Ernanton's first thought when he saw the door of the antechamber fly open was to blow out the light.
"M. de St. Maline," cried the hostess, "I warn you that the persons whom you are troubling are your friends."
"Well! all the more reason to present our compliments to them," cried Perducas de Pincornay, in a tipsy voice.
"And what friends are they? We will see!" cried St. Maline.
The good hostess, hoping to prevent a collision, glided among them, and whispered Ernanton's name in St. Maline's ear.
"Ernanton!" cried St. Maline, aloud, for whom this revelation was oil instead of water thrown on the fire, "that is not possible."—"And why so?"
"Oh! because Ernanton is a model of chastity and a melange of all the virtues. No, you must be wrong, Madame Fournichon; it cannot be Ernanton who is shut in there."
And he approached the second door, to treat it as he had done the first, when it was opened, and Ernanton appeared on the threshold, with a face which did not announce that patience was one of the virtues which, according to St. Maline, he possessed.
"By what right has M. de St. Maline broken down one door, and intends to break a second?" said he.
"Ah! it is he, really; it is Ernanton!" cried St. Maline. "I recognize his voice; but as to his person, devil take me if I can see it in this darkness."
"You do not reply to my question, monsieur," said Ernanton.
St. Maline began to laugh noisily, which reassured some of his comrades, who were thinking of retiring.
"I spoke; did you not hear me, M. de St. Maline?" said Ernanton.
"Yes, monsieur, perfectly."
"Then what have you to say?"
"We wished to know, my dear friend, if it was you up here."
"Well, monsieur, now you know it, leave me in peace."
"Cap de Bious! have you become a hermit?"
"As for that, monsieur, permit me to leave you in doubt."
"Ah! bah!" cried St. Maline, trying to enter, "are you really alone? you have no light."
"Gentlemen!" said Ernanton, "I know that you are half drunk, and I forgive you; but there is a limit even to the patience that one owes to men beside themselves; your joke is over, do me the favor to retire."
"Oh! oh! retire! how you speak!" said St. Maline.
"I speak so as you may not be deceived in my wishes, and I repeat, gentlemen, retire, I beg."
"Not before we have been admitted to the honor of saluting the person for whom you desert our company. M. de Montcrabeau," continued he, "go down and come back with a light."
"M. de Montcrabeau," cried Ernanton, "if you do that, remember it will be a personal offense to me."
Montcrabeau hesitated.
"Good," replied St. Maline, "we have our oath, and M. de Carmainges is so strict that he will not infringe discipline; we cannot draw our swords against each other; therefore, a light, Montcrabeau, a light!"
Montcrabeau descended, and in five minutes returned with a light, which he offered to St. Maline.
"No, no," said he; "keep it; I may, perhaps, want both hands."
And he made a step forward.
"I take you all to witness," cried Ernanton, "that I am insulted without reason, and that in consequence"—and he drew his sword—"I will bury this sword in the breast of the first man who advances."
St. Maline, furious, was about to draw his sword also; but before he had time to do so, the point of Ernanton's was on his breast, and as he advanced a step, without Ernanton's moving his arm, St. Maline felt the iron on his flesh, and drew back furious, but Ernanton followed him, keeping the sword against his breast. St. Maline grew pale; if Ernanton had wished it, he could have pinned him to the wall, but he slowly withdrew his sword.
"You merit two deaths for your insolence," said he, "but the oath of which you spoke restrains me, and I will touch you no more; let me pass. Come, madame, I answer for your free passage."
Then appeared a woman, whose head was covered by a hood, and her face by a mask, and who took Ernanton's arm, tremblingly. St. Maline stood by, stifling with rage at his merited punishment. He drew his dagger as Ernanton passed by him. Did he mean to strike Ernanton, or only to do what he did? No one knew, but as they passed, his dagger cut through the silken hood of the duchess and severed the string of her mask, which fell to the ground. This movement was so rapid that in the half light no one saw or could prevent it. The duchess uttered a cry; St. Maline picked up the mask and returned it to her, looking now full in her uncovered face.
"Ah!" cried he, in an insolent tone, "it is the beautiful lady of the litter. Ernanton, you get on fast."
Ernanton stopped and half-drew his sword again; but the duchess drew him on, saying, "Come on, I beg you, M. Ernanton."
"We shall meet again, M. de St. Maline," said Ernanton, "and you shall pay for this, with the rest."
And he went on without meeting with any further opposition, and conducted the duchess to her litter, which was guarded by two servants. Arrived there and feeling herself in safety, she pressed Ernanton's hand, and said, "M. Ernanton, after what has just passed, after the insult which, in spite of your courage, you could not defend me from, and which might probably be renewed, we can come here no more; seek, I beg of you, some house in the neighborhood to sell or to let; before long you shall hear from me."
"Must I now take leave of you, madame?" said Ernanton, bowing in token of obedience to the flattering orders he had just received.
"Not yet, M. de Carmainges; follow my litter as far as the new bridge, lest that wretch who recognized in me the lady of the litter, but did not know me for what I am, should follow to find out my residence."
Ernanton obeyed, but no one watched them. When they arrived at the Pont Neuf, which then merited the name, as it was scarcely seven years since Ducerceau had built it, the duchess gave her hand to Ernanton, saying, "Now go, monsieur."
