"No, Monsieur le Comte; no, indeed, for you were bound to secrecy, I can see. Therefore I do not even ask you for a positive assurance that I am right, not even a word, if you prefer not. But if I am mistaken, a gesture, a glance of the eye, or your silence, even, will be sufficient to enlighten me."
Gabriel, meanwhile, sorely perplexed, was recalling the last part of the obligation he had given the Duc de Guise.
Upon his honor as a gentleman he had bound himself not to allow any person to divine or even to suspect, from any word or allusion or gesture on his part, what was taking place at Amboise.
As he kept silence for a long while, the Baron de Castelnau, whose eyes were riveted upon Gabriel's face, spoke again.
"Do you mean to say nothing more?" said he. "You are silent; I understand you, and shall act accordingly."
"What do you propose to do?" asked Gabriel, hastily.
"To warn La Renaudie and the other leaders, as you advised me to do in the first place, that they must cease their preparations, and to announce to our friends when they reach here that some one in whom we have perfect confidence has made known to me—has made known to me probable treachery—"
"But there is nothing of the sort!" Gabriel hurriedly interrupted. "I have given you no information at all, Monsieur de Castelnau!"
"Count," rejoined Castelnau, seizing Gabriel's hand in a grasp that spoke louder than his words, "may not your reticence itself be a warning, and our salvation? And once put on our guard, then—"
"Well, what then?" echoed Gabriel.
"Everything will go well for us, and ill for them," said Castelnau. "We will postpone our enterprise to a more propitious time; discover at any cost the informers, if there be any among us; redouble our precautions and our mystery; and one fine day, when everything is thoroughly prepared, certain then of our aim, we will renew our attempt, and, thanks to you, will not fail, but achieve a triumphant success."
"That is precisely what I wish to avoid!" cried Gabriel, who was horrified to find himself upon the verge of involuntary betrayal of confidence. "There, Monsieur de Castelnau, is the real reason of my warning and my advice. In my mind, your enterprise is absolutely a culpable one, to say nothing of its danger. By attacking the Catholics you put yourselves entirely in the wrong, and justify any reprisals they may resort to. From being unjustly oppressed subjects, you become rebels. If you have complaints to make of the ministers, must you avenge yourselves upon our young king? Ah, I feel sad even unto death as I reflect upon all this misery! For the good of the cause you ought forever to renounce this unholy strife. Rather let your principles do battle for you! No bloodshed for the truth! That is all that I wished to say to you; that is why I conjure you and all our brethren to hold your hand from these grievous civil wars, which can only retard the spread of our principles."
"Is that really the only motive of all your talk?" asked Castelnau.
"The only one," Gabriel replied in a hollow voice.
"Then I must thank you for your good intentions, Monsieur le Comte," retorted Castelnau, coldly; "but I must no less continue to act on the lines laid down for me by the leaders of the Reformed party. I can readily conceive that it must be very painful for a gentleman like yourself, being debarred from the combat, to see others fighting without you; but you alone cannot be allowed to fetter and paralyze a whole army."
"You propose, then," said Gabriel, pale and dejected, "to allow the others to go on with this fatal design, and to go on with it yourself?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Comte," responded Castelnau, whose words had a firmness in them that admitted no argument; "and with your permission, I will now go to issue the necessary orders for to-morrow's assault."
He saluted Gabriel, and left the room without awaiting his reply.
Gabriel did not leave the Château de Noizai, however, but determined to pass the night there. His presence would afford the Reformers a pledge of his good faith, in case they were attacked; and beyond that, he still retained some slight hope that in the morning he might prevail, if not upon Castelnau, upon some other leader who was less blindly obstinate. If La Renaudie would only come!
Castelnau left him entirely free, and seemed inclined to be rather disdainful in his avoidance of him.
Gabriel encountered him several times during the evening in the halls and corridors of the château, going hither and thither, giving orders for reconnoitring parties and the forwarding of supplies.
But not a single word was exchanged between the two youths, each as proud and as noble as the other.
During the long hours of that night of anguish the Comte de Montgommery, too restless and anxious to sleep, remained upon the ramparts, listening, meditating, and praying.
With the first glimmer of dawn, the Protestant troops began to arrive in small detached parties.
At eight o'clock they had already assembled in large numbers; and at eleven Castelnau could count all whom he expected.
But not one of the leaders was known to Gabriel. La Renaudie had sent word that he and his forces would make their way to Amboise by way of the forest of Château-Regnault.
Everything was ready for departure. Captains Mazères and Raunay, who were to lead the advance-guard, had already gone down to the terrace in front of the château to form their detachments in marching order. Castelnau was triumphant.
"Well," he remarked to Gabriel as he encountered him,—he had, in his satisfaction, forgiven the conversation of the night before,—"well, you see, Monsieur le Comte, that you were wrong; and everything is going on as well as possible!"
"Wait!" said Gabriel, shaking his head.
"Indeed, we must wait, if we are to believe you, doubter!" said Castelnau, smiling. "Not one of our people has failed to keep his engagement; they have all arrived at the time appointed, with more men than they had promised. They have all marched through their respective provinces without being disturbed, and—what is perhaps even better—without having created any disturbance. Is it not, in truth, almost too good fortune?"
The baron was interrupted by the sound of trumpets and the clangor of arms and a great noise outside; but in the intoxication of his confidence he was in no degree alarmed, and thought of nothing but some fortunate event.
"See!" said he to Gabriel; "I will engage that those are more unexpected reinforcements,—Lamothe, doubtless, and Deschamps, with the conspirators of Picardy. They were not due to arrive until to-morrow; but they must have made forced marches, the brave fellows, in order to bear their part of the conflict and share in the victory. Those are friends."
"Ah, but are they?" asked Gabriel, whose face changed color when he heard the trumpets.
"Who else can they be?" rejoined Castelnau. "Come into this gallery, Monsieur le Comte; through the embrasures we can look down upon the terrace whence the noise comes."
He drew Gabriel after him; but when they had reached the edge of the wall he uttered a loud cry, raised his arms, and stood as if turned to stone.
The confusion had been occasioned not by Protestant troops, but by a body of Royalists. The new-comers were not commanded by Lamothe, but by Jacques de Savoie, Duc de Nemours.
