However, the Antwerpians did not quietly see the hostile preparations of the Duc d'Anjou, and Joyeuse was not wrong in attributing to them all the enmity possible. Antwerp was like a beehive at night, calm on the exterior, but within full of movement and murmur.
The Flemings in arms patroled the streets, barricaded their houses, and fraternized with the battalions of the Prince of Orange, of whom part were already in garrison there, while the other part entered the city in fractions.
When all was ready for a vigorous defense, the Prince of Orange, on a dark and moonless night, entered the city quietly, and went to the Hotel de Ville, where his confidants had everything ready for his reception. There he received all the deputies of the bourgeoisie, passed in review the officers of the paid troops, and communicated his plans to them, the chief of which was to profit by this movement of the Duc d'Anjou to break with him. The duke had done just what William wished to bring him to, and he saw with pleasure this new competitor for the sovereignty ruin himself, like so many others.
William would have taken the offensive, but the governor objected, and determined to wait for the arrival of monseigneur.
Nine o'clock in the evening sounded, and the uncertainty became real anxiety, some scouts having protested that they had seen a movement in the French camp. A little flat boat had been sent on the Scheldt to reconnoiter, for the Antwerpians were less unquiet as to what would occur by land than by sea; but the bark had not returned. William became more and more impatient, when the door of the hall opened, and a valet appeared and announced "Monseigneur." As he spoke, a man, tall and imperious-looking, wearing with supreme grace the cloak which entirely enveloped him, entered the hall, and saluted courteously those who were there. But at the first glance, his eye, proud and piercing, sought out the prince in the midst of his officers.
He went straight up to him and offered him his hand, which the prince pressed with affection, and almost with respect.
They called each other "Monseigneur." After this the unknown took off his cloak. He was dressed in a buff doublet, and had high leather boots; he was armed with a long sword, which seemed to make part of himself, so easily it hung, and with a little dagger, which was passed through his belt. His boots were covered with mud and dust, and his spurs were red with the blood of his horse. He took his place at the table.
"Well, where are we?" asked he.
"Monseigneur," replied William, "you must have seen, in coming here, that the streets were barricaded."
"I saw that."
"And the houses loopholed?"
"I did not see that; but it is a good plan."
"And the sentries doubled?"
"Does not monseigneur approve of these preparations for defense?" said a voice, in a tone of anxious disappointment.
"Yes; but, however, I do not believe that in our circumstances it will be useful; it fatigues the soldier and disquiets the bourgeois. You have a plan of attack and defense, I suppose?"
"We waited to communicate them to monseigneur," said the burgomaster.
"Speak then."
"Monseigneur arrived rather late, and I was obliged to act meanwhile," said William.
"And you did right, monseigneur; besides, whatever you do, you do well. But I have not lost my time on the road, either."
"We know by our spies," said the burgomaster, "that a movement is preparing in the French camp; they are making ready for an attack, but as we do not know on which side it will come, we have disposed the guns so that they may be equally distributed over the whole rampart."
"That is wise," replied the unknown, with a slight smile to William, who held his tongue, and let the bourgeois speak of war.
"We have done the same with our civic guards; they are spread over the whole wall, and have orders to run at once to the point of attack. However, it is the opinion of the greater number of our members that it is impossible that the French meditate anything but a feigned attack."
"And what purpose would that serve?"
"To intimidate us, and induce us to admit them amicably."
The stranger looked again at the Prince of Orange, who listened to all this in the most careless manner, which almost amounted to disdain.
"However," said another voice, "some fancied they could distinguish preparations for attack in the camp this evening."
"Mere suspicions," said the burgomaster; "I examined the camp myself with an excellent spy-glass. The men were preparing for sleep, and the duke was dining in his tent."
The unknown threw a new glance at the prince, and fancied that this time he gave a slight smile.
"Gentlemen," said the unknown, "you are in error; a regular assault is preparing against you, and your plans, however good, are incomplete."
"But, monseigneur—"
"Incomplete in this, that you expect an attack, and have prepared to meet it."
"Certainly."
"Well, it is you who will make the attack, not wait for it, if you will trust to me."—"Ah!" cried William, "that is something like speaking."
