THE AFTERMATH
I MADE no answer to Lorgnac, but stood for a moment incapable of
thought or action; hardly, indeed, realizing that I was free from my
shameful bonds. Around me was a sea of faces, and I felt as if all eyes
were upon me, although in the gloom one could scarce see a sword’s
point ahead. All that could be discerned was a confused crowd of
shadows, with here and there the flash of a breastplate or the gleam of
a steel cap, as they caught and reflected some lingering ray of light.
The thronged room beyond was, however, in brightness. Some one had lit
the lamps there, and from where I was leaning against the wall I could
see an ever-changing crowd pressing round the spot where Condé stood.
High words were passing, too, and there was a veiled threat in the
Chancellor’s voice, as, leaning his shaking limbs on his crutches, he
turned on Achon in answer to some speech made by the bishop.
“Monsieur! There is no lieutenant-general of the kingdom now. That
office died with the late King.”
“And I demand Marcilly’s release.” It was Condé’s voice that cut in,
and Achon answered sullenly:
“You must ask for him from the Holy Office, and its hold is firm.”
“But he shall be freed, or you, Monsieur of Arles, will answer for
it.” And now I could wait to hear no more. My scattered senses were
recovering themselves. I could not linger until all knew my shame, and
this they would know soon enough, for such things travel like lightning
from mouth to mouth. Lorgnac was still near to me. He still believed me
to be a man of honor. He would help me once more, and bending forward I
said to him:
“Monsieur! Can you get me out of this? I--I must go.”
He nodded and smiled. Then putting his arm through mine, he led me
along the passage into the courtyard. None dared to hinder him. Even
if they had dared, they could have done nothing, for everywhere around
us were the Queen’s guards. The gates, too, were no longer kept by the
archers, but by grim-looking men in a strange uniform of sombre black.
“They are the gendarmes of Aunis,” said Lorgnac, as we passed the
gates. “And, now, adieu! I suppose I shall see you to-morrow at the
palace, in the Prince’s suite.”
I took the hand he held out to me for a moment, and, muttering my
thanks, turned hastily and mingled with the crowd on the pavement,
leaving Lorgnac staring after me in astonishment at my abrupt departure.
In a crowd one is soon lost, and in the uncertain light it would have
required sharp eyes to have recognized me, as I threaded my way through
the heaving throng. Not that I gave a thought to recapture. My mind was
absorbed with one idea, and that was to put miles between me and the
scene of my shame. For the moment I was tortured by neither remorse nor
fear. I seemed dead to all sensations. All that I wanted was to quit
Orleans.
Finally I reached a street that was still in quietness, and halted
under a lamp set in the wall of a house above the image of the Virgin.
I looked around me. There were but few people stirring here, but some
shops were open, and one of these, almost opposite to me, was a place
where I saw that I might renew my apparel to some extent, and perhaps
get another sword. My purse was still with me, and it was heavy enough,
for I was rich in the world’s goods. I determined to act at once; so,
crossing the road, I went into the shop and purchased what I wanted--a
stout, serviceable sword and a good cloak. The shop-keeper tried to
enter into converse with me about the events of the day, the death of
the King, and other things, but I cut him short, and paying him his
money, stepped out into the street. Once there, I walked on at a brisk
pace toward the city gates. No one attempted to stop me, and passing
through, I gained the river shore, and looked out for a ferry-boat, but
there was not one in sight. I stood for a little, straining my eyes
into the night. The moonlight fell soft and clear on the long quay,
and on the slow, creeping river before me. Behind me was the city, and
the hum of voices joined themselves to the dreamy lapping of the Loire
at my feet. On the opposite bank of the river, the night lights of a
few boats were burning, and farther still twinkled a long chain of
camp-fires, marking the spot where the Constable lay. Thrice I hailed
a boatman, calling loudly, but there was no reply, and I heard nothing
except the hum from the city behind, and the whisperings of the stream
before me. Seeing at last it was useless to waste time here, I turned
to the left, and followed the river face, hoping to come across a
boat, but with no results. Finally I stopped again and looked around.