"May I dare to ask when I shall see you again, madame?"
"That depends on the length of time which you take in executing my commission, and your haste will be a proof to me of your desire to see me again."
"Oh, madame, I shall not be idle."
"Well, then, go, Ernanton."
"It is strange," thought the young man, as he retraced his steps; "I cannot doubt that she likes me, and yet she does not seem the least anxious as to whether or not I get killed by that brute of a St. Maline. But, poor woman, she was in great trouble, and the fear of being compromised is, particularly with princesses, the strongest of all sentiments."
Ernanton, however, could not forget the insult he had received, and he returned straight to the hotel. He was naturally decided to infringe all orders and oaths, and to finish with St. Maline; he felt in the humor to fight ten men, if necessary. This resolution sparkled in his eyes when he reached the door of the "Brave Chevalier." Madame Fournichon, who expected his return with anxiety, was standing trembling in the doorway. At the sight of Ernanton she wiped her eyes, as if she had been crying, and throwing her arms round the young man's neck, begged for his pardon, in spite of her husband's representations that, as she had done no wrong, she had nothing to be pardoned for. Ernanton assured her that he did not blame her at all—that it was only her wine that was in fault.
While this passed at the door, all the rest were at table, where they were warmly discussing the previous quarrel. Many frankly blamed St. Maline; others abstained, seeing the frowning brow of their comrade. They did not attack with any less enthusiasm the supper of M. Fournichon, but they discussed as they ate.
"As for me," said Hector de Bizan, "I know that M. de St. Maline was wrong, and that had I been Ernanton de Carmainges, M. de St. Maline would be at this moment stretched on the ground instead of sitting here."
St. Maline looked at him furiously.
"Oh, I mean what I say," continued he; "and stay, there is some one at the door who appears to agree with me."
All turned at this, and saw Ernanton standing in the doorway, looking very pale. He descended from the step, as the statue of the commander from his pedestal, and walked straight up to St. Maline, firmly, but quietly.
At this sight, several voices cried, "Come here, Ernanton; come this side, Carmainges; there is room here."
"Thank you," replied the young man; "but it is near M. de St. Maline that I wish to sit." St. Maline rose, and all eyes were fixed on him. But as he rose, his face changed its expression.
"I will make room for you, monsieur," said he, gently; "and in doing so address to you my frank and sincere apologies for my stupid aggression just now; I was drunk; forgive me."
This declaration did not satisfy Ernanton; but the cries of joy that proceeded from all the rest decided him to say no more, although a glance at St. Maline showed him that he was not to be trusted. St. Maline's glass was full, and he filled Ernanton's.
"Peace! peace!" cried all the voices.
Carmainges profited by the noise, and leaning toward St. Maline, with a smile on his lips, so that no one might suspect the sense of what he was saying, whispered:
"M. de St. Maline, this is the second time that you have insulted me without giving me satisfaction; take care, for at the third offense I will kill you like a dog."
And the two mortal enemies touched glasses as though they had been the best friends.
While the hotel of the "Brave Chevalier," the abode, apparently, of the most perfect concord, with closed doors and open cellars, showed through the openings of the shutters the light of its candles and the mirth of its guests, an unaccustomed movement took place in that mysterious house of which our readers have as yet only seen the outside.
The servant was going from one room to another, carrying packages which he placed in a trunk. These preparations over, he loaded a pistol, examined his poniard, then suspended it, by the aid of a ring, to the chain which served him for a belt, to which he attached besides a bunch of keys and a book of prayers bound in black leather.
While he was thus occupied, a step, light as that of a shadow, came up the staircase, and a woman, pale and phantom-like under the folds of her white veil, appeared at the door, and a voice, sad and sweet as the song of a bird in the wood, said: "Remy, are you ready?"
"Yes, madame, I only wait for your box."
"Do you think these boxes will go easily on our horses?"
"Oh! yes, madame, but if you have any fear, I can leave mine; I have all I want there."
"No, no, Remy, take all that you want for the journey. Oh! Remy! I long to be with my father; I have sad presentiments, and it seems an age since I saw him."
"And yet, madame, it is but three months; not a longer interval than usual."
"Remy, you are such a good doctor, and you yourself told me, the last time we quitted him, that he had not long to live."
"Yes, doubtless; but it was only a dread, not a prediction. Sometimes death seems to forget old men, and they live on as though by the habit of living; and often, besides, an old man is like a child, ill to-day and well to-morrow."
"Alas! Remy, like the child also, he is often well to-day and dead to-morrow."
Remy did not reply, for he had nothing really reassuring to say, and silence succeeded for some minutes.
"At what hour have you ordered the horses?" said the lady, at last.
"At two o'clock."
"And one has just struck."
"Yes, madame."
"No one is watching outside?"
"No one."
"Not even that unhappy young man?"
"Not even he."
And Remy sighed.
"You say that in a strange manner, Remy."
"Because he also has made a resolution."
"What is it?"
"To see us no more; at least, not to try to see us any more."
"And where is he going?"
"Where we are all going—to rest.".
"God give it him eternally," said the lady, in a cold voice, "and yet—"
"Yet what, madame?"
