Finally, I request Messieurs La Rochefoucauld, Saragosse and

Lanoue, to be the tutors and guardians of my children.

Coligny was just finishing this testament, every line of which breathed

sincerity, straightforwardness, wisdom, modesty, the tenderest of

domestic virtues, faith in the holiness of his cause, love for France,

and horror of civil war, when Monsieur Lanoue entered the room with

indignation stamped upon his features. He held an open letter in his

hand, and was about to address Coligny, when the Admiral forestalled

him, saying:

"My friend, I have just written your name at the foot of my testament,

requesting you and Monsieur La Rochefoucauld kindly to accept the office

of guardians to my children, and those of my brother;" and extending his

hand to Lanoue: "You accept, do you not, this mark of my friendship and

confidence? Brought up under your eyes, my nephews and my children, if

it please God, will be honorable men and women."

"Monsieur," answered Lanoue with profound emotion, "in heart, at least,

I shall be worthy of the sacred mission that you honor me with."

"May people some day be able to say of my children and nephews: 'They

have the virtues of Lanoue!' God will then have granted my last prayer.

I entrust this testament to your hands, my friend. Keep it safe."

"It is not sealed, monsieur."

"Both my friends and my enemies are free to read it. What a man says to

God men may hear," replied the Admiral with ancient loftiness. "Here I

am now, settled with myself," the noble soldier proceeded to say; "now

let us consider the military preparations for the day."

"Oh, what a war!" cried Lanoue. "No, it is war no longer; it is

treachery; it is assassination! I have a letter from Paris. They send

me a copy of a missive to the Duke of Alencon from his brother, in the

Maurevert affair."

"The cowardly assassin of Mouy?"

"Yes, the cowardly assassin Maurevert, who came to our camp with the

mask of friendship, and who, profiting by the darkness of night and the

defenselessness of Mouy asleep, stabbed him to death, and immediately

took flight. Listen, Admiral, listen now to this! This is what Charles

IX, the present King of France, writes to his brother:

"To my brother the Duke of Alencon.

"My brother, in reward for the signal service rendered to me by

Charles of Louvier, Sieur of Maurevert, the bearer of these

presents, IT BEING HE WHO KILLED MOUY, _in the way that he will

narrate to you_, I request you, my brother, to bestow upon him the

collar of my Order, he being chosen and elected by the brothers of

the said Order a member of the same; and furthermore to see to it

that he, the said Maurevert, be gratified by the denizens and

residents of my good city of Paris _with some worthy present_ IN

KEEPING WITH HIS DESERTS, while I pray God, my brother, that He

keep you under His holy and worthy protection.

"Done at Plessis-les-Tours, the 1st day of June, 1569.

"Your good brother

"CHARLES."[69]

The Admiral listened stupefied.

"Never," observed Lanoue after reading the royal schedule, "never yet

was the glorification of assassination carried further than this! Oh,

Monsieur Admiral, you often made the remark--'You, as well as I and so

many others, are attached by heart and principle, if not to the King,

still to the Crown.' But this house of Valois will yet cover itself with

so many crimes that it will inspire hatred for monarchy. Do we not

already see springing up the desire for a federal republic, like the

federated Swiss cantons? The desire already has spread among many men of

honorable purposes, and it gains new supporters every day."

Nicholas Mouche appeared at this moment at the threshold of the door. "I

wager," he said to himself, "that the wholesome drink of chicory water

still lies forgotten." And approaching his master, he added: "Well,

Monsieur Admiral, the hour has elapsed!"

"What hour?" asked Coligny, whose thoughts were absorbed in the painful

reminiscences awakened by Lanoue's words, "what do you mean?"

"Your morning drink!" answered the trusty equerry; and turning from his

master: "Monsieur Lanoue, I entreat you; join me in making the Admiral

listen to reason. He knows that his surgeon, Monsieur Ambroise Pare,

strongly recommended to him chicory water when in the field, because the

Admiral often is twelve and fifteen hours at a stretch on horseback,

without once taking off his boots. Well, he refuses to follow the orders

of his physician."

"You hear the complaint of your worthy servant, Monsieur Admiral,"

remarked Lanoue smiling. "I agree with him; he is right. You should

follow the orders of Master Ambroise Pare."

"Come, come--it shall be as Monsieur Nicholas wishes," said Coligny,

taking the bowl from the table. He looked at the greenish color of the

decoction with visible repugnance, and carried the bowl to his lips.

At that very instant Odelin Lebrenn rushed into the chamber, dashed the

earthen vessel from Coligny's hands and crushed it under his feet,

crying:

"Thank God! I arrived in time!"

Lanoue, Nicholas Mouche and Coligny were stupefied. Breathless with

excitement and winded from a long and rapid run, Odelin Lebrenn leaned

with one hand against the table. He made a sign that he wished to speak

but could not yet. Finally he stammered out:

"A second later--and Monsieur Coligny would have been poisoned--by the

potion--he was about--to drink!"

"Great God!" cried Lanoue, growing pale, while Nicholas Mouche trembled

like an aspen leaf as he looked at his master.

"Explain yourself, Monsieur Lebrenn!" commanded the Admiral.

"This morning, when you were away from the room with your servants at

prayer, I came in to bring back your casque. I found Dominic here."

"That is so," said Nicholas Mouche; "he did not go to prayer with the

rest."

"Without being surprised at finding Dominic in his master's room,"

Odelin proceeded, "I noticed, notwithstanding, that he was pale and

confused. Later, God be blessed, I recalled the circumstance that, as I

came in, I saw him quickly step away from the table on which stood the

vessel which, as Nicholas afterwards told me, held the drink you take

every morning, Monsieur Admiral. Into that drink, into that chicory

water, Dominic dropped the poison."

"He!" exclaimed Coligny, horrified. "Impossible! A servant raised under

my own roof since his early childhood!"

"Oh, the wretch!" cried Nicholas Mouche. "This morning, seeing me

prepare the potion, Dominic asked me to let him attend to the matter. I

saw in that only a warning to be careful."

"My God!" put in Lanoue, who had remained dumb with horror and

indignation. "Providence can allow such crimes, only to inspire the

world with execration for their perpetrators. Can such wickedness be,

Monsieur Lebrenn?"

"Dominic has confessed all. The instigators of the murder are the Duke

of Anjou and the Count of La Riviere, a captain of the Duke's guards.

The temptation of a vast sum decided the assassin to undertake the

deed."

"Oh, Catherine De Medici, your children approve themselves worthy of

you! They emulate the example you have set them!" exclaimed Lanoue.

"But how did you discover the crime, Monsieur Lebrenn? Tell us."

"What I noticed this morning would have awakened my suspicions on the

spot, were it not for the hurried arrival of my son and the tidings he

brought me. I followed him in a great hurry. As we were passing by the

inn that lies not far from my place and where the horses of Monsieur

Coligny are stabled, I saw Dominic come out, riding bareback. His nag

bore evidence of having been bridled in great haste. Dominic departed at

a gallop. The man's frightened looks and his hurry to get off revived my

first suspicions. I ran after him calling out: 'Hold him!' 'Hold him!'

My uncle, the Franc-Taupin, together with some others of his men,

happened to be in the wretch's way. They jumped at the bridle of his

horse, and held him fast. As I caught up with them I shouted to him

point-blank: 'You poisoned the Admiral!' Surprise, fear and remorse

immediately drew from him a full confession of his crime. 'It is true,'

he answered. 'I repent it. The Duke of Anjou offered me a large sum to

poison my master--I yielded--the poison was handed to me--and I returned

to camp in order to commit the murder.' The instant I heard this, I ran

hither, leaving Dominic in the care of my son."

"Monsieur Lebrenn," said Coligny, grasping Odelin's hands with warmth,

"It is thirty and odd years ago that I met your worthy father at one of

the first councils of the reformers on Montmartre. I was then quite

young, while your father, an artisan employed at the printing

establishment of Robert Estienne already had rendered valiant services

to the cause. It is sweet to me to owe my life to you--to you, his

worthy son."

"The cannon!" suddenly called out Lanoue, listening to a muffled and

rumbling sound that came from afar, carried into the room by the early

morning breeze, "It is the rumbling sound of approaching cannon wheels.

The detonations succeed each other rapidly."

"Nicholas," said Coligny, without indicating any surprise, "look at my

pocket-watch. It must now be nearly ten o'clock."

"Yes, monsieur," answered the equerry after consulting the watch; "it is

nearly ten."

"La Rochefoucauld has executed my orders punctually. It shall not be

long before we shall see one of his officers arrive. Lanoue, let us be

ready to jump on horseback." And turning to his equerry: "Order the

horses brought to the door of the priory. Monsieur Lebrenn, I count upon

having your son at my side, as usual in action, to carry my orders."

"Here he is, monsieur," answered Odelin as Antonicq entered. "Where is

the wretch, my son?"

"Father, he repeated his confession, again accusing the Duke of Anjou

and the captain of the Duke's guards with having driven him to the

commission of the crime, which he seemed deeply to repent. The

exasperated soldiers executed instant justice upon the poisoner. They

hanged him. His corpse is now swinging from the branch of an oak."[70]

At this moment a Huguenot officer covered with dust appeared at the

threshold of the door. Monsieur Coligny said to him:

"I was waiting for you. Is the skirmish opened? Are all doing their duty

well?"

"Yes, monsieur. A few companies of the royal army answered our attack,

and have crossed the stream that covered their front."

"Monsieur La Rochefoucauld must have feigned a retreat towards the hill

of Haut Moulin, behind which are massed the twenty cavalry squadrons of

the Prince of Gerolstein. Have all my orders been executed?"

"Yes, monsieur. At the very moment that he despatched me to you,

Monsieur La Rochefoucauld was executing the retreat. The Prince was in

command of his cavalry. All the forces are in line of battle."

"All goes well," observed Coligny to Lanoue; "I ordered the Prince's

squadrons not to dismask and charge until the royal troops, drawn into

disorder by their pursuit of our men, shall have arrived at the foot of

the hill. We may expect a good result."

"Monsieur La Rochefoucauld also ordered me to make an important

communication to you. From some royalist prisoners we learned this

morning that the Queen and the Cardinal arrived in the camp of the Duke

of Anjou."

Upon hearing of Catherine De Medici's arrival, the Admiral reflected for

an instant, then drew near the table, dashed a few words down on a sheet

of paper and handed it to the officer, saying:

"Monsieur, return at your fastest, and deliver this order to Monsieur La

Rochefoucauld." And addressing Lanoue as the officer left on the wings

of the wind on his errand: "The presence of the Queen in the royal camp

may suggest to Marshal Tavannes the idea of engaging in a decisive

action. Come, my friend," he added, leaving the chamber, "I wish to

consult with the Princes of Orange and Nassau before taking horse."

CHAPTER V.