Yes! There was no doubt of it. I was close to the spot where Caillaud
had suffered his martyrdom, on the day of our entry into Orleans. The
scaffold was still there, the stacks of wood, not completely used,
near it, and perhaps the ashes of the fire were still warm. I stepped
up to the scaffold, and, as I did so, a homeless dog rose from behind
the wood, and with a quick, short bark at me, fled into the shivering
night. From the distance I heard him howling, and my heart sank within
me as I thought how even a dog had fled in terror at my approach, a
dog to whom I meant no harm.
There as I stood near the scaffold, my mind was again full of bitter
thoughts, of useless self-reproach, of hopeless sorrow. I looked
toward the river. It moved so calmly. It was so still and deep. Under
its placid surface perhaps there would be peace. Better death than
this torment in my soul. I made a step toward it, but whether it was
cowardice or not, I cannot say; but I stayed myself, and then that
hope which never dies flickered once more in my heart. Perhaps I could
retrieve myself. If not, surely there was another death yet left to me
to die. Not this! I moved back again near the scaffold, and, seating
myself on the pile of wood, began to think; but my brain seemed
stricken with palsy. All that flamed before my mind, in endless scrolls
of fire, was the thought of my infamy. I rose again, but a mist seemed
to gather before me. There was a drumming in my ears, and, tottering
forward, I clung to the scaffolding to save myself from falling. With
my hands clenched to the hoardings, I stood shaking in every limb, and
then I suppose I must have fainted. I seemed to be dropping, dropping
through endless space, amid the turmoil and din of chaos, amid the
unearthly mowings of devils rejoicing at my fall. Then all became blank
oblivion. Slowly, slowly I came to myself, and, after a minute or so,
gathered strength to stand without the support of the hoardings. I
wiped my forehead, which, cold as it was, was damp with sweat, and once
more looked around. It was evident that the excess of my mental torture
had broken my strength, and strength I must have to go. I determined to
retrace my steps, obtain some food, and then risk swimming the Loire,
if necessary, to get out of Orleans. I found myself, soon after, in
the Rue des Tanneurs, and finally reached a little square just beyond
St. Pierre le Puellier, in the corner of which stood a cabaret of some
pretensions. Obscure as the square was, cold as the night was, there
were numbers of people about, and, as I peered into the cabaret, I saw
that it was all but full. Every gossip, every babbler, every idler
who had a brown piece in his pocket, was spending it in Vouvray, in
Rochecorbon, or in Cognac, while he talked over the news. I entered
quietly, and, seeing in a corner a small vacant table, settled myself
there, and ordered some food and a bottle of wine. The food I could
barely touch, although I forced myself to eat a little; but the wine
warmed me, and I began to recover my faculties, and also gained some of
that courage that liquor gives to the weakest.
Up to now I had taken no notice of the company assembled, but as I
leaned back and glanced around, I saw, at a table not four paces from
me, a half-dozen men seated together drinking and gossiping. Imagine my
astonishment on seeing among them Brusquet, the jester, and Carouges,
the officer of carabiniers, who had been placed in charge of the escort
that was to conduct the Princess of Condé to her prison in the Jacobin
priory. Brusquet, I was aware, knew me, and Carouges--had he not been a
witness to that awful scene at St. Loup?
They were between me and the door, else I had gone out. As it was, I
had to wait, trusting that their preoccupation, and the shadow in which
I sat, would prevent them from recognizing me, and resolved to take
the first convenient opportunity to depart. And so as I sat I became a
compulsory listener to their talk. I caught Carouges’ voice at the end
of a sentence.
“Faith of a gentleman! I never saw a man look so, and hope never to see
one again. If ever coward and villain were stamped on a man’s face, it
was on Vibrac’s.”
“And yet,” said another, whom I knew not, “there are those who refuse
to believe the story----” but Carouges interrupted him, saying a little
haughtily:
“Monsieur de Quesnay, I was there, and he owned to it--the cur!”
