THE BEST-KNOWN FACE IN THE WORLD
Jean-aux-Choux dismounted from his Flanders mare at the entrance of a
wide courtyard, littered with coaches and carriages, the best of these
being backed under a sort of penthouse, but the commoner sort set out in
the yard to take the bitter weather with the sweet. Some had their
"trams" pitifully uplifted to heaven in wooden protestation against such
ill-treatment; some wept tears of cracked pitch because the sun had been
too much with them. Leathern aprons of ancient diligences split and
seamed with alternate rain and drought. Everywhere there was a musty
smell of old cushion-stuffing. A keen whiff of stables wandered past.
Not far off one heard the restless nosing of horses in their mangers,
and from yet another side came the warm breath of kine.
For Master Anthony Arpajon was a _bien_ man, a man of property, and so
far the Leaguers of Blois had not been able to prevail against him. In
the courtyard, stretched at length on sacks of chaff, their heads on
their corn-bags, with which, doubtless, on the morrow they would
entertain their beasts by the way, many carters and drivers of
high-piled wine-chariots were asleep.
The lower part of Master Anthony's house was a sort of free hostel,
like the caravanserai of the East. The upper, into which no stranger was
permitted to enter on any pretext, was like a fortified town.
To the left of the entrance, a narrow oblong break in the wall made a
sort of rude buffet. Sections of white-aproned, square-capped cooks
could be seen moving about within. Through the gap they served the
simpler hot meats, bottles of wine, bread, omelettes, and salads to the
arriving guests. It was curious that each, on going first to the
barrier, threw the end of his blue Pyrenean waist-band over his
shoulder. A little silver cow-bell, tied like a tassel to the silk,
tinkled as he did so.
For this was the chosen sign of the men of Bearn. All the warring
Protestants, and especially the Calvinists of the south, had adopted it,
because it was the symbol of the arms of Bearn. And wherever it was
unsafe to wear the White Plume of the hero on the cap, as in the town of
Blois, it was easy to tuck the silver cow-bell of King Henry under the
silken sash, where its tinkling told no tales.
But among these wine-carriers and free folk of the roads there was
scarcely one who did not know Jean-aux-Choux. Yet they did not laugh as
he entered, but rather greeted him respectfully, as one who plays well
his part, though he came in shouting at the top of his voice, "Way for
the fool of fools--the fool of three kings--and not so great a fool as
any one of them!"
One man came forward, speaking the drawling speech of Burgundy, all
liquid "l's" and slurred "r's," and with a clumsy salute took the
Jester's beast. Many of the others rose to their feet and made their
reverences according to their kind, clumsy or clever. Others whispered
quietly, passing round the news of his arrival.
For the fool had come to his own. He was no more Jean-aux-Choux, the
King's fool, but Master John Stirling, a Benjamin of the Benjaminites,
and pupil of John Calvin himself.
The white-capped man behind the bar opened carefully a little door, and
as instantly closed it behind Jean.
He pointed up a narrow stair which turned and was lost to sight in the
thickness of the wall.
"You will find them at prayers," he muttered. "He is there."
"Kings are in His hand," responded Jean-aux-Choux, setting a foot on the
first worn step of the narrow stair-case; "the Lord of Battles preserve
him from the curs that yelp about his feet."
There came to Jean a sound of singing--sweet, far away, wistful, a
singing not made for the chanting of choirs or the clamour of organs,
but for folk hiding on housetops, in dens and caves of the earth--soft
singing, with the enemy deadly and near at hand. The burden of their
melody was that thirty-seventh Psalm which once on a time Clement Marot
had risked his life to print.
"Wait on the Lord! Meekly thy burden bear;
Commit to Him thyself and thine affair!
In Him trust thou, and He will bring to pass
All that thou wouldst accomplish and compass.
Thy loss is gain--such is His equity,
Each of His own He guards eternally.
This lesson also learn--
He clasps thee closer as the days grow stern."
Jean opened the door. It was a long, black, oak-ceiled room into which
he looked. There were perhaps a score of Huguenots present, all standing
up, with Marot's little volume of the _Trente Psaumes_ in their hands.
A pastor in Geneva gown and bands stood at a table head, upon which a
few great folios had been heaped to form a rude pulpit.
Beside him, not singing, but holding his psalter with a certain weary
reverence, was a man with a face the best-known in all the world. And
certainly Henry of Navarre never looked handsomer than in the days when
pretty Gabrielle of the house of D'Estrees played with fire, calling her
Huguenot warrior, "His Majesty of the Frosty Beard."
