he carefully avoids me; he even shuns the Louvre."
"If he does avoid the Louvre, Madame," said Aloyse, shaking her head, "it is not because of her whom he loves."
"I understand," thought Diane, shuddering; "it is because of him whom he hates.
"Oh!" she said aloud, "I must see him,—absolutely I must."
"Do you wish me, Madame, to tell him from you to go to the Louvre to seek you?"
"No, no,—not to the Louvre!" exclaimed Diane, in alarm. "Don't let him come to the Louvre! I will see—I will be on the lookout for another opportunity like this morning. I will come here again myself."
"But suppose that he has gone out again?" observed Aloyse. "What day will you come, what week,—can you tell at all? He will wait for you; have no fear of that."
"Alas!" said Diane, "poor king's child that I am, how can I say that at such a day or such an hour I shall be free? However, if it is possible, I will send André on before to warn him."
At this moment the page rapped a second time, fearful that he had not been heard before.
"Madame," he cried, "the streets and squares about the Louvre are beginning to be thronged."
"I am coming," replied Madame de Castro; "I am coming.
"Well, we must part, my good nurse," she continued. "Embrace me as you used to do when I was a child, you know, in the old, old happy days."
While Aloyse, unable to utter a word, held Diane close to her breast,—
"Oh, watch over him! take good care of him!" she said in the nurse's ear.
"As I did when he was a child, in the old, old happy days," said Aloyse.
"Oh, better, even better, Aloyse! In that time he was not in such sore need."
Diane left the house without having met Gabriel, and half an hour later she was safely in her apartments at the Louvre. But if she had no reason to feel disturbed at the result of the hazardous step she had taken, her anguish and dread on the subject of Gabriel's unknown designs were even greater than before.
The forebodings of a woman's loving heart are apt to be only too accurate forecasts of the future.
Gabriel did not return home until the day was well advanced. The heat was intense, and he was wearied in body and mind.
But when Aloyse uttered Diane's name and told of her visit, he stood erect with new life, his chest heaving and his heart throbbing.
"What did she want? What did she say? What did she do? Oh, why was I not here? Come, tell me everything, Aloyse,—every word, every movement."
He took his turn at questioning the nurse, hardly giving her time to reply.
"She wants to see me?" he cried. "She has something to say to me? And she doesn't know when she may be able to come again? Oh, Aloyse, Aloyse, I cannot wait in such uncertainty! surely you can see that. I shall go to the Louvre at once."
"To the Louvre! Oh, Heaven preserve us!" ejaculated Aloyse, in terror.
"Yes, to be sure," replied Gabriel, calmly. "I am not banished from the Louvre, so far as I know; and the man who had the honor of restoring Madame de Castro to liberty at Calais surely has the right to pay his respects to her in Paris."
"Of course," said Aloyse, trembling like a leaf; "but Madame de Castro was very particular to say that you were not to come to the Louvre to see her."
"Have I anything to fear there?" said Gabriel, proudly. "That would be one reason more for me to go."
"No," replied the nurse; "it was probably on her own account that Madame de Castro feared your coming."
"Her reputation would suffer much more from a secret and surreptitious action, if discovered, than from a public visit in broad daylight, such as I propose to pay,—such as I will pay her to-day, at this moment."