Under cover of the woods which surrounded the Château de Noizai, the royal troops had succeeded before they were discovered in getting within close range of the open terrace, where the advance-guard of the rebels was being drawn up in order of battle.
There was no show of resistance whatever, for the Duc de Nemours had made it his first care to seize the stacks of arms.
Mazères and Raunay had been obliged to surrender without striking a blow; and just at the moment when Castelnau looked down from the battlements, his troops, conquered without a struggle, were handing their swords to the enemy. On the spot where he had thought he should see his soldiers, he saw nought but a band of prisoners.
He could scarcely believe his eyes. For a moment he stood motionless, stupefied, bewildered, and speechless. Such an event was so entirely at variance with his thoughts that at first he found it difficult to understand it.
Gabriel, who was less surprised at this sudden blew, was no less overwhelmed.
As they stood gazing at each other, equally pale and dejected, an ensign entered hastily in search of Castelnau.
"What is the condition of affairs?" the latter asked him, recovering his voice, by force of his anxiety.
"Monsieur le Baron," the ensign replied, "they have gained possession of the drawbridge and the first gate. We only had time to close the second one; but we shall not be able to hold it, and in less than a quarter of an hour they will be in the courtyard. Shall we, nevertheless, try to resist, or send them a flag of truce? We await your orders."
"Give me but time to put on my armor, and I will come down," said Castelnau.
He hastened into one of the apartments of the château to buckle on his sword and cuirass, and Gabriel followed him.
"What do you propose to do?" he asked him, sadly.
"I know not; I know not!" replied Castelnau, excitedly; "but I can at least die."
"Alas!" sighed Gabriel; "why did you not hearken to me yesterday?"
"Yes, you were right, I can see now," returned the baron. "You anticipated what has happened; perhaps you knew of it beforehand."
"Perhaps," observed Gabriel; "and therein lies my greatest suffering. But remember, Castelnau, that life is full of strange and awful caprices of fate! Suppose that I was not at liberty to dissuade you by divulging the real reasons, which were struggling for utterance? Suppose that I had given my word of honor as a gentleman not to give you any occasion, directly or indirectly, to suspect the truth?"
"In such case you would have done quite right to say nothing," said Castelnau; "and in your place I should have done just as you did. It was I, madman, who should have understood you; I who should have known that a valiant heart like yours would not try to dissuade me from battle except for most potent reasons. But I will expiate my mistake by death."
"Then I will die with you," said Gabriel, calmly.
"You! and why?" cried Castelnau. "The one thing that you say you are absolutely compelled to do is to refrain from fighting."
"True, I shall not fight," said Gabriel; "I cannot. But life has become a grievous burden to me; the apparently two-faced part I am playing is intolerable. I shall go into the fray unarmed. I will slay no one, but will allow myself to be slain. I may be able to intercept the blow aimed at you. If I cannot wear a sword, I may still be a buckler."
"No," rejoined Castelnau, "remain here. I ought not to involve you in my destruction, nor will I do it."
"Ah, but think!" exclaimed Gabriel, earnestly; "you are about to involve in it, uselessly and hopelessly, all of our brethren who are confined in this château with you. My life is much less useful than theirs."
"Can I do otherwise for the glory of our faith than ask them to make this sacrifice?" said Castelnau. "Martyrs often bring more renown to their cause, and are more useful to it, than victors."
"Very true," replied Gabriel; "but is it not your first duty as leader to do your utmost to save the forces which have been intrusted to you; to die finally at their head, if their salvation is not to be reconciled with honor?"
"So you advise me—" said Castelnau.
"To try every peaceable means of accommodation. If you resist, you have no possible chance of escaping defeat and massacre. If you yield to necessity, they will not have the right, in my opinion, to punish the instigators of a plan that has been left unexecuted. Mere projects cannot be punished, since they can only be conjectured. By laying down your arms, you will disarm your enemies."
"I so bitterly repent not having followed your previous advice," said Castelnau, "that I prefer to follow it now; and yet I confess that I hesitate, for it is very distasteful to me to draw back."
"In order to draw back, you must first have taken a step forward," said Gabriel. "Now what is there up to this point to prove your rebellion? You do not declare yourself culpable until you actually draw your sword. Hold! My presence may even yet, thank God! be of some advantage to you. I was unable to save you yesterday, but do you wish that I should try to save you to-day?"
"What will you do?" asked Castelnau, completely unmanned.
"Nothing unworthy of you, be assured! I will go to the Duc de Nemours, who commands the royal soldiery. I will inform him that no resistance will be offered, that the gates will be opened, and you will surrender, but upon certain conditions: he must engage his ducal word that no harm shall befall you or your comrades, and that after he has escorted you to the king, in order to submit to him your grievances and requests, he will cause you to be set at liberty."
"And if he refuses?" asked Castelnau.
"If he refuses, the fault will be on his side; he will have declined a perfectly frank and honorable adjustment of the affair, and all the responsibility for the bloodshed will fall upon his head. If he refuses, Castelnau, I will return to you, to die at your side."
"Do you believe," said Castelnau, "that La Renaudie, were he placed as I am, would agree to what you propose?"
"Upon my soul! I believe that any reasonable man would agree to it."
"Go on, then!" exclaimed Castelnau; "our despair will be so much the more to be dreaded if your mission to the duke fails, as I fear it will."
"Thanks!" said Gabriel. "I have strong hopes myself that I shall succeed, and thus, with God's help, preserve all these gallant and noble lives."
He went quickly down, and caused the door leading to the courtyard to be opened; and with a flag of truce in his hand, he walked toward the Duc de Nemours, who, sitting on his horse in the midst of his troops, was awaiting the issue.
"I do not know whether Monseigneur recognizes me," said Gabriel to the duke; "but I am the Comte de Montgommery."
"Yes, Monsieur de Montgommery, I do recognize you," replied Jacques de Savoie. "Monsieur de Guise advised me that I should find you here, but said that you had his permission, and charged me to treat you as a friend."
"A precaution which may be of ill service to me with other less fortunate friends," observed Gabriel, with a sorrowful shake of the head. "However, Monseigneur, may I venture to beg a moment's conversation with you?"
