THE CITY OF THE MAID
IN four 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 driven
back, 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 group of 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 the
_carcan_ and 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 forward with 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_,”
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 La Pucelle, 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 the gleam 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
that _coquin_ of 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, refreshed by 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 so
much 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.
“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.