"Had he nothing to do here?"
"He had to love if he had been loved."
"A man of his name, rank, and age, should think of his future."
"You, madame, are of an age, rank, and name little inferior to his, and you do not look forward to a future."
"Yes, Remy, I do," cried she, with a sudden flashing of the eyes; "but listen! is that not the trot of a horse that I hear?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Can it be ours?"
"It is possible; but it is an hour too soon."
"It stops at the door, Remy."
Remy ran down and arrived just as three hurried blows were struck on the door.
"Who is there?" said he.
"I!" replied a trembling voice, "I, Grandchamp, the baron's valet."
"Ah! mon Dieu! Grandchamp, you at Paris! speak low! Whence do you come?"
"From Meridor. Alas, dear M. Remy!"
"Well," cried the lady from the top of the stairs, "are they our horses, Remy?"
"No, madame, it is not them. What is it, Grandchamp?"
"You do not guess?"
"Alas! I do; what will she do, poor lady."
"Remy," cried she again, "you are talking to some one?"
"Yes, madame."
"I thought I knew the voice."
"Indeed, madame."
She now descended, saying:
"Who is there? Grandchamp?"
"Yes, madame, it is I," replied the old man sadly, uncovering his white head.
"Grandchamp! you! oh! mon Dieu! my presentiments were right; my father is dead?"
"Indeed, madame, Meridor has no longer a master."
Pale, but motionless and firmly, the lady listened; Remy went to her and took her hand softly.
"How did he die; tell me, my friend?" said she.
"Madame, M. le Baron, who could no longer leave his armchair, was struck a week ago by an attack of apoplexy. He muttered your name for the last time, then ceased to speak, and soon was no more."
Diana went up again without another word. Her room was on the first story, and looked only into a courtyard. The furniture was somber, but rich, the hangings, in Arras tapestry, represented the death of our Saviour, a prie-Dieu and stool in carved oak, a bed with twisted columns, and tapestries like the walls, were the sole ornaments of the room. Not a flower, no gilding, but in a frame of black was contained a portrait of a man, before which the lady now knelt down, with dry eyes, but a sad heart. She fixed on this picture a long look of indescribable love. It represented a young man about twenty-eight, lying half naked on a bed; from his wounded breast the blood still flowed, his right hand hung mutilated, and yet it still held a broken sword. His eyes were closed as though he were about to die, paleness and suffering gave to his face that divine character which the faces of mortals assume only at the moment of quitting life for eternity. Under the portrait, in letters red as blood, was written, "Aut Cæsar aut nihil." The lady extended her arm, and spoke as though it could hear her.
"I had begged thee to wait, although thy soul must have thirsted for vengeance; and as the dead see all, thou hast seen, my love, that I lived only not to kill my father, else I would have died after you; and then, you know, on your bleeding corpse I uttered a vow to give death for death, blood for blood, but I would not do it while the old man called me his innocent child. Thou hast waited, beloved, and now I am free: the last tie which bound me to earth is broken. I am all yours, and now I am free to come to you."
She rose on one knee, kissed the hand, and then went on: "I can weep no more—my tears have dried up in weeping over your tomb. In a few months I shall rejoin you, and you then will reply to me, dear shade, to whom I have spoken so often without reply." Diana then rose, and seating herself in her chair, muttered, "Poor father!" and then fell into a profound reverie. At last she called Remy.
The faithful servant soon appeared.
"Here I am, madame."
"My worthy friend, my brother—you, the last person who knows me on this earth—say adieu to me."
"Why so, madame?"
"Because the time has come for us to separate."
"Separate!" cried the young man. "What do you mean, madame?"
"Yes, Remy. My project of vengeance seemed to me noble and pure while there remained an obstacle between me and it, and I only contemplated it from afar off; but now that I approach the execution of it—now that the obstacle has disappeared—I do not draw back, but I do not wish to drag with me into crime a generous and pure soul like yours; therefore you must quit me, my friend."
Remy listened to the words of Diana with a somber look.
"Madame," replied he, "do you think you are speaking to a trembling old man? Madame, I am but twenty-six; and snatched as I was from the tomb, if I still live, it is for the accomplishment of some terrible action—to play an active part in the work of Providence. Never, then, separate your thoughts from mine, since we both have the same thoughts, sinister as they may be. Where you go, I will go; what you do I will aid in; or if, in spite of my prayers, you persist in dismissing me—"
"Oh!" murmured she, "dismiss you! What a word, Remy!"
"If you persist in that resolution," continued the young man, "I know what I have to do, and all for me will end with two blows from a poniard—one in the heart of him whom you know, and the other in your own."
"Remy! Remy!" cried Diana, "do not say that. The life of him you threaten does not belong to you—it is mine—I have paid for it dearly enough. I swear to you, Remy, that on the day on which I knelt beside the dead body of him"—and she pointed to the portrait—"on that day I approached my lips to that open wound, and the trembling lips seemed to say to me, 'Avenge me, Diana!—avenge me!'"
"Madame—"
"Therefore, I repeat, vengeance is for me, and not for you; besides, for whom and through whom did he die? By me and through me."