"I am at your service," said Monsieur de Nemours. Castelnau, who was following distractedly all the movements of the duke and Gabriel from a grated window of the château, saw them draw aside from the rest, and converse for some moments with much animation. Then Jacques de Savoie called for writing materials, and using a drumhead for a table, wrote a few rapid lines, which he handed to Gabriel, who seemed to be profuse in his thanks.
"There must be some hope for us," thought Castelnau. Gabriel rushed headlong back into the château, and a moment later, breathless and without a word, placed the following document in Castelnau's hands:—
Monsieur de Castelnau and his companions now within the Château de Noizai having agreed upon my arrival to lay down their arms and surrender to me, I, the undersigned, Jacques de Savoie, have sworn upon my princely faith, upon my honor, and as I hope for the salvation of my soul, that they shall not be molested, but shall be set at liberty entirely unharmed, fifteen of them only, including Monsieur de Castelnau, to go with me to Amboise, to present their grievances to the king in a peaceable manner.Given at the Château de Noizai this 16th of March, 1560.JACQUES DE SAVOIE.
Monsieur de Castelnau and his companions now within the Château de Noizai having agreed upon my arrival to lay down their arms and surrender to me, I, the undersigned, Jacques de Savoie, have sworn upon my princely faith, upon my honor, and as I hope for the salvation of my soul, that they shall not be molested, but shall be set at liberty entirely unharmed, fifteen of them only, including Monsieur de Castelnau, to go with me to Amboise, to present their grievances to the king in a peaceable manner.
Given at the Château de Noizai this 16th of March, 1560.
JACQUES DE SAVOIE.
"Thanks, my friend," Castelnau said to Gabriel, after he had read the foregoing; "you have saved our lives, and our honor, which is dearer than life. On these conditions I am ready to follow Monsieur de Nemours to Amboise; for we shall not appear there as prisoners before their conqueror, but as oppressed subjects before their king. Once more I thank you."
But as he warmly clasped the hand of his preserver, Castelnau remarked that Gabriel had relapsed into his former state of melancholy.
"What troubles you now, pray?" he asked.
"I am thinking now about La Renaudie and the other Protestants who were to attack Amboise to-night," replied Gabriel. "Alas! I fear it is too late to save them; but I will at least make the attempt. La Renaudie was to advance by the forest of Château-Regnault, was he not?"
"Yes," said Castelnau, earnestly; "and there is yet time for you to find him there, and save him as you have saved us."
"At all events, I will do my best," said Gabriel. "The Duc de Nemours will leave me at liberty, I think. Adieu, then, dear friend; I go to continue, if possible, my work of conciliation.Au revoir!—at Amboise."
"Au revoir!" Castelnau replied.
As Gabriel had anticipated, the Duc de Nemours made no opposition to his leaving Noizai and its detachment of royal troops.
The zealous, devoted youth was free to urge his horse in the direction of the forest of Château-Regnault.
Castelnau and those who remained with him followed Jacques de Savoie to Amboise, trusting and tranquil.
But upon their arrival they were at once lodged in prison. There they were to remain, so they were informed, until the affray was at an end, and there was no longer any danger to be apprehended in allowing them access to the king.
The forest of Château-Régnault was fortunately only about a league and a half distant from Noizai. Gabriel urged his horse thither at a gallop; but after he had reached the spot, he rode about in every direction for more than an hour without falling in with any party, either of friends or foes.
At last he thought he distinguished the regular gallop of cavalry beyond a bend in the path he was pursuing; but they could not be Huguenots, for they were laughing and talking, while the Huguenots were too vitally concerned to conceal their movements not to preserve most complete silence.
"No matter!" thought Gabriel; and he hurried on, and soon came upon the red scarfs of the king's troops.
As he made his way toward their leader he recognized him, and was recognized by him.
It was Baron de Pardaillan,—a gallant young officer who had made the Italian campaign with him under Monsieur de Guise.
"Ah, it is the Comte de Montgommery!" cried Pardaillan. "I thought you were at Noizai, Count."
"I have just come from there," said Gabriel.
"Well, what has occurred there?—ride by my side awhile and tell me."
Gabriel told the story of the sudden arrival of the Duc de Nemours, of his carrying the terrace and the drawbridge, of his own mediation between the parties, and the peaceful submission which had been its happy result.
"Pardieu!" exclaimed Pardaillan; "Monsieur de Nemours was in luck, and I should be glad to be equally fortunate myself. Do you know, Monsieur de Montgommery, against whom my own movements are directed at this moment?"
"La Renaudie, doubtless."
"Precisely. And do you know what La Renaudie is to me?"
"Why, your cousin, I believe,—yes, I remember."
"Yes, he is my cousin," Pardaillan said; "and more than that, he is my friend and my comrade-in-arms. Ah, do you know how bitter a thing it is to fight against one who has so often fought at one's side?"
"Yes, indeed," replied Gabriel; "but you are not sure of meeting him, are you?"
"Alas! I am only too sure!" returned Pardaillan. "My instructions are exact; and the reports of those who have betrayed him are only too accurate. See! after marching another fifteen minutes I shall find myself face to face with La Renaudie in the second path to the left."
"But suppose you were to avoid that path?" whispered Gabriel.
"I should be false to my honor and to my duty as a soldier," was Pardaillan's reply. "Besides, it is better that I should not be able to do it. My two lieutenants received Monsieur de Guise's orders as well as myself, and they would interfere to prevent my running counter to them. No; my only hope is that La Renaudie will consent to surrender, and a faint hope it is; for he is as proud as Lucifer, and as brave as a lion. Moreover, he has an opportunity to fight, and will not be taken by surprise, as Castelnau was; and again, we are not very superior to him in point of numbers. However, you will assist me, will you not, Monsieur de Montgommery, in urging him to yield?"
"Alas!" said Gabriel, with a sigh, "I will do my best."
"The Devil take these civil wars!" cried Pardaillan, in conclusion.
They rode along in silence for almost ten minutes.
When they had taken the second path to the left, Pardaillan said,—
"Now we should be approaching them. How my heart beats! For the first time in my life, I believe, as God hears me, that I am afraid."
The royal troops were no longer laughing and talking, but advanced slowly and cautiously.