FAMILY FLOTSAM.

Almost immediately upon the arrival of Monsieur La Rochefoucauld's aide

at the Admiral's quarters, Odelin Lebrenn and Antonicq hastened to reach

their lodgings, where Anna Bell awaited them. The meeting between father

and daughter was delayed through the discovery of the crime that Coligny

was to be the victim of.

Odelin Lebrenn had set up his armorer's establishment on the ground

floor of a house in St. Yrieix which the inhabitants had abandoned.

Franz of Gerolstein, together with several noblemen of his suite and

their pages, occupied a set of rooms on the floor above, below them

being also the quarters of Odelin, his son and the Franc-Taupin. A straw

couch, large enough to accommodate the three, stood at the rear of the

apartment. Near a wide, open fireplace lay the hammers, the anvil and

the portable forge requisite for the armorer's work. Day was now far

advanced. Since morning Anna Bell had not left the lodging. Seated on a

wooden bench, and her head reclined upon her hands, she expectantly

turned her ears from time to time toward the street. The recent

agonizing bustle of the camp was now followed by solitude and silence.

All the troops, a few companies excepted that were left in charge of

the baggage, had marched out beyond the burg and its entrenchments, in

order to form in battle array about one league from the Admiral's

headquarters, he having prepared for a possible general engagement.

Odelin Lebrenn's first interview with Anna Bell was both tender and

painful. The father found again his daughter, once dearly beloved and

long wept as lost. But he found her soiled with the title of maid of

honor of Catherine De Medici! With distressing frankness the wretched

girl confessed to her father the disorders of her past life. Anna Bell

was just finishing her narrative when the general call to arms

resounded. Antonicq went to his post beside Monsieur Coligny, after

listening to the revelations of his sister; a few minutes later Odelin

also, yielding to the imperious voice of duty, left his weeping

daughter, to join the cavalry squadron in which he served as volunteer.

Left alone, Anna Bell fell a prey to cruel anxieties. Her father, her

brother and Franz of Gerolstein were about to run the dangers of a

battle. The confession wrung from her lips by a terrific necessity

seemed to render all the more profound, all the more grievous the love

of the young girl for the Prince. Now less than ever did she expect her

affection to be returned. Still she experienced a sort of bitter

consolation in the thought that Franz of Gerolstein was no longer

ignorant of her passionate devotion, and that, in order to save him from

poison, she risked her own life. The chaos of distressing thoughts, now

rendered all the more painful by her uneasiness for those whom she

loved, plunged Anna Bell into inexpressible agony. She counted the hours

with increasing anxiety. Toward night the roll of drums and blare of

trumpets resounded from afar. The young girl trembled and listened.

Presently she could distinguish the approaching tramp of horses' hoofs,

and not long thereafter she heard them stop before the lodging. Running

to the door, she opened it in the hope of seeing her brother and father.

Instead, she saw a page in the livery of the Prince of Gerolstein

holding a second horse by the reins.

"Monsieur," asked Anna Bell anxiously of the lad, "what news of the

battle?"

"There was no battle, mademoiselle, only a lively engagement of

outposts. The royalists were worsted," and swallowing a sigh, while

tears appeared in his eyes, he added, "but unfortunately my poor comrade

Wilhelm, one of the Prince of Gerolstein's pages, was killed in the

skirmish. I am leading back his horse."

"And the Prince?" inquired Anna Bell, nervously. "He has not been

wounded?"

"No, mademoiselle. I am riding ahead of monsieur; he is returning with

his squadrons," answered the page, alighting from his horse, and his

sighs and sobs redoubled, while the tears rolled down his cheeks.

At ease on the score of Franz of Gerolstein's life, Anna Bell had some

words of consolation for the afflicted page. "I am sorry for you," she

said; "to lose a friend at your age."

"Oh, mademoiselle. I loved him so dearly--he died so valiantly! An

arquebusier was taking aim at the Prince. Wilhelm threw himself in front

and received the ball in his chest. He dropped, never to rise again."

"Generous lad!" exclaimed Anna Bell, and silently she thought: "To die

for Franz! Under his own eyes. That is a death to be envied!"

"Poor Wilhelm!" continued the page sadly, "his last words were for his

mother. He asked me, if ever I return home again, to carry to her a sash

that she embroidered for him, and which he left at our lodging together

with his gala suit."

The lad's words seemed to have suggested an unexpected line of thought

to Anna Bell, when she suddenly saw Odelin from a distance, returning at

full gallop in the company of other horsemen. She cried: "There is

father! Thank God, he is not wounded. But where is brother?"

Not daring, out of a sense of modesty, to be seen by the strangers who

accompanied her father, Anna Bell stepped back into the room. Odelin led

his horse to a stable where also the horses of Franz of Gerolstein were

kept, and hastened back to join his daughter in the house. The girl ran

to him, kissed his hands respectfully several times, and said:

"Thank heaven, father, you are safe and sound--but brother, dear

Antonicq, did he also come off scathless?"

"You may feel at ease," answered Odelin, embracing his daughter,

"Antonicq is not wounded. Together with other volunteers he is escorting

a number of prisoners to places of safety in the camp. Poor child,

great must have been your anxiety since I left you. Come to your

father's arms!"

"Oh, I counted the hours--the minutes--"

"Let me embrace you again--and yet again," said Odelin with tears in his

eyes, and fondly holding her in his arms. "Oh, divine power of

happiness! It brings with it the balm of forgetfulness of the past! I

have found you again--dear child! In one day, years of sorrow are

blotted out!"

Hardly able to repress her tears, Anna Bell responded unrestrainedly to

Odelin's caresses. His ineffable clemency was not belied.

"Father," she said, "would you have me disarm you while we wait for

Antonicq? Your cuirass must tire you. Let me unbuckle it."

"Thank you, child," the armorer answered, as he stepped to a lanthorn

that hung from the wall, and lighted the same to dispel the shadows that

began to invade the apartment. He then took off his casque, loosened his

belt, and returned to his daughter: "But I shall remain armed. The

Admiral issued orders that the troops rest a few hours, take supper, and

hold themselves ready to march at a minute's notice."

"My God--is there another battle pending?"

"I do not know the projects of Admiral Coligny; all I know--and that is

all that is of importance to me--I know we have a few hours to

ourselves. Sit down there, dear child, so that the light of the lanthorn

may fall upon your face--I wish to behold you at my leisure. This

morning tears darkened my eyes almost continuously."

And after contemplating Anna Bell for a while with tender and silent

curiosity, Odelin resumed:

"Yes, your sweet beauty is such as your charming little girl's face gave

promise of. Oh! how often did I not leave my anvil and drop my hammer to

fondle your blonde head! Your hair has grown darker. In your infancy you

were as blonde as my sister Hena. Many a line in your face recalls hers.

She and I resembled each other. But your beautiful brown and velvety

eyes have remained the same--neither in color nor shape have they

changed. I find the dimple still on your chin, and the two little ones

on your cheeks each time you laughed, they also are still there--and you

were always laughing--my dear, dear child!"

"Oh! how happy those days must have been to me!" murmured the young

girl, as she recalled with bitter sorrow the hours of her innocent

childhood. "I then was near you, father, and near mother--and besides--"

Anna Bell could not finish the sentence. The distressed girl broke down

sobbing.

"Heaven and earth!" cried up the armorer, whose features, shortly before

illumined with happiness, now were overcast with grief. "To think that

you had to beg your bread! My poor child--perhaps beaten by the gypsy

woman who kidnapped you from the loving paternal roof!"

"Father," replied the poor girl with a look of profound grief, "those

days of misery were not my worst days. Oh, that I had always remained a

beggar!"

"I understand your thoughts, unhappy child! Let us drop those sad

recollections!" And stamping the floor furiously Odelin added: "Oh,

infamous Queen! Thou art the monster who debauched my child! A curse

upon thee and thy execrable brood!" After a painful silence, Odelin

proceeded abruptly: "Do! I conjure you! Let us never again return to the

past. Let us endeavor to bury it in everlasting oblivion!"

"Alas, father, even if your clemency were to forget, my conscience will

ever remember. It will every day remind me that I am a disgrace to my

family. Oh, God! My cheeks tingle with shame at the bare thought of

meeting my sister--and mother!"

"Your mother! You know not the depths of a mother's love, indulgence and

compassion. You return to her soiled, but repentant, and your mother

will forgive. Besides, you are not guilty--you are the victim of, not

the accomplice in, your past life. Your heart has remained pure, your

instincts honest and lofty; your tears, your remorse, your apprehensions

prove it to me. No, no! Be not afraid. Your mother and sister will

receive you with joy, with confidence. I am certain henceforth your life

will be ours, pure, modest, industrious! Oh, I know it--it is only that

that causes my heart to bleed, and my pity for you to redouble; you are

never to experience the austere yet sweet joys of a wife--and a

mother!"

Odelin remained for a moment steeped in silent rumination. After a pause

he proceeded:

"It is the severe punishment for a sin that it is allowed to none but

your own family to absolve you of. But your sister's children will be

your own. Your brother also is to marry. Cornelia, his sweetheart, is

worthy of our affection. You will silence the cravings of your own heart

in loving their children as you would have done your own. They will also

love you. You will spend your life near them and us. Come, take a

father's word for it--the domestic hearth is an inexhaustible source of

consolation for the sorrowful--an inexhaustible source of sweet joys and

healthy pleasures."

These warm and affectionate words moved Anna Bell so profoundly that,

dropping down upon her knees before her father, she covered his hands

and face with kisses and tears; and raising her eyes up to him, and

contemplating him with a kind of respectful admiration, "Oh, father!"

she exclaimed, "living image of God! Your goodness and compassion are

like only unto His!"

"Because you suffer, my poor child," replied Odelin, his eyes moist with

tears. And raising his daughter from the floor and placing her beside

him, he put his arm around her and covered her with renewed caresses.

"It is because you are to suffer still more--it is because you love--it

is because you are bound to love--and without hope!" the armorer

proceeded with solemnity. "Only this once, and never again shall I

mention this painful love. If I, your father, touch upon such a subject

with you, the reason is that it is impossible for me to blame the

choice of your heart. Franz of Gerolstein, by the strength of his

character, the generosity of his sentiments, the loftiness of his whole

life, deserves to be loved passionately. Alas, but for that unhappy

past, your love needed not be hopeless. Only a few hours ago, speaking

about you at a halt made by our troops, Franz of Gerolstein remarked to

me: 'Oh, that honor, the only barrier I may never leap, should separate

me forever from your daughter!' It was not a hollow consolation the

Prince was offering me. I know Franz's contempt for distinctions of

rank. Moreover we are of the same blood, our family comes from one

stock; but that fatal past--that is the unbridgeable abyss that

separates us forever from the Prince. That is why you inspire me with so

much pity. Yes, you are all the more endeared to me because you suffer,

and by reason of your future sufferings, poor dear child, so guiltless

of the sins you have committed!" added Odelin with renewed tenderness.

