"Ah, Mary, you know so much yourself!" replied the young king, smiling. "You can make verses, and you understand Latin, too, while I have never succeeded in making any headway in it."
"But study is our lot, and the only amusement we women have, just as you men and princes are born to action and command."
"Nevertheless," rejoined François, "just for the sake of equalling you in one thing, I would like to know as much as my brother Charles."
"Apropos of our brother Charles," Mary interrupted, "did you notice him yesterday in the part he assumed in the allegory of 'Religion defended by the Three Divine Virtues'?"
"Yes," said the king; "he was one of the horsemen who represented the virtues,—Charity, I think."
"The very same," replied Mary. "Well, did you see, Sire, with what fury he belabored the head of poor Heresy?"
"Yes, indeed, when she came forward in the midst of the flames with the body of a serpent. Charles seemed to be quite beside himself, really."
"And, tell me, gentle Sire," continued the queen, "did not that head of Heresy seem to you to resemble some one?"
"Why, yes," said François, "I thought I must be mistaken; but it assuredly wore the expression of Monsieur de Coligny, did it not?"
"Say, rather, that it was Monsieur l'Amiral, feature for feature."
"And all those devils who carried him off!" said the king.
"And the joy of our uncle the cardinal!"
"And my mother's smile."
"It was almost frightful!" said the young queen. "And yet, François, your mother was very beautiful last evening with her dress of shimmering gold and her tan-colored veil,—a magnificent costume!"
"Yes, it was," replied the king; "and so, mymignonne, I have ordered a similar dress for you at Constantinople, through Monsieur de Grandchamp, and you shall also have a veil of Roman gauze like my mother's."
"Oh, thanks, my gallant spouse! Thanks! I certainly do not envy the fate of our sister Élisabeth of Spain, who, they say, never wears the same dress twice. And yet I should not like to have any woman in France, even your mother, seem to be more finely dressed than I, especially in your eyes."
"Ah, what difference does it make, after all?" said the king; "for will you not always be the loveliest of them all?"
"It hardly seemed so yesterday," pouted Mary; "for after the torch-dance that I danced, you never said a single word to me. I must needs think that you did not like it."
"Indeed I did!" cried François; "but what could I say, in God's name, beside all those clever wits of the court who were pouring compliments upon you in prose and verse? Dubellay claimed that you had no need of a torch like the other ladies, but that the light that shone from your eyes was sufficient. Maisonfleur was appalled at the danger from the vivid sparks from your eyes which were never extinguished and might destroy the entire hall. Whereupon Ronsard added that the stars which shone in your head might serve to lighten the darkness of the night, and to put the sun to shame by day. Was there any need, pray, after all those poetic flights for me to come and add my poor testimony that I thought you and your dance fascinating?"
"Why not?" was Mary's playful retort. "That little word from you would have rejoiced my heart more than all their tasteless flattery."
"Well, then, I say it this morning,mignonne, with all my heart; for the dance was perfect, and almost made me forget the Spanishpavanewhich I used to like so much, and the Italianpazzemeni, which you and poor Élisabeth danced together so divinely. In fact, dear, whatever you do is always done better than what others do; for you are the fairest of the fair, and the prettiest women look like chambermaids beside you! Yes, in your royal attire or in this simple dishabille, you are always the same, my queen and my love. I see only you, and I love none but you!"
"Dearmignon!"
"My adored darling!"
"My life!"
"My supreme and only good! See! Though you had but a peasant's hood, I would love you better than all the queens of the earth!"
"For my own part," replied Mary, "though you were but a simple page, you and none other would reign in my heart."
"Oh,mon Dieu!" added François, "how I love to pass my fingers through your soft silky, fair hair, and to play with it and tangle it! I can well imagine that your women might often ask leave to kiss that round white neck, and those arms, so beautifully turned and so plump. But don't you let them any more, Mary!"
"Why not, pray?"
"Because I am jealous!" said the king.
"Foolish child!" laughed Mary, with an adorable childish gesture.
"Ah!" cried François, passionately, "if I had to choose between renouncing my crown and my Mary, the choice would soon be made."
"What madness!" exclaimed Mary. "How could any one give up the crown of France, which is the fairest of all after the heavenly crown?"
"Because of the mark it makes upon my brow!" said François, with a smile that was half playful and half sad.
"What!" said Mary. "Oh, but I forgot that we have one matter to settle—and a matter of the most supreme importance—which my uncle De Lorraine has thrust upon us."
"Oh, ho!" cried the king; "that does not often happen."
"He leaves it for us," said Mary, very seriously, "to decide upon the color of the uniform of our Swiss Guards."
"That is a mark of confidence which does us great honor. Let us consult upon it. What is your Majesty's opinion upon this difficult question, Madame?"
"Oh, I must only speak after you, Sire."
"Well, then, I think that the style of the coat should remain the same,—a broad doublet with full sleeves, with slashings in three colors. Am I not right?"
"Yes, Sire; but what shall the colors be? That is the question?"
"It is not an easy one; but that is because you do not help me, my fair adviser. The first color?"
"It ought to be white," said Mary,—"the color of France."
"Then the second," declared François, "shall be that of Scotland,—blue."
"Very well; but the third?"
"How would yellow do?"
"Oh, no; that is the color of Spain. Green would be better."
"That is the color of the Guises," said the king.
"Very well, Monsieur; is that a reason for excluding it?"
"No, indeed; but will these three colors harmonize well?"
"Well thought of!" cried Mary Stuart. "Let us take red, the color of Switzerland; it will be in a measure a reminder of their country to the poor fellows."
"An idea as kind as your heart, Mary," the king responded. "There! that momentous affair has come to a glorious conclusion. Ouf! we have had enough trouble with it; fortunately, more serious matters do not give us so much. And your dear uncles, Mary, are so willing to relieve me of all the burden of government! it is delightful! They do the writing, and I have only to sign my name, sometimes without even reading; so that my crown placed upon my royal couch would serve quite as well as I, if the whim should seize me to take a journey."
"Do you not feel sure, Sire," asked Mary, "that my uncles will never have aught at heart save your interest and that of France?"
"How can I help knowing it?" was the reply. "They tell me of it too often to give me any hope of forgetting it. For instance, it is the day for a meeting of the council to-day: and we shall see Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine come in with his deep humility and his overdone respect,—which do not always amuse me, I confess,—and shall hear him say in his soft voice, bowing at every word, 'Sire, the suggestion I have the honor to make to your Majesty is aimed only at maintaining the honor of your crown. Your Majesty cannot doubt the zeal for the glory of your reign and the welfare of your people by which we are animated. Sire, the splendor of the throne and of the Church is the only end,' etc."
"How perfectly you imitate him!" cried Mary, laughing and clapping her hands.