They had not gone two hundred paces, when they thought they could see through a thicket of trees the glistening of weapons upon a path, which ran parallel with the main road.
Their uncertainty was not of long duration, for almost immediately a firm voice cried out,—
"Halt! Who goes there?"
"It is La Renaudie's voice," Pardaillan said to Gabriel.
Then he replied to the challenge,—
"Valois and Lorraine!"
Instantly, La Renaudie on horseback, followed by his little band, debouched from the bypath.
However, he ordered his troops to halt, and rode forward a few steps alone.
Pardaillan imitated him by crying to his people, "Halt!" and riding toward him accompanied only by Gabriel.
One would have said they were two friends in haste to meet after a long separation, rather than two foes ready to meet in deadly conflict.
"I should have already replied to you as I ought," said La Renaudie, as he approached, "if I had not thought that I recognized the voice of a friend. Unless I am greatly mistaken, that visor conceals the features of my dear Pardaillan."
"Yes, it is I, my poor La Renaudie," replied Pardaillan; "and if I may give you a brother's advice, it is to abandon your enterprise, dear friend, and lay down your arms at once."
"Oh, yes! that is indeed brotherly advice!" retorted La Renaudie, ironically.
"Yes, Monsieur de la Renaudie," interposed Gabriel, coming forward, "it is the advice of a loyal friend, I bear you witness. Castelnau surrendered to the Duc de Nemours this morning; and if you do not follow his example, you are lost."
"Aha, Monsieur de Montgommery!" exclaimed La Renaudie, "are you with these fellows?"
"I am neither with them nor with yourself," said Gabriel, in a grave and melancholy tone. "I stand between you."
"Oh, forgive me, Monsieur le Comte," added La Renaudie, deeply moved by the noble and dignified bearing of Gabriel. "I had no wish to wound you, and I think I would doubt my own loyalty rather than yours." "Pray believe me, then," said Gabriel, "and do not hazard a useless and disastrous conflict. Surrender."
"Impossible!" replied La Renaudie.
"But reflect, I beg you," said Pardaillan, "that we are no more than a feeble advance-guard."
"For Heaven's sake," retorted the Protestant leader, "do you suppose that my whole force consists of this handful of gallant fellows whom you see?"
"I warn you," said Pardaillan, "that you have traitors in your ranks."
"Well, they are in yours now," returned La Renaudie. "I will undertake to obtain your pardon from Monsieur de Guise," cried Pardaillan, who knew not which way to turn.
"My pardon!" exclaimed La Renaudie; "I hope to be more concerned with granting than receiving pardons!"
"Oh, La Renaudie! La Renaudie! Surely you do not wish to compel me to draw my sword against you,—Godefroy, my old comrade, my play-fellow?"
"We must be prepared even for that, Pardaillan; for you know me too well to believe that I am inclined to yield the field to you."
"Monsieur de la Renaudie," cried Gabriel, "once more I tell you that you are wrong."
But he was rudely interrupted.
The horsemen on both sides, Remaining apart, but in full view of one another, could not understand the meaning of all this parleying between their chiefs, and were burning with eagerness to come to closer quarters.
"In God's name, what do they find to talk about at such length?" muttered the troopers of Pardaillan.
"Ah!" said the Huguenots, "do they think that we came here to watch them while they talk over their private business?"
"Wait a moment! wait!" said one of La Renaudie's band, in which every soldier was a leader, "I know a way to cut short their conversation;" and just as Gabriel began to speak, he fired a pistol-shot at the king's troops.
"You see," cried Pardaillan, sorrowfully, "your people have struck the first blow!"
"But without any order from me!" retorted La Renaudie, warmly. "However, the die is cast, and it makes no difference now. Forward, my friends, forward!"
He turned toward his men as he spoke, and Pardaillan, not to be taken by surprise, did the same, and also shouted, "Forward!"
The firing began.
Gabriel, however, remained motionless between the red and the white, the Royalists and the rebels. He scarcely even drew his horse aside, but sustained the fire of both parties.
At the first volley the plume of his helmet was cut through by a ball, and his horse killed under him.
He extricated his feet from the stirrups and stood in the same spot without a tremor, and like one dreaming in the midst of that terrible affray.
The supply of powder was soon exhausted; and the two little bands rushed forward, and continued the combat with their swords.
Gabriel, amid all the clashing and clanging, never stirred from his place, nor did he once lay his hand upon his sword; he simply stood gazing at the mad blows which were raining about him, as if he had been the image of France among her foes.
The Protestants, inferior in numbers and in discipline, began to falter.
La Renaudie in the tumult found himself face to face with Pardaillan once more.
"Engage with me!" he cried; "let me at least die by your hand."
"Ah!" said Pardaillan, "the one of us two who slays the other will be the more generous."
They crossed swords with much vigor. The blows they dealt resounded upon their coats-of-mail like hammer-strokes upon the anvil. La Renaudie circled about Pardaillan, who, sitting firmly on his saddle, parried and thrust without token of weariness. Two rivals thirsting for vengeance could not have seemed more implacable.
At last La Renaudie buried his sword in the breast of Pardaillan, who fell headlong from his horse.
But the cry which followed the fatal blow came from the lips of La Renaudie.
Happily for the victor, he had not even the time to look upon his disastrous victory, for Montigny, Pardaillan's page, levelled his arquebuse at him and fired, and he fell from his horse mortally wounded.
Nevertheless, before he expired La Renaudie yet retained strength sufficient to strike dead upon the spot, with a backward stroke of his sword, the page who had shot him.
Around these three bodies the battle waged more furiously than ever.
But the Huguenots were clearly worsted; and in a short time, being deprived of their leader, they were utterly routed.
The greater number of them were killed; but a few were taken prisoners, and some escaped.
This horrible bloody affray lasted less than ten minutes.
The royal troopers prepared to return to Amboise, and the bodies of La Renaudie and Pardaillan were placed upon the same horse.
The Forest of Château-Regnault.
The Forest of Château-Regnault.
The Forest of Château-Regnault.
Gabriel, who, despite his eager longing, and spared without doubt by both sides, had not received a scratch, gazed mournfully at the two lifeless bodies in which, but a few moments before, had beat the two noblest hearts he had ever known.