“_Hein!_” And Brusquet flapped the bladder attached to his sceptre
on the table. “_Hein!_ But Vibrac only illustrates what I was always
telling my little brother Francis, God rest his soul!”
“And that was?” asked two or three voices.
“That ambition and love will ruin the best man. My cousins of Guise
illustrate the first, and in Vibrac we have the proof of the second.”
“Mention them not in the same breath,” exclaimed Carouges, and the
jester answered, waving his sceptre up and down:
“_Oui-da!_ Vibrac was a good enough sword in the Spanish war, and in
the Milanese. No? No! I know more than you about this, Carouges, but,
of your grace, pass the Milan cheese--I am not yet thirsty enough.”
He helped himself to some cheese to whet his thirst, and, filling his
goblet, raised it to his lips. While he drank Quesnay took up the talk.
“But the other--Marcilly--he has not escaped, has he?”
“No,” said Carouges; “he dies to-morrow.”
My heart began to beat, and Brusquet, putting down his glass, stared at
Carouges.
“Come, Carouges, you jest. Vibrac has escaped, and all the other
prisoners are free.”
“I see, my King of the Cap and Bells, that there are some things that
you do not know. Yes, Marcilly has sinned against the Holy Office, and
he dies to-morrow on the Martroi, an hour after sunrise.”
There was silence for a moment, and I strained my ears to catch each
word. Then Brusquet asked:
“How do you know? Are you sure?”
Carouges shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“I command the guards at the scaffold,” he said. Whereupon the men
became silent once more, sipping their wine, and looking at one another.
“_Diable!_” said one. “What will come next?”
“A decree of the Court of Requests, granting the forfeited lands of
Chaumont and Duras to that loyal servant of the King, that faithful
shepherd of his flock, Achon, Abbot of St. Savin, Bishop of Arles, and
Archbishop designate of Sens.”
With that the jester rose as if to go, but Quesnay pulled at his cloak.
“Sit down,” he said, “and give us a song--our blood runs blue with this
talk.”
But Brusquet shook his head, while his strange, wrinkled face seemed to
become more and more sharp and acute, as he pointed in the direction of
the palace, where the dead King lay, and his voice shook a little as he
answered:
“Not to-night. There is some one lies there who loved to listen to me,
and who will listen no more; but he is still too near for me to sing.”
So saying, he flung a couple of gold pieces on the table, and, turning,
stepped out of the room. He was followed by the others. Outside I heard
their voices for a moment in laughing converse, and then they were gone.
And I--I sat there, my head buried in my bosom burning with remorse,
half mad with the tortures of memory. Marcilly was to die with
to-morrow’s light. The words seemed to hiss in my ears, and I--I
had slain him with a Judas kiss. Oh! I had got my revenge--but where
was its sweetness? I had plucked my Dead Sea fruit, and the ashes of
it were sere and bitter in my mouth. I called for some Cognac, and
sought to obtain a temporary release from my mental tortures in the
disgraceful oblivion of the drunken; but the fiery spirit had no more
effect upon me than if it had been water.
Sitting still became intolerable, so, paying my account, I went out
again into the night. I sought the city gates once more, but they were
closed, and, with a curse, I turned and retraced my steps. I was caged
in Orleans for the night. I again approached the cabaret, and stood
hesitating at the door. Then the thought of the conversation I had
overheard came upon me, and I turned away and hastened onward, going
I did not know where--and, indeed, I cared not. With the tireless
persistence of a madman, I walked for hours through street and square
and alley. I walked fast, seeking to weary myself, taking no notice of
anything, and must have made the circuit of the city at least twice.
It was late now. The hum of voices, the bustle of tramping feet had
died away, and I was alone on those gray roads, that stretched, wound,
turned, and twisted in all directions around me. Above floated the moon
in a cloudless sky, serene and stately, and under its ivory light I
plodded on, feverish and tireless, until at last I came to a halt near
the cloisters at the back of Ste. Croix.
I looked about me. In that shivering light all was silent and still.
