POUR MA FOY, ET MON ROY
“HE is lost! _Mon Dieu!_” she exclaimed. “Ah! Monsieur de Vibrac!” And
she just looked at me; but such a look.
There was a clattering of spurred heels as Coqueville and Lanoy rushed
to the stairway; but, trembling and hot with shame, I remained chained
by the horrible thought that had taken possession of me. I knew what
the Princess meant. I had said that the wood was safe, and yet I had
not searched there in that long, narrow neck of forest before us, and
our man was lost. Yet no! He was out again; but this time not alone,
for three men were at his heels, three men with fresh horses. One came
alongside. Our man leaned out sideways with extended arm--a glint of
steel--and it was a riderless horse that galloped by his side, with
long, loose, trailing reins; and then it fell, and, scrambling up,
stood stupidly by the side of the road.
Yvonne de Mailly’s white fingers tightened over my arm, and I saw her
pale a little as she gave a quick gasp. The dwarf almost screamed, and
I thought I heard the echo of a prayer from the Princess. I watched
with dry, parched lips, and hell in my heart.
It was still two to one, and these were heavy odds; but Marcilly was
not far, and going like the wind. The two pursuers hung closely behind
the fugitive--there was a long, dark thing in the snow, athwart the
road, where the third lay, still and motionless. But the two, intent
and eager, took no note of Jean, saw nothing of Lanoy and Coqueville
and the half-dozen others who spurred behind them. Our man did,
however; he bent forward in his saddle, and his good horse seemed to
fly.
We watched in a breathless silence. And then--it had come and gone in
a moment. The fugitive was safe. He had passed Marcilly and was close
to the others. But Jean--my breath came thick and fast. Was it to be,
after all? The leading horse against Marcilly swerved to one side. Its
rider, seeing the succor at hand, turned off to his left and made for
the wood; and Lanoy--there was no mistaking the bay horse, and tall,
thin figure--cut across country to intercept him. I saw no more of
that. All my eyes were for Marcilly and his adversary.
There was no better sword than Jean in France. I could have sworn that,
until now. But what was this? There was a circle of light as they came
together, something flashed downward, and Marcilly was disarmed. And
then--it was all in a hand-turn, remember--a strange thing happened.
Marcilly’s adversary raised his sword to the salute and, leaving him
harmless, rode straight on toward Coqueville and his men. He broke
right through them, and, pulling across the road, galloped off at a
break-neck pace toward Tours. There was no attempt to follow. They all
gathered in a group round some one who had fallen. Once the man faced
half round, and shook his clenched fist behind him, and then there was
the light of his red plume, and we lost him to view in the thickets and
low forest that fringed the river--and he escaped.
But our man was safe, no thanks to me. He reined up at the bridge,
crossing it slowly, and then we saw him rock in his saddle.
“He is hurt!” exclaimed the Princess: but I heard no more. I was down
the long stairway three steps at a time, and, hurrying across the
flagged court, was just able to meet the stranger, for, as I reached
the castle gates, he entered, his horse stopping under the stone
archway of its own accord, with head held down and heaving flanks,
while the rider hung low over the saddle. Seeing me approach, however,
he steadied himself with an effort, answering my “Well ridden and
bravely done, monsieur,” with a white smile and a hoarse, “’Twas
between the skin and the flesh.” As he spoke I thought he would have
fallen, and rushed to his side.
“Back!” I shouted to those who crowded round. “Back! Give room!” and,
helping him to dismount, and lending him my arm, for he was very
faint, and kept up only by his courage, we crossed the yard slowly, and
began to ascend the stone steps of the main entrance, where I already
saw the Princess with a group round her. As we reached the steps, she
called out in sudden recognition:
“It is Maligny! Maligny!” And she ran down to us. “Speak, man! Speak!
My husband--Condé--what of him?”
He bit his dry lips and looked around, then answered thickly:
“The King has agreed to his death; but there is still hope. I bring
his message to you. It is: _Take the young child and flee into Egypt_.
And, madame--go now--for it will be too late to-morrow.” He said the
last words quickly, as if he felt he would not have time to finish his
speech, and then fell sideways into my arms like a dead man.
And now I saw what a good woman can do. Save for a rapid gesture of
despair as Maligny gave his abrupt message, she made no sign, but bent
over the fainting man, giving some orders about him as calmly as if
he, and he alone, were the one object that filled her mind. We carried
him to the nearest room--mine--and Chandieu, the Prince’s chaplain, a
man skilled in wounds, was soon by his side. To our intense relief, he
pronounced Maligny merely faint from fatigue, saying that the wound on
his arm was nothing, and that he would be as well as ever in a few
hours. Then he took charge of him, driving us all from the room as he
would be alone with his patient.