"Which of the two was the braver?" he asked himself. "Which better loved the other? Which is the greater loss to his unhappy country?"
Even after the surrender of the Château de Noizai, and the skirmish in the forest of Château-Regnault, the whole affair was not at an end.
The majority of the conspirators of Nantes had not been notified of these two repulses which their party had met with, and were still on their way to Amboise, prepared to assault the place that night.
But we know that thanks to the precise information furnished by Lignières, they were expected.
The youthful king had no inclination to retire, but walked anxiously, with feverish tread, up and down the vast unfurnished hall which had been set apart for his accommodation.
Mary Stuart, the Duc de Guise, and the Cardinal de Lorraine were also watching and waiting with him.
"What an everlasting night!" ejaculated François. "I am in agony; my head is on fire; and those intolerable pains in my ear are beginning to torment me again. What a night! Oh, what a night!"
"Poor dear Sire!" said Mary, soothingly, "do not excite yourself so, I pray; you only increase your bodily and mental anguish as well. Take a few moments' rest, in pity's name!"
"What! how can I rest, Mary?" said the king,—"how can I keep calm when my people are rebelling, and are in arms against me? Ah, all this trouble will surely shorten the small portion of life God has granted me!"
Mary replied only by the tears which streamed down her lovely face.
"Your Majesty ought not to be so deeply affected," said Le Balafré. "I have already had the honor to assure you that our measures were taken, and that victory is beyond peradventure. I give you my personal guaranty of it, Sire."
"Have we not begun well, Sire?" added the Cardinal de Lorraine. "Castelnau a prisoner, and La Renaudie slain,—are these not happy omens for the issue of this affair?"
"Happy omens indeed!" said François, bitterly.
"To-morrow everything will be at an end," continued the cardinal; "the other leaders of the rebels will be in our power, and we can terrify, by force of a frightful example, those who might venture to try to emulate them. It must be done, Sire," said he, replying to the king's involuntary movement of horror. "A solemn 'Act of Faith,' as they say in Spain, is essential for the outraged glory of the Catholic religion, and the threatened security of the throne. To begin with, Castelnau must die. Monsieur de Nemours took it upon himself to swear that he should be spared; but that is not our affair, and we have promised nothing ourselves. La Renaudie has escaped punishment by death; but I have already given orders that at daybreak to-morrow his head be exposed upon the bridge of Amboise with this inscription: 'Leader of the rebels.'"
"Leader of the rebels!" echoed the king; "why, you yourself say that he was not the leader, and that the confessions and the correspondence of the conspirators point to the Prince de Condé alone as the real prime mover of the undertaking."
"In Heaven's name, speak not so loud, Sire, I implore you!" the cardinal exclaimed. "Yes, it is true, the prince has led and directed the whole affair, but from afar. These rascals call him the 'Silent Captain;' and he was to unmask himself after their first success. But failing that first success, he has not unmasked himself, nor will he do so. Therefore let us not drive him to that perilous extremity. Let us not seem to recognize in him the mighty head and front of the rebellion. Let us pretend not to see it, so that we may incur no risk of showing our feeling."
"Nevertheless, Monsieur de Condé is the real arch-rebel!" said François, whose youthful impatience was little in sympathy with all these "governmental fictions," as they came to be called at a later day.
"Very true, Sire," said Le Balafré; "but the prince, far from avowing his schemes, denies them. Let us pretend to believe his word. He came to-day to shut himself up here in Amboise, where he has been kept in sight, just as he has conspired, from a safe distance. Let us feign to accept him as an ally, which will be less hazardous than to have him for an avowed enemy. The prince, in fact, will assist us, if need be, to repel his own accomplices to-night, and be present at their execution to-morrow. Does he not thereby undergo a penalty a thousand times more grievous than any which is imposed upon us?"
"Yes, indeed he does," replied the king; "but will he do that; and if he does, can it be possible that he is guilty?"
"Sire," said the cardinal, "we have in our hands, and will deliver to your Majesty, if you desire, irrefragable proof of Monsieur de Condé's secret complicity. But the more flagrant and undeniable these proofs are, the more necessary is it for us to dissimulate; and, for my part, I deeply regret certain words which I have let fall, and which, if reported to the prince, might offend him."
"What, you fear tooffenda culprit such as you say he is!" cried François. "But what is all this uproar without, in God's name? Can it be the rebels already?"
"I will go and see," said the Duc de Guise.
But before he had crossed the threshold, Richelieu, the captain of arquebusiers, entered, and said hastily to the king,—
"Pardon, Sire, but Monsieur de Condé thinks he overheard certain words reflecting upon his honor, and he urgently demands the privilege of clearing himself from these insulting suspicions in your Majesty's presence, once for all."
The king might have refused to see the prince; but the Duc de Guise had already made a sign. Captain Richelieu's arquebusiers stepped aside, and Monsieur de Condé entered, with head erect and cheeks flushed.
He was followed by a few nobles, and a number of canons of St. Florentin, regular attaches of the Château d'Amboise, whom the cardinal had transformed into soldiers that night to assist in the defence, and who, as was frequently the case in those days, carried the arquebuse with the rosary, and wore the helmet under their cowl.
"Sire, I trust you will pardon my boldness," said the prince, after saluting the king; "but it is perhaps justified in advance by the insolence of certain charges, which are made, it seems, in the dark by my foes against my loyalty, and which I feel called upon to bring forth into the light that I may confound and chastise them."
"To what do you refer, my cousin?" asked the king, gravely.
"Sire," replied Condé, "they dare to say that I am the real leader of the rebels, whose foolhardy and impious undertaking is at this moment throwing the realm into confusion, and filling your Majesty's heart with dismay."
"Ah, they say that, do they?" returned François. "Who says it, pray?"
"I succeeded just now in surprising these hateful slanders, Sire, upon the lips of these reverend brothers of St. Florentin, who, believing doubtless that they were among friends, did not scruple to repeat aloud what had been whispered in their ears."
"Do you mean to accuse those who repeated the offensive words, or those who whispered them in the first place?" asked François.
"Both, Sire," replied Condé, "but especially the instigators of these foul and cowardly calumnies."