"I must obey you, madame, for I also was left for dead. Who carried me away from the middle of the corpses with which that room was filled?—You. Who cured me of my wounds?—You. Who concealed me?—You always. Order, then, and I will obey, provided that you do not order me to leave you."
"So be it, Remy; you are right; nothing ought to separate us more."
Remy pointed to the portrait.
"Now, madame," said he, "he was killed by treason—it is by treason that he must be revenged. Ah! you do not know one thing—the hand of God is with us, for to-night I have found the secret of the 'Aqua tofana,' that poison of the Medicis and of Rene the Florentine."
"Really?"
"Come and see, madame."
"But where is Grandchamp?"
"The poor old man has come sixty leagues on horseback; he is tired out, and has fallen asleep on my bed."
"Come, then," said Diana; and she followed Remy.
Remy led the lady into a neighboring room; and pushing a spring which was hidden under a board in the floor, and which, opening, disclosed a straight dark staircase, gave his hand to Diana to help her to descend. Twenty steps of this staircase, or rather ladder, led into a dark and circular cave, whose only furniture was a stove with an immense hearth, a square table, two rush chairs, and a quantity of phials and iron boxes. In the stove a dying fire still gleamed, while a thick black smoke escaped through a pipe fastened into the wall. From a still placed on the hearth a few drops of a liquid, yellow as gold, was dropping into a thick white phial. Diana looked round her without astonishment or terror; the ordinary feelings of life seemed to be unknown to her who lived only in the tomb. Remy lighted a lamp, and then approached a well hollowed out in the cave, attached a bucket to a long cord, let it down into the well, and then drew it up full of a water as cold as ice and as clear as crystal.
"Approach, madame," said he.
Diana drew near. In the bucket he let fall a single drop of the liquid contained in the phial, and the entire mass of the water became instantaneously yellow; then the color evaporated, and the water in ten minutes became as clear as before.
Remy looked at her.
"Well?" said she.
"Well, madame," said he, "now dip in that water, which has neither smell nor color, a glove or a handkerchief; soak it in scented soap, pour some of it into the basin where you are about to wash your hands or face, and you will see, as was seen at the court of Charles IX., the flower kill by its perfume, the glove poison by its contact, the soap kill by its introduction into the pores of the skin. Pour a single drop of this pure oil on the wick of a lamp or candle, and for an hour the candle or lamp will exhale death, and burn at the same time like any other."
"You are sure of what you say, Remy?"
"All this I have tried. See these birds who can now neither drink nor eat; they have drunk of water like this. See this goat who has browsed on grass watered with this same water; he moves and totters; vainly now should we restore him to life and liberty; his life is forfeited, unless, indeed, nature should reveal to his instinct some of those antidotes to poison which animals know, although men do not."—"Can I see this phial, Remy?"
"Yes, madame, presently."
Remy then separated it from the still with infinite care, then corked it with soft wax, tied the top up in cloth, and then presented it to Diana.
She took it, held it up to the light, and, after looking at it, said:
"It will do; when the time arrives we will choose gloves, lamp, soap, or flowers, as convenient. Will the liquor keep in metal?"—"It eats it away."
"But then, perhaps, the bottle will break?"
"I think not—see the thickness of the crystal; besides, we can shut it up in a covering of gold."
"Listen, Remy! I hear horses; I think ours have arrived."
"Probably, madame, it is about the time; but I will go and send them away."
"Why so?"
"Are they not useless?"
"Instead of going to Meridor, we will go into Flanders. Keep the horses."
"Ah! I understand!" and Remy's eyes gave forth a flash of sinister joy.
"But Grandchamp; what can we do with him?" said he.
"He has need of repose. He shall remain here, and sell this house, which we require no longer. But restore to liberty that unhappy animal, whom you were forced to torture. As you say, God may care for its recovery."
"This furnace, and these stills?"
"Leave them here."
"But these powders, essences, and acids?"
"Throw them in the fire, Remy."
"Go away, then, or put on this glass mask."
Then, taking similar precautions for himself, he blew up the fire again, poured in the powder, which went off in brilliant sparks, some green and some yellow; and the essences, which, instead of being consumed, mounted like serpents of fire into the pipe, with a noise like distant thunder.
"Now," said Remy, "if any one now discovers this cave, he will only think that an alchemist has been here, and though they still burn sorcerers, they respect alchemists."
"And besides," said the lady, "if they do burn us, provided I have only finished my task, I should not mind that sort of death more than any other."
At this moment they heard knocking.
"Here are our horses, madame," said Remy; "go up quickly, and I will close the trap-door."
Diana obeyed, and found Grandchamp, whom the noise had awakened, at the door.
The old man was not a little surprised to hear of his mistress's intended departure, who informed him of it without telling him where she was going.
"Grandchamp, my friend," said she, "Remy and I are going to accomplish a pilgrimage on which we have long determined; speak of this journey to none, and do not mention my name to any one."
"Oh! I promise you, madame," replied the old servant; "but we shall see you again?"
"Doubtless, Grandchamp; if not in this world, in the next. But, apropos, Grandchamp, this house is now useless to us."
Diana drew from a drawer a bundle of papers.
"Here are the title-deeds; let or sell this house; but if, in the course of a month, you do not find a purchaser, abandon it and return to Meridor."
