CHAPTER XITHE CITY OF THE MAID
Infour steps we were on the white, glistening quay, and, mounting our horses, began to edge toward the nearest gate, the Porte Royale, by which we proposed to enter the city. It was a task that was far from easy, unless we wished to ride over the heads of the people, for the small space was more than crowded, and one and all were pushing, struggling, and hurrying to be on the scene of the execution in time.
“Ah!” said Marcilly, standing in his stirrups, and from the height of his horse looking over the heads of the people, “it is awful—he dies by the Estrapade.”
I followed his glance, and, gazing toward the little enclosure in front of the Rue des Tanneurs, saw the post and chains, and the stack of wood that was to form the pyre.
“The patient has not arrived as yet; but the galleries are full.”
“Yes, one can see the dresses of the ladies flashing like a bank of flowers. Hear the crowd bark!”
And as he spoke there was a rush to the palisades, and groans, hoots, cat-calls, and a tempest of mob-cries arose as the people were drivenback, and beaten into order by the men-at-arms, while through the shouts, the cries, the oaths and the screams, one heard ever and again the guttural voice of the reiter, or the snake-like, hissing curse of the Italian free-lance, as, with the butts of their lances, and the heels of their horses, they bore the crowd now this way and now that, and threw something of their own perfect discipline into the chaotic mass.
And as I looked I felt a thrill of horror at the thought of what the unfortunate condemned was to endure ere death would end his agony. The Estrapade—it was the lifting in and out of a slow fire—and death took long to come with this. And all this pain! All this suffering! Because, forsooth, the wretched man had not bowed to the graven image of the Virgin and her Child! Truly, a fit sacrifice to One who sent His Son with the message of love and forgiveness to earth!
I thank God I never saw him. He was led to his death by the Quatre Fils, and, poor cobbler though he was, he ended his life like a hero and a saint. But six years later he was avenged, on that day when the gutters of Orleans ran in red puddles, and Lanoy pulled down the towers of Ste. Croix in memory of Étienne Caillaud. That, too, I never saw, for it was six years after my living death.
“Onward!” said Marcilly, “else we shall be unable to move. Ah! See the cubs of Guise!”
And he pointed with his hand to a small groupof riders, for whom the crowd made way with the readiness born of fear. In the midst of these were three boys, also mounted, and one, the eldest, was tall, a head taller than his brothers, and, child though he was, bore on his features all the pride of Lorraine. His brothers were laughing as they spoke to each other, but he rode in silence, a trifle in advance, now and then coldly lifting his hand in answer to some salute with the grave courtesy of a little king.
“’Tis the young Joinville and his brothers,” Marcilly ran on; “child as he is, he thinks himself Dauphin already.”
“As he may be some day.”
“Ah!” called out a woman near us, who bore a child in one arm, while another of eight or ten years clung to her girdle. “Ah! See the young Princes, Henriquet! It will not be long now; let us hasten.”
“One takes long to die by the Estrapade; there will be time,” said the man whom she had addressed, a sober-looking person, evidently of the artisan class, who for one did not seem to enjoy the prospect of witnessing what was to happen.
“And why not, Maître Echelle? Why not? Has he not sinned against the Holy Ghost, and our Lord the Pope? Ah! He is a wicked man. I hope he will take long to die.”
“Have a care, woman!” said Marcilly, whose horse was near her; “have a care of the horse, and learn to be a little more pitiful.”
The woman looked up, and, seeing the black mask and the grim, mud-bespattered figure of Marcilly, shrank back as she muttered, “It is an assassin, an assassin for sure, who goes masked even in plain day.”
“Way then,” I cut in impatiently, and pressing forward, we drove the crowd before us, but ere we had gone ten yards the shrew had recovered her courage and railed after us with her scolding tongue.
“Ho! They are traitors, heretics, those three who ride there! See the masked one with the devil’s face. Traitors! Heretics! To the fire with them!”
