A Gleam of Sunshine
"The heart beats, monsieur; faintly, but it beats."
"Are you sure, Jacques? Are you quite certain?"
"I can feel it plainly, monsieur. He has lost a great deal of blood. If
we move him the bleeding may begin again; I will fetch a surgeon to
dress his wounds here."
It seemed an age before Jacques returned with a surgeon, and meanwhile
Felix lay perfectly still. There was not the flutter of an eyelid, not
the twitching of a muscle; only by placing a hand over his heart could
one tell that he still lived.
The surgeon shook his head as he bound up the wounds, evidently having
little faith in my comrade's chance of recovery. We got him back to the
camp, however, where Jacques and I watched by turns all night at his
side. Toward morning he moved restlessly, and presently his eyes opened.
"Felix," I said softly, with a great joy at my heart, "Felix, do you
know me?"
"The flag!" he said feebly, "follow the flag! Forward, brave hearts!"
and he would have risen, but I held him down gently.
"The battle is over, Felix; we have won a great victory. It is I,
Edmond. You have been wounded, but are getting better. We found you on
the field."
"I dropped the flag," he said, smiling at me, but not knowing me.
"It is all right. We picked it up; it is here," and I placed it near
him. His hand closed lovingly round the silken folds, and his eyes were
filled with deep contentment.
Leaving the room quietly, I called to Jacques, saying, "He is awake, but
he does not recognize me."
"Give him time, monsieur; his brain is not yet clear, but he will come
round. Sit by him a while, so that he can see you; he will remember by
degrees."
Acting on this suggestion, I returned to the bedside and sat down, but
without speaking. Felix lay fingering the flag, but presently his eyes
sought mine, wonderingly at first, but afterwards with a gleam of
recognition in them.
I had sat thus for perhaps half an hour, when he called me by name, and
I bent over him with a throb of joy.
"Edmond," he said, "where are we? Is the battle over?"
"Yes, and Cossé has been badly beaten. You were hurt in the last
charge."
"Yes," he said slowly, "I remember. Ah, you found the flag!"
"It was lying beside you; your horse was killed."
"A pistol-shot," he said, "and a fellow cut at me with his sword at the
same time. But I am tired. Is the Admiral safe?"
"Yes, I am going to him now. Jacques will stay with you, and I will
send the surgeon."
Fearing lest he should overtax his strength, I went out, and after a
visit to the surgeon proceeded to Coligny's tent. My heart ached as I
gazed around at my comrades, and realized more fully what the victory
had cost us.
"Is Bellièvre likely to recover?" asked one.
"I hope so; he is quite sensible, but very weak."
"He did a splendid thing! The Admiral is very proud of him."
"That piece of information will go a long way toward pulling him
through!" I said.
Just then Coligny himself came from his tent, and hearing our talk
inquired kindly after my comrade.
"He is sensible, my lord, and I am hoping he may recover," I replied.
"I trust so; we cannot well afford to lose such a gallant lad. I must
come to see him presently, and tell him how much we owe him."
"That will do him more good than all the surgeon's skill!" I said.
The excitement of the closing scenes of the battle, the uncertainty as
to my comrade's fate, and the long night's watch had driven from my head
all remembrance of the incident connected with Henry of Bearn, but the
prince himself had not forgotten.
During the forenoon he came riding over to Coligny's quarters, debonair
and gracious as ever.
"I have come," said he to the Admiral, "not exactly to pay a debt, but
to acknowledge it. I owe my life to one of your gentlemen; but for his
bravery and skill with the sword Henry of Bearn would be food for the
worms. I trust he still lives to accept my thanks."
"Le Blanc! It is Le Blanc!" murmured my comrades.
"That is the name," said the prince with his frank smile, "and there is
the gentleman."
My comrades pushed me forward, and I advanced awkwardly, hot with
confusion, but--I have no false shame about admitting the truth--my
breast swelling with pride.
"Monsieur," exclaimed the prince genially, "yesterday we had leisure for
but little speech, and my thanks were necessarily of the scantiest.
To-day I wish to acknowledge before your comrades in arms that, when I
was sorely beset and had no thought except to sell my life dearly, you
came in the most gallant manner to my rescue. I have not much to offer
you, monsieur, beyond my friendship, but that is yours until the day of
my death."
He paused here, and, unbuckling his sword, placed it in my hands,
saying, "Here is the token of my promise. Should the day ever come when
you ask in vain anything that I can grant, let all men call Henry of
Bearn ingrate and traitor to his plighted word. I call you, my Lord
Admiral, and you, gentlemen, to witness."
I tried to say something in reply, but the words were choked in my
throat; not one would come. But a still higher honour was in
store for me. The Admiral--the great and good leader whom we all
worshipped--removing my sword, buckled on the prince's gift with his own
hands.