"But if I find some one, how much am I to ask?"
"What you please, Grandchamp."
"Shall I take the money to Meridor?"
"Keep it for yourself, my good Grandchamp."
"What, madame, such a sum?"
"Yes, I owe it to you for your services; and I have my father's debts to pay as well as my own. Now, adieu!"
Then Diana went upstairs, cut the picture from the frame, rolled it up, and placed it in her trunk.
When Remy had tied the two trunks with leather thongs, and had glanced into the street to see that there were no lookers-on, he aided his mistress to mount.
"I believe, madame," said he, "that this is the last house in which we shall live so long."
"The last but one, Remy."
"And what will be the other?"
"The tomb, Remy."
Our readers must now permit us to leave the king at the Louvre, Henri of Navarre at Cahors, Chicot on the road, and Diana in the street, to go to Flanders to find M. le Duc d'Anjou, recently named Duc de Brabant, and to whose aid we have sent the great admiral of France—Anne, duc de Joyeuse.
At eighty leagues from Paris, toward the north, the sound of French voices was heard, and the French banner floated over a French camp on the banks of the Scheldt. It was night; the fires, disposed in an immense circle, bordered the stream, and were reflected in its deep waters.
From the top of the ramparts of the town the sentinels saw shining, by the bivouac fires, the muskets of the French army. This army was that of the Duc d'Anjou. What he had come to do there we must tell our readers; and although it may not be very amusing, yet we hope they will pardon it in consideration of the warning; so many people are dull without announcing it.
Those of our readers who have read "Chicot," already know the Duc d'Anjou, that jealous, egotistical, ambitious prince, and who, born so near to the throne, had never been able to wait with resignation until death offered him a free passage to it. Thus he had desired the throne of Navarre under Charles IX., then that of Charles IX. himself, then that of his brother Henri III. For a time he had turned his eyes toward England, then governed by a woman, and to possess this throne he was ready to have married this woman, although she was Elizabeth, and was twenty years older than himself. In this plan destiny was beginning to smile on him, and he saw himself in the favor of a great queen, until then inaccessible to all human affections. Besides this, a crown was offered to him in Flanders.
He had seen his brother Henri embarrassed in his quarrel with the Guises, but had soon discovered that they had no other aim than that of substituting themselves for the Valois. He had then separated himself from them, although not without danger; besides, Henri III. had at last opened his eyes, and the duke exiled, or something like it, had retired to Amboise.
It was then that the Flemings opened their arms to him. Tired of Spanish rule, decimated by the Duc d'Alva, deceived by the false peace of John of Austria, who had profited by it to retake Namur and Charlemont, the Flemings had called in William of Nassau, prince of Orange, and had made him governor-general of Brabant. A few words about this man, who held so great a place in history, but who will only be named here.
William of Nassau was then about fifty. He was the son of William called the Old, and of Julienne de Stolberg, cousin of that Rene of Nassau killed at the siege of Dizier. He had from his youth been brought up in principles of reform, and had a full consciousness of the greatness of his mission. This mission, which he believed he had received from Heaven, and for which he died like a martyr, was to found the Republic of Holland, in which he was successful. When very young he had been called by Charles V. to his court. Charles was a good judge of men, and often the old emperor, who supported the heaviest burden ever borne by an imperial hand, consulted the child on the most delicate matters connected with the politics of Holland. The young man was scarcely twenty-four when Charles confided to him, in the absence of the famous Philibert Emanuel of Savoy, the command of the army in Flanders. William showed himself worthy of this high confidence: he held in check the Duc de Nevers and Coligny, two of the greatest captains of the time, and under their eyes fortified Philipville and Charlemont. On the day when Charles V. abdicated, it was on William of Nassau that he leaned to descend the steps of the throne, and he it was who was charged to carry to Ferdinand the imperial throne which Charles had resigned.
Then came Philippe II., and in spite of his father's recommendations to him to regard William as a brother, the latter soon found a great difference. This strengthened in his mind the great idea of freeing Holland and Flanders, which he might never have endeavored to carry into effect if the old emperor, his friend, had remained on the throne.
Holland, by his advice, demanded the dismissal of the foreign troops, and then began the bloody struggle of the Spaniards to retain the prey which was escaping from them, and then passed over this unhappy people the vice-royalty of Marguerite of Austria and the bloody consulship of the Duc d'Alva, and then was organized that struggle, at once political and religious, which began with the protest of the Hotel Culembourg, which demanded the abolition of the Inquisition in Holland, and when four hundred gentlemen, walking in pairs, carried to the foot of Marguerite's throne the general desire of the people, as summed up in that protest. At the sight of these gentlemen, so simply clothed, Barlaimont, one of the councilors of the duchess, uttered the word "Gueux," which, taken up by the Flemish gentlemen, so long designated the patriot party. From this time William began to play the part which made him one of the greatest political actors of the world. Constantly beaten by the overwhelming power of Philippe II., he constantly rose again, always stronger after his defeats—always organizing a new army to replace the scattered one, and always hailed as a liberator.
In the midst of these alternate moral triumphs and physical defeats, William learned at Mons the news of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. It was a terrible wound for Holland, and the Calvinist portion of Flanders lost by it their natural allies, the Huguenots of France.