"But be brave, be brave, my child! Your hopeless love is at least

honorable and pure; you can nourish it without shame, in the secret

recesses of your heart. I shall say not another word upon that

ill-starred passion. When you are back among us and, although surrounded

by our affection, I shall see you at times lost in revery, sad, and

moist of eye, believe me, poor distressed soul, your father will

sympathize with your grief; each tear you drop will fall upon my heart."

Odelin was uttering these last words when his son hurried into the

apartment, looking sad and even bewildered. Anna Bell jumped up to meet

the young man, saying: "Thank God, brother, I see you back safe and

sound!"

Such was the preoccupation of Antonicq that, without answering his

sister, without taking notice of her, and even gently pushing her aside,

he approached his father, and taking him apart to the other end of the

room, spoke to him in a low and excited voice. Painfully affected at

seeing herself pushed out of the way by her brother, who seemed to have

neither a word nor a look for her in response to the gladness that she

expressed at his safe return from battle, the young girl imagined

herself despised by him.

"Alas!" thought the maid of honor, "my brother will not forgive my past

life; only a father's heart is capable of indulgence. Great God! If my

sister, my mother, were also to receive me with such disdain--perchance

aversion! I would rather die than expose myself to such treatment!"

Antonicq continued to speak with his father in a low voice. Suddenly

Odelin seemed to shudder, and hid his face in his hands. Profound

silence ensued. Anna Bell, more and more the prey of the shyness and

mistrust that conscious guilt inspires in a repentant soul, imagined

herself the subject of the mysterious conversation between her father

and brother. Odelin's features, lowering and angry, betokened disgust

and indignation. The words escaped him: "And yet, despite such revolting

horrors, I am bound to him by a sacred bond! Oh, a curse upon the day

that brought us together again! A curse upon the fatal discovery! But

once I shall have fulfilled that last duty, may heaven ever after

deliver me of his hated presence! Listen," added the armorer, and again

lowering his voice, he spoke to his son with intense earnestness,

closing with the statement: "Such is my plan!"

The conversation was again renewed in undertones between father and son.

Anna Bell had caught only fragments of her father's remarks. She was

convinced they spoke of her--and yet, only a minute before, Odelin was

so lovingly indulgent towards his erring daughter. In vain did the young

girl seek to fathom the cause of so sudden a change. What could the

fatal discovery be that Antonicq had just imparted to his father, and

seemed suddenly to incite his indignation and anger? Did she not lay her

past life bare to her father in all sincerity of heart? What could she

be accused of that she had not voluntarily confessed? A prey to profound

anxiety, the young girl's heart sank within her; her limbs trembled as

she saw her father hurriedly take up his sword and casque, and make

ready to leave with Antonicq.

The young man stepped to the couch of straw and pulled out of it a long,

wide cloak of a brown material with a scarlet hood attached, such as was

common among the Rochelois,[71] and helped his father to wrap himself in

it over his armor; Odelin then put on his casque, threw the hood over

it, and, without either look or word to his daughter, who, trembling and

with frightened eyes followed his movements, went out, followed by his

son.

Long did Anna Bell weep. When her tears ran dry, the young girl turned

her face to the future with sinister resolution. She considered herself

an object of disgust and aversion to her brother and father. Forsaken by

them, an unbridgeable abyss--honor--separated her forever from Franz of

Gerolstein. Nothing was left but to die. Suddenly a flash of joy

lightened her eyes, red with recent tears. She rose, stood erect, and

looking about said: "Yes, to die. But to die under Franz's eyes--to die

for him, like the young page killed this very day by throwing himself in

the path of the bullet that was to fell his master. The army is to

return to battle. The clothes, the horse of the page who was killed

to-day are all here!"

As these thoughts seethed in her mind, Anna Bell's eyes fell upon some

sheets of paper, a pen and ink in a broken cup lying on the mantlepiece.

The girl took them down with a sigh:

"Oh, father! Oh, brother! Despite your contempt and aversion, my last

thoughts will be of you!"

* * * * *

Herve Lebrenn, the incestuous wretch who raised a matricidal hand

against his mother, Fra Herve, the Cordelier, as he was called in the

royal army, deserved but too well the reputation for a fiery preacher

and leader of implacable sectarians. His sermons, lighted by a savage

style of eloquence, and coupled to acts of ferocity in battle, inspired

the Catholics with fanatic admiration. Wounded and made a prisoner in

the course of the engagement of that day, he was taken pinioned to St.

Yrieix and locked up in a dark cellar. The cellar door opened. The light

of a lanthorn partially dispelled the gloom of the subterranean cell.

Seated on the ground with his shoulders against the wall, Fra Herve saw

a man enter, wrapped in a brown mantle, the scarlet hood of which, being

wholly thrown over his head, concealed the face of the nocturnal

visitor. The visitor was Odelin Lebrenn. He closed the door behind him,

placed the lanthorn on the floor, and almost convulsed with wracking

emotions, silently contemplated his brother, who had not yet recognized

him. Odelin saw him now for the first time since the day when, still a

lad returning from Italy with Master Raimbaud, the armorer, he

involuntarily witnessed the torture and death of his sister Hena and

Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. Herve also attended the solemnity of his

sister's execution, in the company of Fra Girard, his evil genius.

Odelin Lebrenn looked with mute horror upon his imprisoned brother. The

lanthorn, placed upon the floor, threw upward a bright light streaked

with hard, black shadows upon the cadaverous, ascetic and haggard

features of Herve. His large, bald forehead, yellow and dirty, was tied

in a blood-stained bandage. The blood had flowed down from his wound,

dried up on one of his protruding cheek bones, and coagulated in the

hairs of his thick and matted beard. His brown and threadbare coat,

patched up in a score of places, was held around his waist by a cord

from which hung a chaplet of arquebus balls with a small crucifix of

lead. Rusty iron spurs were fastened with leather straps to his muddy

feet, shod in sandals. Fra Herve, unable to distinguish his brother's

face, shadowed as it was by the hood of the mantle, turned his head

slowly towards the visitor, and kneeling down with an expression of

gloomy disdain, said in a hollow voice:

"Is it death? I am ready!"

The Cordelier thereupon bowed down his large bald head, and raising his

fettered hands towards the roof of the cellar muttered in a low voice

the funeral invocation of the dying. Odelin threw back his hood, took up

the lanthorn, and held it so as to throw a clear light upon his face.

"Brother!" he called out to the monk in a voice that betrayed his

profound emotion. "I am Odelin Lebrenn!"

Without rising from his knees, Fra Herve threw himself back, and

examined for a moment the face of Odelin. At length he recognized him,

and, a sudden flash of hatred illumining his hollow eyes and an infernal

smile curling his livid lips, he cried:

"God has sent you! I shall spit out the truth into the face of the

apostate! Oh, that your father were also here!"

"Respect his memory--our father is dead!"

"Did he die impenitent?"

"He died in his faith!"

"He died damned!" replied Fra Herve with a savage guffaw. "Everlastingly

damned! The corruptor of my youth! The heretical leper! The sink of

pestilence! Damned along with his wife! It was Thy will, Oh, God! In Thy

wrath Thou didst so decree it. The flames of hell will be doubly hot to

them! Forever and ever will they be face to face with the spectacle of

their daughter, damned through their acts, and damned like themselves,

writhing in the midst of everlasting fires!"

"Do not take upon your lips the names of our sister, the poor martyr, or

of our mother, you wretched fanatic, author of all their sufferings!"

"'Our' mother! 'Our' father! 'Our' sister!" echoed back the monk, with

an outburst of sardonic laughter. "Look at the renegate! He dares invoke

bonds that are snapped, and are abhorred! Man--I have no father but the

vicar of Christ! No mother but the Church! No brothers but faithful

Catholics. Outside of that holy family--holy, thrice holy!--I see only

savage beasts, bent in their demoniacal rage upon tearing into shreds

the sacred body of my holy mother! And I kill them! I throttle them! I

immolate them to God, the avenger! Oh, how I grieve to think that you

did not fall, like the likes of you, under my heavy iron crucifix, which

the Holy Father blessed! What more beautiful holocaust could I offer to

the implacable anger of the Lord, than to say to Him as Abraham did on

the mountain: 'Lord! May the vapor of this blood rise to your nostrils.

This blood is twofold expiatory! It is my blood, it is the blood of my

family!'"

"Blood! Always blood!" echoed Odelin, shivering with disgust and horror.

"Herve, blood has intoxicated you. Like so many other priests, you are

the prey of a savage frenzy. A bloodthirsty dementia has dethroned your

reason. I have for you the pity that a furious madman inspires. After a

desperate resistance you fell into the power of a corps of Protestant

horsemen. My son was among them; he identified you by the mournful

celebrity that surrounds your name. His companions were of a mind to

kill you on the spot. He obtained from them a postponement of your

execution under the pretext that your death would be more exemplary

before the assembled ranks of our soldiers. My son's views prevailed.

You were taken to this place, to this cellar belonging to the priory

occupied by Admiral Coligny, who, thanks to God, escaped this day being

poisoned, escaped the latest abominable crime planned against him. You

were taken to this cell. My son just notified me of your capture and of

his desire to save you. I share his wishes--seeing that, unfortunately,

we are both children of one father. But for that I would have left you

to your fate. Your religion commands you to kill me; mine commands me to

save you. I shall untie your hands; you shall throw this mantle over

your shoulders and lower the hood over your head. My son is the only

watchman. He offered to the sentinel placed on guard over you to take

his place. The offer was accepted. We shall leave this cell together.

The Rochelois mantle will conceal your frock and remove suspicion. You

will follow me. I am known to all the people and soldiers whom we may

meet in crossing the courtyard of the Admiral's house. I hope to secure

your flight with the aid of this disguise. That duty, a sacred one to

me, I fulfil in the name of our parents who are no more--in the name of

those cherished beings who loved us so dearly."

"Oh, God, the Avenger!" exclaimed Herve with savage exaltation. "Ever

does Thy anger strike Thy enemies with blindness! Themselves they break

the chains of their immolators! Themselves they deliver themselves

defenseless into the hands of their implacable enemies!"

And stretching out his fettered hands to his brother, the monk added:

"Oh, thou vile instrument of the King of Kings! Free these hands from

their bonds! There is still work for them to do in cropping the bloody

field of heresy! There are still supporters of Satan for these hands to

exterminate!"