"At this moment," said the stranger, who saw that he might reckon on the prince's support, "the ships of M. de Joyeuse are getting ready."
"How do you know that, monseigneur?" cried many voices together.
"I know it," replied he.
A murmur of doubt was half uttered, but the stranger caught it.
"Do you doubt it?" asked he, in the tone of a man accustomed to control all fears, prejudices, and self-loves.
"We do not doubt it if your highness says it; but if you will permit us to observe—"
"Speak."
"That if it were so we should have had tidings of it."
"How so?"—"By our spies."
At this moment another man entered the hall, and came forward respectfully.
"Ah! it is you, my friend," said the burgomaster.
"Myself, monsieur," replied the man.
"Monseigneur," said the burgomaster, "it is the man whom we sent to reconnoiter."
At the word "monseigneur," addressed not to the Prince of Orange, the new comer made a movement of surprise and joy, and advanced quickly to see better who was designated by this title. He was one of those Flemish sailors, of whom the type is so recognizable, being marked, a square head, blue eyes, short neck, and broad shoulders; he crushed in his large hands his woolen cap, and as he advanced he left behind him a line of wet, for his clothes were dripping with water.
"Oh! here is a brave man who has swum back," said monseigneur, looking at the man with his accustomed air of authority.
"Yes, monseigneur, yes; and the Scheldt is broad and rapid," said the sailor, eagerly.
"Speak, Goes, speak," said monseigneur, knowing how a sailor would prize being thus called by his name.
Thus from that minute Goes addressed himself to the unknown exclusively; although, having been sent by another, it was to him that he should have given an account of his mission.
"Monseigneur," said he, "I set out in my smallest bark and passed, by giving the word, through all our ships, and reached those cursed French. Ah! pardon, monseigneur."
The stranger smiled and said, "Never mind, I am but half French, so should be but half cursed."
"Then monseigneur pardons me?"
He nodded, and Goes went on.
"While I rowed in the dark with my oars wrapped in cloth, I heard a voice crying, 'Hola! bark, what do you want?' I thought it was to me that the question was addressed, and was about to reply something or other, when I heard some one cry behind me, 'Admiral's boat.'"
Monseigneur looked at the council.
"At the same moment," continued Gues, "I felt a shock; my bark was swamped, and I fell into the water, but the waves of the Scheldt knew me for an old acquaintance, and threw me up again. It was the admiral's boat taking M. de Joyeuse on board, and which had passed over me; God only knows how I was not crushed or drowned."
"Thanks, brave Goes, thanks," said the Prince of Orange, putting a purse into his hand. However, the sailor seemed to wait for his dismissal from the stranger, who gave him a friendly nod, which he valued more than the prince's present.
"Well," said monseigneur to the burgomaster, "what do you say of this report? Do you still doubt that the French are preparing, and do you believe that it was to pass the night on board that M. de Joyeuse was leaving the camp for his ship?"
"But you are a diviner, then, monseigneur," cried the bourgeois.
"Not more than Monseigneur the Prince of Orange, who is in all things of my opinion, I am sure. But I, like him, was well informed, and know well those on the other side, so that I should have been much astonished had they not attacked to-night. Then be ready, gentlemen, for if you give them time, the attack will be serious."
"These gentlemen will do me the justice to own," said the prince, "that before your arrival I held exactly the same language to them that you now do."
"But," said the burgomaster, "why does monseigneur believe that the attack is about to commence?"
"Here are the probabilities. The infantry is Catholic; it will fight alone; that is, on one side. The cavalry is Calvinist; they will fight alone on another side. The navy is under M. de Joyeuse, from Paris, who will take his share of the combat and the glory. That is three sides."
"Then let us form three corps," said the burgomaster.
"Make only one, gentlemen, with all your best soldiers, and leave any of whom you may be doubtful in close fight to guard your walls. Then with this body make a vigorous sally when Francois least expects it. They mean to attack; let them be forestalled, and attacked themselves. If you wait for their assault you are lost, for no one equals the French at an attack, as you, gentlemen, have no equals at defending your towns."
The Flemings looked radiant.
"What did I say, gentlemen?" said William.