But in a more serious tone she continued,—
"We must be indulgent and generous, François. Pray, do you suppose that your lady-mother, Catherine de Médicis, gives me much pleasure when, with her pale face sternly set, she reads me endless sermons upon my dress and my servants and my establishment? Can you not hear her now saying to me, with her lips pursed up, 'My daughter, you are the queen. I am to-day only the second woman in the kingdom; but if I were in your place, I should require my women to attend Mass no less regularly than vespers and the sermon; if I were in your place, I would never wear carnation velvet, because it is too gaudy a color; if I were in your place, I would have my silver-gray dress made over, because it is toodécollettée; if I were in your place, I would never dance myself, but would be content to watch others; if I were in your place—'"
"Oh, oh!" cried the king, shrieking with laughter; "it is my mother herself! But then, you see,mignonne, she is my mother, after all; and I have already offended her grievously by leaving no share for her in the affairs of State, which are entirely administered by your uncles; so we must put up with some things we don't like, and respectfully bear with her scolding. I, too, will resign myself to the gentle tutelage of the Cardinal de Lorraine, just because you are his niece, do you hear?"
"Thanks, dear Sire!—thanks for the sacrifice!" and Mary emphasized her words with a kiss.
"But, joking apart," continued François, "there are times when I am tempted to renounce the title of king, as I have already abandoned the power."
"Oh, why do you say that?" cried Mary.
"Because I feel it, Mary. Ah, if only it were not necessary to be King of France in order to be your husband! Just consider a moment! I have nought but the weariness and restraints of royalty. The humblest of our subjects is freer than I. Why, if I had not been downright angry at the suggestion, we should have had to occupy separate apartments! Why, do you suppose? Because they alleged that it was the custom of kings and queens of France!"
"How ridiculous they are with their customs!" exclaimed Mary. "Oh, well, we have changed all that, and established a new custom,—which, thank God, is much better than the other."
"To be sure it is, Mary. But, tell me, do you know the secret desire I have been cherishing for a long time?"
"No,—indeed I do not."
"Well, it is to break loose for a while,—to fly or steal away, and leave the throne to take care of itself; to turn our backs upon Paris, Blois, yes, even upon France itself, and go—where? I don't know nor care, so long as it is far away from here, where we can breathe at our ease for a little while like other people. Mary, would not such a journey, say for six months or a year, please you?"
"Oh, I should be perfectly delighted, my beloved Sire," replied Mary, "especially for your sake; for I am sometimes unquiet about your health, and you suffer too frequently with these distressing headaches. The change of air and of scene would distract your thoughts, and be a most excellent thing for you. Yes, let us go, let us go! But, oh! the cardinal and the queen-mother,—will they listen to such a plan?"
"Well, after I am king and I am master," said François. "The kingdom is quiet and peaceable; and since they get along very well without my will in the government, they can do quite as well without my presence. We will take our flight in advance of the winter, Mary, like the swallows. Let us see. Where would you like to go? Suppose we were to visit your Scottish States?"
"What! cross the seal," said Mary. "Expose your delicate chest, mymignon, to those dangerous fogs? No! I should prefer our smiling Touraine and this fair Château de Blois. But why should we not pay a visit to our sister Élisabeth in Spain?"
"The air of Madrid is not wholesome for kings of France, Mary."
"Oh, well! Italy, then!" suggested Mary. "It is always lovely there, and always warm,—blue sky and blue water; orange-trees in flower, and music, and continual holiday-making!"
"Italy accepted!" cried the king, joyously. "We will see the Holy Catholic Religion in all its glory,—the magnificent churches and the relics of the saints."
"And Raphael's paintings," added Mary, "and St. Peter's, and the Vatican."
"We will ask the Holy Father for his blessing, and will bring back our hands full of indulgences."
"Oh, it will be delightful," said the queen, "to realize this lovely dream together, side by side, beloved and loving, with heaven in our hearts, and on our heads—"
"Paradise!" cried François, enthusiastically.
But even as he spoke, carried away by the fascinating thought, the door opened suddenly, and the Cardinal de Lorraine, pushing aside the usher in attendance, who had no time to announce him, burst into the royal apartment, pale and breathless.
The Duc de Guise, less excited but quite as serious, followed his brother at a short distance, and his measured step could be heard in the antechamber through the door, which remained open.
"Well, Monsieur le Cardinal," said the young king, warmly, "am I not to be allowed a moment of leisure and freedom even in this place?"
"Sire," replied Charles de Lorraine, "I am very sorry to disobey your Majesty's orders; but the affair which has led my brother and myself hither is of too great moment to admit of delay."
As he spoke, the Duc de Guise came gravely in, saluted the king and queen silently, and remained standing behind his brother, mute, immovable, and very serious.
"Very well! I am listening, Monsieur; therefore speak," said François to the cardinal.
"Sire," continued the latter, "a conspiracy against your Majesty has been discovered, and your life is no longer safe in this Château de Blois; you should depart hence immediately."
"A conspiracy! Depart from Blois!" exclaimed the king. "Pray, what does all this mean?"
"It means, Sire, that evil-minded men are conspiring against the life and the crown of your Majesty."
"What!" said François, "can they have any ill-will against me, so young as I am, and only seated on the throne yesterday! against me, who have never injured a single soul,—that is to say, knowingly or wilfully! Who are these evil-minded men, Monsieur le Cardinal?"
"Why, who should they be," rejoined Charles de Lorraine, "if not these cursed Huguenot heretics?"
"Heretics again!" cried the king. "Are you sure, Monsieur, that you are not allowing yourself to be led astray by suspicions which have no foundation in fact?"
"Alas!" said the cardinal, "there is, unhappily, no room for doubt now."
The young king, whose delightful dreams were thus interrupted by this unpleasant reality, seemed greatly annoyed; Mary was much disturbed by his ill-humor, and the cardinal very anxious over the news he had brought. Le Balafré, alone calm and self-controlled, awaited the result of all this talk in an attitude of utter impassibility.
"In God's name, what have I done to my people that they love me no longer!" continued François, bitterly.
"I think I told your Majesty that it is only the Huguenots who are rebellious," said the Cardinal de Lorraine.
"Well, they are Frenchmen!" rejoined the king. "In fact, Monsieur le Cardinal, I have intrusted all my power to your hands in the hope that you would cause it to be blessed, and yet I am continually encompassed by anxiety and complaints and discontent."
"Oh, Sire, Sire!" exclaimed Mary Stuart, reproachfully.
The Cardinal de Lorraine retorted dryly,—
"It would be hardly fair, Sire, to hold us responsible for ills which are due entirely to the troublous condition of the time."
"Nevertheless, Monsieur," continued the youthful king, "I should like for once to know the real condition of affairs, and to be without you at my side for a while, so that I might ascertain whether the disaffection is directed against myself or you."
"Oh, your Majesty!" cried Mary Stuart, in great alarm.
François said no more, for he already reproached himself for having gone too far. The Duc de Guise did not manifest the least disturbance. Charles de Lorraine, after an embarrassing silence, replied, with the dignified and constrained air of a man unjustly offended,—
"Sire, since we are unfortunate enough to see that our efforts are misunderstood or not appreciated, and are therefore useless, it only remains for us, as your loyal subjects and devoted kinsmen, to give place to others more worthy or more fortunate—"
The king, in his confusion, said nothing; and the cardinal continued, after a pause,—
"Your Majesty has only to tell us in whose hands to place our seals of office. So far as I am concerned, nothing will be easier than to fill my place. Your Majesty will simply have to choose between Monsieur le Chancelier Olivier, Monsieur le Cardinal de Tournon, and Monsieur de l'Hôpital."