William retreated from Mons to the Rhine, and waited for events. Some of the Gueux was driven by a contrary wind into the port of Brille: and seeing no escape, and pushed by despair, took the city which was preparing to hang them.
This done, they chased away the Spanish garrison, and sent for the Prince of Orange. He came; and as he wished to strike a decisive blow, he published an ordonnance forbidding the Catholic religion in Holland, as the Protestant faith was forbidden in France.
At this manifesto war recommenced. The Duc d'Alva sent his own son Frederic against the revolters, who took from them Zutphen, Nardem, and Haarlem; but this check, far from discouraging them, seemed to give them new strength. All took up arms, from the Zuyderzee to the Scheldt. Spain began to tremble, recalled the Duc d'Alva, and sent as his successor Louis de Requesens, one of the conquerors at Lepanto.
Then began for William a new series of misfortunes—Ludovic and Henri of Nassau, who were bringing him aid, were surprised by one of the officers of Don Louis near Nimegue, defeated and killed; the Spaniards penetrated into Holland, besieged Leyden, and pillaged Antwerp.
All seemed desperate, when Heaven came once more to the aid of the infant Republic. Requesens died at Brussels.
Then all the provinces, united by a common interest, drew up and signed, on the 8th November, 1576, that is to say four days after the sack of Antwerp, the treaty known under the name of the Treaty of Ghent, by which they engaged to aid each other in delivering their country from the yoke of the Spaniards and other foreigners.
Don John reappeared, and with him the woes of Holland; for in less than two months Namur and Charlemont were taken. The Flemings replied, however, to these two checks by naming the Prince of Orange governor-general of Brabant.
Don John died in his turn, and Alexander Farnese succeeded him. He was a clever prince, charming in his manners, which were at once gentle and firm; a skillful politician, and a good general. Flanders trembled at hearing that soft Italian voice call her friend, instead of treating her as a rebel. William knew that Farnese would do more for Spain with his promises than the Duc d'Alva with his punishments. On the 29th January, 1579, he made the provinces sign the Treaty of Utrecht, which was the fundamental base of the rights of Holland. It was then that, fearing he should never be able to accomplish alone the freedom for which he had been fighting for fifteen years, he offered to the Duc d'Anjou the sovereignty of the country, on condition that he should respect their privileges and their liberty of conscience. This was a terrible blow to Philippe II., and he replied to it by putting a price of 25,000 crowns on the head of William. The States-General assembled at the Hague, then declared Philippe deposed from the sovereignty of Holland, and ordered that henceforth the oath of fidelity should be taken to them.
The Duc d'Anjou now entered Belgium, and was well received. Philippe's promise, however, bore its fruits; for in the midst of a fete, a pistol shot was heard; William fell, and was believed dead; but he recovered. The shot had been fired by Jean Jaureguy.
The Flemings then, on William's advice, elected Francois, duc of Brabant, sovereign prince of Flanders. Elizabeth of England saw in this a method of reuniting the Calvinists of Flanders and France to those of England—perhaps she dreamed of a triple crown. William, however, took care to hold the Duc d'Anjou in check, and to counteract the execution of any design which would have given him too much power in Flanders. Philippe II. called the Duc de Guise to his aid, on the strength of a treaty which had been entered into by him with Don John of Austria. Henri of Guise consented, and it was then that Lorraine and Spain sent Salcede to the Duc d'Anjou to assassinate him, which would have suited the views of both; but Salcede, as we know, was arrested and executed without having carried his project into execution.
Francois advanced but slowly, however, in Flanders, for the people were more than half afraid of him; he grew impatient, and determined to lay siege to Antwerp, which had invited his aid against Farnese, but when he wished to enter had turned its guns against him. This was the position of the Duc d'Anjou at the time when our story rejoins him, on the day after the arrival of Joyeuse and his fleet.
The camp of the new Duke of Brabant was situated on the banks of the Scheldt, and the army, although well disciplined, was agitated by a spirit easy to understand.
Indeed, many Calvinists assisted the duke, not from sympathy for him, but in order to be as disagreeable as possible to Spain and to the Catholics of France and England; they fought rather from self-love than from conviction or devotion, and it was certain that, the campaign once over, they would abandon their leader or impose conditions on him. With regard to these conditions, the duke always gave them to understand that when the time came he should be ready, and was constantly saying, "Henri of Navarre made himself a Catholic, why should not I become a Huguenot?" On the opposite side, on the contrary, there existed a perfect unity of feeling. Antwerp had intended to give entrance to him, at her own time and on her own conditions.
All at once they saw a fleet appear at the mouth of the Scheldt, and they learned that this fleet was brought by the high admiral of France, to aid the Duc d'Anjou, whom they now began to look upon as their enemy. The Calvinists of the duke were little better pleased than the Flemings at the sight. They were very brave, but very jealous: and they did not wish others to come and clip their laurels, particularly swords which had slain so many Huguenots on the day of the St. Bartholomew. From this proceeded many quarrels, which began on the very evening of their arrival, and continued all the next day.