"It is a great honor," said the unknown, "to have been, without knowing it, of the same opinion as the greatest captain of the age."
Both bowed courteously.
"Then," continued the unknown, "it is settled: you will make a furious sortie on the infantry and cavalry. I trust that your officers will so conduct it as to defeat your enemies."
"But their vessels?" cried the burgomaster. "The wind is northeast, and they will be in our city in two hours."
"You have yourselves six old ships and thirty boats at St. Marie; that is a mile off, is it not? That is your maritime barricade across the Scheldt."
"Yes, monseigneur, that is so. How do you know all these details?"
Monseigneur smiled.
"I know them, as you see; it is there that lies the fate of the battle."
"Then," said the burgomaster, "we must send aid to our brave seamen."
"On the contrary, you may dispose otherwise of the 400 men who are there; twenty brave, intelligent, and devoted men will suffice." The Antwerpians opened their eyes in surprise.
"Will you," continued monseigneur, "destroy the French fleet at the expense of your six old vessels and thirty boats?"
"Hum!" said the Antwerpians, looking at each other, "our ships are not so old."
"Well, price them," said the stranger, "and I will pay you their value."
"See," said William softly to him, "the men against whom I have to contend every day. Were it not for that, I should have conquered long ago."
"Come, gentlemen," continued the stranger, "name your price, but name it quickly. I will pay you in bills on yourselves, which I trust you will find good."
"Monseigneur," said the burgomaster, after a few minutes' deliberation with the others, "we are merchants, and not soldiers; therefore, you must pardon some hesitation, for our souls are not in our bodies, but in our counting-houses. However, there are circumstances in which, for the general good, we know how to make sacrifices. Dispose, then, of our ships as you like."
"Ma foi, monseigneur," said William, "you have done wonders. It would have taken me six months to obtain what you have done in ten minutes."
"This, then, is my plan, gentlemen," said monseigneur. "The French, with the admiral's galley at their head, will try to force a passage. Make your line long enough, and from all your boats let the men throw grappling-irons; and then, having made fast the enemy's ships, set fire to all your own boats, having previously filled them with combustible materials, and let your men escape in one reserved for the purpose."
"Oh!" cried William, "I see the whole French fleet burning."
"Yes, the whole; then no more retreat by sea and none by land, for at the same time you must open the sluices of Malines, Berchem, Lier, Duffel, and Antwerp. Repulsed by you, pursued by your open dykes, enveloped on all sides by these waters unexpectedly and rapidly rising, by this sea, which will have a flow, but no ebb, the French will be drowned—overwhelmed—destroyed."
The officers uttered a cry of joy.
"There is but one drawback," said the prince.
"What is it, monseigneur?"
"That it would take a day to send our orders to the different towns, and we have but an hour."
"And an hour is enough."
"But who will instruct the fleet?"
"It is done."
"By whom?"
"By me. If these gentlemen had refused to give it to me, I should have bought it."
"But Malines, Lier, Duffel?"
"I passed through Malines and Lier, and sent a sure agent to Duffel. At eleven o'clock the French will be beaten; at one they will be in full retreat; at two Malines will open its dykes, Lier and Duffel their sluices, and the whole plain will become a furious ocean, which will drown houses, fields, woods, and villages, it is true, but at the same time will destroy the French so utterly, that not one will return to France."
A silence of admiration and terror followed these words; then all at once the Flemings burst into applause. William stepped forward, and, holding out his hand, said: "Then, monseigneur, all is ready on our side?"
"All; and, stay—I believe on the side of the French also."
And he pointed to an officer who was entering.
"Gentlemen," cried the officer, "we have just heard that the French are marching toward the city."
"To arms!" cried the burgomaster.
"To arms!" cried all.
"One moment, gentlemen," cried monseigneur; "I have to give one direction more important than all the rest."
"Speak!" cried all.
"The French will be surprised; it will not be a combat, nor even a retreat, but a flight. To pursue them you must be lightly armed. No cuirasses, morbleu! It is your cuirasses, in which you cannot move, which have made you lose all the battles you have lost. No cuirasses, gentlemen. We will meet again in the combat. Meanwhile, go to the place of the Hotel de Ville, where you will find all your men in battle array."