Mary Stuart hid her face in her hands in despair; while poor repentant François would have asked for nothing better than to recall his childish indignation, but the haughty silence of Le Balafré frightened him.
Charles de Lorraine continued: "The office of grand master, however, and the management of affairs in case of war, demand such extraordinary talents and such lofty renown that, after my brother, I can think of only two men who could venture to pretend to fill his place,—Monsieur de Brissac, perhaps—"
"Oh, Brissac is always scolding, and always in a passion!" exclaimed the king; "he is not to be thought of!"
"Well, the other one," continued the cardinal, "is Monsieur de Montmorency, who surely has the renown even though he lacks the necessary talents."
"Oh, no!" François objected again; "Monsieur le Connétable is too old for me, and he formerly treated the dauphin too slightingly to make it probable that he would serve the king with due respect to-day. But, Monsieur le Cardinal, why do you omit to mention my other kinsmen, the princes of the blood,—the Prince de Condé, for example?"
"Sire," said the cardinal, "it is with deep regret that I inform your Majesty of the fact, but among the names of the secret leaders of the conspiracy that has been unearthed, that of the Prince de Condé stands first."
"Is it possible?" asked the young king, almost stupefied.
"Sire, there is no doubt about it."
"Then this must be really a serious conspiracy against the State?" said François.
"It is almost a rebellion, Sire," replied the cardinal; "and since your Majesty relieves my brother and myself from the most awful responsibility that has ever been laid upon us, my duty compels me to implore you to name our successors as soon as possible,—for the Huguenots will be under the walls of Blois in a few days."
"What do you say, my uncle?" cried Mary, in dismay.
"The truth, Madame."
"Are the rebels numerous?" asked the king.
"Sire, they are said to be two thousand strong," replied the cardinal. "There were rumors that their advance-guard was already near La Carrelière, but I could hardly believe them until Monsieur de Mouchy brought me intelligence of the conspiracy from Paris. We will withdraw now, Sire, Monsieur de Guise and myself—"
"What's that?" exclaimed François. "Do you both select such a time of danger as this to desert me?"
"But I thought I understood, Sire," returned Charles de Lorraine, "that such was your Majesty's intention."
"What do you wish?" said the king. "I cannot help being sad when I see how many enemies you have made—I mean how many enemies I have! But come, let us say no more about it, good uncle; give me more details as to the insolent attempt of these rebels."
"Pardon, Sire!" retorted the cardinal, still standing on his dignity; "after what your Majesty has said, it seems to me that others than ourselves—"
"Oh, dear uncle, I implore you to say no more about my hasty words, which I am sorry for," said François II. "What more can I say? Must I apologize, pray, and ask your pardon?"
"Oh, Sire!" said Charles de Lorraine, "at the moment that your Majesty restores his precious confidence to us—"
"Entirely, and with all my heart," added the king, offering his hand to the cardinal.
"Just so much valuable time lost!" said the Duc de Guise, gravely.
It was the first word he had uttered since the beginning of the interview.
He came forward now, as if all that had gone before had been simply unimportant preliminaries a wearisome prologue, in which he had allowed the Cardinal de Lorraine to sustain the principal part; but these puerile discussions being at an end, he haughtily took the floor and assumed the initiative.
"Sire," said he to the king, "this, in brief, is the condition of affairs: two thousand rebels, commanded by Baron de la Renaudie, and encouraged underhand by the Prince de Condé, are preparing a descent at this time from Poitou, Béarn, and other provinces, with the view of surprising Blois and carrying off your Majesty."
François made a gesture of indignation and surprise.
"Carry off the king!" cried Mary Stuart.
"And you with him, Madame," continued Le Balafré. "But never fear; we will take good care of your Majesties."
"What measures do you propose to take?" asked the king.
"We received warning of this only an hour since," said the Duc de Guise. "But the first thing to do, Sire, is to assure the safety of your sacred person. For that purpose, it is necessary that you should leave this unfortified town of Blois and its unprotected château this very day, to withdraw to Amboise, where there is a fortified château which will protect you against a sudden blow."
"What!" said the queen; "imprison ourselves in that vile Château d'Amboise, perched up on top of a rock, and so gloomy and sad!"
"Child!" was what Le Balafré's harsh look said to his niece, though he did not put it in words.
He said simply,—
"Madame, it must be done!"
"But that will be flying from these rebels!" said the young king, trembling with rage.
"Sire," rejoined the duke, "you cannot fly from an enemy who has not yet attacked you, nor even declared war against you. We are supposed to be in ignorance of the guilty designs of these factionists."
"However, we do know them," said François.
"I beg your Majesty to rely upon me as regards these questions of honor," replied François de Lorraine. "We do not shun the combat simply by changing the field of battle; and I sincerely hope that the rebels will take the trouble of following us to Amboise."
"Why do you say that you hope so, Monsieur?" asked the king.
"Why?" said Le Balafré, with his superb smile. "Because it will be a good opportunity to put an end once for all to heretics and heresy; because it is high time to strike at them in some other way than in fiction and allegory; because I would have given two fingers of my hand—my left hand—to bring about without difficulty the decisive struggle which these reckless fools are inviting, for our triumph."
"Alas!" sighed the king, "is this struggle anything less than civil war?"
"Let us accept it for the sake of having done with it," replied the Duc de Guise. "This, in a word, is my plan,—your Majesty must remember that we have only these rebels to deal with: Saving this retreat from Blois, which will not arouse their suspicions, I hope, we will affect the most complete security and most utter ignorance in regard to their plans. And when they advance upon us, like the traitors that they are, to surprise us, we shall be the ones to surprise them, and catch them in their own trap. Therefore let no sign of alarm escape you, or any appearance of flight; this advice is meant especially for you, Madame," he said, turning to Mary. "My orders will be given, and your people notified to be ready, but it will be done secretly. Let there be no suspicion outside of our preparations or our apprehensions, and I will answer for everything."
"What hour is fixed for our departure?" asked François, with a dejected air of resignation.
"Sire, three in the afternoon," said the duke; "I have taken all needful steps."
"What! before coming to me?"
"Even so, Sire," replied Le Balafré, firmly; "for before I came to you, I was perfectly sure that your Majesty would listen to the voice of reason and honor."
"Very well!" said the young king, with a feeble smile, completely conquered, "we will be ready at three o'clock, Monsieur; we have every confidence in you."
"Sire," said the duke, "I thank you for your confidence, and will strive to merit it. But I beg your Majesty to excuse me, for at such times minutes are precious, and I have twenty letters to write, and a hundred commissions to give out. Therefore my brother and myself will humbly take leave of your Majesty."
He saluted the king and queen quite abruptly, and went out with the cardinal.
François and Mary gazed at each other ruefully for a moment without speaking.
"Well, my darling," said the king at last, "how about our fair vision of a journey to Rome?"