Pure and white above me towered the temple of the Holy Rood, and to the
right the black mass of the palace loomed against the sky, a phantom
castle of cloudland. From two windows of the keep lights were burning
like twin stars. It was there they kept the death watch of the King. It
was there that the King’s Peace had come upon him, whose white lips had
offered it to us that night when we stood by his bedside. For a space I
watched the windows, and then moved hastily onward. The curse of Cain
was upon me, and I could not rest. But now my strength began to give
way, and the tremendous exertions of the past hours to tell upon me. I
held on, however, passing through the labyrinth of streets beyond the
cloisters, and drew up once more, utterly tired out, on the edge of a
deserted and barren stretch of ground, covered here and there with the
castaway rubbish of building materials. Across this waste was a small
row of ruined houses. They had been gutted by fire, and the blackened
and charred walls stood starkly up before me. Here, at any rate, was
a refuge where I might lie securely till the morning, and stepping
across the field, I slunk into the gaping doorway nearest to me, like
a wolf seeking his lair, and worn out and exhausted sank down upon a
heap of wreckage. But weary and broken though I was in body, my mind
was awake, and the eternal self-torment ceased not for a moment. In my
despair I dared to call upon God to have mercy upon me and ease me of
my pain. I know not if that prayer ever reached beyond the moonlight.
For a while I lay thus brooding, until my agony became once more
intolerable, and hunted me from my place of rest. I rose on my elbow,
when the sound of a sliding footstep and the crumbling of stones came
to me, and I waited startled and expectant. Who was this other wanderer
of the night that had sought the same dreary refuge as I had? Again I
heard the footstep, slow and stealthy, but light withal. The noise came
from within the house, and whoever it was must have entered before I
had. Where I lay it was black shadow, but streaming through the door
was a bright ribbon of moonlight, that stretched right in front of me,
and over which the new-comer would have to pass. For a time there was a
dead silence, then there was another cautious step, then another, and
at last, with a light bound, a misshapen, ape-like figure leaped into
the moonlight and stood glancing around. Strange and monstrous indeed
was the shape--the height that of a child, the body that of a man.
The long, black muscular arms, reaching below the knees, were bare. A
tattered red cloak hung to his shoulders, and his head, from which two
yellow eyes glared hideously, was bound up in a scarf that was wound
round the jaws. For a breath I thought it was some goblin of the night,
some evil spirit that stood before me in bodily presentment. Then the
thing made a strange, cackling noise from its throat, and I knew it was
Majolais.
And as I looked upon the dwarf a strange feeling, it was almost
gladness, came upon me. Hideous, hardly human as he was, I had at least
found one whom I knew, one who, in his own wild way, had shown a savage
affection for me for little kindnesses done.
“Majolais!” I cried softly.
The dwarf started. His eyes flashed as he crouched backward, peering
into the darkness, and the moonlight played on the shining blade of a
dagger in his hand.
“Majolais! It is I--Vibrac,” and rising, I approached him, but he had
already recognized my voice, and was at my feet, his frame trembling,
his poor, dumb throat choked with sobs.
I let the fit pass him, patting him gently on the shoulder as if he
were a dog, and for one brief moment, in the thought of another’s
sufferings, I forgot my own. We sat down together on a fallen rafter,
where the moon fell brightly on us, and I tried to talk to him and
to get him to explain, by signs if possible, how he had escaped from
Achon; but though he understood me he could not explain to me. He
unwound the scarf to show me his mutilated head, and on his body and
upon his arms were the cruel welts of the lash. These he showed me,
moaning and gibbering, and at each mention of Achon’s name he snarled
like a tiger-cat.
I sat on a fallen rafter, Majolais crouching at my feet, and we talked
for long. At least, I spoke, and gathered what I could from his signs
and the broken sounds he made. At last the moon sank and the dark hours
came. The dwarf drew the remnants of his cloak over his shoulders, and,
curling himself up like a dog, fell asleep.
But there came no rest for me, and with burning eyes I sat staring
through the darkness, where the black shadows took the form and
substance of mocking devils, that flitted backward and forward, gibing
at my fall. I had lost all. Wherever I went the shadow of my sin would
dog my footsteps. I had diced for my soul with the fiend, and lost. Is
there one who can win at that game?