"Thanks, monseigneur," said William; "you have saved Belgium and Holland."
"Prince, you overwhelm me."
"Will your highness consent to draw the sword against the French?" asked the prince.
"I will arrange as to fight against the Huguenots," replied the unknown, with a smile which his more somber companion might have envied.
At the moment when the members of the council left the Hotel de Ville, the officers went to put themselves at the head of their troops, and execute the orders they had received. At the same time the artillery sounded. This artillery surprised the French in their nocturnal march, by which they had hoped to surprise the town; but instead of stopping their advance, it only hastened it. If they could not take the city by surprise, they might, as we have seen the king of Navarre do at Cahors, fill up the moats with fascines and burst open the gates with petards.
The cannon from the ramparts continued to fire, but in the darkness took scarcely any effect, and after having replied to the cries of their adversaries, the French advanced silently toward the ramparts with that fiery intrepidity which they always show in attack.
But all at once, doors and posterns opened, and from all sides poured out armed men, if not with the fierce impetuosity of the French, with a firmness which rendered them massive as a rolling wall.
It was the Flemings, who advanced in close ranks, and compact masses, above which the cannon continued to thunder, although with more noise than effect. Then the combat began hand to hand, foot to foot, sword to sword, and the flash of pistols lighted up faces red with blood.
But not a cry—not a murmur—not a complaint was heard, and the Flemings and French fought with equal rage. The Flemings were furious at having to fight, for fighting was neither their profession nor their pleasure; and the French were furious at being attacked when they meant to have taken the initiative.
While the combat was raging furiously, explosions were heard near St. Marie, and a light rose over the city, like a crest of flames. It was Joyeuse attacking and trying to force the barrier across the Scheldt, and who would soon penetrate into the city, at least, so the French hoped.
But it was not so; Joyeuse had weighed anchor and sailed, and was making rapid progress, favored by the west wind. All was ready for action; the sailors, armed with their boarding cutlasses, were eager for the combat; the gunners stood ready with lighted matches; while some picked men, hatchet in hand, stood ready to jump on the hostile ships and destroy the chains and cords.
The seven ships advanced in silence, disposed in the form of a wedge, of which the admiral's galley formed the point. Joyeuse himself had taken his first lieutenant's place, and was leaning over the bowsprit, trying to pierce the fogs of the river and the darkness of the night. Soon, through this double obscurity, he saw the pier extending itself darkly across the stream; it appeared deserted, but, in that land of ambushes, there seemed something terrifying in this desertion.
However, they continued to advance, and soon were within sight of the barrier, scarcely ten cable lengths off; they approached nearer and nearer, and yet not a single "qui vive!" struck on their ears.
The sailors only saw in this silence a carelessness which rejoiced them; but their young admiral, more far-seeing, feared some ruse. At last the prow of the admiral's ship touched the two ships which formed the center of the barrier, and made the whole line, which was fastened together by chains, tremble.
Suddenly, as the bearers of the hatchets received the order to board and cut the chains, a crowd of grappling irons, thrown by invisible hands, seized hold of the French vessels. The Flemings had forestalled the intended movement of the French. Joyeuse believed that his enemies were offering him a mortal combat, and he accepted it with alacrity. He also threw grappling irons, and the two lines of ships were firmly bound together. Then, seizing a hatchet, he was the first to jump on a ship, crying, "Board them! board them!" All his crew followed him, officers and men, uttering the same cry; but no cry replied to them, no force opposed their advance.
Only they saw three boats full of men gliding silently over the water, like three sea-birds.
The assailants rested motionless on the ships which they had conquered without a struggle.
All at once Joyeuse heard under his feet a crackling sound, and a smell of sulphur filled the air. A thought crossed his mind, and he ran and opened a hatchway; the vessel was burning. A cry of, "To our ships!" sounded through all the line. Each climbed back again more quickly than he had come in; but Joyeuse, this time, was the last. Just as he reached his galley, the flames burst out over the whole bridge of boats, like twenty volcanoes, of which each ship or boat was the crater; the order was instantly given to cut the ropes and break the chains and grappling-irons, and the sailors worked with the rapidity of men who knew that their safety depended on their exertions. But the work was immense; perhaps they might have detached those thrown by the enemy on their ships, but they had also to detach those which they themselves had thrown.