In a moment the crowd gathered round us with menacing faces, and from threats it was clear they would soon come to blows. We were forced to draw our swords, and meant to sell our lives dearly if it came to the push, but the sight of the steel cooled the ardor of the mob a little, and they recoiled, only, however, to come on again with renewed boldness. It was our last wish to have anything even approaching a scuffle now, but we were dealing with people gone mad with excitement, and it was hard to say what would happen at any moment.
“Name of the devil!” roared Badehorn to a group of a half-dozen or so of Light Horse, in the black and yellow of Guise, “keep off these dogs, else there will be bloodshed.”
“That is your affair,” answered their leader,an Italian, in his lisping French. “We are not police.”
“You will answer for this, though,” said I hotly, as I made my horse curvet and kick, for the crowd began to rush in again.
They laughed loudly in reply, and, emboldened by this, there was another rush, and Badehorn was almost pulled from his saddle. Inch by inch, however, we made our way somehow, taking advantage of every foot of space that was given, and clearing the path by sweeping the flats of our swords to the right and left. But this could not go on for long, and we were scarce a hand’s breadth from the most deadly peril when, in a momentary pause, I called out:
“Fools! Are you mad that you listen to an angry woman and try to hinder us who ride for Her Majesty the Queen-Mother! Way! Way! Else beware thecarcanand the lash!”
The boldness with which I said this had some effect; the crowd hesitated a little, yet still we were not safe, and they were preparing to launch themselves on us again when a low murmur caught our ears, and arrested those about us, a murmur that increased in volume and intensity until it became a deep, hoarse roar.
“The patient! The patient! He comes!”
In one moment we were utterly forgotten. In one moment we were safe. In the absorbing interest before them the mob let us drop as an ape drops an empty nutshell, and pressed forwardwith mad strugglings and fierce yells toward the scaffoldings. Far within the choking, gasping mass some one began to sing that terrible death song, which has rung in the ears of so many martyrs of the faith:
“Au feu! Au feu! C’est leur repère.Faites en justice! Dieu l’a permis,”
“Au feu! Au feu! C’est leur repère.Faites en justice! Dieu l’a permis,”
“Au feu! Au feu! C’est leur repère.Faites en justice! Dieu l’a permis,”
“Au feu! Au feu! C’est leur repère.
Faites en justice! Dieu l’a permis,”
and the crowd caught the verse and gave it back, so that shout and scream died away; but in their room swelled the pitiless chorus, as the multitude marched to the lilt of the tune, forming in line, as it were, of their own accord, and beating time to the measure with their feet as they rolled along the long quay in an endless column.
Men, women, and children in that vast assemblage had all gone mad. They marched arm-in-arm, singing their dolorous hymn, some with white faces, others with bloodshot cheeks; but one and all with eager eyes straining before them, and one and all drunk with the wild music of their chant.
In the distance I saw our artisan, he whom I thought had something of pity in his heart; but he, too, had caught the nameless infection, and with head thrown back and staring eyes was singing with the rest, while at his side marched his wife, and her shrill, hard voice rose piercing and high:
“Au feu! Au feu! C’est leur repère!”
“C’est leur repère!” bellowed the echoing mob, as it swung past us to see a martyr die.
We waited to see no more. Our hearts were already sick enough, and, seizing the opportunity given to us, passed through the gates, and took our way to the house of Cipierre, over the uneven and still slippery cobble-stones of the ill-paved Rue Royale.
“If I live a hundred years, I shall never forget to-day,” said Marcilly, as we rode together side by side.
“And yet we have actually seen nothing. Still, I agree with you. I have never felt the horror that I felt to-day.”
“It is, I think, what we have not seen which affects us.”
And then perhaps the same thought came to us both, and we lapsed into silence.
For the moment we might have been riding through a city of the dead. Here in the Rue Royale there was not a soul to be seen. All the shops were shut, every door was barred, and the stones of the pavement echoed dismally to the hoofs of our horses. On either side of the narrow street the gutters, full of melted snow and mud, bubbled angrily past, and here and there, where the mouth of some blind alley, or cut-throat lane, opened out and yawned at us, the wind came bustling through, blowing damp and chill as the cavernous deeps from which it came. On each hand, the houses, old as the days of LaPucelle, raised their walls, leprous with mottlings of purple, gray, brown, and white, in story after story above us, so that but a thin slit of sky was alone visible between the pentice roofs, that seemed to totter toward each other; while from out of the dappled surface of the walls, round projecting windows and crenellated balconies thrust themselves, forming a shelter over the uneven footways that clung to the edges of the road.