Calm and sad, Odelin loosed the fetters from Fra Herve's hands. Hardly

did the monk regain the free use of his arms than, darting a tiger's

look at his brother, he took two steps back, seized the heavy string of

leaden balls that hung from his girdle, swung it like a sling, and,

before his liberator, who stood stupefied at the brusque assault, had

time to protect himself, smote him several times on the head with the

heavy chaplet. Although considerably deadened by Odelin's casque, the

violent blows staggered the armorer. For a moment he seemed to reel on

his feet, but instantly recovering himself, he drew his sword at the

very moment that Fra Herve returned to the charge. Odelin parried the

blows, and, cutting with a back-stroke the string that held the balls,

caused them to slip off and roll down at the feet of the monk. Odelin

immediately threw his sword aside, but carried away with rage and

indignation, he dashed upon his brother, seized him by the throat, threw

him to the ground and pinned him down with his knees upon his chest. In

this struggle, Fra Herve, weakened by his wound, had the disadvantage.

He furiously bit Odelin's hand. The pain drew a piercing cry from

Odelin. The noise was heard by Antonicq, who stood on guard at the

outside of the door. The young man rushed in and saw his father at close

quarters with the monk, who, in his rage, kept his teeth in Odelin's

flesh and sought, after having penetrated to the bone, to crush his

brother's thumb between his teeth. Exasperated at the sight, Antonicq

picked up his father's sword and dealing with the handle of the weapon a

crushing blow upon Fra Herve's cheek, knocked in several of his teeth

and compelled him to release his prey. Odelin rose. Panting with fury

and exhausted by the violence of the struggle, the Cordelier sank upon

his knees; tore off the bandage from his head, thereby leaving a deep,

gaping wound exposed; and trembling with silent, savage rage, sought to

staunch the blood that poured in streams out of his mouth.

"My son, look at that monk," observed Odelin to Antonicq with a broken

voice. "There was a time when that man was full of tenderness and

respect for my father and mother. He cherished my sister and me. Brought

up like myself in the practice of justice, and gifted with exceptional

intelligence, he was the joy, the pride, the hope of our family. Look at

him now; shudder; there you see him the handiwork of the infamous clergy

of the papacy!"

"Oh, it is horrible!" exclaimed Antonicq, hiding his face in his hands.

And, suddenly startled by the sound of a distant tumult that reached the

depth of the cell across the profound silence of the night, the young

man listened for a moment and said: "Father, do you hear that noise? The

troops are on the march. The cavalry is moving."

"Yes," answered Odelin, listening in turn. "The Admiral must have

decided to surprise the royalist army before daybreak. The forces will

be shortly on the march. You remain on guard at the door of the cellar.

This prisoner is the object of so much hatred that they are likely to

come for him any moment, to put him to death before we deliver battle.

His cell will be found empty. You will answer that the man was my

brother and that I wished him to escape punishment. Before mounting your

horse, come for me at my lodging. We left your poor sister there. Our

sudden departure must have seemed strange to her, and may have caused

her anxiety. In my confusion I never thought of giving her a word of

comfort. Let us make haste."

And throwing his Rochelois cloak to Fra Herve, Odelin continued:

"If you care to escape death, put that cloak on and come. Towards you,

and despite yourself, I shall act as a brother."

"And I will pursue you with revengeful hatred, apostate!" answered the

monk with implacable resentment, rising to his feet and donning the

cloak. "The Lord delivers me through your hand. He has His purpose. I

shall be the exterminator of your heretical kin! March--lead my way

out--save me! God orders it--obey!"

Thanks to the disguise of Fra Herve, who was wrapped in a Rochelois

cloak like a large number of Protestant volunteers, Odelin succeeded in

aiding him to escape from the grounds of the priory where he was a

prisoner. The two thereupon crossed the streets of St. Yrieix, these

being crowded with soldiers hastening in silence to their several posts.

Intending to surprise the enemy in the morning by a forced night march,

the Admiral ordered the assembly of the forces to be done without beat

of drum. Odelin and Fra Herve saw not far from them the Franc-Taupin and

the Avengers of Israel as they crossed the road on their way to the

prison of the Cordelier whom they were to execute. A few minutes later,

led by his brother to the furthest end of the camp, Fra Herve vanished

in the dark, taking long strides, and hurling threats of vengeance and

anathema at his liberator.

Odelin hastened to return to his own lodging in order to comfort his

daughter and embrace her before going to battle. Anna Bell had vanished.

The room was empty. There was a letter left by her upon the armorer's

anvil.

CHAPTER VI.

THE BATTLE OF ROCHE-LA-BELLE.

The Protestant army, about twenty-five thousand strong, marched out of

St. Yrieix in profound silence at about one o'clock in the morning. The

black and sinuous line of battalions and squadrons was hardly

distinguishable from the surrounding darkness of the night, lighted only

by the scintillations of the stars. The column followed the winding of

the whitish road which was lost to sight in the distant horizon in the

direction towards Roche-la-Belle, the royalist encampment. The measured

step of the foot soldiers, the sonorous tramp of the cavalry, the

clinking of the armors, the jolting and rumbling of artillery

wheels--all these noises merged into one muffled and solemn sound.

Scouts, alert with eye and ear, and pistol in hand, preceded the

vanguard. At the head of the vanguard rode Admiral Coligny, with two

young men, one on either side--Henry of Bearn, the son of the brave Joan

of Albert, Queen of Navarre, and Conde, a son of the Prince of Conde,

whom Montesquiou assassinated. Other Protestant leaders, among them

Lanoue and Saragosse, followed in the Admiral's suite. On that morning

the Admiral rode a superb silver-grey Turkish horse that was wounded

under him at Jarnac, and which he preferred to all other mounts. A light

iron mail covered the neck, chest and crupper of the spirited steed.

Coligny himself wore his habitual armor of polished iron devoid of

ornament. His strong high boots reached up as far as his cuisses. His

floating white and wire-sleeved cloak allowed his cuirass to be seen.

His old battle sword hung from his belt. The butts of his long pistols

peeped from under his saddle-bow. He rode bowed down by years, sorrows

and the trials of so many campaigns. His venerable head seemed to bend

under the weight of his casque. He guided his horse with his left hand.

His right, gloved, reclined upon his cuisse. Suddenly he straightened up

in the saddle, reined in his horse, and said in a grave voice:

"Halt, messieurs!"

The order was repeated from rank to rank back to the rearmost of the

rear guard. One of the volunteers, who served as aide-de-camp to the

Admiral, rode forward at a gallop to carry to the scouts the order to

stop. An almost imperceptible shimmer began to whiten the horizon and

announced the approach of dawn. A tepid breeze rose from the west, and

became strong enough to chase the few clouds before it. These grew

denser; at first they veiled the stars; soon they seemed to invade the

whole firmament. Coligny attentively examined the aspect of the skies,

communicated his opinion to his escort, and said to his lieutenants:

"A west wind, rising at dawn, generally presages a rainy day. Messieurs,

we shall have to push the attack in lively style before the rain comes

down upon us, otherwise the fire of our infantry will be almost

useless."

And addressing Lanoue:

"My friend, the chiefs of divisions have my orders; let them be drawn up

for battle."

Lanoue and several other officers rode off to execute the instructions

of the Admiral. At this spot the road crossed a vast plateau more than a

league wide, upon which the Protestant army deployed its lines and took

up its positions. Coligny had Lanoue and John of Soubise for his

lieutenants. Prince Louis of Nassau commanded the right wing; La

Rochefoucauld the center, with Henry of Bearn, Conde, the Prince of

Orange, Wolfgang of Mansfeld and the Prince of Gerolstein under his

orders; finally, the left was in charge of Saragosse. Colonels Piles and

Baudine covered the right wing with their regiments; Colonels Rouvray

and Pouilly the left. The lancers and the artillery were distributed

along the two wings, while a strong cavalry force, consisting of twenty

squadrons, held itself in reserve, ready to ride into action supported

by several regiments of infantry.

In the measure that the light of dawn rendered the distant horizon more

distinct, the belfry of the church of Roche-la-Belle, the fortified town

occupied by the royalists, and lying about half a league away, could be

discerned from the highest point of the plateau where the Protestant

forces were deploying their lines. A black line along the dawn that

dimly lighted the horizon marked the royalist entrenchments.

Soon as the army was drawn up in battle formation, Coligny said to

Antonicq, one of the volunteers who served as aide-de-camp:

"Monsieur Lebrenn, convey to Colonel Plouernel my orders to push forward

with his regiment and six companies of auxiliaries. Recommend to him

above all to execute his march in the profoundest silence possible,

without either beat of drums or blare of trumpets. The enemy must be

taken by surprise. The colonel is to seize the lake road, which is

strongly defended. When that post is carried, return and notify me."

Antonicq left at a gallop for the extreme right wing, the post of

Colonel Plouernel, the younger brother of Count Neroweg of Plouernel,

who commanded the escort of Queen Catherine De Medici the day of her

arrival at the Abbey of St. Severin. The religious feuds threw the two

brothers into opposite camps--a not infrequent occurrence in those

unhappy days. In the course of the civil wars, the colonel, like so many

other Protestants, sought refuge in the city of La Rochelle. Odelin

thanks to the family archives left to him by his father Christian, knew

that the printer had met and was greatly gratified by the courtesy of

Colonel Plouernel on the occasion of one of the first councils held by

the reformers in the quarry of Montmartre, when he was known as the

Knight of Plouernel. One day, at La Rochelle, Odelin saw the knight, who

had become a colonel in the Huguenot army, enter his smithy. He came to

purchase arms, and noticing on the shield of the shop the name of

Lebrenn, inquired from the armorer whether any relationship existed

between him and the artisan once employed in the printing establishment

of Robert Estienne. Odelin answered that he was a son of the artisan,

and, agreeably impressed by the cordiality with which the colonel spoke

of his father, entered into friendly relations with the nobleman,

finding a singular charm in an acquaintance with one of the descendants

of that old Frankish family whose path the sons of Joel had so often

crossed, arms in hand, across the ages. In short, prizing more and more

the noble character, the generous heart and the artless manners of

Colonel Plouernel, a man free from all taint of family haughtiness and

imbued, as much as any, with the democratic principles of the

Reformation, Odelin informed the scion of the ancient house of Plouernel

of the accidental circumstance concerning the hereditary feud between

the two families both before and since the conquest of Clovis, and

communicated to him the passages of the domestic chronicles touching

upon those historic facts. By little and little an intimate friendship

sprang up between Odelin and Colonel Plouernel. The latter, having

married during one of the truces of the civil war a young lady of

Vannes, from whom he had two little boys, was forced to seek refuge in

La Rochelle with them and his wife when at last war broke out anew. He

hired a few vacant rooms from Odelin, being anxious to leave Madam

Plouernel with a family the virtues of which he appreciated. For

Antonicq, Odelin's son, he felt an almost paternal affection, there

being many years' difference between their ages. Being, thanks to his

bravery, his reputation, his military talents, and his experience in

the field, greatly esteemed among the Protestants, Colonel Plouernel

commanded in this campaign a regiment composed almost exclusively of

Bretons. His soldiers, however, although brave and zealous, were, like

all other volunteers, unfortunately prone to disregard discipline;

being, moreover, but ill broken to the pursuit of arms, they often

failed to appreciate the authority of skilful and prudent tactics,

preferring to listen to their own blind intrepidity. The Breton

regiment, together with the company of auxiliaries, numbered about three

thousand men. They stood drawn up for battle at the furthest extremity

of the right wing, when Antonicq, the carrier of the Admiral's orders,

arrived at a gallop before their front ranks. Some, being field

laborers, wore the ancient loose Gallic blouse, with hose fastened

around the waist by a belt, and woolen bonnets on their heads; others,

being either artisans or bourgeois from the cities, wore wide hose,

jackets laced in front in the Burgundian style, or brigandines, or coats

of mail or other defensive equipments, according to their several

tastes. The men's headgear also offered a varied aspect: casques,

morions, bassinets, slouch hats, bonnets ribbed with two iron hoops.