As he said these words, he turned his gaze full upon the face of the Cardinal de Lorraine, who did his best to hide his embarrassed countenance behind his brother.
"Very well, my good cousin," replied the king, "you have our permission to disprove the slander, and to accuse the slanderers. Proceed."
"To disprove the slander, Sire?" repeated the prince. "Ah, will not my actions do that better than any words of mine! Did I not come at the first summons to this château, to take my place among your Majesty's defenders? Is that the act of a guilty man, Sire?—I put the question to yourself, Sire?"
"Then proceed to accuse the slanderers," said François, who chose to make no more direct reply.
"I will do so, not in words, but by deeds, Sire," said Monsieur de Condé. "They must, if they have the courage, themselves accuse me in the light of day. I here cast down my glove to them before God and the king. Let the man, of whatever rank or quality he may be, who dares to affirm that I am the author of this conspiracy come forward! I offer to do battle with him when and where he chooses; and if in any point he be not upon a level with me, I agree to make myself his equal in every way for this combat."
The Prince de Condé, as he ceased to speak, threw his glove at his feet. His glance had not ceased to form an eloquent commentary upon his challenge, and had fixed itself proudly upon the Duc de Guise, who did not move a muscle.
There was a moment of silence,—every one reflecting, no doubt, upon this extraordinary spectacle of the lie given by a prince of the blood to the whole court, where there was not a page who did not know him to be guilty twenty times over of that offence from which he defended himself with such well-simulated indignation.
And, in truth, the youthful king was probably the only one who was innocent enough to be astonished; and no one thought any the worse of the prince's valor or virtue.
The political theories of the Italian courts, brought into France by Catherine de Médicis and her Florentines, were then fashionable in France. He who was most skilful in deceit was considered the most clever; and to conceal one's thoughts and disguise one's purpose was the acme of political skill. Frankness would have been looked upon as folly.
The noblest and purest characters of the time—Coligny, Condé, the Chancellor Olivier—had not succeeded in keeping clear of the contagion.
Therefore the Duc de Guise did not despise the Prince de Condé; he rather admired him. But he said to himself, smiling, that he was at least as good an actor as the other. Taking a step forward, he slowly removed his glove, and cast it beside that of the prince.
There was a murmur of surprise; and the first impression was that he proposed to answer Monsieur de Condé's defiant challenge.
But in that case he would not have been the subtle politician he prided himself on being.
In a loud, firm voice, and as if really convinced by the prince's demeanor, he said,—
"I approve Monsieur le Prince de Condé's words, and support him in them; and I am so devotedly his humble servant, having the honor to be his kinsman, that I here offer myself as his second, and will assist him in his just defence against all comers."
Le Balafré, with these words, let his inquiring glance rove boldly upon all those who stood around.
The Prince de Condé could only lower his own. He felt himself more thoroughly worsted than if he had been overthrown in the lists.
"Will no one," continued the Duc de Guise, "take up either the Prince de Condé's glove or mine?"
No one stirred, of course.
"My cousin," observed François II., with a melancholy smile, "you are, as you desired, thoroughly cleared of all suspicion of felony, in my opinion."
"Yes, Sire," said the "Silent Captain," with ingenuous impudence; "and I thank your Majesty for having assisted me."
He turned with an effort to Le Balafré, and added,—
"I also am grateful to my good ally and kinsman, Monsieur de Guise. I hope to prove afresh to him, and to all others, by my behavior to-night against the rebels, if there be an attack, that he was not wrong in taking my part."
Thereupon the Prince de Condé and the Duc de Guise exchanged most profoundly courteous salutations.
Then the prince, being well and duly justified, and having no further business there, bowed to the king, and left the room, followed by those who had come in with him.
None were left in the royal apartment but the four personages whose dreary waiting had been enlivened and their apprehension distracted for a moment by this singular comedy.
It was a chivalrous scene, peculiar to the politics of the sixteenth century.
After the departure of the Prince de Condé, neither the king nor Mary Stuart nor the brothers De Lorraine referred to what had just taken place. They seemed to avoid the dangerous subject by tacit understanding.
Minutes and hours passed away in the gloomy and restless silence of expectation.
François II. often passed his hand across his burning brow; while Mary, seated apart, gazed sorrowfully at the pale, thin face of her young spouse, and furtively brushed away a tear from time to time. The Cardinal de Lorraine was wholly intent upon the sounds to be heard without; while Le Balafré, whose dispositions were all made, and whose rank, as well as his office, obliged him to stay by the king's side, seemed to chafe bitterly at his forced inaction, and every now and then quivered with impatience and stamped upon the floor, as a fiery war-horse chafes at the rein which restrains him.
However, the night drew to a close; the bell of the château, followed by that on St. Florentin, struck six, then half after six. The day began to break; and there had been no sign of an assault, no alarm given by the sentinels.
"Well," said the king, with a sigh of relief, "I begin to believe, Monsieur le Cardinal, that Lignières has misled your Eminence, or else that the Huguenots have changed their minds."
"So much the worse if they have," replied Charles de Lorraine, "for we are sure to put down the rebellion."
"Oh, no! so much the better!" exclaimed François; "for the contest of itself would be a humiliation for royalty—"
But his sentence was yet unfinished when two shots of an arquebuse, the signal which had been agreed upon as an alarm, were fired, and the shout was heard, repeated from post to post along the ramparts,—
"To arms! to arms! to arms!"
"There can be no doubt that the enemy are upon us!" cried the cardinal, turning pale in spite of himself.
The Duc de Guise rose, apparently well content, and said simply as he saluted the king, "Sire, I shall soon be with you again," and went hurriedly from the room.
His powerful voice could be plainly heard, giving orders in the antechamber, when there was a second volley of arquebuses.
"You see, Sire," said the cardinal, perhaps to put his fear to shame with the sound of his voice,—"you see that Lignières was well informed, and only made an error of a few hours."
But the king heard him not; angrily biting his colorless lips, he had ears only for the ever-growing noise of artillery and arquebuses.
"Even yet I can hardly believe in the possibility of such audacity!" he muttered. "Such an outrage upon the crown—"
"Can only result in shame and abasement for the wretches, Sire," rejoined the cardinal.
"Alas!" returned the king, "if we may judge by the noise they make, the Protestants are present in large force, and are scarcely afraid."