"I rejoice," said he speaking slowly as was his wont, "that the son of
the hero who died for the Cause at St. Jean d'Angely should thus add
honour to his father's name."
I managed to stammer out a few words, and then my comrades crowded
around, cheering me with generous enthusiasm. And, when the prince had
gone, I had the further happiness of conducting the Admiral to our tent,
and of hearing the words of praise he spoke to Felix, who would gladly
have died a thousand deaths to have secured such honour.
I said nothing to him that day of the prince's gracious gift--he had
already had as much excitement as he could bear--but Jacques, of course,
had heard of it, and the trusty fellow showed as much pride as if he
himself had received a patent of nobility. Roger Braund, too, came to
congratulate me, and his pleasure was so genuine that it made mine the
greater. Altogether I think that day after the battle of Arnay-le-Duc
was the most wonderful of my life.
The defeat of Marshal Cossé was so complete that we met with no further
opposition, but pushed on to Chatillon, the sleepy little town which had
the honour of being the birth-place of our noble chief. Having to attend
on the Admiral, I left my wounded comrade in the care of Jacques, who
made him as comfortable as possible in one of the wagons, and waited
upon him day and night. Whenever opportunity offered I rode back to see
him, and each time found to my delight that he was progressing
favourably.
At last we reached the town and rode along the main street through
groups of cheering citizens to the castle, a strong and massive fortress
with ample accommodation for thousands of persons. It stood in the midst
of a vast enclosure, surrounded by a deep and wide fosse; and the thick
walls, as Roger remarked, appeared capable of withstanding the assaults
of a well-equipped army.
Inside the enclosure were large gardens and handsome terraces, while the
huge tower, sixty feet high, looked down into a wide and spacious
courtyard.
"This is pleasant and comfortable," said Roger that same evening, "but
what does it mean? Why have we come here? I understood we were to march
on Paris."
"I do not know; there is some talk of peace. Several important
messengers were despatched post-haste to the king directly after the
defeat of Cossé."
Roger shrugged his shoulders. "I think it a mistake," he said; "one
should never come to terms with an enemy who is only half-beaten; it
gives him time to recover."
"Well, this is pleasanter than marching through Dauphigny."
"So it is," he agreed laughingly; "what a magnificent old place it is!
Your nobles are very powerful; almost too powerful for the king's
comfort I should fancy. How is Felix?"
"Getting well rapidly, and clamouring to leave his bed. As usual, he is
just a little too impatient."
"That is his chief failing," said Roger, "but he is a gallant fellow
nevertheless. I wonder how your mother and sister are!"
"If we stay here, as seems likely, I shall despatch Jacques on a visit
to Rochelle."
"Do not forget to say I send them my deepest respect and sympathy.
Indeed, Jacques might carry a little note from me."
"To my mother?" I asked mischievously.
"Of course," he replied, with a blush that became him well; but all the
same when, a few days later, Jacques started on his journey, I noticed
that Roger's letter was addressed to Jeanne. Perhaps being in a hurry he
had made a mistake!
We passed our time at Chatillon very pleasantly. Felix was soon able to
leave his bed, and every day increased his strength. The rumours of an
approaching peace became stronger, and at last it was announced that
Coligny had signed a treaty, which secured to those of the Religion
perfect freedom to worship as they pleased.
"As long as we keep our swords loose, and our horses saddled," said
Felix, "but no longer," and Roger, rather to my surprise, agreed with
him.
It was the time of evening, and we were walking on one of the terraces,
when Jacques rode slowly into the courtyard. He looked tired and
travel-stained, as was but natural, but his face wore a gloomy
expression that could not be due to fatigue. I went down to him quickly
with a sudden sinking of the heart.
"Well, Jacques, what news?" I cried, with forced cheerfulness.
"The country is quiet, monsieur, and the citizens are rejoicing in
Rochelle."
"I care nothing for Rochelle just now; 'tis of my mother and sister I
would hear. Are they well? Are they cheerful? Have they written to me?
Speak out, man; is your tongue in a knot?"
"I would it were," said he, "if that would alter the news I bring. You
must brace yourself, monsieur, to face another calamity. But here is a
letter from Mademoiselle Jeanne."
"From Jeanne?" I repeated, and at that I understood the truth. My mother
was dead!
I read the blotted and tear-stained paper with moist eyes. On the very
day when we started from Narbonne on our memorable march, my poor
mother, who had never really recovered from the shock of my father's
death, breathed her last. Concerning herself, Jeanne said little except
that she was living in the household of the Queen of Navarre, who was
holding her court at Rochelle.
After telling Felix and Roger the sad news, I went away to brood over my
sorrow alone. It was a heavy blow, and the heavier because so
unexpected. The chance that my mother might die during my absence had
never struck me, and I had been looking forward impatiently to meeting
her again.