"It seems to have resolved itself into a flight to Amboise," sighed Mary.
At this moment Madame Dayelle, the queen's first lady-in-waiting, appeared.
"Pray, Madame, is this true that I have heard?" said she, after the ordinary salutation. "Must we break up our establishment here at once, and quit Bloise for Amboise?"
"It is only too true, my poor Dayelle," replied Mary.
"Do you know, Madame, that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, in that château?—not even a decent mirror!"
"Then we must carry everything from here, Dayelle," said the queen. "Write out at once a list of the things we must have; I will dictate to you. In the first place, my new dress of crimson damask with gold lace trimming—"
Turning to the king, who was still standing in the window recess, thoughtful and sad,—
"Just fancy, Sire," said she, "the audacity of these Reformers! But, pardon me, you ought also to be thinking about what things you will need at Amboise, so that you will not be unprovided."
"No," said François; "I will leave all that to Aubert, myvalet de chambre. I myself can think of nothing but my disappointment."
"Do you think mine is any less bitter?" said Mary. "Madame Dayelle, put down my violet farthingale covered with gold camblet, and my white damask dress with silver trimming. But we must make the best of it," she continued, addressing the king, "and not run the risk of being without articles of the first importance. Madame Dayelle, don't forget my bedgown of plain cloth-of-gold trimmed with lynx. Not for ages, Sire, has the old Château d'Amboise been inhabited by the court, has it?"
"Since the days of Charles VIII.," said François, "I do not think that a king of France has ever lived there for more than two or three days."
"And we may have to stay there a whole month!" exclaimed Mary. "Oh, those wretched Huguenots! Don't you think, Madame Dayelle, that the bedchamber at all events will be partly furnished?"
"The surest way, Madame," said the lady-in-waiting, shaking her head, "will be to go prepared to find nothing at all there."
"Then put down the gold-framed mirror," said the queen, "the violet velvet jewel-case, and the shaggy carpet to put around the bed. But have subjects ever before been known, Sire," she continued in a low tone, returning to the king's side, "to march against their master thus, and drive him from his own house, so to speak?"
"Never, I think, Mary," was François's melancholy reply. "Sometimes scoundrels have been known to resist the execution of the king's commands, as was the case fifteen years since at Mérindol and La Cabrière; but to attack the king in the first place,—I could never have imagined such a thing, I declare!"
"Oh, my uncle Guise is right, then! We cannot take too many precautions against these hot-headed rebels. Madame Dayelle, add a dozen or so pairs of shoes, and twelve pillows and sheets. Is that all? Really, I believe I am losing my mind! Wait a moment, my dear! Here, put in this velvet pincushion and this gold candlestick and bodkin and gilt needle-case. There, I see nothing else."
"Will not Madame carry her two jewel-cases?"
"Yes, indeed, I will carry them!" cried Mary, eagerly. "Leave them here! Why, they might fall into the hands of these miscreants, might they not, Sire? I am quite sure I will carry them."
"It will be a wise precaution," said François, with a slight smile.
"I think I have omitted nothing else of consequence, my dear Dayelle?" continued Mary, looking around the room.
"Madame will remember her 'Book of Hours,' I trust," said the maid-of-honor, rather affectedly.
"Ah, I should have forgotten them," said Mary, ingenuously. "Let me have the finest ones,—the one which my uncle the cardinal gave me and the scarlet velvet one with the gold ornaments. Madame Dayelle, I leave you to look after all this. You see how preoccupied the king and myself are by the disagreeable necessity for this sudden departure."
"Madame has no need to quicken my zeal," said the duenna. "How many chests and trunks must I order to carry everything! Five will suffice, I should think."
"Order six, and go now!" replied the queen. "We must not fall short in this deplorable extremity,—six, without counting those of my women, remember! But let them make their own arrangements, for I haven't the heart to attend to all these details. Yes, François, I am like you; I can think of nothing but these Huguenots, alas! You may go now, Dayelle."
"Any orders for the footmen and coachmen, Madame?"
"Let them wear simply their cloth coats," said the queen. "Go, dear Dayelle, without further loss of time."
Dayelle bowed and had taken three or four steps toward the door, when Mary called her back.
"Dayelle," said she, "when I said that our people should wear only their cloth coats, you understand that I meant for the journey. Let them not fail to take with them their capes of violet velvet and their violet cloaks lined with yellow velvet. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Madame. Has Madame any other orders to give?"
"No, nothing more," said Mary. "But see that everything is done promptly; we have only about three hours. Don't forget the footmen's cloaks."
Dayelle left the room without further hindrance.
Mary then turned to the king.
"You approve of these cloaks for our people, Sire, do you not?" she asked. "The Reformers will surely allow us to dress our household as we think fitting. We must not humiliate royalty too much before the rebels. I even venture to hope, Sire, that we may find it possible to give a little fête in their faces at Amboise, though it be such a detestable place."
François shook his head rather gloomily.
"Oh, don't you sneer at the idea!" said Mary. "That would intimidate them more than you think, by letting them see that, after all, we are not much afraid of them. A ball under such circumstances would be most excellent politics, I am not afraid to say; and even your mother, capable woman that she is, could suggest nothing better. But no matter! For all that I say, my heart is none the less torn, my poor, dear Sire. Ah, the villanous Huguenots!"
Since the fatal tournament Gabriel had led a calm and retired but gloomy life. This man of energetic movement and action, whose days had formerly been so filled with life and excitement, now seemed to take delight only in solitude and forgetfulness.
He never appeared at court, never saw a friend, and scarcely ever left his house, where he passed the long, sad, and dreamy hours with his faithful old nurse Aloyse and the page André, who had come back to him when Diane de Castro had taken her sudden flight to the Benedictine convent at St. Quentin.
Gabriel, still a young man in years, had grown old from grief. He brooded over the past, and had no longer any hope.
How many times during those months, each of which was years long, had he regretted that he was still alive! How many times did he wonder why the Duc de Guise and Mary Stuart had placed themselves between him and the anger of Catherine de Médicis, and had laid upon him the bitter burden of life! What had he to do on earth? What was he good for? Could the tomb be any more barren of result than this existence in which he was languishing,—if, indeed, it could be called an existence!
There were moments, however, when his youthful vigor rose in protest in spite of himself.
Then he would stretch his arms and raise his head and gaze at his sword. At such times he would have a vague feeling that his life was not ended, but that there was still a future for him, and that hours of hot fighting, and perhaps of victory, might sooner or later enter again into his destiny.
In view of everything, however, he could see only two chances of returning to the life of action for which he was best fitted,—a foreign war or religious persecution.
If France, if the king, should find themselves involved in some new war, undertaken for conquest, or to repel invasion, the Comte de Montgommery told himself that his youthful ardor would at once return, and that it would be pleasant for him to die as he had lived,—fighting.
And then how glad he would be to pay the involuntary debt he owed the Duc de Guise and young King François!
Again Gabriel would reflect that it would be a glorious thing to die in defence of the new truths which had shed their light upon his soul during the later days. The cause of the Reformation—in his eyes the cause of justice and liberty—was also a noble and saintly cause to serve.