Such a mingling of kindliness, of humour bland and finely tolerant, of
temper quick and high, of glorious angers, of swift, proud sinnings and
repentances as swift, of great eternal destinies and human frailties,
never was seen on any man's face save this.
It was "The Bearnais"--it was Henry of Navarre himself.
So long as the singing went on Jean-aux-Choux stood erect like the rest.
Then all knelt at the prayer--the King also with them--on the hard floor
under that low, black pent-roof, while the pastor prayed to the God of
Sabaoth for the long-hoped-for victory of "His Own."
Beside "His Own" knelt Jean-aux-Choux, a look of infinite solemnity on
his face, while the grave Genevan "cult" went quietly on, as if there
had not been a Catholic or an enemy within fifty miles. The minister
ceased. The King, without lingering on his knees as did the others, rose
rapidly, mechanically dusting his black cloth breeches and even the
rough carter's stockings which covered his shapely calves.
He sighed sadly, as his keen, quick-glancing eyes passed over the
kneeling forms of the Huguenots. He did not take very kindly to the
lengthy services and plain-song ritual of those whom he led as never
soldiers had been led before.
"Hal Guise hath the Religion,
While I need absolution."
The Bearnais hummed one of the camp songs made against himself by his
familiar Gascons, which always afforded him the most amusement--next,
that is, to that celebrated one which recounted his successes on other
fields than those of war. They were bold rascals, those Gascons of his,
but they followed him well, and, after all, their idea of humour was his
own.
"Ha, long red-man," he called out presently, when all had risen decently
from their knees, "you made sport for us at Nerac, I remember, and then
went to my good brother-in-law's court in the suite of Queen Marguerite.
What has brought you here?"
A tall man, dark and slim, leaned over and whispered in the King's ear.
"Ah," said the Bearnais, nodding his head, "I remember the reports. They
were most useful. But the fellow is a scholar, then?"
"He is of Geneva," said the man at the King's ear, "and is learned in
Latin and Greek, also in Hebrew!"
"No wonder he does his business with credit"--the King smiled as he
spoke; "there is no fool like a learned fool!"
With his constant good humour and easy ways with all and sundry, Henry
of Navarre stepped forward and clapped Jean-aux-Choux on the shoulder.
"Go and talk to the pastor, D'Aubigne," said the King to his tall, dark
companion; "I and this good fellow will chat awhile. Sit down, man. I am
not Harry of Navarre to-night, but Waggoner Henri in from Coutras with
some barrels of Normandy cider. Do you happen to know a customer?"
"Ay, that do I," answered Jean-aux-Choux, fixing his eyes on the strong,
soldierly face of the Bearnais, "one who has just arrived in this town,
and may have some customs' dues to levy on his own liquor."
"And who may that be?" demanded the King.
"The Governor of Normandy," Jean answered--"he and no other!"
"What--D'Epernon?" cried the Bearnais, really taken by surprise this
time.
"I have just left his company," said Jean; "he has with him many
gentlemen, the Professor of Eloquence at the Sorbonne, the nephew of the
Cardinal Bourbon----"
"What, my cousin John the pretty clerk?" laughed Henry.
"He drives a good steel point," said Jean-aux-Choux; "it were a pity to
make him a holy water sprinkler. I was too ugly to be a pastor. He is
too handsome for a priest!"
"We will save him," said the Bearnais; "when our poor old Uncle of the
Red Hat dies, they will doubtless try to make a king of this springald."
"He vows he would much rather carry a pike in your levies," said
Jean-aux-Choux. "It is a brave lad. He loves good hard knocks, and from
what I have seen, also to be observed of ladies!"
The Bearnais laughed a short, self-contemptuous laugh. "I fear we shall
quarrel then, Cousin John and I," he said; "one Bourbon is enough in a
camp where one must ride twenty miles to wave a kerchief beneath a
balcony!"
"Also," continued Jean-aux-Choux, "there is with them my dear master's
daughter, Mistress Claire----"
"What, Francis Agnew's daughter?" The King's voice grew suddenly kingly.
Jean nodded.
"Then he is dead--my Scot--my friend? When? How? Out with it, man!"
"The Leaguers or the King's Swiss shot him dead the Day of the
Barricades--I know not which, but one or the other!"
The fine gracious lines of the King's face hardened. The Bearnais lifted
his "boina," or flat white cap, which he had resumed at the close of
worship, as was his right.
"They shall pay for this one day," he said; "Valois, King, and Duke of
Guise--what is it they sing? Something about
'The Cardinal and Henry and Mayenne, Mayenne!'