All at once twenty explosions were heard, and each of the French ships trembled to its center. It was the cannons that defended the port, and which, fully charged and then abandoned by the Antwerpians, exploded as the fire gained on them, breaking everything within their reach.
The flames mounted like gigantic serpents along the masts, rolled themselves round the yards, then, with their forked tongues, came to lick the sides of the French vessels.
Joyeuse, with his magnificent armor covered with gold, giving calmly, and in an imperious voice, his orders in the midst of the flames, looked like a fabulous salamander covered with scales, and at every movement threw off a shower of sparks. But the explosions became louder than ever; the gun-room had taken fire, and the vessels were flying in pieces.
Joyeuse had done his best to free himself, but in vain; the flames had reached the French ships, and showers of fire fell about him. The Flemish barrier was broken, and the French burning ships drifted to the shore. Joyeuse saw that he could not save his ships, and he gave orders to lower the boats, and land on the left bank. This was quickly done, and all the sailors were embarked to a man before Joyeuse quitted his galley. His sang-froid kept every one in order, and each man landed with a sword or an ax in his hand. Before he had reached the shore, the fire reached the magazine of his ship, which blew up, lighting the whole horizon.
Meanwhile, the artillery from the ramparts had ceased, not that the combat had abated, but that it was so close it was impossible to fire on enemies without firing on friends also.
The Calvinist cavalry had charged, and done wonders. Before the swords of its cavaliers a pathway opened, but the wounded Flemings pierced the horses with their large cutlasses, and in spite of this brilliant charge, a little confusion showed itself in the French columns, and they only kept their ground instead of advancing, while from the gates of the city new troops continually poured out. All at once, almost under the walls of the city, a cry of "Anjou! France!" was heard behind the mass of the Antwerpians. This was Joyeuse and his 1,500 sailors, armed with hatchets and cutlasses. They had to revenge their fleet in flames and two hundred of their companions burned or drowned.
No one could manage his long sword better than Joyeuse: every blow cut open a head, every thrust took effect. The group of Flemings on which he fell were destroyed like a field of corn by a legion of locusts. Delighted with their first success, they continued to push on; but the Calvinist cavalry, surrounded by troops, began to lose ground. M. de St. Aignan's infantry, however, kept their place.
The prince had seen the burning of the fleet, and heard the reports of the cannon and the explosions, without suspecting anything but a fierce combat, which must terminate in victory for Joyeuse; for how could a few Flemish ships fight against the French fleet? He expected, then, every minute a diversion on the part of Joyeuse, when the news was brought to him that the fleet was destroyed, and Joyeuse and his men fighting in the midst of the Flemings. He now began to feel very anxious, the fleet being the means of retreat, and consequently the safety of the army. He sent orders to the Calvinist cavalry to try a fresh charge, and men and horses, almost exhausted, rallied to attack the Antwerpians afresh. The voice of Joyeuse was heard in the midst of the melée crying, "Hold firm, M. de St. Aignan. France! France!" and, like a reaper cutting a field of corn, his sword flew round, and cut down its harvest of men; the delicate favorite—the Sybarite—seemed to have put on with his cuirass the strength of a Hercules; and the infantry, hearing his voice above all the noise, and seeing his sword flashing, took fresh courage, and, like the cavalry, made a new effort, and returned to the combat.
But now the person that had been called monseigneur came out of the city on a beautiful black horse. He wore black armor, and was followed by three hundred well-mounted cavaliers, whom the Prince of Orange had placed at his disposal.
By a parallel gate came out William himself, with a picked body of infantry who had not yet appeared.
Monseigneur hastened where he was most wanted, that is to say, where Joyeuse was fighting with his sailors.
The Flemings recognized him, and opened their ranks, crying, joyfully, "Monseigneur! monseigneur!" Joyeuse and his men saw the movement, heard the cries, and all at once found themselves opposed to a new troop. Joyeuse pushed his horse toward the black knight, and their swords met. Joyeuse was confident in his armor and his science, but all his thrusts were skillfully parried, and one of those of his adversary touched him, and in spite of his armor, drew some drops of blood from his shoulder.