The young count read assiduously the controversial books and sermons which then abounded. He burned with excitement over the great principles revealed in lofty and soul-stirring words by Luther, Melanchton, Calvin, Theodore de Bèze, and so many others. The books of all these untrammelled thinkers had fascinated and convinced him, and drawn him on to adopt their principles. He would have been proud and happy to sign the attestation of his faith with his blood.
It was always the noble instinct of this noble heart to devote his life to some person or some cause.
Not long since he had risked his life a hundred times to save or to avenge, it might be his father or his beloved Diane,—oh, memories forever bleeding in that wounded heart!—and now, in default of those cherished beings, he would have been glad to struggle in defence of sacred ideas,—
His country in his father's place; his religion in place of his love.
Alas, alas! it is in vain to talk, for it is not the same thing; and enthusiasm for abstract principles can never equal, either in its suffering or its delight, the enthusiasm of fondness for our fellow-creatures.
But yet for one or the other of these two causes, the Reformation or France, Gabriel would have been content to sacrifice his life; and he relied upon one of them to bring about the desired termination of his career.
On the morning of the 6th of March Gabriel was leaning back in his chair in the corner of his fireplace, brooding over the thoughts which had become his very life, when Aloyse brought in to him a messenger, booted and spurred and covered with mud, as if he had just travelled a long way.
It was a rainy morning.
The courier had just arrived from Amboise, under a strong escort, the bearer of several letters from Monsieur le Duc de Guise, lieutenant-general of the kingdom.
One of the letters was addressed to Gabriel, and its contents were as follows:—
MY DEAR COMPANION,—I am writing this to you in great haste, with neither leisure nor possibility of explaining myself. You told the king and myself that you were devoted to us, and that if ever we were in need of your devoted service, we had only to call upon you.We do call upon you to-day.Set out at once for Amboise, where the king and queen are now installed for some weeks. I will tell you on your arrival in what way you can be of use.It is always understood that you are quite at liberty to act or to hold aloof. Your zeal is too valuable for me to wish to make a bad use of it, or compromise you. But whether you are with us or prefer to remain neutral, I should think I was neglecting a duty if I failed to have confidence in you.Come, therefore, in all haste, and you will be, as always, most welcome.Your affectionate friend,FRANÇOIS DE LORRAINE.Amboise, the 4th March, 1560.P.S. Herewith is a safe-conduct, for use in case you should be questioneden routeby some royal troop.
MY DEAR COMPANION,—I am writing this to you in great haste, with neither leisure nor possibility of explaining myself. You told the king and myself that you were devoted to us, and that if ever we were in need of your devoted service, we had only to call upon you.
We do call upon you to-day.
Set out at once for Amboise, where the king and queen are now installed for some weeks. I will tell you on your arrival in what way you can be of use.
It is always understood that you are quite at liberty to act or to hold aloof. Your zeal is too valuable for me to wish to make a bad use of it, or compromise you. But whether you are with us or prefer to remain neutral, I should think I was neglecting a duty if I failed to have confidence in you.
Come, therefore, in all haste, and you will be, as always, most welcome.
Your affectionate friend,
FRANÇOIS DE LORRAINE.
Amboise, the 4th March, 1560.
P.S. Herewith is a safe-conduct, for use in case you should be questioneden routeby some royal troop.
The messenger from the Duc de Guise had already departed to execute his other commissions when Gabriel finished the letter.
The eager youth rose at once, and said without hesitation to the nurse,—
"Good Aloyse, call André, please, and tell him to have the dapple-gray saddled and to prepare my travelling wallet."
"Are you going away, Monseigneur?" the good woman asked.
"Yes, nurse, to Amboise, within two hours."
There was nothing more to be said; and Aloyse, without a word, went sadly from the room to see that her young master's orders were carried out.
But while his preparations were being made, behold, another messenger appeared, and demanded to speak with the Comte de Montgommery alone.
He made no commotion, and, unlike his predecessor, had no escort. He came in silently and very modestly, and without uttering a sound, handed Gabriel a letter which he had in charge.
Gabriel started as he thought that he recognized him as the same who had formerly brought him La Renaudie's invitation to attend the Protestant meeting in the Place Maubert.
It was in fact the same man; and the letter bore the same signature. It said:—
FRIEND AND BROTHER,—I did not wish to leave Paris without having seen you; but I had no time, for events came thick and fast, and hurried me on. I must go now, and have not even pressed your hand, nor have I told you our plans and our hopes.But we know that you are with us, and I know what manner of man you are.With such as you there is no need of preparation, of meetings, and speech-making,—a word is sufficient.This is the word: We need you. Come.Be at Noizai near Amboise by the 10th or 12th of this month of March. You will find there your brave and noble friend De Castelnau. He will tell you what is going on, for I dare not trust it to paper.It is agreed that you are in no wise bound; that you have a perfect right to stand apart; and that you may always abstain from acting with us without incurring the least suspicion or receiving the slightest reproach.But in any event come to Noizai, I will meet you there, and we will seek your advice, if we cannot have your assistance.Then, too, can anything be accomplished by our party unless you are informed with regard to it?So adieu till we meet at Noizai. We rely upon your presence, at all events.L. R.P.S. If any troop of our friends should fall in with youen route, our password is, once more,Genève, and our countersign,Gloire de Dieu!
FRIEND AND BROTHER,—I did not wish to leave Paris without having seen you; but I had no time, for events came thick and fast, and hurried me on. I must go now, and have not even pressed your hand, nor have I told you our plans and our hopes.
But we know that you are with us, and I know what manner of man you are.
With such as you there is no need of preparation, of meetings, and speech-making,—a word is sufficient.
This is the word: We need you. Come.
Be at Noizai near Amboise by the 10th or 12th of this month of March. You will find there your brave and noble friend De Castelnau. He will tell you what is going on, for I dare not trust it to paper.
It is agreed that you are in no wise bound; that you have a perfect right to stand apart; and that you may always abstain from acting with us without incurring the least suspicion or receiving the slightest reproach.
But in any event come to Noizai, I will meet you there, and we will seek your advice, if we cannot have your assistance.
Then, too, can anything be accomplished by our party unless you are informed with regard to it?
So adieu till we meet at Noizai. We rely upon your presence, at all events.
L. R.
P.S. If any troop of our friends should fall in with youen route, our password is, once more,Genève, and our countersign,Gloire de Dieu!
"In an hour I set out," said Gabriel to the silent messenger, who bowed and took his leave.
"What does all this signify?" Gabriel asked himself when he was alone; "and what is the meaning of these two appeals coming from parties so hostile, and appointing a rendezvous at almost the same place? But it makes no difference at all! My obligations toward the omnipotent duke and toward the oppressed Reformers are equally certain. My duty is to set out at once. Then come what come may! However difficult my position may become, my conscience knows well that I shall never turn traitor."
An hour later Gabriel began his journey, accompanied only by André.
But he hardly foresaw the extraordinary and terrible alternative by which his loyal soul was to be confronted.