We gathered in a group on the rush-covered daïs of the great hall. We
were all there except Marcilly, whom I saw nowhere. Lanoy had accounted
for his man, and Coqueville was limping and bruised. It was he who
had been ridden down, and it was thought killed, by the one who had
escaped, but he had come to no hurt.
We were discussing Maligny’s tidings and Condé’s message, and
Coqueville was earnest in his entreaty for the Princess to leave
Châtillon at once.
“Madame,” he said, “it is not for ourselves I speak. There is
monseigneur here to think of, the heir of the _Sires des fleurs des
lys_.” As he spoke he placed his sunburnt hand lightly on the shoulder
of the slender, fair-haired boy, her son, who stood by her side. He
was not alone in pressing the matter, and it was for an hour or more,
perhaps, that we discussed it, until we reached the last corner in
madame’s patience, for she spoke firmly and crisply:
“Messieurs! Very well! I shall leave Châtillon now; but for Orleans. My
place is there. I have neglected my duty too long.”
She was facing us, a small, slight woman she was, but for the moment
she seemed to have grown absolutely tall. “As for Henri here,” she
went on, stooping and giving the boy a fierce little kiss, “he must
live for vengeance if need be.”
What more she would have said I know not, but now Maligny appeared, his
arm bandaged, and leaning for support on Jean. Behind came Chandieu,
a tall, dark figure. As they approached it was impossible not to be
struck by Marcilly’s resemblance to Condé. In a crowd a hundred men
would have sworn he was the Prince. He had the same slight, spare
figure, the same red-brown hair, the same eyes, even his voice, his
very gestures were the same.
In the moment of excitement I had forgotten about myself, else I had
not dared to face Marcilly with the consciousness of my recent shameful
action upon me. It is one crowning mercy that there are moments when
even the most sinful forget--even I do sometimes--for a very little.
“Madame,” said Maligny, “I have come to finish what I fear I began
too bluntly. It is true that the sentence has been passed, but the
Chancellor has refused to affix the Great Seal, and no day has been
appointed for----” and he hesitated a moment, and then went on, not
finishing his sentence, though we all understood: “The King is very
ill, and at any time may relent. Strange as it may seem, the Italian is
veering round in our favor. The Guise grow too great, and she realizes
now what that greatness will mean for her. The Admiral knows her mind,
and ’tis said that the Constable will now move from Yvoy le Marron.
There is a plan even now to save the Prince”; he looked at Marcilly,
and then went on: “but, in the mean time, it is of the first importance
that you and the young Prince should be safe from harm. Monseigneur
kisses your hands, and begs you to leave Châtillon for St. Bauld,
where d’Andelot lies with fifty horse to escort you to the Admiral and
safety. There is one, too, who aids us in secret--I dare not give the
name--and I tell you that no sword will be drawn to stay us if we leave
within the next few hours. Who those wasps were who attacked me in the
wood, I know not. They are done with, however, for the present. The
danger now is in staying--none in going--but we must go now.”
The Princess hardly seemed to hear the latter portion of Maligny’s
speech. “And so the King--that boy--has signed the warrant!” she said.
“But Lorraine held the pen. But they dare not! They dare not! After
Navarre he is the first Prince of the blood. And is that all you have
to say? Oh! Take me to him!” And she looked imploringly at us.
“Madame,” began Maligny, but she broke in upon his speech.
“Wait! Let me think! I know you have nothing more to say except to urge
me to desert my husband. I know you are going to repeat that. Your
plans and politics will break my woman’s heart. Ah! I know he will die.
Have ever the merciless shown mercy? He will die, I say; but I die
with him. Now hear me, Monsieur le Vicomte--and all of you. I go to
Orleans--Orleans--do you hear? And I leave in an hour’s time.”
She finished; her hands clenched, her cheeks white; but in the gray
deep of her eyes such a mixture of rage, sorrow, irresolution, and
despair as I hope never to see in a human glance again. The strain had
been too much, and, highly as she spoke, I knew and felt that she would
yet yield. It was the old story. It is not in a woman’s words, but in
her eyes, that her heart lies.