Death! Yes, death offered its release; but I could not die by my own
hand. It would set the seal to my infamy; and then, there was another
life beyond the grave. I tried once more to pray for health and
strength, but a feeling I could not restrain choked the words on my
lips. For very shame I could not pray. I could not creep before God’s
throne to ask back what I had thrown away with both hands.
As I sat thus Majolais shivered and moaned. Poor wretch! The cold
struck him sorely, and removing my cloak, I cast it over him while
he slept. I then drew my doublet closer together, and in doing so
my fingers touched something soft. I took hold of it, and the faint
fragrance of violets came to me. It was the remains of the little
offering Yvonne de Mailly had made to me.
I removed the flowers and held them in my hand. They were soft,
delicate, and pure as the girl’s heart--and I--I had cast aside a
priceless gem that lay at my feet, to wander after an elf-light that
led me into the deeps. I put the flowers by carefully. They are with
me to this day. Sometimes I open my cabinet and look at them, and
as I gaze the withered blossoms seem to renew their freshness, and
their sweet scent to come back to them. And then I shut them up again
reverently, as things too sacred for the light.
Be this as it may, as I put aside the sad little gift there flickered
once more within me a faint hope. A way was pointed to me to seek the
death that I craved. There was something of honor in it. Yes, I would
die by Marcilly’s side. I could not save him; but I would try to, and
the clean sword that I wore would be used for the first and the last
time by me in a manner worthy of its brightness. Strength came to me
with the thought; and feverish and impatient, I watched the long hours
steal past, until the time came for me to go. I heard the Lauds, and
although it was still black darkness I could stay no longer. Stooping
down I shook Majolais by the shoulder. He awoke with a gasp and a
start, but recovered himself at once, and, as I resumed my cloak, he
seized and kissed my hand, his hot lips burning like a seal. I told him
I was going, and that he should, when it was light, seek the Princess
of Condé, there he would find rest and safety; but Majolais clung to my
cloak, and somehow made me understand that he would not be parted from
me. So we two went out of our refuge.
Long and slow was our passage. We must have wandered in the darkness
like derelict ships, but at last we reached the Martroi. The
watch-fires were burning, and here and there was the gleam of a torch,
or the flash of a light; for early as was the hour, dark as it was,
there were those who had already assembled to see a fellow-creature die.
Aided by the darkness, we approached near the scaffold. Close to it
were a series of wooden galleries, and, drawing my sword, I slipped
behind one of these, and waited for the time to come--it would not
be long now--when I should die sword in hand, and whiten, if only a
little, my stained shield.
Majolais was beside me when I took my place. I saw his yellow eyes
watching the sword, and, as if he understood, he drew his dagger
and felt the point of it with his finger. But I had no intention of
sacrificing him. I whispered to him to be gone. I told him in low,
quick words what I meant to do; but he remained immovable. Finally, I
threatened him angrily, but to no purpose, and I was about to resign
myself to fate, when a sudden idea seemed to possess him. He chuckled
like a night-jar, and, drawing himself up the hoardings, he crept along
them on all fours with cat-like agility, and vanished in the darkness.
I was glad he was gone. He knew where to go for safety, and this
business of mine had to be done alone.
And now the sky began to whiten, and night-fire and torch to pale at
the coming day. From all hands there was a murmur and hum of voices.
Ghostly figures swarmed in the galleries, and the tramp of feet echoed
from every side of the square. Slowly the day brightened, the hum and
bustle increased, while sometimes one heard a laugh or a cry, a rough
oath or a ribald jest, rise above the buzz of voices.
The block was not ten paces from me, and on the opposite side was a
gallery, with a balcony draped in velvet; but it was as yet unoccupied.