"Ah!" cried the young admiral, "this man is a Frenchman, and what is more, he has studied fencing under the same master as I have."
At these words the unknown turned away, and tried to find a new antagonist.
"If you are French," cried Joyeuse, "you are a traitor, for you fight against your king, your country, and your flag."
The unknown only replied by attacking Joyeuse with fresh fury; but now Joyeuse was on his guard, and knew with what a skillful swordsman he had to deal. He parried two or three thrusts with as much skill as fury, and it was now the stranger who made a step back.
"See!" cried Joyeuse, "what one can do fighting for one's country! A pure heart and a loyal arm suffice to defend a head without a helmet, a face without a vizor;" and he threw his helmet far from him, displaying his noble and beautiful head, with eyes sparkling with pride, youth and anger.
His antagonist forebore answer, uttered a cry, and struck at his bare head.
"Ah!" cried Joyeuse, parrying the blow, "I said you were a traitor, and as a traitor you shall die. I will kill you, and carry off this helmet which hides and defends you, and hang you to the first tree that I see."
"I SAID YOU WERE A TRAITOR, AND AS A TRAITOR YOU SHALL DIE."
"I SAID YOU WERE A TRAITOR, AND AS A TRAITOR YOU SHALL DIE."
But at this moment a cavalier cried:
"Monseigneur, no more skirmishing; your presence is wanted over there."
Glancing toward the point indicated, the unknown saw the Flemings giving way before the Calvinist cavalry.
"Yes," cried he, "those are the men I wanted."
At this moment so many cavaliers pressed on the sailors, that they made their first step in retreat.
The black cavalier profited by this movement to disappear in the melée.
A quarter of an hour after the French began to give way. M. de St. Aignan tried to retreat in good order, but a last troop of 2,000 infantry and 500 horse came out fresh from the city, and fell on this harassed and already retreating army. It was the old band of the Prince of Orange, which had fought in turns against the Duc d'Alva, Don John, Requesens, and Alexander Farnese. In spite of the coolness of the chiefs and the bravery of many, a frightful rout commenced.
At this moment the unknown fell again on the fugitives, and once more met Joyeuse with his now diminished band. The young admiral was mounted on his third horse, two having been killed under him; his sword was broken, and he had taken from a sailor one of their heavy hatchets, which he whirled round his head with the greatest apparent ease. From time to time he turned and faced his enemy, like the wild boar who cannot make up his mind to fly, and turns desperately on his hunter. The Flemings, who by monseigneur's advice had fought without cuirasses, were active in the pursuit, and gave no rest to the Angevin army. Something like remorse seized the unknown at the sight of this disaster.
"Enough, gentlemen," cried he, in French, "to-night they are driven from Antwerp, and in a week will be driven from Flanders; ask no more of the God of battles."
"Ah! he is French," cried Joyeuse; "I guessed it, traitor. Ah! be cursed, and may you die the death of a traitor."
This furious imprecation seemed to disconcert the unknown more than a thousand swords raised against him; he turned, and conqueror as he was, fled as rapidly as the conquered. But this retreat of a single man changed nothing in the state of affairs. Fear is contagious, it seized the entire army, and the soldiers began to fly like madmen. The horses went fast, in spite of fatigue, for they also felt the influence of fear; the men dispersed to seek a shelter, and in some hours the army, as an army, existed no longer. This was the time when the dykes were to be opened. From Lier to Termonde, from Haesdouk to Malines—each little river, swollen by its tributaries—each canal overflowed, and spread over the flat country its contingent of furious water.
Thus, when the fugitive French began to stop, having tired out the Antwerpians, whom they had seen return to the town, followed by the soldiers of the Prince of Orange—when those who had escaped from the carnage of the night believed themselves saved, and stopped to breathe for an instant, some with a prayer, and others with a curse, then a new enemy, blind and pitiless, was preparing for them. Joyeuse had commanded his sailors, now reduced to eight hundred, to make a halt; they were the only persons who had preserved some order, the Comte de St. Aignan having vainly tried to rally his foot soldiers.
The Duc d'Anjou, at the head of the fugitives, mounted on an excellent horse, and accompanied by a single servant, pushed forward without appearing to think of anything.