Neither were the offensive arms more uniform--lances, pikes, halberds,

antique swords, cross-bows, iron maces, cutlasses, hunting arquebuses,

field arquebuses, and pistols all being visible. Several wood-cutters

and their helpers were armed with hatchets, and some had scythes with

the edge turned out. The only uniform, or article common to all, was a

belt or shoulder sash of white material. These men, although presenting

a rather unmilitary appearance, displayed spirit and ardor. More than

once did it happen that the fury of their onslaught overthrew the best

royal troops, both infantry and cavalry, despite the latter's long

military training and discipline.

Armed like a German rider, with black casque, black cuirass and white

cloak, Colonel Plouernel bestrode a powerful Breton bay mare,

caparisoned in scarlet. When Antonicq approached him he was in

conversation with several officers of his regiment. Among these was the

Pastor Feron, a man gifted with exceptional energy, and of austere and

resolute mien. Often did he, like so many other ministers of the

Reformed religion, march to battle at the head of a troop, singing

psalms like the old bards of Gaul who marched in advance of the warriors

singing their heroic chants. More than once wounded, the clergyman Feron

inspired the Protestants with as much confidence as veneration. Antonicq

transmitted the orders of Admiral Coligny to Colonel Plouernel. The

latter immediately faced his troops and said to the captains who

surrounded him:

"The Admiral does us the honor of entrusting to us the lead in the

attack. We shall prove ourselves worthy of the distinction. We are to

take the royal army by surprise. It will soon be day, but the slope of

this hill, along the foot of which runs the road that we are to follow,

will hide us from the enemy's pickets. We shall be able to reach the

edge of the lake without being seen. Foreseeing the attack with which we

are charged, I have just commissioned the Franc-Taupin to proceed with

a picked body of determined men of his own corps and sound for a ford

across the lake. Return to your companies. Order the drummers and

trumpeters to remain quiet, and all your men to observe scrupulous

silence."

"Brothers," remonstrated Pastor Feron with elation, "why conceal our

approach from the Philistines? Does not the Lord lead the children of

Israel? Let us place our reliance on Him only, and the proud towers of

Zion will crumble before the breath of the Eternal. Let us march to the

attack, not like timid and slinking thieves, but openly, bravely, like

true soldiers of God! It was under the open sky that David vanquished

Goliath!"

"Yes, yes. No underhanded tactics!" cried several officers. "Let us

march straight upon the enemy, singing praises to the Lord. He is with

us. We shall vanquish."

"My friends," said Colonel Plouernel, "follow my advice. Let us proceed

with caution. The royal army is much our superior in numbers. We must

make up with tactics for our inferiority. Let us arrive noiselessly

before the vanguard of the enemy, you will not then lack for opportunity

to prove your valor. Place yourselves at the head of your companies, and

forward at the double quick, only in the profoundest silence."

The authority enjoyed by Colonel Plouernel, the wisdom of his orders,

the confidence of the volunteers in his bravery and military skill once

more carried the day over the seething impatience of his captains,

although Pastor Feron looked displeased with a manoeuvre in which he

imagined he saw a weakness and dissimulation unworthy of the children of

Israel. The officers took their posts, and the column advanced in

silence, with its right covered by the ridge of a long hill that

completely masked it on the side of the enemy's entrenchment. The road

that the column followed crossed a wide field covered with wild roses,

their petals heavy with the dew of night, and spreading an aromatic odor

far and wide. Colonel Plouernel inhaled with delight the early morning

fragrance, and addressing Antonicq, who rode beside him, said:

"Oh, my boy! This sweet perfume, these wild smells, remind me of the

moors of Brittany. I draw them in with full lungs."

"Brittany! It is the dream of my life! When I was still a boy my father

took us to Vannes, on a pilgrimage to the sacred stones of Karnak. They

rise not far from the spot where stood the cradle of our family at the

time of Julius Caesar. I being then too young to understand it, my

father only gave me a short account of our family history. Since then I

have read it from beginning to end. I now have but one uppermost desire,

and my father shares it. It is, should God put an end to these

disastrous wars, to leave La Rochelle and settle down in Vannes. We may

be able to purchase a patch of land on the seashore, near the stones of

Karnak."

"Those sacred stones, the surviving witnesses of the voluntary sacrifice

of your ancestress Hena, the virgin of the isle of Sen--that old

Armorica, the independence of which your ancestor Vortigern defended so

valiantly against the son of Charlemagne!"

"You may judge, colonel, what memories are awakened within us by that

single word--Brittany."

"Well, my boy, it occurred to me quite recently that your and your

father's wishes may easily be realized."

"How?"

"By virtue of his primogeniture, my brother is the sole owner of the

vast hereditary domains belonging to our family in Auvergne and in

Brittany. But the father of my dear wife Jocelyne, a good and honest

Breton who resides in Brittany, owns an estate that lies not far from

Karnak, along the seashore. Judging from what your father has told me of

your family traditions, the estate is bound to consist, partly at least,

of the fields once owned by your ancestor Joel the brenn of the tribe of

Karnak. Now, then, if God should grant us peace again, nothing would be

easier for me than to obtain from my wife's father either the sale or

lease of a portion of those fields, and you could then settle down there

with your family."

"Oh, colonel! I should be pleased to owe to you the happiness of living

in Brittany, near the cradle of my family, together with father and

mother, and my sisters, and Cornelia my sweetheart, who will then be my

wife!"

"And yet, strange to say, my boy, your ancestors and mine have hated and

fought each other across the ages. I must admit the fact--the law of

nature justified the terrible reprisals of the conquered upon their

conquerors, in those days of frightful oppression. It required the rude

school of the religious wars to join in one common belief the children

of Joel the Gaul and of Neroweg the Frank, as your father puts it. That

first step in Evangelical fraternity marks an immense progress. Thus

will traditional hatreds cool down little by little, and race

antagonisms will be wiped out, as they have been wiped out between our

two families, once such bitter enemies--"

"And now," Antonicq completed the sentence, "united by the bonds of firm

friendship. May the same be kept ever green among our descendants."

"It is my fervent hope, my dear Antonicq. I am bringing up my children

in that feeling. More than once have I cited to them incidents from your

family legends, to the end that their young minds may be penetrated with

the sense that the rights, the privileges, the titles of which the

nobility boasts so loudly, and which it guards so jealously, have for

their principle or origin the abominable acts of violence that conquest

brings in its train."

During the conversation between Colonel Plouernel and Antonicq the

regiment pursued its march under shelter of the ridge that it skirted.

The further end of the ridge sloped gradually down to the level of the

field, watered by the lake and the stream which protected the front of

the royal camp. The attacking column, which, obedient to the orders of

the Admiral, marched in silence, was expected to reach the open before

sunrise, and thus be able to open the assault unexpectedly upon the

strongly entrenched outposts, that were planted on the lake road. The

execution of the plan was frustrated by the martial impatience of the

volunteers, whom Pastor Feron in his exaltation drove to a fever heat of

excitement with his blind faith in the irresistible power of the arm of

Israel. The Huguenots were still half an hour's march from the enemy

when the pastor, who marched ahead of the silent drummers, suddenly

intoned in a ringing voice the psalm well known to the Protestants:

"The Eternal looks down from above,

Night and day from out the skies,

On all men bestowing love,

And nothing escapes His eyes.

"From His throne august,

The holy King and just

Sees below distinctly,

Of man the distant race,

Through th' abyss of space

Sees it all distinctly.

"Nor camps nor yet gendarmes,

Nor all the strong alarms

Can ever save a king!

Nor iron nor courage

Are of a good usage,

Oh, Lord, without Thy aid.

"Yes, God His wings doth spread,

On us His grace doth shed.

And ever mounteth guard

O'er those who Him esteem.

None other worthy deem

But only Him regard."

No sooner had the pastor struck up the psalm with its biblical poetry,

than each couplet was repeated in chorus by the Huguenots. Nothing could

be more solemn than that choir of three thousand male and sonorous

voices, rising from the silent plain, and seeming to salute with a

martial hymn the first rays of that day of battle. Nevertheless, sadly

inopportune, the canticle announced to the enemy the approach of the

Protestants. Driven to despair by the infraction of the Admiral's

orders, Colonel Plouernel sought at first to restore silence by

addressing himself to the foremost companies. Vain hope; vain

entreaties. The soldiers wrought themselves up with their own voice.

"Oh, this lack of discipline will ever be fatal to us!" observed Colonel

Plouernel to Antonicq. "Thus have we almost always either endangered the

success of a battle, or even lost the day that otherwise would

positively have been ours! But the error is committed. The enemy is

informed of our proximity. Let it at least be announced resolutely!"

And addressing the drummers:

"Boys, beat the double-quick!"

The drums immediately resounded without however drowning the voices of

the Protestants--an imposing military orchestra. The column hastened its

steps. After half an hour's rapid march its front ranks debouched into

the open field. Piercing a heavy bank of clouds, the first rays of the

sun crimsoned the face of a wide lake into which emptied a stream that

itself was fed by a number of streamlets which descended from an

elevated plateau, dominated by the burg of Roche-la-Belle. The lake and

main stream were hemmed in on the side of the royal entrenchments, and

constituted the enemy's first line of defense. A thick chestnut forest

rose to the left of the lake. The lake road ran at right angles, and was

fortified by an earthwork, furnished with embrasures, and these armed

with falconets. This light artillery could sweep the whole length of the

water-courses, which had to be crossed in order to attack a palisaded

ground, which, crenelated with loop-holes for the use of arquebusiers,

completed the defenses of the Catholic army. Finally, a number of heavy

guns, mounted upon a high embankment, could also play upon the

water-course. A cross-fire thus rendered the crossing doubly dangerous.