Suddenly there came the tramp of horses’ hoofs, the clash of arms,
a sharp order or two, and the space round the scaffold was filled
with armed men, who were so close to me that, from where I stood in
concealment, I could have touched the nearest with my hand. I heard
Carouges’ voice, and then a figure stepped from his side and mounted
the platform of the scaffold. It was a masked man, robed all in black,
with a long, two-handed sword over his shoulder. He stood by the
block, leaning on the cross-hilt of his sword, and so absorbed was I
in watching him, that I fairly started as I felt a cold hand on mine,
and looking down beheld Majolais. I signed to him to go, but for answer
he pointed between the slits of the boards toward the gallery opposite
to us. It was occupied now, and the malign countenance that looked out
thence upon the morning was that of Achon. The dwarf’s face was like
that of a devil; and then he suddenly and swiftly backed from me, and
was gone once more. I leaned forward and watched, and, as I did so, the
faint odor of something burning struck me. I glanced behind, but could
make out nothing, and my attention was taken off by Carouges, as he
spoke to another who stood by his side, wrapped in a long cloak.
“Are none of the Court coming? Is only he to be here?” Carouges made a
movement of his hand toward Achon, and it was Richelieu who answered
him.
“Oh! There are many in the galleries, but no royalties. They respect
the dead King. However, Monsieur of Arles, though he sits there alone,
is a host in himself.”
“Faith! If a host, he gives his guest a grewsome banquet,” laughed the
other, and then this idle talk was interrupted by a murmur from the
crowd that swelled to a roar, and then died away again in a death-like
silence.
“He comes!” said Richelieu in a low voice, and I tightened my grip on
my sword, and measured the distance for my rush to the scaffold.
The silence still continued. The crowd seemed to be spellbound; and now
the awful music of the death hymn fell upon our ears, and all strained
forward, eager and expectant. Slowly the chant came, nearer and yet
more near, louder and louder grew the solemn voices, and I could
catch each word of that song of praise to the Most High, misused so
blasphemously by those who called themselves His priests:
Quæso, Christe rex invicte,
Tu succure misero,
Sub extrema mortis hora
Quum jussus abiero,
Nullum in me jus tyranno
Præbeatur impio.
I could hear the sad words but could see nothing, except that Achon
had arisen, his white hands clasping the balustrade before him, and
his eyes peering downward in the direction of the voices. He looked,
as he stood, like some obscene bird of prey watching for his quarry to
come within striking distance. There was a movement among the soldiers,
who parted to make room for the doomed man, and then two by two the
mournful procession came into sight, the monks before and behind the
prisoner, chanting the last verse of the hymn. As they passed the
gallery beneath Achon they stopped for a moment, and he leaned forward
like a stooping vulture to look at Marcilly, and at that moment the
morning sun came out in glorious light, and with it a fresh breeze
arose. The two, destroyer and victim, faced each other, a smile of
infernal malice on Achon’s face, Marcilly pale, but calm and proud.
Then Achon made a slight gesture with his hand, the procession moved
onward, and I boldly stepped out of my concealment, and stood behind
the soldiers. No one noticed me--all eyes were on the man who was about
to die.
They had reached the death platform by this, the executioner had bowed
to his victim, when suddenly a roar of fright and horror burst from the
people, and dense volumes of smoke broke out from the galleries. There
was a wild shriek of “Fire! Fire!” There was a rushing and crowding
of human beings like sheep. Achon turned an alarmed face toward the
galleries, when, from beneath his own stand, a black cloud of smoke
came up, and the next instant the hangings had caught fire, and he
was enveloped in a circle of flame. For a moment the execution was
stayed. The guard gathered round the prisoner, hiding him from view;
and Richelieu, springing forward, attempted to scale the steps leading
to Achon’s gallery; but fell back beaten and baffled by the smoke. The
uproar was indescribable; but through it all, my heart leaped as I
heard the rattle of drums, and they were--my God! they were beating
the _Rappel d’Aunis_. But even as I heard this, and others heard it
too, we turned our eyes to the burning gallery, where Achon was alone.
The sunlight hid the flames, but now and then a warm orange flash
showed where they worked, and puffs of black smoke went up in long
spirals to the sky. The dry wood burnt merrily, the breeze fanned the
fire, and within his burning cage Achon ran to and fro like a mad
animal.