"He has no heart," cried some.
"His sang-froid is magnificent," said others.
Some hours of repose, from two to six in the morning, restored to the infantry the strength to continue their retreat; but provisions were wanting.
As for the horses, they seemed more fatigued than the men, and could scarcely move, for they had eaten nothing since the day before.
The fugitives hoped to gain Brussels, where the duke had many partisans, although they were not free from anxiety as to their reception. At Brussels, which was about eight leagues off, they would find food for the famishing troops, and a place of security from whence to recommence the campaign at a more favorable time. M. d'Anjou breakfasted in a peasant's hut, between Heboken and Heckhout. It was empty, but a fire still burned in the grate.
The soldiers and officers wished to imitate their chief, and spread themselves about the village, but found with a surprise mingled with terror that every house was deserted and empty.
M. de St. Aignan, who had aided them in their search, now called to the officers:
"March on, gentlemen."
"But we are tired and dying with hunger, colonel."
"Yes, but you are alive; and if you remain here another hour you will be dead. Perhaps it is already too late."
M. de St. Aignan knew nothing; but he suspected some great danger. They went on; but two or three thousand men straggled from the main body, or, worn out with fatigue, lay down on the grass, or at the foot of a tree, wearied, desolate, and despairing. Scarcely three thousand able men remained to the Duc d'Anjou.
While these disasters, the forerunners of a still greater one, were taking place, two travelers, mounted on excellent horses, left Brussels on a fine night, and rode toward Mechlin. They rode side by side, without any apparent arms but a large Flemish knife, of which the handle appeared in the belt of one of them. They rode on, each occupied with thoughts perhaps the same, without speaking a word. They looked like those commercial travelers who at that time carried on an extensive trade between France and Flanders. Whoever had met them trotting so peaceably along the road would have taken them for honest men, anxious to find a bed after their day's work. However, it was only necessary to overhear a few sentences of their conversation to lose any such opinion suggested by their appearance. They were about half a league from Brussels, when the tallest of them said:
"Madame, you were quite right to set off to-night; we shall gain seven leagues by it, and shall probably arrive at Mechlin by the time the result of the attack on Antwerp is known. In two days of short marches, and you must take easy stages, we shall reach Antwerp."
The person who was called madame, in spite of her male costume, replied in a voice calm, grave, and sweet:
"My friend, believe me, God will tire of protecting this wicked prince, and will strike him cruelly; let us hasten to put our projects into execution, for I am not one of those who believe in fatality, and I think that men have perfect freedom in will and deed. If we leave his punishment to God, and do not act ourselves, it was not worth while living so unhappily until now."
At this moment a blast of north wind, cold and biting, swept across the plain.
"You shiver, madame," said the other traveler; "take your cloak."
"No, thank you, Remy; I no longer feel pain of body or mind."
Remy rode on silently, only now and then stopping and looking back.
"You see no one behind us?" asked she, after one of these halts.
"No one, madame."
"That cavalier whom we met at Valenciennes, and who inquired about us, after looking at us so curiously?"
"He is not here, madame."
"But I fancied I saw him again near Mons."
"And I, madame, am sure I saw him just before we entered Brussels."
"Brussels?"
"Yes; but he must have stopped there."
"Remy," said Diana, drawing near him, as if even on that lonely road she feared to be overheard, "did he not seem to you like (in figure, at least, for I did not see his face) that unhappy young man?"
"Oh! no, madame, not at all; and besides, how could he have guessed that we had left Paris, and were traveling along this road?"
"But he found us out when we changed our house in Paris."
"No, madame, I am sure he did not follow us; and, indeed, I believe he had resolved on a desperate course as regards himself."
"Alas! Remy, every one has his own share of suffering. I trust God will console this poor youth."
Remy replied with a sigh, and they went on with no other sound than that of their horses' feet on the hard road. Two hours passed thus. Just as they were about to enter Vilvoide, Remy turned his head, for he heard the sound of horses' feet behind them. He stopped and listened, but could see nothing. His eyes uselessly tried to pierce through the darkness of the night, and as he no longer heard any sounds, they rode on and entered the town.