In the Duc de Guise's apartments at the Château d'Amboise, Le Balafré himself was interrogating a tall, vigorous, nervous individual, with strongly marked features and proud and fearless bearing, who wore the uniform of a captain of arquebusiers.
"Maréchal de Brissac," said the duke, "has assured me, Captain Richelieu, that I may have the fullest confidence in you."
"Monsieur le Maréchal is very kind," said Richelieu.
"It seems that you are ambitious, Monsieur," continued Le Balafré.
"Monseigneur, I am at least ambitious not to remain captain of arquebusiers all my life. Although I come of very good stock (for there were lords of Plessis on the field at Bovines), I am the fifth of six brothers, and consequently I have to do my best to eke out my little fortune, and not depend too much upon my patrimony."
"Good!" said the Duc de Guise, with an air of satisfaction. "You have the opportunity now, Monsieur, to do us good service, and you shall not repent it."
"Behold me, Monseigneur, ready to undertake whatever you please to intrust to me."
"To begin with," said Le Balafré, "I have ordered that you command the guard at the principal entrance of the château."
"Where I promise to give a good account of myself, Monseigneur."
"In my opinion," continued the duke, "it is not likely that the Protestants will be sufficiently ill-advised to make their assault on a side where they will be obliged to carry seven doors one after the other; but as nobody is to be allowed to enter or leave the place by any other entrance, the post will be of the greatest importance. Therefore let nobody pass, either from within or without, without a special order signed by me."
"It shall be done, Monseigneur. By the way, a young gentleman, called the Comte de Montgommery, has just arrived, with no special order, but with a safe-conduct bearing your signature. He comes from Paris, he says. Shall I allow him to come in, as he asks, Monseigneur?"
"Yes, yes, at once!" said the Duc de Guise, eagerly. "But wait a moment; I have not completed my instructions to you. To-day, about noon, the Prince de Condé will present himself at the gate where you are to be on guard: we have sent for him that we might have at our hand the reputed chief of the rebels, who, I'll wager, will not dare to furnish food for our suspicions by failing to neglect our summons. You will open to him, Captain Richelieu, but to no other—not even to such as come with him. You will be careful to have all the recesses and casemates which there are in the arch well filled with men; and as soon as he arrives, you will parade them all, arquebuse in hand, and matches lighted, under pretence of receiving him with the proper honors."
"It shall be done as you say, Monseigneur," said Richelieu.
"When the Huguenots attack," continued the duke, "and the action begins, you must personally keep your eye upon our man, Captain; and, mark my words well, if he stirs one step, or gives the least sign of an inclination to join the assailants, or if he even hesitates to draw his sword against them, as his duty calls upon him to do, do not hesitate with your own hands to strike him down."
"I can see no difficulty about this, Monseigneur," said Captain Richelieu, simply, "except that my rank as a simple captain of arquebusiers will make it rather hard, perhaps, for me to be always as near him as I ought to be."
Le Balafré reflected a minute, and said,—
"Monsieur le Grand Prieur and the Duc d'Aumale, who will never quit the supposed traitor's side for a moment, will give you the signal, and you will obey them."
"I will obey them, Monseigneur," replied Richelieu.
"Good!" said the Duc de Guise; "I have no other orders to give you, Captain. You may go. If the glory of your house began with Philippe Auguste, you may well begin it anew with the Duc de Guise. I rely upon you, and you may rely upon me. Go. Introduce Monsieur de Montgommery at once, if you please."
Captain Richelieu bowed deeply and withdrew.
A few minutes later Gabriel was announced. He was sad and pale; and the cordial welcome which the Duc de Guise extended to him did not smooth the trouble from his brow.
In fact, after putting together his own conjectures and a few words which the guards had not scrupled to let fall in the presence of a gentleman bearing the duke's safe-conduct, the young enthusiast had almost arrived at the truth.
The king who had pardoned him and the party to which he was devoted, body and soul, were openly at war, and his loyalty was likely to be compromised in the struggle.
"Well, Gabriel," began the duke, "you ought to know by this time why I have sent for you."
"I suspect the reason, but am not altogether sure of it, Monseigneur," Gabriel replied.
"The Protestants are in open rebellion," said Le Balafré, "and are in arms, and on their way to attack the Château d'Amboise,—that is our latest intelligence."
"It is a grievous and appalling state of things," observed Gabriel, reflecting on his own situation.
"Why, my friend, it is a magnificent opportunity," retorted the duke.
"What do you mean, Monseigneur?" said Gabriel, in amazement.
"I mean that the Huguenots expect to surprise us, whereas we are all ready for them. I mean that their plans are discovered and betrayed. It is fair warfare, since they have been the first to draw the sword; but our enemies are about to deliver themselves into our hands. They are lost, I tell you."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed the Comte de Montgommery, completely crushed.
"Judge for yourself," continued Le Balafré, "to what extent all the details of their insane enterprise are known to us. On the 16th of March, at noon, they are to assemble before the town and attack us. They have friends in the king's guard; therefore the guard was changed. Their friends were to open the western gate to them; but that gate is walled up. Lastly, their different bands were to proceed secretly hither through certain paths in the forest of Château-Begnault. The royal troops will fall upon these detached parties unexpectedly as fast as they appear, and will not allow half of their forces to reach Amboise. We are accurately informed, and thoroughly upon our guard, I should say!"
"Thoroughly!" replied Gabriel, in great alarm. "But who has been able to furnish you with such complete information?" he added in his perplexity, and without realizing what he said.
"Ah," rejoined Le Balafré, "there are two who have betrayed all their plans,—one for money, the other from fear. Two traitors they are, I admit,—one a paid spy, the other a faint-hearted alarmist. The spy—whom you know perhaps, as many of our friends do, and whom you should distrust—is the Marquis de ——."
"No, do not tell me!" cried Gabriel, quickly; "do not give me their names! I asked you for them thoughtlessly. You have already told me quite enough; but there is nothing more difficult for a man of honor than not to betray traitors."
"Oh," said the Duc de Guise, with some surprise, "we all have perfect confidence in you, Gabriel. We were speaking of you only yesterday with the queen; I told her that I had written you, and she was very much pleased."
"Why did you write to me, Monseigneur? You have not yet informed me."
"Why?" rejoined Le Balafré. "Because the king has but a few devoted and reliable servants. You are among them, and you are to command a party against the rebels."
"Against the rebels? Impossible!" said Gabriel.
"Impossible! And why impossible, pray?" returned Le Balafré. "I am not in the habit of hearing that word from your lips, Gabriel."
"Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "I also am of the Religion."
The Duc de Guise leaped to his feet, and gazed at the count with an expression of wonder which amounted almost to terror.
"Matters are in this condition," Gabriel continued, smiling sadly: "if it be your pleasure, Monseigneur, to put me face to face with the English or Spaniards, you know that I will not draw back, but that I will offer my life for my country with joy, as well as with devotion; but in a civil, a religious, war against my fellow-countrymen, my brothers, I am compelled, Monseigneur, to reserve the freedom of action which you were good enough to insure me."
"You a Huguenot!" the duke finally succeeded in ejaculating.