Now and again we caught a glimpse of the stray figure of a woman or a child, standing at a window or leaning out of a balcony, and looking at us with an eager curiosity, and once one called down to us:
“Is it over? Did he suffer much? Did he speak?”
To all these questions, which were asked in a breath, Badehorn replied for us with an expressive shake of his head, and as he did so we reached the Rue Jeanne d’Arc, which broke in here upon the Rue Royale, and, making a half turn to the right, as we reined in to observe the view for a moment, we found ourselves facing Ste. Croix. A little to our left, above the confused mass of red and gray roofs, rose the wings of the royal palace, now dark with the shadow of a passing cloud, while beyond, above the battlements of the main tower, and half in shadow and half in light, fluttered the royal standard of France, and now and again through the bays of the windows, or past the embrasures, we caught thegleam of a pike or the flash of a lance. To our right, frowning over the Capuchin Convent, we could see the grim mass of the Hôtel de Ville, and before us, as I have said, at the end of a broad, straight road, stood the huge façade of Ste. Croix, all glistening in the sunlight, as if the very clouds would not shadow that great temple of the Lord.
Even as we stood there the chime of the vesper bells began, but above their mellow note the freshening breeze blowing from the west bore us a faint cadence from afar; the mob was singing yet around the dying victim of bigotry and superstition.
“Mon dieu!” I burst out, “that devil’s hymn will follow us forever”; and we waited no more, but turned again and trotted over the few yards that separated us from the Place du Martroi.
Here there were still a few people gathered around a scaffold that had been erected in the centre of the square. Around this scaffold was a palisade, and beyond the palisade men were busily at work giving the finishing touches to the wooden galleries that would overlook the coming scene. As we came into the square the block was being placed on the platform, and a short, broadly built man, dressed in black, with a black mask on his face, was superintending the operation.
Marcilly and I exchanged glances, but Badehorn for once began to speak:
“Ah, messieurs! It is Monsieur of Paris himself. I saw him last when the Comte de Ste. Marie died at Amboise.”
“It appears, then, that Monsieur of Paris has an assistant as well,” said a voice which appeared to spring from the ground, as it broke in upon Badehorn’s speech. Looking to my side with a start, I saw a small man dressed in a suit of orange and green satin. A short cloak of the same gay colours hung from his shoulders, while his sceptre, crowned with the head of an ass in gold, and his cap and bells showed his calling.
He was staring at Marcilly with his little eyes that flashed and twinkled, from a face as long and sharp as that of a polecat, while his lips, parted in a smile, showed two rows of strong white teeth. He had apparently come out from behind the boardings of one of the galleries, and now stood right in our path, swinging his sceptre backward and forward, with his eyes fixed on Marcilly’s mask. His meaning was obvious, and Jean angrily raised his whip; but the jester skipped back nimbly, and vanished behind the shelter of his boardings with an elfish laugh.
“That mask is like to bring you more trouble than profit,” I remarked.
“It has served its purpose, however,” said he as he slipped it off and thrust it under the flap of his holster. “Think you, what would have happened if the crowd had raised a shout of‘Condé!’ in that mood. It was better, after all, to risk the gibes of that jester—confound him—I wonder whose he was?”
“It matters not. Perhaps he belongs to the Court; but surely you do not mean to continue to wear the mask while you are in Orleans?”
“Not after we are under the wing of the Queen-Mother; but here is Cipierre’s house at last.”
As he said this we reined up before the gates of a house, at the corner of a square, overlooking the Rue de la Hallebarde. The house itself stood a little way back from the square, from which it was separated by a courtyard, bounded by a high, spiked wall, in the centre of which was a huge iron-studded gate, flanked on each side by two squat towers with a gallery between, on the face of which, and immediately above the door, was the blazon of Cipierre.