If I read the signs of the times aright, the King of France will do
Henry of Guise's business one of these days, while I shall have Mayenne
on my hands. At any rate, poor Francis Agnew shall not go unavenged, wag
the world as it will."
These were not the highest ideals of the Nazarene. But they suited a
warring Church, and Henry of Navarre only voiced what was the feeling of
all, from D'Aubigne the warrior to the pastor who sat in a corner by
himself, thumbing his little Geneva Bible. There was no truce in this
war. The League or the Bearnais! Either of the two must rule France. The
present king, Henry of Valois, was a merry, sulky, careless, deceitful,
kindly, cruel cipher--the "man-woman," as they named him, the
"gamin"-king. He laughed and jested--till he could safely thrust his
dagger into his enemy's back. But as for his country, he could no more
govern it than a puppet worked by strings.
"And this girl?" said the King, "is she of her father's brood, strong
for the religion, and so forth?"
"She is young and innocent--and very fair!"
The eyes of the Fool of the Three Henries met those of the Bearnais
boldly, and the outlooking black eyes flinched before them.
"These Scottish maids are not as ours," said the King, perhaps in order
to say something, "yet I think she was with her father in my camp, and
shared his dangers."
"To the last she held up his dying head!" said Jean-aux-Choux. And quite
unexpectedly to himself, his eyes were moist.
"And where at this moment is Francis Agnew's daughter?" said the King.
Then he added, without apparent connexion, "He was my friend!"
But his intimates understood the word, and so, though a poor fool, did
Jean-aux-Choux. Instinctively he held out his hand, as he would have
done to a brother-Scot of his degree.
The King clasped it heartily, and those who were nearest noticed that
his eyes also had a shine in them.
"What a man!" whispered D'Aubigne to his nearest neighbour. "Sometimes
we of the Faith are angry with him, and then, with a pat on the cheek,
or a laugh, we are his children again. Or he is ours, I know not which!
Guise shakes hands all day long to make his dukeship popular, but in
spite of himself his lip curls as if he touched a loathsome thing.
Valois presents his hand to be kissed as if it belonged to some one
else. But our Bearnais--one would think he never had but one friend in
the world, and----"
"That this Scots fool is the man!"
"Hush," whispered D'Aubigne, "he is no fool, this fellow. He was of my
acquaintance at Geneva. In his youth he knew John Calvin, and learned
in the school of Beza. The King does well to attach him! Listen!"
Jean-aux-Choux was certainly giving the King his money's-worth. Henry
was pacing up and down, his fingers busily and unconsciously arranging
his beard.
"I have not enough men to take him prisoner," he said; "this ex-mignon
D'Epernon is a slippery fish. He will deal with me, and with another.
But if he could sell my head to my Lord of Guise and these furious
wool-staplers of Paris, he would think it better worth his while than
the off-chance of the Bearnais coming out on top!"
He pondered a while, with the deep niche of thought running downward
from mid-brow to the bridge of his nose, which they called "the King's
council of war."
"The girl is to be left in Blois," he muttered, as if to sum up the
situation, "with this Professor of the Sorbonne--an old man, I suppose,
and a priest. Very proper, very proper! My cousin, John Jackanapes,
the young ex-Leaguer, goes to Court. They will make a Politique
of him, a Valois-divine-right man--good again, for after this
Valois-by-right-divine (save the mark!) comes not Master John d'Albret,
but--the Bearnais! Yet--I do not know--perhaps, after all, he had better
come with me. Then I shall hold one hostage the more! Let me see--let me
see!"
Here Jean-aux-Choux, who had at that time no great love for the Abbe
John, but was an honest man, protested.
"The time for crowning and seeking crowns is not yet," he said; "but the
lad they call the Abbe John, though he fought a little on the
Barricades, as young dogs do in a fray general, means no harm to Your
Majesty, and will fight for you better than many who protest more!"
"I believe you--I believe you!" said Henry. "If there is aught but
eyes-making and laying-on of blows in him, I shall soon find it out, and
he shall not trail a pike for long. He shall have his company, and that
of the choicest of my army."
Suddenly the pastor sprang up. He had a message to deliver, and being of
the prevailing school of the mystics, he put it in the shape of a
vision, as, indeed, it had appeared to him.
"I see the earth dissolved," he cried, "the elements going up in a
flaming fire, the inhabitants tormented and destroyed----"
"Thank God! Thank God!" responded the deep, dominating voice of
Jean-aux-Choux.
The King requested to know the meaning of this unexpected thankfulness
for universal destruction.
"Anything to settle the League!" said Jean-aux-Choux.