"This disturbance will be quenched at once like a fire of straw," said Charles de Lorraine.
"It doesn't seem so, for the noise is coming nearer," replied François; "and the fire instead of being quenched is blazing brighter, I think."
"Holy Virgin!" cried Mary Stuart, in terror; "do you hear the bullets ringing against the walls?"
"Yet it seems to me, Madame—" stammered the cardinal. "I think, your Majesty—As for me, I cannot see that the uproar increases any."
But his words were drowned by a fearful explosion.
"There is your answer," retorted the king, smiling bitterly, "even if your pale and terrified face were not enough to contradict you."
"I can detect the odor of powder," cried Mary. "And oh, just hear those piercing shrieks!"
"Better and better!" exclaimed François. "Come, come! The Reformers have carried the walls of the town by this time, doubtless, and propose to besiege us in the château in regular form."
"But, Sire," the cardinal stammered, shaking like a leaf, "in this conjuncture would it not be better for your Majesty to withdraw to the donjon? We may be sure that they will not carry that at all events."
"Who,—I?" cried the king; "hide myself from my own subjects! from heretics! Let them come even as far as this, my good uncle,—I shall be very glad to know to what point they will carry their insolence. You will hear them beg us to sing a psalm or two with them in French, and to turn our chapel of St. Florentin into a meeting-house."
"Sire, for Heaven's sake, think a little of what is prudent," said Mary.
"No," replied the king, "I propose to see this matter through to the bitter end. I will await these faithful subjects on this spot; and by my royal name! let one of them but fail to show me the respect that is my due, and he shall learn whether this dagger hangs at my side for show only!"
The minutes rolled on, and the arquebuse-firing grew more and more brisk. The poor cardinal could no longer utter a word, and the king was wringing his hands in helpless wrath.
"In God's name," exclaimed Mary, "will no one come to give us news? Is the danger so pressing that no one can leave his place for an instant?"
"Ah!" said the king, quite beside himself with excitement, "this waiting is intolerable, and anything else would be preferable to it, I think! I know one way of ascertaining what is going on, and that is to go to the scene of the affray myself. Monsieur le Lieutenant-General cannot refuse to receive me as a volunteer."
François took two or three, steps toward the door, but Mary threw herself in front of him.
"Sire," she cried, "consider! Ill as you are!"
"I no longer feel my pain," said the king. "Indignation has taken the place of suffering."
"Wait yet a moment, Sire!" urged the cardinal. "I am sure that the uproar is really growing fainter now. Yes, the reports are much less frequent. Ah! here is a page, with news, no doubt."
"Sire," said the page, "I am instructed by Monsieur le Duc de Guise to say to your Majesty that the Protestants have given way and are in full retreat."
"At last! That is happy news!" cried the king.
"As soon as Monsieur le Lieutenant-General thinks that he can safely leave the walls," continued the page, "he will hasten to make his report to the king."
The page thereupon left the room.
"Well, Sire," observed the Cardinal de Lorraine, triumphantly, "was I not right in predicting that it would be mere child's play, and that Monsieur my illustrious and gallant brother would soon give a good account of these singers of hymns?"
"Oh, my dear uncle," François retorted ironically, "how suddenly your courage has returned!"
As he spoke, a second explosion was heard, much louder and more awful than the first.
"What can that noise mean?" said the king.
"In truth, it is strange," the cardinal replied, beginning to tremble afresh.
Fortunately his alarm did not last long. Richelieu, the captain of arquebusiers, came in almost immediately with his face begrimed with powder, and a bloody sword in his hand.
"Sire," Richelieu thus addressed the king, "the rebels are utterly routed. They scarcely had time to explode a quantity of powder which they had deposited near one of the gates, and which inflicted no damage on us. Those who were not taken or slain recrossed the bridge and have barricaded themselves in one of the houses in the Faubourg du Vendômois, where we shall have an easy prey. Your Majesty may see from this window how we will treat them."
The king ran quickly to the window, followed by the cardinal, and more slowly by the queen.
"Yes, indeed," said he, "there they are, having their turn at being besieged. But what is this I see? What is all the smoke pouring from the house?"
"Sire, it has been set on fire," said the captain.
"Very good! marvellously well done!" ejaculated the cardinal. "Look, Sire, see them leaping from the window! Two, three, four,—more, more! Do you hear their shrieks?"
"Oh, God! the poor wretches!" cried Mary Stuart, clasping her hands.
"It seems to me," observed the king, "that I can distinguish at the head of our troops the plume and scarf of our cousin De Condé. Is it really he, Captain?"
"Yes, your Majesty," replied Richelieu. "He has been among us all the time, sword in hand, fighting beside Monsieur de Guise."
"Well, Monsieur le Cardinal," said François, "you see that he did not wait to be asked."
"He could not have afforded to, Sire!" replied Charles de Lorraine. "Monsieur le Prince would have risked too much if he had acted otherwise than he has."
"Oh, see!" cried Mary, repelled and fascinated at once by the horrible spectacle without; "the flames are much more intense! the house will fall in upon the poor wretches!"
"It has fallen!" said the king.
"Thank God, it is all over!" cried the cardinal.
"Ah, let us leave the place, Sire; it makes me ill," said Mary, drawing the king away from the window.
"Yes," said François, "I can feel nought but pity now."
He left the cardinal standing alone at the window in great exultation; but he soon turned away too, as he heard the voice of the Duc de Guise.
Le Balafré entered, proud and unmoved, accompanied by the Prince de Condé, who, for his part, had much ado to hide his grief and shame.
"Sire, it is all over," said the Duc de Guise to the king; "and the rebels have paid the penalty of their crime. I render thanks to God, who has delivered your Majesty from this peril; for from what I have seen, I conclude it was greater than I supposed. We have traitors among us."
"Can it be?" cried the cardinal.
"Yes," replied Le Balafré; "when they made their first assault, they were seconded by the men-at-arms who came hither with Lamothe. They attacked us in flank, and for a moment were masters of the town."
"That is terrible!" said Mary, pressing close to the king.
"It would have been much more so, Madame," continued the duke, "if the rebels had also been seconded, as they hoped to be, by an attack which Chaudieu, brother of the minister, was to make upon the Porte des Bons Hommes."
