A Royal Marriage
I should probably have worried myself considerably over the strange
story related by Renaud L'Estang, but for the public events which
occurred almost immediately. On the very next morning we received orders
from the Admiral to be prepared to escort Henry of Navarre into the
capital.
My purse, fortunately, was not yet empty, for it was necessary to don a
mourning suit in order to show respect to the memory of the late queen.
"We must show ourselves as fine as those popinjays of Anjou's," said
Felix. "Fine feathers make fine birds in the eyes of the populace, and
we must let them see that Huguenot gentlemen are a match for those of
the king."
It was early morning of July 8, 1572, when about a dozen of us, all
splendidly, though sombrely attired, rode out from the courtyard of the
_Hôtel Coligny,_ and, passing quickly through the empty streets,
proceeded to meet the princely cavalcade.
Henry's retinue formed a striking and impressive spectacle. He was
attended by young Condé, the Cardinal of Bourbon, and our own beloved
chief. Behind them rode eight hundred gallant gentlemen, all in
mourning, the majority of whom had proved their zeal and devotion to the
Cause on more than one battle-field. We saluted the chiefs, and took our
places in the procession.
"I think even the Parisians will admit we do not make a very sorry
show," remarked Felix as we rode along.
At the gates of St. Jacques we were met by Monseigneur at the head of
fifteen hundred gorgeously attired horsemen. He greeted our leaders with
elaborate ceremony, but, as far as I could judge, with little goodwill,
and Catholics and Huguenots mingled together, forming one imposing body.
Young Condé and his brother, the Marquis, rode between Guise and the
Chevalier d'Angoulême; Henry himself was placed between the king's
brothers, Anjou and Alençon.
The streets were packed with dense crowds of citizens; every balcony was
filled, and fair ladies sat watching from the open windows. Here and
there men shouted lustily for Monseigneur, but for Henry of Navarre
there was no word of kindly welcome; we proceeded amidst a cold and
chilling silence.
"This may be a royal welcome," laughed one of my neighbours, "'tis
anything but a friendly one. Faith, I am beginning to think already that
we shall have as much need of our swords in Paris as ever we had at
Arnay-le-Duc."
"Bah!" cried Felix; "who wants the plaudits of a mob? These people are
but puppets, and the strings are pulled by the priests."
"The citizens are hardly reconciled yet to the new order of things,"
remarked one of Monseigneur's gentlemen; "but the strangeness will soon
wear off, and you will be as welcome in Paris as in Rochelle. It is not
strange that at present Anjou is their favourite; you must give them
time."
The speaker may have been right, but the hostile attitude with which the
citizens met us became stronger, when, having escorted the princes to
the palace, we broke up into small groups and rode towards our various
dwellings.
The sullen silence gave place to angry murmurs, and even to open
threats, especially when we passed the crosses and images at the corners
of the streets without raising our hats.
"Well," I said, as, entering the courtyard of the hotel, we gave our
animals to Jacques, "the king may desire the marriage, but it certainly
does not meet with the approval of the citizens. In truth, now that
to-day's ceremony is over, I am rather surprised to find myself alive."
"You are not the only one, Le Blanc," said De Guerchy, who was entering
with us; "I expected every moment to hear a cry of 'Kill the Huguenots!'
They say a bad beginning often leads to a good ending; let us hope this
will be a case in proof of it. But I wish the Admiral was in the midst
of us!"
"There lies the danger," I said; "a pistol-shot or the stroke of a
sword, and the streets of Paris will run with blood."
"They will," declared Felix fiercely, "if any harm happens to our
leader!"
When I came to think about these things in after days, it seemed strange
to remember how, through all the time of rejoicing and apparent
friendliness, there ran an uneasy feeling, for which even Henry's
chilling reception by the Parisians was not sufficient to account.
Our first thought in the morning and our last thought at night centred
upon the Admiral's safety. Absolutely fearless, and placing unbounded
confidence in the king's honesty, that chivalrous nobleman behaved as if
he were surrounded by loyal friends. He had consecrated his life to the
welfare of France, and no thought of self could turn him aside from his
duty.
His usual attendants were De Guerchy and Des Pruneaux, and with them he
would set out from his residence to transact his business with the king
at the Louvre. But, unknown to him, two of us always went a little
ahead, while two followed closely in the rear. We carefully avoided
drawing attention to ourselves, but our eyes sought every passer-by and
examined every window where an assassin might lurk.
Thus the time passed between hopes and fears. There was little talk now
of the war with Spain, and it began to be understood that the subject
would not be pursued until after the marriage.
Being so fully occupied we saw little of Jeanne during these days, but
one evening Felix and I started to pay her a visit. It was the first
week in August, the day had been hot, and most of the citizens were out
of doors seeking the cool air.
"One minute, monsieur!"