Fortunately, the newly-signed peace brought me many active duties. The
army was disbanded, and most of our chiefs began their preparations for
a visit to Rochelle. Felix and I were kept busy, and indeed until the
journey began we had few idle moments.
The little band of Englishmen who had survived the war--gallant hearts,
they had spent themselves so recklessly that barely a dozen
remained--accompanied us, and naturally we saw a great deal of Roger.
"I suppose," said Felix to him one day, "that now you will return to
England?"
"My comrades are returning at once," he replied, "but I shall stay a
while longer; perhaps even pay a visit to Paris before I leave."
"If you wish to see Paris," said Felix, "it will be well to go quickly,
before the clouds burst again"; but Roger observed with a smile that he
intended to stay in Rochelle for a few weeks at least.
Our entry into the city was very different from that after the rout of
Montcontour. Cannon boomed, church bells rang merrily, the streets were
gay with flags and flowers and triumphal arches; while the citizens,
dressed in their best, with happy smiling faces, cheered until they were
hoarse, as the Admiral, with Henry of Bearn on his right and the
youthful Condé on his left, rode through the gateway.
Jeanne, with several of the queen's ladies, was sitting in the balcony
of the _Hôtel Coligny_. Catching sight of us, she stood up and waved her
hand, and we bowed low in our saddles, and smiled, and waved our hands
in return.
"Your sister is more beautiful than ever, Edmond," said my comrade
enthusiastically.
"She looked paler, I thought," I replied, as we turned into the
courtyard; "but now the war is over we shall have a chance to cheer her
a little."
"Did she see Roger Braund, do you think?"
"It is likely enough," I laughed; "he is a fair size, and sits up well
in the saddle," a harmless pleasantry which, to judge by his peevish
exclamation, Felix did not appreciate.
That evening we all met at the reception given by the Queen of Navarre,
a reception brilliant by reason of the number of brave men and beautiful
women assembled. I had spent an hour alone with Jeanne during the
afternoon, and she had told me of our mother's illness, and of her last
loving message to myself.
I asked how she came to be in the Queen of Navarre's household, and her
eyes kindled and her face flushed as she answered, "Oh, Edmond, the
queen has been the kindest of friends! She sought me out in my sorrow,
saying it was not right that the daughter of so brave a soldier as my
father should be left to bear her grief alone. She insisted on my
becoming one of her ladies-in-waiting, and ever since has done her best
to make me happy."
My sister was certainly very beautiful, and I could not wonder to see
the numbers of handsome and highborn cavaliers who clustered around her
that evening. But Jeanne was staunch and leal, and, though courteous to
all, it was in the company of her old friends Felix and Roger she found
her chief pleasure.
We four were chatting together, and Felix was describing in his lively
way some of our adventures, when Henry of Bearn drew near.
"Le Blanc," he exclaimed, looking at me, "surely it is Le Blanc!" and
taking my arm he added jovially, "come with me, I must present you
specially to my mother. She ought to know to whom she is indebted for
her son's life."
Jeanne looked at me in surprise, and as we moved away I heard Felix
saying, "I warrant he never told you a word of that. By my faith, one
could hardly blame him had he cried it from the housetops!"
Meanwhile the prince marched up the room, his arm placed affectionately
on my shoulder, and presented me to the gracious lady who was such a
tower of strength to the Cause.
"Madame," he said in his hearty way, "this is the cavalier of whom I
spoke. But for his courage Henry of Bearn would have been left lying on
the field at Arnay-le-Duc."
She gave me her hand to kiss, and thanked me graciously, saying that
while she or her son lived I should not want a true friend.
"Madame," I replied, "in taking my sister under your gracious protection
you have already shown your kindness."
"Your sister!" she said in surprise; "who is your sister?"
"Jeanne Le Blanc, whom your Majesty has honoured by making one of your
ladies-in-waiting."
"Then you must be the Sieur Le Blanc!"
"Edmond Le Blanc, your Majesty. My father sacrificed his title and his
lands, as well as his life, for the Cause!"
"How is this?" asked her son, and when I had related the story, he
declared roundly that, with the Admiral's support, he would force the
king to restore my rights.
Presently I withdrew, and Jeanne, to whom Felix had related the
adventure, kissed me and made much of me, to the envy of my two
comrades, who, poor fellows, had no pretty sister of their own. It was a
proud night for me, but the shadow of my parents' death lay on my
happiness, and I would gladly have sacrificed all my honours for their
presence.
"If life at Rochelle is to be as agreeable as this," remarked Roger,
with a glance at my sister, "I shall be loth to return to England."
"Then you can be no true Englishman!" laughed Jeanne, as she wished us
good-night before going to attend upon her royal mistress.