"Did the attack fail?" asked the king.
"It did not take place, Sire. Captain Chaudieu, thank Heaven! was delayed, and will arrive only to find his friends annihilated. Now let him come at his leisure! he will find everything ready for him both within and without the walls. And, to give him food for reflection, I have ordered that twenty or thirty of his accomplices should be hanged on top of the battlements of Amboise. The spectacle will prove a sufficient warning to him, I fancy."
"That was well thought of!" said the cardinal.
"I thank you, my cousin," said the king to Le Balafré; "but I see that God's merciful protection has been most bountifully shown in this affair, since to Him alone we must attribute the confusion that prevailed in the counsels of our enemies. Let us in the first place, then, repair to the chapel to return thanks to Him."
"After that," said the cardinal, "we will issue orders for the punishment of the surviving culprits. Sire, you will be present at their execution with the queen and queen-mother, will you not?"
"Why, will that be necessary, pray?" asked the youthful king, walking toward the door, much annoyed.
"Sire, it is indispensable," urged the cardinal, following him. "The glorious King François I. and your father, of illustrious memory, Sire, never failed to be present at the burning of heretics. As for the King of Spain, Sire—"
"Other kings may do as they please," said François, still going toward the door, "and I, too, propose to have my own way."
"I ought to inform your Majesty that the nuncio from his Holiness absolutely relies upon your presence at the first 'Act of Faith' of your reign," added the pitiless cardinal. "When everybody else is present,—even the Prince de Condé, I venture to say,—is it fitting that your Majesty should be absent?"
"Alas,mon Dieu! we will talk of this matter again presently," rejoined François. "The guilty men are not yet condemned."
"Oh, I beg your Majesty's pardon, but they are!" said the cardinal, earnestly.
"So be it! Thus you impose this terrible necessity upon me in my feebleness," replied the king. "But now, Monsieur le Cardinal, let us go, as I said, to kneel before the altar and thank God, who has deigned to turn aside from us the peril of this conspiracy."
"Sire," said the Duc de Guise, "we must not exaggerate these things, and give them more importance than they deserve, therefore I trust that your Majesty will not speak of this movement as a conspiracy; it was, in truth, nought but atumult."
Although the conspirators had inserted in a manifesto, seized among La Renaudie's papers, a declaration that they would "attempt nothing against the king's majesty, nor the princes of the blood, nor the good of the kingdom," they had, nevertheless, been taken in open rebellion, and might well expect to meet the fate of those who are vanquished in civil wars.
The mode of treatment that had been adopted with regard to those who professed the principles of the Reformation, while they were conducting themselves as peaceful and submissive subjects, left little room for hope of pardon now.
In fact, the Cardinal de Lorraine hurried on their condemnation with a passionate zeal that was quite characteristic of the ecclesiastic of those days, though it was hardly Christlike.
He intrusted the proceedings against the nobles who were implicated in the deplorable affair to the parliament of Paris and the Chancellor Olivier. Thus matters progressed finely. The interrogations were quickly gone through, and the sentences pronounced still more quickly.
They dispensed with even these empty formalities in the cases of the less highly placed abettors of the rebellion, people of small importance, who were being broken on the wheel or hanged every day at Amboise without wearying parliament with their cases. The honor and expense of a trial were only accorded to persons of some quality or note.
At last, thanks to the pious ardor of Charles de Lorraine, everything was concluded in their cases as well in less than three weeks.
The 15th of April was fixed for the public execution at Amboise of twenty-seven barons, eleven counts, and seven marquises; in all, fifty gentlemen, leaders of the Protestants, were to meet their death that day.
Nothing was neglected which could assist in imparting to that extraordinary religious function all desirable pomp and splendor. Extensive preparations were made. From Paris to Nantes public curiosity was inflamed by all the expedients in vogue at that time; that is to say, the execution was announced by all preachers and curés from their pulpits.
On the appointed day, three superb galleries, the central and most sumptuous of which was reserved for the royal family, were erected on the platform of the château at the foot of which the bloody drama was to be enacted.
Around the square were wooden benches filled with all the faithful from the neighborhood who could be got together, willingly or on compulsion. The bourgeoisie and peasants, who might have had some distaste for such a grewsome spectacle, were induced to go either by threats or bribes; some had their taxes remitted; others were threatened with the loss of their offices or their privileges as freemen. All these divers motives, added to the morbid curiosity of some and the fanaticism of others, caused such a concourse of people at Amboise that more than ten thousand were encamped in the fields the night before the fatal day.
Early in the morning of the 15th the roofs of all the houses in the town were covered with a moving mass; and windows looking upon the square were let for ten crowns,—which was an enormous price for the time.
A vast scaffold, draped in black cloth, was erected in the middle of the enclosure. On it was to be seen thechouquet,—a block upon which each of the condemned had to rest his head while he knelt to receive the blow. Near by a chair draped in black was reserved for the clerk, whose duty it was to call the names of the gentlemen one by one, and read aloud the sentence of each in succession.
The square was guarded by the Scotch company and the gendarmes of the royal household.
After solemn Mass in the chapel of St. Florentin, the condemned men were led to the foot of the scaffold. Several of them had already been subjected to the torture. They were surrounded by monks, who tried to make them renounce their heretical principles; but not one of the Huguenots consented thus to apostatize before death, and they steadfastly refused to reply to the monks, whom they suspected of being spies of the Cardinal de Lorraine.
Meanwhile the galleries reserved for the court were filled, except the one in the centre. The king and queen, whose consent to be present at the execution had almost to be torn from them by force, had at last succeeded in obtaining leave to postpone their attendance till toward the end, when only the principal chiefs remained to be punished. If they would but come at some time, that was all the cardinal asked. Poor royal children! Poor crowned slaves! They, as well as the peasants, had been prevailed upon by arousing their fear for their offices and privileges.
At noon the execution began.
When the first of the condemned men mounted the steps of the scaffold, his companions thundered out a French psalm, translated by Clément Marot, as much to afford him on whom the punishment was about to fall some last consolation as to mark their own constancy in the face of their enemies and their doom.
Therefore they sang at the foot of the scaffold,—