"And a most devoted one, Monseigneur," said Gabriel; "it is my crime, and my excuse therefor as well. I believe utterly in the new ideas, and have given my heart to them."
"And your sword too, without doubt?" was the duke's biting rejoinder.
"No, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, gravely.
"Come, come!" retorted Le Balafré; "do you expect to make me believe that you know nothing of this plot which has been concocted against the king by your brothers, as you call them, and that these same brothers cheerfully renounce so gallant an ally as you?"
"You must believe just that," said the young count, more seriously than ever.
"Then you must be the one to desert them," rejoined the duke; "for your new faith compels you to choose between two breaches of faith,—that's all."
"Oh, Monsieur!" cried Gabriel, reproachfully,
"Well, how can you arrange matters otherwise?" asked Le Balafré, throwing his cap with an angry movement upon the chair he had just quitted.
"How can I arrange matters otherwise?" repeated Gabriel, with a cold and almost stern demeanor. "Why, it's very simple. In my opinion, the falser the position in which a man is placed the more sincere and outspoken he should be. When I became a Protestant I steadfastly and loyally declared to the leaders of the sect that my sacred obligations to the king and queen and the Duc de Guise would absolutely prevent me from bearing arms in their ranks during this reign, if indeed the occasion should arise. They know that in my eyes the Reformation is a matter of religious belief, and not of party feeling. With them as with you, Monseigneur, I stipulated for absolute freedom of action; and I have the right to refuse my aid to them, as I refuse it to you. In this desperate conflict between my gratitude and my faith my heart will bleed with every blow that is struck; but my arm will not strike one. That, Monseigneur, is wherein you have failed to understand me; and in this way, I trust, by remaining neutral, to continue to be honorable and honored."
Gabriel spoke proudly and with much animation. Le Balafré, gradually regaining his tranquillity, could but admire the frankness and the nobleness of heart of his former comrade-in-arms.
"You are a strange man, Gabriel," he pensively remarked.
"Why strange, Monseigneur? Is it because I speak as I act and act as I speak? I knew nothing of this conspiracy of the Protestants, I swear. However, I admit that when I was at Paris I received, on the same day that your letter arrived, a letter from one of them; but this letter was as barren of explanation as yours, and said simply, 'Come.' I had a foreboding of the dread dilemma in which I should be involved; but I have, nevertheless, responded to this twofold appeal. Monseigneur, I have come so that I might prove recreant to neither of my duties; I have come to say to you, 'I cannot fight against those whose faith I share,' and to say to them, 'I cannot fight against those who have spared my life.'"
The Duc de Guise held out his hand to the count.
"I was wrong," said he, cordially. "Pray, attribute my angry impulse to my chagrin at finding you, upon whom I have relied so confidently, among my enemies."
"Your enemy!" exclaimed Gabriel. "Ah, no!—I am not and never can be that, Monseigneur. Because I have declared myself more openly than they, am I any more your enemy than the Prince de Condé and Monsieur de Coligny, who are, as I am, Protestants, and not under arms?"
"Under arms! I beg your pardon, but they are," returned Le Balafré. "I know it,—I know all! But their arms are hidden. Nevertheless, if we should meet, it is certain that I should dissimulate even as they do, should call them my friends, and in case of need officially bear witness to their entire innocence,—a comedy, it is true, but a necessary one."
"Well, then, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "since you are so kind as sometimes to lay aside conventionalities in dealing with me, tell me, I beg you, that when politics are not in question, you can still believe in my devotion to you, and my honor, Huguenot though I be; above all things, assure me that if a foreign war should break out some day, you would do me the favor to remind me of my word, and give me an opportunity to die for my king and country."
"Yes, Gabriel," said the duke, "while I deplore the difference in faith which now separates us, I trust you and shall always trust you the same; and in order to prove it to you and to redeem the momentary suspicion which I so deeply regret, take this and make such use of it as you please."
He sat down at a table and wrote a line which he signed and handed to the young count.
"It is an order allowing you to leave Amboise, wherever you may wish to go," said he. "With this paper you are entirely at liberty. And you may be sure that I would not give any such mark of esteem and confidence to the Prince de Condé, whom you just mentioned, and that the moment he sets foot in this château he will be watched from a distance like an enemy, and guarded unknowingly as closely as a prisoner."
"In that case, I refuse this mark of your confidence and esteem, Monseigneur," said Gabriel.
"What! Why so?" asked the amazed duke.
"Monseigneur, do you know whither I shall go at once, if you allow me to leave Amboise?"
"That is your affair, and I do not even ask to know," rejoined Le Balafré.
"But I propose to tell you," said Gabriel. "When I leave you, Monseigneur, I shall go to fulfil my other duty: I shall go at once among the rebels, and shall seek for one of them at Noizai."
"At Noizai? Castelnau is in command there," remarked the duke.
"Yes, he is; you are indeed well informed in every detail, Monseigneur."
"What do you propose to do at Noizai, my unfortunate friend?" Le Balafré asked him.
"Ah, what shall I do indeed? Say to them, 'You summoned me, and I am here; but I can do nothing for you;' and if they question me as to what I have heard and noticed on the road, I must keep silent and not warn them of the trap that you have laid for them, for your confidence in me takes away my right to do that. Therefore, Monseigneur, I ask a favor at your hands—"
"What is it?"
"Retain me in custody here, and thus save me from cruel perplexity,—for if you allow me to go, I must make my appearance among those who are bent on their own destruction; and if I do go to them, I shall not be at liberty to save them."
"Gabriel," returned the Duc de Guise, "upon due reflection I neither can nor will exhibit such suspicion. I have unfolded to you my whole plan of campaign, and you are going among your friends, who are vitally interested in knowing that plan,—yet here is your passport."
"Then, Monseigneur," replied Gabriel, overwhelmed, "at least grant me this last favor in the name of what little I was able to do to enhance your renown at Metz and in Italy and at Calais, and in the name of what I have suffered since,—and indeed, I have suffered bitterly."
"To what do you refer?" said the duke. "If I can, I will grant it, my friend."
"You can, Monseigneur, and I think that you ought, because those who are in arms against you are Frenchmen. I ask you, then, to allow me to divert them from their fatal project, not by revealing to them its inevitable issue, but by advising them, and beseeching and imploring them."
"Gabriel, be careful!" said the duke, solemnly; "if one word as to our preparations falls from your lips, the rebels will persist in their design, simply modifying their mode of execution; and in that event the king and Mary Stuart and myself will be the ones to be destroyed. Weigh this well. Will you bind yourself upon your honor as a gentleman that you will not let them divine or even suspect, by a word or an allusion or a gesture, anything of what is going on here?"
"Upon my honor as a gentleman, I swear it!"
"Go, then," said the Duc de Guise, "and do your best to induce them to abandon their criminal purpose, and I will gladly renounce my easy victory, thinking how much French blood is spared. But if, as I believe, our last reports are well-founded, they have such blind and obstinate confidence in the success of their enterprise that you will fail, Gabriel. But no matter! go and make a last effort. For their sakes, and still more for yours, I have no disposition to refuse."
"In their names and my own I thank you, Monseigneur."