From their ramparts, the Antwerpians had every day the spectacle of a dozen duels between Catholics and Protestants; and they threw into the river as many dead as a combat might have cost the French. If the siege of Antwerp, like that of Troy, had lasted nine years, the besieged need have done nothing but look at the assailants, who would certainly have destroyed themselves. Francois acted the part of mediator, but not without great difficulty; he had made promises to the Huguenots, and could not offend them without offending at the same time all Flanders. On the other hand, to offend the Catholics sent by the king to aid him would be most impolitic. The arrival of this re-enforcement, on which the duke himself had not reckoned, filled the Spaniards and the Guises with rage. However, all these different opinions interfered sadly with the discipline of the duke's army. Joyeuse, who we know had never liked the mission, was annoyed to find among these men such antagonistic opinions, and felt instinctively that the time for success was past, and both as an idle courtier and as a captain, grumbled at having come so far only to meet with defeat. He declared loudly that the Duc d'Anjou had been wrong in laying siege to Antwerp, and argued that to possess a great city with its own consent was a real advantage; but that to take by assault the second capital of his future states was to expose himself to the dislike of the Flemings; and Joyeuse knew the Flemings too well not to feel sure that if the duke did take Antwerp, sooner or later they would revenge themselves with usury. This opinion Joyeuse did not hesitate to declare in the duke's tent.
While the council was held among his captains, the duke was lying on a couch and listening, not to the advice of the admiral, but to the whispers of Aurilly. This man, by his cowardly compliances, his base flatteries, and his continual assiduities, had secured the favor of the prince. With his lute, his love messages, and his exact information about all the persons and all the intrigues of the court—with his skillful maneuvers for drawing into the prince's net whatever prey he might wish for, he had made a large fortune, while he remained to all appearance the poor luteplayer. His influence was immense, because it was secret.
Joyeuse, seeing the duke talking to Aurilly, stopped short. The duke, who had, after all, been paying more attention than he seemed to do, asked him what was the matter. "Nothing, monseigneur; I am only waiting until your highness is at liberty to listen to me."
"Oh! but I do listen, M. de Joyeuse. Do you think I cannot listen to two people at once, when Cæsar dictated seven letters at a time?"
"Monseigneur," said Joyeuse, with a glance at the musician, "I am no singer to need an accompaniment when I speak."
"Very good, duke; be quiet, Aurilly. Then you disapprove of a coup de main on Antwerp?"—"Yes, monseigneur."
"I adopted this plan in council, however."
"Therefore, monseigneur, I speak with much hesitation, after so many distinguished captains."
And Joyeuse, courtier-like, bowed to all. Many voices were instantly raised to agree with the admiral.
"Comte de St. Aignan," said the prince to one of his bravest colonels, "you are not of the opinion of M. de Joyeuse?"
"Yes, monseigneur, I am."
"Oh! I thought as you made a grimace—"
Every one laughed but Joyeuse, who said, "If M. de St. Aignan generally gives his advice in that manner, it is not very polite, that is all."
"M. de Joyeuse," replied St. Aignan, "his highness is wrong to reproach me with an infirmity contracted in his service. At the taking of Cateau-Cambresis I received a blow on the head, and since that time my face is subject to nervous contractions, which occasion those grimaces of which his highness complains. This is not an excuse that I give you, M. de Joyeuse; it is an explanation," said the count, proudly.
"No, monsieur," said Joyeuse, "it is a reproach that you make, and you are right."
The blood mounted to the face of Duc Francois.
"And to whom is this reproach addressed?" said he.
"To me, probably, monseigneur."
"Why should St. Aignan reproach you, whom he does not know?"
"Because I believed for a moment that M. de St. Aignan cared so little for your highness as to counsel you to assault Antwerp."
"But," cried the prince, "I must settle my position in the country. I am Duke of Brabant and Count of Flanders, in name, and I must be so in reality. This William, who is gone I know not where, spoke to me of a kingdom. Where is this kingdom?—in Antwerp. Where is he?—probably in Antwerp also; therefore we must take Antwerp, and we shall know how we stand."
"Oh! monseigneur, you know it now, or you are, in truth, a worse politician than I thought you. Who counseled you to take Antwerp?—the Prince of Orange. Who disappeared at the moment of taking the field?—the Prince of Orange. Who, while he made your highness Duke of Brabant, reserved for himself the lieutenant-generalship of the duchy?—the Prince of Orange. Whose interest is it to ruin the Spaniards by you, and you by the Spaniards?—the Prince of Orange. Who will replace you, who will succeed, if he does not do so already?—the Prince of Orange? Oh! monseigneur, in following his counsels you have but annoyed the Flemings. Let a reverse come, and all those who do not dare to look you now in the face will run after you like those timid dogs who run after those who fly."
"What! you imagine that I can be beaten by wool-merchants and beer-drinkers?"
"These wool-merchants and these beer-drinkers have given plenty to do to Philippe de Valois, the Emperor Charles V., and Philippe II., who were three princes placed sufficiently high, monseigneur, for the comparison not to be disagreeable to you."
"Then you fear a repulse?"
"Yes, monseigneur, I do."
"You will not be there, M. de Joyeuse."
"Why not?"