This particular peril would have been almost wholly escaped had the

Admiral's orders been obeyed. Had the attacking column arrived

noiselessly at break of day and taken the royalists by surprise when

still rolled in slumbers, and before they could hurry to their light and

heavy guns and form their ranks, the Huguenots could have crossed the

stream and, soon supported by their whole army corps, could have led a

powerful attack upon the enemy's position. It happened otherwise. The

reverberations of the hymn sung by the Huguenots sounded the reveille to

the enemy, and frustrated the Admiral's plans. From all sides the drums

of the Catholics were sounding the call to arms when the first company

of the Protestants debouched upon the plain. Colonel Plouernel ordered a

halt, alighted from his horse, gathered his captains around him and, in

order to avoid further mishaps said to them:

"We can no longer hope to take the enemy by surprise. I shall now

communicate to you my new plan of attack."

Hardly had Colonel Plouernel uttered these words when they heard a

lively rattle of arquebus fire from the lake road. He turned his eyes in

that direction, unable at first to conjecture against whom the fire

could be directed, seeing that he and his forces were beyond the reach

of the shot. Immediately, however, the ricochetting of the balls over

the surface of the lake attracted the colonel's attention, and he soon

perceived here and there, at a considerable distance from one another,

several casqued heads just above the surface of the water, and ever and

anon diving below with the view of escaping the fire of the

arquebusiers.

"It is the Franc-Taupin and his Avengers of Israel. They have been

sounding for a ford across the lake and the stream!" exclaimed the

colonel in high glee. "Their information will be of great use to us."

But immediately he cried out: "Oh! one of the brave men has been

struck!"

Indeed, one of the Avengers of Israel, who, following the example of the

Franc-Taupin, and in order not to offer his full body to the aim of the

enemy, crouched lower and lower in the measure that, as he drew nearer

to the reed-covered edge of the lake, the water grew shallower--one of

the Avengers of Israel was struck by a bullet full in the head. He

straightened up with a convulsive movement, threw his arms in the air,

reeled, and then dropped, immediately disappearing under the water,

whose surface at the spot reddened with his blood. The Franc-Taupin,

together with his other companions, continued to drag themselves up

through the reeds as far as the shore of the lake. Once there, the balls

could not reach them. They picked up their arms and munitions, which

they had left close to the bank, put on their cross-belts, and walked

towards the group of officers whom they saw at a distance, standing near

the last undulation of the ridge that still masked their column.

Antonicq, who had alighted from his horse together with Colonel

Plouernel, ran to meet the Franc-Taupin and threw his arms around the

brave old soldier, saying: "Heaven be thanked, you have had a narrow

escape from death!"

"Good morning, my boy!" answered Josephin. "But quit your

embracings--you will get wet; I am streaming water. In my young days I

played the mole, now in my old age I play the crawfish--so cease

embracing me. Besides, I am angry with you and your father--it was due

to you two that the scoundrel Herve escaped death. We found his prison

empty last night. Who but you winked at the demon's escape? I did not

know that you were placed on guard over him."

"Uncle, the bonds of blood--"

"By my sister's death! Did he respect the bonds of blood!"

And stepping towards Colonel Plouernel, he said:

"Colonel, this is the result of our explorations: We arrived here before

dawn; we left our horses at the ruined farm-house that you see yonder;

we then took to the water. The royalists were not on the watch. The lake

is fordable by cavalry from the point where the reeds run obliquely

into the water. The stream is fordable in all parts by infantry. The

water is not more than four feet deep at its deepest, and the bottom is

hard. If you wish to flank the entrenchment on the lake road, you will

have to ride up about three thousand feet on the side of the chestnut

wood. There you will find, running into the marsh, a long and wide

jetty. Ten men can walk abreast on it. It abutts on a palisaded

earthwork that can be easily taken. It is the weak side of the enemy's

defenses. You may rely upon the accuracy of these facts, colonel. I made

the reconnoissance myself."

"I know you are reliable, Josephin," answered Colonel Plouernel. "The

information you bring me confirms me in the plan of attack that I have

projected."

And stepping back to the group of officers whom Pastor Feron had just

joined, the colonel said:

"Gentlemen, the following is my plan--we would incur a useless loss of

men were we to make a front attack upon the lake road fortifications,

and the palisaded fort. The enemy is up. The stream that we would have

to wade is swept from right and left by a cross artillery fire. We will

divide our forces into three corps. The first, which I shall command,

will attempt to cross the stream, however perilous the feat, to the end

of attracting the enemy's fire upon us, while our second corps, masked

by the chestnut grove, shall march up to the jetty of the swamp in order

to take the road fortifications on the flank. Finally, our third corps

will move upon that other entrenchment which you see yonder where the

stream crosses. The attack being thus made upon three points at once,

the bulk of the army that comes close behind us will support our action.

The engagement will be hot. Let us spare the blood of our men all we

can. Courage and prudence."

"Still prudence! Still hesitation! notwithstanding the Lord fights for

our rights!" exclaimed Pastor Feron with burning enthusiasm. "We but

puff up the pride of the Philistines by not daring to attack them in

front! Pusillanimity! Lack of faith in God!"

"To divide our forces instead of overwhelming the enemy by concentrating

them upon one point?" put in one of the principal officers. "Did you

consider that, Colonel Plouernel?"

The exasperated colonel cried: "Rely upon my mature experience--to make

a front attack, and in mass, upon the enemy's position is as foolhardy

an enterprise as it is fraught with danger."

"Intrepidity is the strength of the children of Israel!" cried the

pastor in a louder voice. "United the children of Israel are invincible!

Let us all march! Side by side! Like brothers, forward! High our heads

and without fear! The finger of God points us the way!"

"Yes, yes! Let us attack in mass and with fury!" echoed most of the

officers. "Forward all! Holding close together, nothing can resist us!

God is with us!"

Alas, once again, as happened so often before in our wars, and to the

greater misfortune of our arms, blind foolhardiness, inexperience, lack

of discipline, and an exaggerated faith in the triumph of the cause,

prevailed over the wise counsels of an officer who had grown grey in

harness, and whose military science matched his bravery. First the

captains, soon the soldiers also, successively informed from rank to

rank upon the subject of the deliberation, and wrought up by the burning

words of the pastor, objected to a division of the forces, deeming that

such a move would weaken them; and, above all, fearing to seem to waver

in sight of the foe, they demanded aloud to be led in mass against the

enemy. Colonel Plouernel, who had a long experience with Breton

volunteers, and was too well acquainted with their proverbial

stubbornness, abandoned all thought of winning them over to his views.

Seeing the men elated to the point of delirious heroism, he calmly said

to the officers:

"Is it your wish? Well, let us march! Drummers, beat to the charge!

Forward, at the enemy! Battle, all along the line!"

Colonel Plouernel then drew his sword, clasped Antonicq's hand, and

said:

"My friend, we are marching to slaughter. If you escape the carnage that

I foresee, take my last adieus to my wife and little boys, and also to

your worthy father."

"These brave fellows are crazy! We shall be mowed down," observed the

Franc-Taupin in turn to Antonicq. "I would die without first having done

my twenty-five Catholic priests to death! The devil still owes me seven

of them. Be firm, my boy. Let us not be separated from each other. We

shall then at least both have the same stream for our tomb. To think of

it! I who in my young days loved wine so well, now to die in water!"

The column set itself in motion in a compact mass, at a quick pace, and

with drums beating at its head. Before the drummers marched Pastor

Feron, who again intoned a psalm that was speedily taken up in chorus by

the Protestants in the midst of a veritable hailstorm of balls and

bullets:

"God ever was both my life and my light!

Death, I defy thee! What have I to fear?

God's my support with His infinite might!

Have I not from Him my title quite clear?

"When the malignants did fire on me,

When they expected to tear out my heart,

Have I not seen them all thrown down by Thee,

Scattered, and smitten, and struck by Thy dart?

"Come, let a whole camp surround me on all sides,

Never my heart will be shaken with fright!

Close by my side, Oh! the Lord ever strides,

Need I to fear of a foe any blight?"

The battle raged with fury. Colonel Plouernel's apprehensions were

realized. Despite prodigies of intrepidity, his column, as it waded

through the stream in serried and compact ranks, was received in front

and from the two flanks by a terrific cross-fire of arquebuses and

artillery. Three-fourths of the volunteers fell under the torrent of

lead, even before reaching the middle of the stream. Wondering at the

length of this vanguard attack, the successful execution of which he

considered certain by entrusting it to Colonel Plouernel. Admiral

Coligny suddenly saw Antonicq Lebrenn riding back at top speed with his

thigh pierced by a bullet. Informed by Antonicq of the reason of the

disastrous result of the encounter, the Admiral promptly ordered

Colonels Bueil and Piles to proceed at their swiftest with their

respective regiments to the jetty, and take the road entrenchment from

the flank. Soubise, La Rochefoucauld and Saragosse received and, with

their wonted skill, executed another set of orders. Within shortly

battle was engaged all along the line, changing the aspect of the

conflict. The Huguenots' artillery responded to and silenced the fire

from the opposite side. Attacked in front, from the right and the left,

the royalists were dislodged from their entrenchments near the lake.

They retired behind the palisaded ground, from which they kept up a

murderous fire. But the palisade was broken through. First the infantry,

then the cavalry of the Protestants rushed through the breaches. A

stubborn melee ensued, and was at its height when the muffled rumbling

of distant thunder, immediately followed by heavy rain-drops from the

blackening sky overhead, announced the approach of the storm that

Coligny had that morning predicted.[72]

* * * * *

I, Antonicq Lebrenn, who write this account, am overcome with grief in

completing it. Its close revives sad memories.

After I informed Admiral Coligny of the check sustained by the column of

Colonel Plouernel, the kindhearted old man insisted that his own surgeon

dress my wound. Though painful, the wound did not prevent me from

keeping in the saddle. After being attended by the surgeon, I hastened

back to the thick of the battle. A large body of cavalry, commanded by

Marshal Tavannes, with the Duke of Anjou, brother of Charles IX, and

young Henry of Guise at his side, covered the right wing of the royalist

camp. Against that armed body of heavy and light troopers Admiral

Coligny hurled twenty squadrons of horsemen under the command of Prince

Franz of Gerolstein. It was at that moment that I rejoined the battle.

The thunder claps, now succeeding one another with increasing frequency

and vehemence, drowned the roar of the artillery. The storm was soon to

break out in all its fury. The Protestant cavalry was advancing at a

gallop three ranks deep upon the Catholic horsemen. Sword in hand, Franz

of Gerolstein led, a few paces in advance of his troopers. The Prince

was accompanied by his knights and pages. Among the latter was Anna

Bell. The dashing sight soon disappeared from before my eyes in the

cloud of pistol smoke, and the dust raised by the horses, as the two

opposing masses of riders met each other, pistol in hand and exchanged

fire. Suddenly I heard my father's voice calling to me:

"God sends you, my son! Come and fight by my side."