“Help! Help!” he shrieked. “Oh, God! Help!”
They would have given it if they could. Even I could not see him die
like this, and, forcing my way somehow through the crowd, I tried to
face the frail stairway, but ere I had gone four steps, the charred
wood broke, and I fell heavily. As I rose to my feet, blackened and
bruised, I saw Marcilly was safe. It was but a glance I gave; but it
was enough, for Cipierre was beside him, and the black uniforms of the
gendarmes of Aunis everywhere.
But for the moment all eyes were fixed on Achon. There were other, and
sadder, things going on elsewhere in the burning square, for there the
innocent were dying with the guilty; but here, where we were, this was
what froze us with horror, and moved us all to pity. Ay, pity! Though
he whom God’s hand was striking was the worst of men.
As yet the flames had not touched him, but leaped and danced around the
wretch as though playing with him, as though they meant to let him die
mentally a hundred deaths before the end came. Three times did he try
to break through, and three times we saw his face, evil, white, and
despairing, as he fell back, howling curses.
And now there was a yell of horror from those around us, horror and
terror unspeakable, and a monk, one of those who sang the death hymn,
cried out in a voice that rose shrill and high:
“’Tis the devil! The devil come for him!”
Achon had again dashed to the flaming balustrade, but this time not
alone. A black, misshapen thing was at his side, and two long black
arms were wound round his neck. He struggled and cried out in a broken
voice, and his glazed eyes shone with an awful terror, as he looked
at the hideous face pressing close to his. Down they fell together,
backward, to reappear again after a breathless movement. They strove
madly together. They were hardly human. So closely were they clenched,
so grimed were they both by the smoke, that it was barely possible to
distinguish the one from the other, and as they came to the edge of the
balcony, where the burning balustrade had dropped away, their limbs
writhed and worked, like that of some monstrous spider in an agony.
Beneath them was a hissing, seething pit of flame, and, balancing on
that perilous ledge, they fought together mutely. Long arms of fire
shot up to them from the blazing deep below, seeking to clutch them
and drag them down, but still they fought for the life that was already
lost to both. For one brief moment I caught Achon’s glance, and it
froze me to stone, for he was looking through me, and the terror of
that which lies beyond the grave, and who knows what besides, glared
from his eyes.
No one spoke. No one stirred, but all watched and watched for the
end. At last it came. For a breath the frightful pair swayed and
tottered together backward and forward, and then--fell, locked in their
death-grip, into the flames beneath.
A shuddering cry went up from the crowd, and then all was still. Once
we saw the dwarf, a dim figure, rise through the flames, and wave an
arm wildly, and then he vanished in the roaring fire.
* * * * *
My tale is done. It is not for me to tell the history of the time, or
to relate how the coming of the Constable gave a breath of peace to my
afflicted land. It is sufficient for me to say that, after the death of
Achon, the one enemy who would have troubled to harm me was removed.
As for the others, those whom I had betrayed to their death, and whom
God saved from their peril, they let me drop into oblivion. Here to my
own halls of Vibrac did I return. Here have I hidden my shame. Here
have I learned to repent. Who shall know the hours of agony, the days,
the years of penitence and bitter remorse that I have passed? No man!
But there is One who knows, One at whose feet I have knelt and humbled
myself with tears of blood; and He who despised not the thief on the
Cross will, perhaps, have mercy upon a broken and a contrite heart.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
On pages 1 and 280, chateaux has been changed to châteaux.
On page 5, added “my” missed by typesetter.
On page 37, Conde has been changed to Condé.
On page 52, dais has been changed to daïs.
On page 124, Chatelet has been changed to Châtelet.
On page 157, Chatillon has been changed to Châtillon.
On page 225, Bailleul has been changer to Baillieul.
On page 226, Crequy has been changed to Crequi.
On page 294, ansewred has been changed to answered.
Minor, silent changes have been made to clarify punctuation.
All other spelling, hyphenation and non-English words and phrases
have been left as typeset.