"Because you can hardly have such doubts of your own bravery as already to see yourself flying before the Flemings. In any case, reassure yourself, these prudent merchants have the habit, when they march to battle, of cumbering themselves with such heavy armor that they would never catch you if you did run."
"Monseigneur, I do not doubt my own courage. I shall be in the front, but I shall be beaten there, as the others who are behind will be."
"But your reasoning is not logical, M. de Joyeuse; you approve of my taking the lesser places."
"I approve of your taking those that do not defend themselves."
"And then I am to draw back from the great city because she talks of defending herself?"
"Better than to march on to destruction."
"Well, I will not retreat."
"Your highness must do as you like; and we are here to obey."
"Prove to me that I am wrong."
"Monseigneur, see the army of the Prince of Orange. It was yours, was it not? Well, instead of sitting down before Antwerp with you, it is in Antwerp, which is very different. William, you say, was your friend and counselor; and now you not only do not know where he is, but you believe him to be changed into an enemy. See the Flemings—when you arrived they were pleased to see you; now they shut their gates at your sight, and prepare their cannon at your approach, not less than if you were the Duc d'Alva. Well! I tell you, Flemings and Dutch, Antwerp and Orange, only wait for an opportunity to unite against you, and that opportunity will be when you order your artillery to fire."
"Well, we will fight at once Flemings and Dutch, Antwerp and Orange."
"No, monseigneur, we have but just men enough to attack Antwerp, supposing we have only the inhabitants to deal with; and while we are engaged in the assault, William will fall on us with his eternal eight or ten thousand men, always destroyed and always reappearing by the aid of which be has kept in check during ten or twelve years the Duc d'Alva, Requesens, and the Duc de Parma."
"Then you persist in thinking that we shall be beaten?"
"I do."
"Well, it is easy for you to avoid it, M. de Joyeuse," said the prince angrily; "my brother sent you here to aid me, but I may dismiss you, saying that I do not need aid."
"Your highness may say so, but I would not retire on the eve of a battle."
"Well, my dear admiral," said the duke, trying to conciliate, "I may have been too jealous of the honor of my name, and wished too much to prove the superiority of the French army, and I may have been wrong. But the evil is done; we are before armed men—before men who now refuse what they themselves offered. Am I to yield to them? To-morrow they would begin to retake, bit by bit, what I have already conquered. No! the sword is drawn; let us strike, or they will strike first. That is my opinion."
"When your highness speaks thus," said Joyeuse, "I will say no more. I am here to obey you, and will do so with all my heart, whether you lead me to death or victory; and yet—but I will say no more."—"Speak."
"No, I have said enough."
"No, I wish to hear."
"In private then, if it please your highness."
All rose and retired to the other end of the spacious tent.
"Speak," said Francois.
"Monseigneur may care little for a check from Spain, a check which will render triumphant those drinkers of Flemish beer, or this double-faced Prince of Orange; but will you bear so patiently the laughter of M. de Guise?"
Francois frowned.
"What has M. de Guise to do with it?" said he.
"M. de Guise tried to have you assassinated, monseigneur; Salcede confessed it at the torture, and, if I mistake not, he plays a great part in all this, and he will be delighted to see you receive a check before Antwerp, or even perhaps to obtain, for nothing, that death of a son of France, for which he had promised to pay so dearly to Salcede. Read the history of Flanders, monseigneur, and you will see that the Flemings are in the habit of enriching their soil with the blood of princes, and of the best French warriors."
The duke shook his head.
"Well, Joyeuse," said he, "I will give, if it must be, the cursed joy to the Lorraines of seeing me dead, but not that of seeing me flying. I thirst for glory, Joyeuse; for alone of all my name, I have still my battles to win."
"You forget Cateau Cambresis, monseigneur."
"Compare that with Jarnac and Montcontour, Joyeuse." Then, turning to the others, who were standing far off, he said, "Gentlemen, the assault is still resolved on; the rain has ceased, the ground is good, we will make the attack this night." Joyeuse bowed.
"Will your highness give full directions? we wait for them," said he.
"You have eight vessels, without counting the admiral's ship, have you not, M. de Joyeuse?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"You will force the line; the thing will be easy, the Antwerpians have only merchant vessels in the port; then you will bring them to bear upon the fort. Then, if the quay is defended, you will attempt a landing with your 1,500 men. Of the rest of the army I will make two columns: one commanded by M. de St. Aignan, the other by myself. Both will attempt an escalade by surprise, at the moment when the first cannon-shot is fired.
"The cavalry will remain in position, in case of a repulse, to protect the retreating columns. Of these three attacks, one must surely succeed. The first column which gains the ramparts will fire a rocket to let the others know."
"But one must think of everything, monseigneur," said Joyeuse; "and supposing all three attacks should fail?"
"Then we must gain the vessels under the protection of our batteries."
All bowed.
"Now, gentlemen, silence," said the duke; "wake the sleeping troops, and embark; but let not a shot reveal our design. You will be in the port, admiral, before the Antwerpians suspect your intention. We shall go along the left bank, and shall arrive at the same time as yourself. Go, gentlemen, and good courage; our former good luck will not fail to follow us over the Scheldt."
The captains quitted the prince's tent, and gave their orders with the indicated precautions.