"Father," I said to him drawing up my horse beside his own, he being on

the right wing of our army and at the end of a line composed of

Rochelois volunteer horsemen who followed upon the heels of the charging

contingent of the Prince of Gerolstein, "did you have time to see my

sister again after you left me last night?"

"Alas, no; but I found a letter that she left behind, and--"

My father could proceed no further. Two regiments of mounted

arquebusiers under the command of Count Neroweg of Plouernel, the

colonel's brother, made a charge upon us with the object of isolating us

from the German troopers. The manoeuvre succeeded. The impetuosity of

the charge threw our ranks into disorder. The enemy broke through them.

We could no longer fight in line. A general melee ensued. It was a

combat of man to man. Despite the disorder I managed to remain at my

father's side. Fate drove us, him and me, face to face with Count

Neroweg of Plouernel, at whose side rode his son Odet, a lad of sixteen

years, and a great favorite with the Duke of Anjou. I heard the Count

cry to him:

"Courage, my boy! Strike hard, and kill as many of the enemy as you can!

Prove yourself worthy of the house of Neroweg!"

Almost immediately thereupon I saw the Count rise in his stirrups. His

sword was on the point of striking my father when the latter crushed the

shoulder of Neroweg with a pistol shot fired at close range. The Count

dropped his sword and uttered a piercing cry. His son raised his light

arquebus and took aim at my father, just then engaged in replacing his

pistol in its holster. Instantly, driven by two digs of my spurs, my

horse bounded forward, striking the steed of Odet of Plouernel breast

against breast; at the very moment that Odet discharged his arquebus

upon my father, I struck the lad so furious a blow with my saber that

his casque and skull were cleaved in two. Odet stretched out his arms,

and dropped backward bleeding upon the crupper of his horse. In the

meantime, my own steed, wounded in the loins by a severe cut, collapsed.

In falling, the heavy animal rolled over me, pressing with its full

weight upon my wounded thigh. Pain deprived me of the strength to

extricate myself. Several combatants trampled me under foot. My corselet

was torn open under the iron hoofs of the horses. My morion was knocked

in and flattened; pressed by its walls my skull felt as if cramped by a

vise. My eyes began to swim; I was about to faint, but a frightful

vision so stirred my soul at that moment that I seemed to revive. The

melee left in its wake upon the field of carnage the dead, the dying,

and the wounded among whom I lay. The spectacle I saw took place not far

from my right. A few paces from me, my father, unhorsed by the arquebus

of young Odet of Plouernel, raised himself livid, and sank again in a

sitting posture, carrying his hands to his cuirass which a bullet had

perforated. That same instant the diabolical cry smote my ears:

"Kill all! Kill all!"

And then, in the midst of the roll of thunder overhead, and across the

surrounding sheen of lightning flashes, there appeared before my

eyes--Fra Herve, mounted upon a small black horse with long flowing

mane, clad in his brown frock rolled up to his knees, and exposing his

fleshless legs, naked like his feet which were strapped in spurred

sandals wherewith he kicked his horse's flank and urged it onward. A

fresh bandage covered his recent wound and girded his hairless skull.

His hollow eyes sparkled with savage fury. Armed with a long cutlass

that dripped blood he continued to cry:

"Kill all! Kill all!"

The monk led to carnage a band of gallows-birds, the scum and refuse of

the Catholic army, whose duty it was to despatch the wounded with iron

maces, axes and knives. Herve recognized his brother Odelin, who, with

one hand upon his wound and the other on the ground, was essaying to

rise to his feet. An expression of satanic hatred lighted the face of

the Cordelier. He jumped down from his horse, and emitted a roar of

ferocious triumph. My father gave himself up for lost. Nevertheless he

made an attempt to soften the heart of his executioner, saying:

"Herve, brother! I have a wife and children. Last night I saved your

life!"

"Lord!" cried the priest, gasping for breath and raising his fiery eyes

and blood-stained cutlass to the thundering and lightning-lighted heaven

above. "God of Vengeance! God of the Catholics! Receive as a holocaust

the blood of Cain!"

And Fra Herve precipitated himself upon his brother, threw him down,

squatted upon his chest, seized his hair with one hand and with the

other brandished the cutlass. Odelin uttered a cry of horror, closed his

eyes and offered his throat. The fratricide was accomplished. Fra Herve

rose bespattered with his brother's blood, kicked the corpse with his

foot, and jumped back upon his horse yelling:

"Kill all! Slaughter all the wounded!"

My senses, until then held in suspense by the very terror of the

frightful spectacle, now abandoned me. I completely lost consciousness.

The carnage continued.

When I recovered from my swoon, I was lying on the straw in our smithy

and lodging at St. Yrieix. The Franc-Taupin and Colonel Plouernel sat

beside my couch. From them I learned the issue of the battle of

Roche-la-Belle. It was disastrous to the royalists; they were roundly

routed. The violent thunder storm, followed by a deluge of rain, did not

allow Admiral Coligny to pursue the retreating Catholic army. The

victorious Protestants re-entered St. Yrieix. The Franc-Taupin and his

Avengers of Israel, happening to pass by the spot where I lay motionless

under my horse, not far from my father's corpse, with his throat cut by

Fra Herve, recognized me and laid me upon a wagon used for transporting

the munitions of the artillery. The field of battle was ours. With the

help of his companions, the Franc-Taupin piously dug a grave in which

they buried my father.

Later I learned from the Prince of Gerolstein the sad fate that overtook

my sister, and I also found the letter which she wrote to my father. The

unfortunate girl, imagining herself despised and forsaken by us,

decided, she wrote, to die, and bade us her heartrending adieus.

Desirous that my father and his co-religionists be apprized of the dark

and bloody schemes of Catherine De Medici, Anna Bell reported in her

letter the secret conversation which the Queen had with Father Lefevre

on the subject of the reformers--a conversation that she overheard at

the Abbey of St. Severin. After having thus attested her attachment to

us to the very end, she obtained the consent of the Prince's page she

had spoken with, to don the clothes and ride the horse of the lad who

was killed at the skirmish of that morning. She looked forward to

meeting death beside Franz of Gerolstein. Alas! Her wish was realized.

She joined the Prince. As much surprised as alarmed at the girl's

purpose, he vainly entreated her to withdraw until after the shock

between the two mounted forces. Neither Anna Bell nor Franz of

Gerolstein was wounded at the first encounter. But shortly after, as the

German horsemen were re-crossing the stream in pursuit of the enemy's

cavalry, my sister was struck in the breast by a stray bullet from the

fleeing enemy, and fell from her horse into the river, where she was

drowned, without Franz, who was carried along by the impetus of his

troopers' charge, being able to return in time to save her.

Finally, informed by my account concerning the double encounter of his

brother, Count Neroweg, and Odet his son, with my father and myself,

Colonel Plouernel learned later that both had perished in the fight,

leaving him the head of the house, and sole heir of its vast domains.

Victorious at Roche-la-Belle, the Protestants were destined to suffer a

serious defeat in September of the same year. The royal and Protestant

armies met in Poitou, near the town of Montcontour. Coligny, much the

inferior in numbers, manoeuvred his forces with his customary skill, and

entrenched himself behind the River Dive. Sheltered by that almost

impregnable position, he wished to wait for the reinforcements promised

by Montgomery, who was in almost complete possession of Gascony. But, as

had happened so many times before, to the misfortune of the cause, and

despite all his firmness, Coligny saw himself constrained to yield to

the headlong impatience of his army, the greater part of which consisted

of volunteers. The campaign had lasted a long time. Captains and

soldiers had left their families, their property, their farms, their

fields and their homes to fly to the defense of their religion. They

were anxious to return to their hearths. Accordingly, hoping by means of

a victory to be able once more to impose peace upon Charles IX and

reconquer the free exercise of their religion, they were loud in their

demand for battle. Coligny yielded. On September 3, 1569, he delivered

battle to an army almost twice the size of his own. Despite the

prodigies of bravery displayed by the Huguenots, and although the

royalists sustained heavy losses, victory remained with the Catholics.

Nevertheless, after Montcontour, as after Jarnac, so far from allowing

himself to be disheartened by a reverse that he had foreseen and that he

had vainly sought to avoid, Coligny executed so threatening a retreat

that the Catholic army dared not pursue him. On the very night after the

defeat, the Protestant chieftains, assembled at Parthenay, despatched

couriers to Scotland, Germany and Switzerland appealing to their

co-religionists for support; collected the shattered fragments of their

armies; threw strong garrisons into Niort, St. Jean-d'Angely, Saintes

and La Rochelle; crossed the Charente; marched into Gascony to join

Montgomery, who was the master of that province; and Coligny renewed

hostilities with success, choosing as the basis of his operations the

Rivers Tarn and Garonne. Armed bands of intrepid Protestants harassed

and tired out the royal forces. Charles IX and his mother took the

Huguenots for annihilated after the defeats of Jarnac and Montcontour.

It was otherwise. The defeated men reappeared more determined, more

numerous, more zealous in the defense of their rights. Catherine De

Medici, more and more convinced that peace, and not war, offered the

sole means to put an end to the Huguenots, turned her thoughts more

resolutely than ever before to the execution of the infernal project

that Francis of Guise conceived at the time of the triumvirate, and

which she confided to the Jesuit Lefevre. She caused overtures to be

made to Coligny looking to a new treaty of peace. The royal advances

were met. The Admiral, together with several other Protestant chiefs,

deputed as the plenipotentiaries of the Huguenots, held long conferences

with the envoys of Charles IX, and finally, on August 10, 1570, a new

edict, the most favorable yet granted to the Protestants, was signed at

St. Germain.

The document provided in substance:

The memory of all past events is blotted out by both parties.

Freedom of conscience is implicitly granted throughout the kingdom.

None is henceforth to be constrained to commit any act forbidden by

his conscience in religious matters. No distinction exists between

Catholics and Protestants in the matter of admission to the

colleges, Universities, hospitals, asylums, or any other

institution of learning or of public charity. None shall be

prosecuted for past actions. Coligny and all other Protestant

chiefs are declared good and loyal subjects. Protestants are

qualified to hold all royal, seigniorial or municipal offices. All

decrees rendered against the Huguenots shall be stricken from the

judicial records. Finally, and in order to guarantee the execution

of the said edict, Charles IX places, as pledges for the term of

two years, the cities of La Rochelle, Cognac, Montauban, and La

Charite, in the hands of the Princes of Navarre, of Conde and of

twenty other Protestant Princes, the said towns to be places of

_refuge_ for all those who might not yet venture to return to their

own homes.[73]

Alas! those who, in the language of the edict, _might not yet venture to

return to their own homes_, despite the peace being signed, promulgated

and sworn to, justly suspected some new trap concealed under the lying

peace. Antonicq Lebrenn did not take his leave of Admiral Coligny and

Monsieur Lanoue until after the close of the war. They were informed by

him of the revelations contained in Anna Bell's letter to her father

Odelin, the letter wherein the maid of honor of Catherine De Medici

reported the conversation which she overheard between the infamous Queen

and the Jesuit Lefevre, in the course of which the Queen disclosed to

the Jesuit her project of lulling the suspicions of the Huguenots with

the false appearance of a peace, to the end of taking them by surprise,

unarmed and confiding, and exterminating them on one day throughout the

kingdom. The project seemed so monstrous to Coligny that he looked upon

it as only a chimera of delirious wickedness, and held it for

impracticable, if only on the ground of there not being murderers enough

to execute the butchery.