A quarter of an hour later he was on his way to Noizai.
Baron Castelnau de Chalosses was a gallant, noble-minded youth to whom the Protestants had assigned by no means the least difficult task when they sent him to forestall the royal troops at the Château de Noizai, which was the place appointed for the general rendezvous of the different sections of the disaffected on the 16th of March. It was essential that he should be visible to the Huguenots, but should conceal himself from the Catholics; and his delicate position called for the display of as much caution and presence of mind as courage.
Thanks to the password contained in La Renaudie's letter, Gabriel met with no hindrance in making his way to Baron de Castelnau's quarters.
It was already afternoon of the 15th.
Within eighteen hours the Protestants were to assemble at Noizai, and to attack Amboise before twenty-four hours had elapsed; so that it is clear there was no time to lose if they were to be dissuaded from their design.
Baron de Castelnau knew Comte de Montgommery well, for he had often met him at the Louvre, and besides, the chief men of the party had often spoken of him in his presence.
He came forward to meet him, and received him as a friend and an ally.
"So you have come, Monsieur de Montgommery," he remarked when they were alone. "To tell the truth, I hoped that you would be here, but hardly dared to expect you. La Renaudie was much blamed by the admiral for writing you as he did. 'It was essential,' he said, 'to advise the Comte de Montgommery of our plans, but not to summon him to join us. He might have been left to do as he chose. Has the count not given us fair warning that so long as François II. reigned, his sword did not belong to us; in fact, that it did not even belong to himself?' La Renaudie's reply to all this was that his letter bound you to nothing, but left you in possession of absolute independence of action."
"That is quite true," replied Gabriel.
"Nevertheless, we thought that you would come," continued Castelnau, "for the letter of that hot-headed baron gave you no information as to what was going on, and I am intrusted with the duty of informing you of our plan and our hopes."
"I am listening," said the Comte de Montgommery.
Castelnau then repeated to Gabriel everything that the Duc de Guise had previously told him in detail.
Gabriel saw with horror how exact Le Balafré's information was. Not one single point in the report of his spies and informers was inaccurate, nor had they omitted to apprise him of one single detail of the plot.
The conspirators were really lost beyond recall.
"Now you know everything," said Castelnau, as he brought his narration to a close, leaving his listener a prey to most cruel perplexity. "I have now only to put to you a question to which I can easily forecast your reply. I am right, am I not, in thinking that you cannot join us?"
"I cannot," replied Gabriel, sadly shaking his head.
"Very good!" added Castelnau; "we shall be none the less good friends for that. I know that you stipulated in advance for the privilege of holding aloof from the combat; and you are doubly entitled to exercise it, since we are sure of victory."
"Are you then indeed so sure?" asked Gabriel, significantly.
"Perfectly so," rejoined the baron; "for the enemy have no suspicion of our movements, and will be taken unawares. We were afraid for a moment, when the king and court transferred their quarters from the unfortified town of Blois to the strong Château d'Amboise, for they clearly had a suspicion that something was wrong."
"That embarrassed you, no doubt," observed Gabriel.
"Yes, but our hesitation soon came to an end," continued Castelnau; "for we found that this unexpected change of residence, far from injuring our prospects, on the contrary, served marvellously well to make them brighter. The Duc de Guise is now sleeping in false security; and you must know, dear Count, that we are in correspondence with some who are within the town, and the western gate will be put into our hands as soon as we present ourselves before it. Oh, success is beyond doubt, I assure you; and you may, without scruple, hold aloof from the battle."
"The most magnificent expectations are sometimes deceived by the event," was Gabriel's grave comment.
"But in this instance we have not a single chance against us,—not one!" Castelnau repeated, rubbing his hands with delight. "To-morrow will behold the triumph of our party and the fall of the Guises."
"And—how about treachery?" said Gabriel, struggling with his emotion, and with his heart torn to see such youthful gallantry rushing headlong into the abyss with eyes closed.
"Treachery is impossible," was Castelnau's imperturbable response to that suggestion. "Only the leaders are in the secret, and not one of them is capable of it. Upon my word, Monsieur de Montgommery," he exclaimed, interrupting himself, "I believe that you are jealous of us; and it seems to me as if you were trying with all your might to throw cold water on our undertaking, because of your chagrin at having no share in it. Fie, my envious friend!"
"Yes, indeed, I do envy you!" returned Gabriel, gloomily.
"There! I was sure of it," laughingly exclaimed the young baron.
"But stay a moment; you have some confidence in me, have you not?"
"Blind confidence, if we are to speak soberly."
"Very well; are you willing to listen to good advice, coming from a true friend?"
"To what purpose?"
"Abandon your design of taking Amboise to-morrow. Send trusty messengers at once to all of our brethren who are to join you here to-night or in the morning, to let them know that the plan has miscarried, or has at least been postponed."
"Why so, pray? Why?" demanded Castelnau, beginning to take alarm. "You must surely have some weighty reason for speaking thus to me."
"Mon Dieu, no!" replied Gabriel, with a constraint that cost him dear.
"It cannot be," said Castelnau, "that you advise me for no reason whatever to abandon, and cause my brethren to abandon likewise, a project which seems to progress so favorably?"
"No, there is a reason; you are quite right, but I cannot explain to you. Can you not, will you not, believe my word? I have already gone further in this matter than I should have done. Do me the honor to trust my word, dear friend."
"Consider," rejoined Castelnau, very seriously, "that if I take upon myself this extraordinary course of turning back at the last moment, I shall have to answer for it to La Renaudie and the other leaders. May I refer them to you?"
"Yes," replied Gabriel.
"Will you tell them," continued Castelnau, "the motives which dictate your advice?"
"Alas! I have not the right to do it."
"How can you expect me to yield to your representations, then? Should I not be bitterly reproached for having thus, for a single word, destroyed our hopes, which were almost certainty? Howsoever vast and well-deserved is the confidence we all have in you, Monsieur de Montgommery, still a man is but a man, and may be deceived, no matter how good his intentions. If no one is allowed to consider and pass judgment upon your reasons, we shall certainly be obliged to neglect your counsel."
"Then beware!" rejoined Gabriel, harshly; "on your head alone be the responsibility for all the calamities that may ensue!"
Castelnau was struck with the accent with which the count uttered these words.
"Monsieur de Montgommery," said he, "light has suddenly come to me, and I think I can descry the true state of affairs. You have either been intrusted with or have surmised some secret which you are not permitted to disclose. You have some important information as to the probable result of our enterprise,—that we have been betrayed, for instance. Am I not right?"
"I did not say that!" cried Gabriel, eagerly.
"Or else," continued Castelnau, "you saw your friend, the Duc de Guise, on your way here, and he, in ignorance of your fellowship with us, has given you an insight into the real state of things."
"Nothing I have said can have given rise to any such supposition!" cried Gabriel.
"Or again," Castelnau went on, "you have, as you passed through Amboise, noticed preparations being made, overheard conversations, or induced confidences,—in short, our plot is discovered!"
"Do you mean to say," said Gabriel, horror-stricken, "that I have given you any reason to believe anything of the sort?"