As she stood there, silent and motionless, Marcilly leaned over the
Vicomte’s shoulder, and whispered something. Then they both beckoned to
Lanoy and Chandieu, and retired into the recess of the window, where
they spoke in whispers, and, as I looked, I saw a smile on Lanoy’s dark
face, a light in the Vicomte’s eyes--and a jealous anger came into my
heart that I was not asked to share their confidences.
But here on the daïs, where through the open window the mellow sunlight
fell on the rushes at our feet, and lit them up in gold and brown;
where still we were partly in shadow, and partly in light, there was no
word spoken, and the Princess stood, biting her lip and watching the
four. So still was it one might have heard the fall of a silken glove.
Suddenly the falcon on Majolais’ wrist began to flutter its wings, and
the sound, as it broke the stillness, brought the Princess to the
moment. She turned to Coqueville and myself.
“Messieurs! You will excuse me--time presses.” With a slight bow to us,
and a shrug of her shoulders in the direction of the four, she walked
slowly down the hall, Yvonne de Mailly turning as she followed her, and
throwing up the palms of her hands as if to say it was all over.
As the Princess passed the window, however, Lanoy and the Vicomte came
up to her and spoke in low, rapid tones, Jean standing a little on one
side playing with the hilt of his sword. What they said I could not
catch, but they urged it again and again, and she put her hands to her
face, exclaiming:
“No! No! I cannot--I cannot!”
Then Jean stepped forward, dropping on one knee before her, added his
entreaty to those of the other two, and one by one we came up and
formed a half-circle around them.
“Madame,” said Lanoy, “it is not for the Prince alone. It is for the
King, for France. I pledge you my word he succeeds.”
“What can I say?” she asked. “Friends!” and she turned toward us, “do
you know what I have been asked to do? I have been asked to accept the
sacrifice of a life. Jean--our own true knight--has said that he will
go to Orleans and bring off the Prince or die.”
“He will succeed, madame,” said Maligny. “Would to God I could be by
his side!”
“Though our persecutors be swifter than the eagles of Heaven, yet the
Lord of Hosts is with us. Let him go, madame, that thy beloved may be
delivered. Save with thy right hand and hear me,” and Chandieu spoke in
the words of the Psalmist, his voice deep but low.
But still the Princess stood--hesitating--wavering. Her pale lips moved
as if in prayer, and then, as one who takes a sudden plunge, she held
out her hands with a quick, impulsive gesture, and, raising Jean to his
feet, looked him full in the face with eyes that swam with tears.
“May God bless you!” she said; “be it as you will.”
So they stood for a moment, her hands resting on his shoulders. Then
bending forward she kissed him, and with a sob turned and passed out of
the room, all following except myself.
It is odd how sometimes, when the mind is distracted, a petty thing
will arrest the attention, and remain in the memory for ever, a centre
upon which other recollections revolve. As they went out the last to
go was Majolais. At the door he stopped, a little spot of brilliant
color, and, turning his head, looked back upon me. In that one moment
his eyes seemed to read my thoughts and mock my misery. So he stood
for a breath, then, pointing a claw-like finger at me, he turned and
fled. It was as if some fiend gibed at my fall. I remained for long
where I was, in the shadow of the heavy curtains that drooped over the
window, glowering at the band of sunlight on the rushes and thinking
of a hundred things. The past year of my life came before me in vivid
detail. All my struggles with myself, all my failures. How inch by
inch I had slipped down mentally, until it came to pass that I yielded
without effort to the hideous whisper of the fiend, when I let Marcilly
ride off by himself.
I was certain that Marie loved me still, and that in her heart she
would welcome freedom. But an hour or so back it was this that made me
long, yet fear, to see him stretched dead in the snow. It was this that
made me hate myself, and yet urged me on. Fifty times during the scene
with the Princess, had I been within an ace of stepping to Marcilly’s
side, and asking to share his enterprise. Each time I was held back,
caught by the throat and held back by my evil thoughts.
To my mind the attempt was impossible. He must die--and then--I became
aware I was not alone, for Jean stood at my right hand smiling at me
with his kind eyes.
“Gaspard,” he said, “I want a friend. You refused me once to-day. Will
you deny me now? Will you come?”
I was not altogether lost. I was sick with the shame of what had
passed. I dared not refuse.
“I will come,” I answered, and my voice was strange, even to my own
ears. It was Fate. Who can resist its decrees?
“_Pour ma foy, et mon roy_,” he said, linking his arm in mine, as he
quoted the motto of his house. “To horse, man! There is not a moment to
lose.”