We were at the bottom of the steps in front of the Countess Guichy's
hotel, but, recognizing the voice, I stopped and turned.
"Is it you, L'Estang?" I said.
"Hush! It would be as well to call me D'Angely. You have been followed
here from the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. A strange man, now hiding on the other
side of the road, has been watching you for these two days past. The
populace have no love for a Huguenot gentleman."
"What is the fellow like?" I asked.
"He keeps himself well muffled; he is about your own height and build;
that is all I can discover. But I believe he has been hired by Cordel.
Take care not to expose yourself too freely."
"Many thanks," I said, as he disappeared.
"'Tis almost a pity," exclaimed Felix, "that you interfered with your
peasants. You should have let them rid you of that rascally lawyer while
they were in the mood."
"Nonsense!" I replied, "you are talking wildly. Of course there must be
no word of this to Jeanne."
"I am not likely to alarm her!" he replied, and ran lightly up the
steps.
The ladies were full of the approaching ceremony, and could talk of
nothing but stomachers and brilliants and gold lace and such like stuff,
without which they seemed to imply there could be no wedding at all. The
countess, who had arranged for Jeanne to form one of the young bride's
attendants, had been spending money lavishly on a wonderful dress, and
she declared laughingly that when Henry saw my sister he would wish she
could change places with Margaret; at which Felix remarked it would
certainly show his good taste.
Jeanne laughed and blushed, calling him a flatterer, but she was very
happy, and her eyes were sparkling with pleasure.
As our visit drew to a close, she contrived to whisper: "I have heard
from your English friend. A messenger from La Rochelle brought me a
letter yesterday. He is coming to see you shortly; he may be in France
already."
"Oh," I replied, "unless he comes quickly he may have to travel as far
as Flanders; that is," I added, slily "if he really wishes to see me."
"Of course he does," she answered gaily, "and to visit Paris; he has set
his heart on seeing our capital."
Although very fond of Roger Braund, I felt, somehow, rather sorry to
hear Jeanne's news, and, as we left the house, my comrade rallied me on
my thoughtfulness.
"Come," said he briskly, "we must hurry; the Admiral does not like our
being abroad so late," at which, remembering how persistently he had
refused to leave earlier, I laughed heartily.
The streets were for the most part deserted; but in spite of the late
hour it was not dark.
"Listen!" exclaimed Felix suddenly, "there is some one following us; he
is coming at a quick pace, as if trying to overtake us. Perhaps it is
your quixotic adventurer friend, with a further warning."
"No," I replied, "L'Estang is not so heavy; he is more cat-footed. 'Tis
some belated wayfarer like ourselves, in a hurry to reach his lodgings."
The man caught us up, gave a surly growl in response to our
"Good-night," and passed on rapidly.
"'Tis plain that all the boors do not live in the country," remarked
Felix, as the fellow disappeared. "I thought all Parisians were noted
for their good breeding."
"Another mistake corrected, my friend. As we grow older--ah! After him,
quick!"
A bullet had whizzed past my head, cutting, as I found later, the
feather stuck jauntily in my hat--for we did not choose that Anjou's
gentlemen should exhibit all the airs and graces. The shot was fired
from a low entry, and before the noise of the report had died away
Felix, who kept his wits wonderfully, darted inside.
In another instant I had joined him, and we raced together up the narrow
court.
"There he is!" I cried; "ah, he is climbing the wall!"
Felix being the swifter runner drew ahead, but he was too late. The
assassin, straddling the wall, struck him furiously with his arquebus,
and my comrade fell. I bent over him in an agony of fright, but he
struggled to his feet, saying, "It is all right, Edmond; he has raised a
lump on my head, nothing more; but I fear he has escaped."
"Yes, we should only lose ourselves trying to follow him there. Are you
sure you are not hurt?"
"Quite sure. My head will ache for an hour or two, but I shall be all
right in the morning. I suppose that bullet was meant for you!"
"There can be little doubt of it. L'Estang must have had good ground for
his warning."
"You will have to put an end to this, Edmond."
"As soon as this marriage is over, the Admiral has promised to make
another appeal to the king. With Henry to speak a word for me as well, I
think Charles will restore my estates. At all events, there is the
Spanish war in sight, and Cordel isn't likely to follow me to Flanders."
I spoke lightly, but this second attempt on my life was really a serious
matter, showing as it did that my enemy had not abandoned his design.
The next few days, however, were very busy ones, and the course of
events gave me little leisure for brooding over my own dangerous
position.
The betrothal of the royal pair took place on August 17, at the Louvre,
and was followed by a supper and a ball. Then, according to custom, the
bride was escorted by the king and queen, the queen-mother, monseigneur,
and the leading princes and nobles to the palace of the Bishop of Paris,
where she was to spend the night.