The gate was shut, but opened at once to our knock, discovering the flagged court, the wide stairway that led to the house door, and the figures of one or two armed men lounging in the enclosure.
The porter, an old man, bent and white-headed, recognized Marcilly at once.
“Monsieur le Comte!” he exclaimed, astonishment and delight lighting his dim eyes, for he had known Jean since he was a child.
“Yes, I in flesh and blood, Bobeche! And is the Vicomte in?”
“Monsieur le Vicomte has gone to the expiation,and sups after with Monsieur de Sancerre.”
“I might have expected something like this,” muttered Marcilly to himself, then, raising his voice, “Monsieur de Vibrac and I will wait, Bobeche.”
“Assuredly, monsieur. The house is yours, as you know. Ah! But the return of monsieur will gladden madame’s eyes. She was here but yesterday. But messieurs are travel-stained and weary, and thatcoquinof a steward and every soul in the place has gone sight-seeing, except Jacques, monsieur’s valet, who is as old as myself and these three Switzers. Jacques,mon ami, here are monsieur le comte and his friend, who have travelled far. Attend then quickly to the gentlemen.”
“One moment,” I said. “Had you not better send to warn Cipierre of our arrival?”
“Ah! I woolgather. Of course!” and taking out a pocket-book, and tearing a leaf therefrom, Jean scribbled a few lines, and, folding it carefully, handed it to one of the Swiss.
“For monsieur le vicomte,” I said, in his tongue, for I had served in the Trans-Alpine Infantry. “It is urgent, and here is a crown to quicken your footsteps.”
The man saluted, pocketed the money, and withdrew. We then consigned ourselves to the hospitable care of Jacques, and an hour later Jean and myself met in the great hall, refreshedby our bath and change of toilet, and looking like different men. Jacques offered us wine, but, though we sipped a little, we were both of us beginning to feel that we had come to the edge of the precipice, and put down our cups practically full.
“Madame de Marcilly was here yesterday, I understand?” said Marcilly to Jacques.
“Monsieur, with Mademoiselle de Beauce.”
“Thanks! That will do,” and then Jean walked to the window and stared out across the square in the direction of the palace, while I stood at the fireplace, my foot on a dog’s head of the fender, and our hearts were both with the same woman.
He came back to me at last, and flung himself in a chair, still looking before him with a gray sadness in his eyes, as he said low to himself:
“Poor Marie!”
In my confidence I felt I was victor over myself; but the words rasped me somehow, and I moved impatiently from my position.
“You are getting the blues, Jean. ’Tis this city of horrors into which we have come. Rouse yourself, man! We are on the threshold now.”
“Yes, on the threshold—of what?” he asked, but still as if speaking to himself. “We are on the threshold, and the door will open soon—but where will it lead? We are giving our lands, our wealth, our lives, all that we hold dear, for a dream—and life is dear to me, Gaspard, not somuch for its own sake, but for the sake of her who loves me.”
“We should have thought of that before, and there is still time to draw back.” There was a bitterness in my tone I could not conceal, and a faint flush reddened his cheeks.
“You are right to spur me,” he said, as he drained his cup and rose to his feet, “and here comes our messenger.”
The Switzer came in with his heavy stride, and, saluting, stood dumbly before us.
“You have given the letter?” I asked.
“Excellency.”
“And the answer—any?”
The man drew from his pocket a tablet, and handed it to me. I passed it on to Jean, who attempted to read it, but in vain.
“Diable!He may have written this with the point of his dagger. Can you make it out?”
We did, with some difficulty, and the words of the note, written in a huge, sprawling hand, ran as follows:
Welcome. Sancerre bids me say he expects you and de Vibrac to join us at supper at seven. Come.CIPIERRE.
Welcome. Sancerre bids me say he expects you and de Vibrac to join us at supper at seven. Come.
CIPIERRE.
“The door is opening,” I said, with a forced gayety; “we must go.”
“And it wants but a half-hour,” answered Jean, as he pointed to the clock.