"Madame," said he, "if you will take my advice, you will stay here; daylight will soon appear, the horses are tired, and you yourself need repose."
"Remy, you are anxious about something."
"Yes, about your health, madame. Believe me, a woman cannot support so much fatigue; I can scarcely do so myself."
"As you please, Remy."
"Well, then, enter that narrow street. I see a light at the end of it, which must proceed from an inn. Be quick, I beg you."
"You have heard something?"
"I thought I heard a horse's feet. I am not sure, but I will stay behind a minute to find out."
The lady, without replying, went on, and Remy got off his horse and let him follow her, while he hid himself behind an immense post and waited. The lady knocked at the door of the inn, behind which, according to the hospitable custom of the country, watched, or rather slept, a maid servant. The girl woke up and received the traveler with perfect good-humor, and then opened the stable-door for the two horses.
"I am waiting for my companion," said Diana; "let me sit by the fire; I shall not go to bed until he comes."
The servant threw some straw to the horses, shut the stable door, then returned to the kitchen, put a chair by the fire, snuffed the candle with her fingers, and went to sleep again.
Meanwhile Remy was watching for the arrival of the traveler whose horse he had heard. He saw him enter the town and go on slowly, and seeming to listen; then, seeing the inn, he appeared to hesitate whether to go there or to continue his journey. He stopped close to Remy, who laid his hand on his knife.
"It is he again," thought Remy, "and he is following us. What can he want?"
After a minute the traveler murmured in a low voice, "They must have gone on, and so will I," and he rode forward.
"To-morrow we will change our route," thought Remy.
And he rejoined Diana, who was waiting impatiently for him.
"Well," said she softly, "are we followed?"
"There is no one, I was wrong; you may sleep in perfect safety, madame."
"I am not sleepy, Remy."
"At least have supper, madame; you have scarcely eaten anything."
"Willingly, Remy."
They reawakened the poor servant, who got up as good-humoredly as before, and hearing what they wanted, took from the cupboard a piece of salt pork, a cold leveret, and some sweets, which she set before them, together with a frothing jug of Louvain beer.
Remy sat down with Diana, who drank half a glass of beer, and ate a piece of bread. Remy did the same, and then they both rose.
"Are you not going to eat any more?" asked the girl.
"No, thank you, we have done."
"Will you not eat any meat? it is very nice."
"I am sure it is excellent, but we are not hungry."
The girl clasped her hands in astonishment at this strange abstinence; it was not thus she was used to see travelers eat.
Remy threw a piece of money on the table.
"Oh!" said the girl, "I cannot change all that; six farthings would be all your bill."
"Keep it all, my girl," said Diana; "it is true my brother and I eat little, but we pay the same as others."
The servant became red with joy.
"Tell me, my girl," said Remy, "is there any cross-road from here to Mechlin?"
"Yes, monsieur, but it is very bad, while the regular road is a very fine one."
"Yes, my child, I know that, but we wish to travel by the other."
"Oh! I told you, monsieur, because, as your companion is a lady, the road would not do for her."
"Why not?"
"Because to-night a great number of people will cross the country to go to Brussels."—"To Brussels?"
"Yes; it is a temporary emigration."
"For what reason?"
"I do not know; they had orders."
"From whom—the Prince of Orange?"
"No; from monseigneur."
"Who is he?"
"I do not know, monsieur."
"And who are the emigrants?"
"The inhabitants of the country and of the villages which have no dykes or ramparts."
"It is strange."
"We ourselves," said the girl, "are to set out at daybreak, as well as all the other people in the town. Yesterday, at eleven o'clock, all the cattle were sent to Brussels by canals and cross-roads; therefore on the road of which you speak there must be great numbers of horses, carts, and people."
"I should have thought the great road better for all that."
"I do not know; it was the order."
"But we can go on to Mechlin, I suppose?"
"I should think so, unless you will do like every one else, and go to Brussels."
"No, no, we will go on at once to Mechlin," said Diana, rising; "open the stable, if you please, my good girl."
"Danger every way," thought Remy; "however, the young man is before us." And as the horses had not been unsaddled, they mounted again, and the rising sun found them on the banks of the Dyle.