The actual ceremony was fixed for the next day, and we at the _Hôtel
Coligny_ were up betimes. Strangely enough, the uneasy feeling of which
I have spoken had increased rather than lessened, though no one could
give any reason for this growing apprehension.
Everything was going well; there was no fresh cause for alarm, and yet
there was not a man amongst us--unless we except our noble leader--who
did not wish the day well over. He was in the highest of spirits,
looking upon the marriage as a public proof that henceforth Charles
intended to rule all his subjects with equal justice. Perhaps he did!
The day was gloriously fine, and hours before the time announced for the
ceremony the streets were thronged with dense crowds of citizens. On the
open space in front of Notre Dame a gorgeous pavilion, in which the
marriage was to be solemnized, had been erected.
Coligny was accompanied by certain of his gentlemen, but most of us were
stationed outside the pavilion. The people glared at us scowlingly, and
even when the grand procession passed on the way to escort Margaret from
the palace they remained mute.
Yet for those who enjoy idle shows it was a pretty spectacle. Charles,
Henry, and Condé, with some idea perhaps of showing their affection for
each other, were all dressed alike, in pale yellow satin, embroidered
with silver, and adorned with pearls and precious stones. Anjou, who was
even more magnificently attired, had a set of thirty-two pearls in his
toque, while the noble dames were gorgeous in rich brocades, and velvets
interwoven with gold and silver.
"If the people had their way," whispered Felix, as the grand cavalcade
swept by, "Henry would be going to his funeral instead of to his
marriage, and there would be few of us left to mourn him."
From the Bishop's palace to the pavilion stretched a raised covered
platform, and presently there was a slight craning of necks, and the
citizens showed some faint interest, as the head of the bridal
procession appeared in sight.
First came the archbishops and bishops in their copes of cloth of gold;
then the cardinals in their scarlet robes, and the Knights of St.
Michael, their breasts glittering with orders; but not a cheer was
raised until young Henry of Guise appeared, when it was easy to tell who
was the favourite of the Parisians.
I regarded him with much interest. He was only twenty-two years old;
tall and handsome, with a lissom figure and an air of easy grace that
became him well. His eyes were keen and bright; he wore a light beard,
and a profusion of curly hair. Altogether, he looked a very dashing and
accomplished nobleman.
"There she is!" cried Felix suddenly; "do you see her? Could any one
look more lovely?"
"She is certainly magnificent."
"Bah!" he interrupted in disgust, "you are looking at Margaret. 'Tis
Jeanne I am speaking of--your sister. Edmond, you are more blind than a
mole!"
There really was some excuse for his extravagant praise, for even
amongst that galaxy of beauty Jeanne shone with a loveliness all her
own, and Felix was not the only one of my comrades to declare that she
was the most beautiful of all that glittering throng.
But the centre of attraction was Margaret herself, still only a girl of
twenty, with a beautifully clear complexion and bright black eyes full
of fire and spirit. She was truly a royal bride, gracious, dignified,
queenly Magnificent brilliants sparkled in her glossy hair; her
stomacher was set with lustrous pearls; her dress was of cloth of gold,
and gold lace fringed her dainty handkerchief and gloves.
"A magnificent creature to look at!" grunted the man next to me, "but I
would prefer my wife to be a trifle more womanly."
At length they had all passed into the pavilion, and when the ceremony
was concluded Henry led his bride into the cathedral, afterwards joining
Coligny, Condé, and a few other Huguenot gentlemen, who walked up and
down the close, conversing earnestly together.
Leaving the Admiral at the Louvre with a small escort, we returned to
the _Hôtel Coligny_, discussing the great event of the day. The citizens
were slowly dispersing, and as we passed some of them muttered violent
threats against the Huguenots; others cheered for Henry of Guise, a few
raised a cheer for Monseigneur, but I did not hear a word of welcome for
the king, or for Henry of Navarre, or for our own noble leader--the most
chivalrous of them all.
[Illustration: "Some of them as we passed muttered violent threats."]
"Charles hasn't increased his popularity by this marriage!" I remarked.
"No," said one of my comrades, "he has lost ground among the Parisians.
It will frighten him; he will be more afraid of Guise than ever. How the
fools roared for the duke! Perhaps they would like him for king! They
would find they had their master, for all his smooth speech and courtly
manners."
"The people's coldness may do good in one way," remarked Felix. "Charles
may rush into a war with Spain, thinking that a brilliant victory or
two would win back his popularity."
"The war with Spain will never come about," growled a grizzled veteran,
who had fought with Coligny on his earliest battle-field. "Guise, the
Pope, Monseigneur, and the Queen-Mother are all against it, and Charles
is just a lump of clay in their hands: they can mould him as they
please."
"Well," exclaimed Felix, as we entered the courtyard, "in my opinion
it's either a Spanish war, or a civil war, and Charles must take his
choice."