The Admiral deceived himself. There never is a lack of murderers in the

Catholic party. These rise by the thousand at the voice of the Roman

priests. All priests are potential murderers with a patent from their

faith.

CHAPTER VII.

"CONTRE-UN."[74]

Towards the end of the month of August in the year 1572, the Lebrenn

family was gathered one evening in the large hall that served for

storeroom to the arms turned out by the establishment of Antonicq

Lebrenn, who continued his father's trade at La Rochelle. The room had

the appearance of an arsenal. On the shelves along the walls lay arms of

all sorts in profusion--swords, daggers, sabers, cutlasses, pikes,

halberds, battle maces and axes; further off, long and short-barreled

arquebuses, pistols and some firearms of a novel fashion. These were

light and easy to handle, an invention of the celebrated Gaspard of

Milan, who gave them the name of "muskets;" finally, there was a large

display of casques, morions, cuirasses, corselets, brigandines, armlets,

shields and bucklers, some of the latter made of iron, others of wood

inlaid with sheets of steel. The workshop, with its furnaces, anvils and

other utensils, was situated behind the storeroom, where, on this day

the Lebrenn family, six in number, were congregated--Marcienne, Odelin's

widow; Antonicq, her son; Theresa, his sister, married three years

before to Louis Rennepont, the nephew of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr;

Josephin, the Franc-Taupin; Captain Mirant, Marcienne's brother; his

daughter Cornelia, the betrothed of Antonicq; and finally John Barbot, a

boilermaker, the widower of Jacqueline Barbot, who was the god-mother of

Anna Bell, and who died two years previously. In the assemblage were

also the two artisans of the establishment, Bois-Guillaume and Roland,

besides a fifteen-year-old apprentice whom they nicknamed "Serpentin."

Although it was the hour for rest, these different personages were not

idle. Marcienne, Odelin's widow, spun at her wheel. Clad in black, she

had made up her mind to remain in mourning for the rest of her life in

memory of the tragic deaths of her husband and her daughter, Anna Bell.

The widow's pronounced features, the cast of her face at once serious,

firm and kind, preserved the primitive type of the women of the

_Santones_, a race which, according to what historians tell us,

preserved itself pure from times immemorial, almost without admixture

with foreign strains since the olden days of Gaul. Theresa, Marcienne's

eldest daughter, was busy sewing, and from time to time cast a glance of

maternal solicitude upon her child, who lay asleep in a cradle that off

and on she rocked with her foot. Theresa expected with increasing

anxiety the return of her husband, Louis Rennepont, who, several weeks

before, left for Paris, whither he was deputed by the Rochelois, owing

to the vague yet increasing apprehensions entertained by the

Protestants, due to the circumstance that Coligny, together with almost

all the Protestant leaders, was drawn to Paris on the occasion of the

marriage of Henry of Bearn to the King's sister Marguerite. Theresa's

headgear was the time-honored and common one of the women of the

region--a high, white and pointed coif, adjusted to the coil of her

tresses. Her robe, made of grey bolting-cloth, was slashed with a red

front-piece, that partly covered her white and starched chemisette. From

the belt of her apron hung two long silver chains, at the lower end of

which were attached her penknife, scissors, a pin-cushion, some keys,

and other utensils inseparable from a good housekeeper. Near Theresa

Rennepont and behind her, Cornelia Mirant, her cousin, the betrothed of

Antonicq, was ironing some household linen. The face of Cornelia also

preserved in all their purity the characteristics of a Santone woman of

the heroic days of Gaul. A luxurious head of light chestnut hair with a

golden glint, twisted into strands and wound into a thick-topknot on her

head; a white and ruddy skin; a small forehead; light eyebrows of a

shade less brilliant than her hair and penciled in an almost straight

line above her orange-brown, flashing and resolute eyes; a straight

nose, prolonged in almost a straight line from the forehead, as seen in

the lofty statues of antiquity; a pair of fleshy and cherry-red lips; a

pronounced chin;--these features imparted to Cornelia's face a

strikingly lofty stamp. The girl's tall stature, her flexible neck, her

well rounded shoulders, her white and strong arms, the gentle contour of

her bosom, recalled the noble proportions of the Greek Pallas Athene.

With this virile appearance, Cornelia united the sportiveness, and the

sweet and coy charms of a maid. Dressed Rochelois fashion like her

cousin, Theresa, she had, in order to be at greater ease, rolled up the

sleeves of her robe, and the strong muscles of her arms, which were

white as marble, rose and fell with every impression of the hot iron

upon the linen that she was smoothing. Ever and anon, however, the iron

remained inactive for a moment. At such moments Cornelia raised her head

to listen more attentively to the reading with which Antonicq was

entertaining the assembled family; and her eyes would then bend upon

him, not with any furtive tenderness, but, on the contrary, endeavoring

to meet his own gaze with the serene confidence of a betrothed bride.

Cornelia's father, Captain Mirant, one of the most intrepid seamen of La

Rochelle, a man still in the full strength of his years, was engaged at

sketching some defenses that he deemed requisite to the safety of the

port. Near the captain sat his chum, John Barbot, the boilermaker of the

isle of Rhe. His wife, Anna Bell's god-mother, had died of grief. She

never could pardon herself for the loss of her god-child; after long

years of weeping over what she deemed her own negligence, the poor woman

sank into her grave. Not wishing to sit idly by, John Barbot was

furbishing a steel corselet with as much care as he would have done one

of the magnificent copper basins with artistic relievos, or one of his

tinplated iron sheets, which, set up in his boilermaker's shop, shone

with the glitter of gold or silver. A man of exceptional courage, above

all of great self-possession in the hour of danger, Barbot had taken

part in the late religious wars. Among other scars he wore one

inflicted by a saber cut, dealt so furiously that, after cropping the

boilermaker's left ear, it plowed through his cheek and carried away the

tip of his nose. Despite the mutilation, John Barbot's face preserved an

expression of unalterable good nature. The Franc-Taupin polished the

barrel of an arquebus just taken, tarnished and defaced, from the forge.

The old leader of the Avengers of Israel, the man to whom circumstances

had imparted an implacable ferocity towards papists, still always

carried, hanging from a string fastened to the buttonhole of his coat,

the little piece of wood on which, by means of notches, he kept tally of

the Catholic priests whom he killed in reprisal for the death of his

sister and the torture of Hena. The notches had now reached the number

of twenty-four. The implacable avenger was seated on the other side of

the cradle of Theresa's child, and shared the mother's duties of lightly

rocking it. Whenever the child woke up, the Franc-Taupin would drop the

barrel of the arquebus on his knees and smile to the baby--at least as

hard as the Franc-Taupin could smile. He lived on a small pension

granted to him by the municipality of La Rochelle, in reward for the

long years of service that he rendered in the capacity of sergeant of

the city archers. Josephin transferred to Antonicq, to Antonicq's sister

and to their mother the devoted attachment of which he gave so many

signal proofs to Christian Lebrenn and his wife Bridget, to their

daughter Hena and their son Odelin. Finally, the two artisans employed

in the shop, Bois-Guillaume and Roland, as well as Serpentin the

apprentice, occupied themselves with something or other connected with

their trade, more for the sake of keeping their hands busy than for

actual work, while they listened to Antonicq, who was reading aloud.

Antonicq read the _Contre-Un_, a work written by Estienne of La

Boetie,[75] who died about nine years before. Never yet did reason,

human dignity, the sense of justice, the holy love for freedom, the

whole-souled horror for tyranny, speak a language more eloquent and more

warm from the heart than the language spoken in that immortal book. It

was a cry of execration, an anathema against oppression. The avenging

cry, leaping from the indignant soul of a great citizen, caused all

noble hearts to vibrate responsively. Those pages, every word of which

breathes ardent conviction, steeled the faith of all the honorable

people, who finally at the end of their patience with the monstrous

crimes that royalty, the accomplice or tool of the Church of Rome, was

still soiled with in this century, were seriously considering, the same

as the Low Countries were doing, the advisability of following the

example of the Swiss cantons, which federated themselves in a Republic.

The work of Estienne of La Boetie, by calling upon all the oppressed to

resistance _Against-One_ who oppresses them, laid bare to them, with

terse and pitiless logic, the despicable causes of their _Voluntary

Servitude_, the original title of that admirable work.

Antonicq Lebrenn continued to read the _Contre-Un_ amid the profound

silence maintained by the assembled family:

"There are three species of tyrants, I speak of wicked princes: The

first have the kingdom by popular election; the second by force of

arms; the third by inheritance. Those who acquired it by the right

of war deport themselves as on conquered territory; those who are

born kings are usually no better; nourished in the blood of

tyranny, they take in the tyrant's nature with their milk, and look

upon their people as hereditary serfs. He, to whom the people

conferred the State, should (it would seem) be more endurable, and

so would he be, I hold, if, seeing himself raised above all others

and flattered by the undefinable thing called grandeur, he did not

generally bend his energies to preserve the power that the people

loaned him, and to transmit the same to his own children.

"Accordingly, to speak truthfully, I do perceive that there is some

difference between these different tyrants. But if one is to

choose, the difference ceases. The act of reigning remains

virtually the same--the elective ones govern as if they had bulls

to tame; the conquering ones look upon their people as their prey;

hereditary kings see in their subjects natural slaves.

"Speaking intelligently, it is a great misfortune to be subject to

a master of whom one can never be certain that he will be good,

seeing he ever has it in his power to be bad whenever it should so

please him. I do not mean at this point to debate the question, to

wit, Whether Republics are better than monarchy? If I wished to

consider that question, I should first wish to know, What rank

monarchy is to take among Republics, or if monarchy can at all rank

with Republics, considering the difficulty of believing that there

could be anything public in a government where _all belongs to

one_?

"I wish I could understand how it happens that so many citizens, so

many men, so many cities, so many nations often endure only a

tyrant, who has no power except that given to him; who has no power

to harm them but because of their own power to endure him! What! A

million men, miserably held in subjection, their necks under the

yoke, not compelled by force, but enchanted and charmed by the word

ONE, neither the power of whom they need fear, seeing he stands

alone; nor the qualities of whom they should love, seeing that, as

to them, he is inhuman and savage! Such is the weakness among us,

men!