Farewell France!
"The danger is over!" exclaimed my companion as we left the city behind
us; "lean back on the cushions and try to sleep."
"There are several questions I wish to ask first."
"I will answer them in the morning, when you have rested, but not now,"
he said firmly.
He had brought a number of cushions and rugs, and he tended me as
carefully as if I had been a delicate woman. And yet he was in the pay
of the brutal Anjou, and perhaps his own hands were not innocent of the
blood of my slain comrades!
It might have been that he guessed something of the thoughts passing
through my mind, for he exclaimed suddenly, "There is one thing I would
say, monsieur. This massacre is none of my seeking, and through it all
my sword has never left the scabbard except in your defence. The mercy
once shown to me I have shown again."
"You are a good fellow, L'Estang," I murmured, "and I thank you."
After that I fell asleep and in spite of the jolting of the carriage
did not waken until the sun was high in the heavens.
"You have wakened in time for breakfast," said my companion, who
appeared not to have slept at all; "in a few minutes we shall arrive at
an inn where I intend to halt. I am known there, and we shall be well
treated."
We stayed a couple of hours, during which time fresh horses were
procured and harnessed to the carriage, while the coachman removed
Monseigneur's favours from his hat, and covered his livery with a blue
overall.
"Now," I said, when the journey was resumed, tell me why you asked us to
meet you at the Louvre, and then failed to keep the appointment!"
"I will answer the last part of the question first; the explanation is
very simple. Monseigneur needed my attendance, and when I was able to
leave him it was too late."
"You intended to give us warning of this horrible conspiracy?"
"No, I could not betray my patron, but I intended to save you and
Monsieur Bellièvre. I felt sure you would not leave your leader; I
should have despised you if you had."
"And rightly, too."
"So," he continued, "I arranged to carry you off by force, and keep you
shut up until the danger was past. Monseigneur, without intending it,
disturbed my plans. Guessing you would return to Coligny's _hôtel_ I
followed as quickly as possible with a few rascals who would do my
bidding, and ask no questions. You were not there."
"The troopers reached the _hôtel_ before us," I explained.
"I guessed what had happened, and searched the streets. Finally I
reached the house where you had taken refuge. I was too late for
Monsieur Bellièvre; he was dead."
"As true a heart as beat in France!" I said.
"Yes," agreed L'Estang, "he was a gallant youngster. Turning from him I
saw you fall, and ran across the room. The mob recognized me as
Monseigneur's attendant, or it would have gone hard with you. Even as it
was--but there, do the details matter? I got you away at last to the
room I had prepared; then it was necessary to return to my patron."
I endeavoured to thank him, but he would hear nothing, saying, "A
promise to the dead is sacred, monsieur."
"Charles may not be a strong king," I remarked some time later, "but he
plays the hypocrite vastly well. One would have thought from his visit
to the Admiral that he was devoured by grief."
"He was both sorry and angry at the attempt on Coligny's life; it was
not his work."
"But surely he must have given orders for the massacre!"
"Afterwards, monsieur. At first I do not believe that even Guise meant
to do more than kill Coligny and a few of the most powerful leaders. But
they were blinded by panic; carried away by their own fears, and they
swept Charles into the same stream."
"The world will say the horrible tragedy was planned from the
beginning."
"The world may be right, but I hardly think so. No one, monsieur, can be
more cruel than a panic-stricken man."
"Who was it," I asked, "that made the first attempt on the Admiral's
life?"
"Maurevel."
"The king's assassin!"
"The same man; but he did not receive his orders from Charles; on that
point I feel certain."
"Henry of Navarre still lives," I said after a time.
"Yes; he and Condé have been spared so far."
"And their gentlemen? They were lodged with their chiefs in the Louvre;
surely they have not been slain?"
"Monsieur, I will tell you the story, so that you may understand how
utterly helpless you are. Every one in the palace went to bed that
night, restless and excited, afraid and yet not knowing of what they
were afraid. As soon as day broke, Henry descended the staircase; Condé
was with him, and they were followed by their gentlemen."
"They must have numbered two hundred!"
"About that number. At the foot of the staircase Henry and Condé were
arrested and disarmed. Their gentlemen were called by name, and they
stepped one by one into the courtyard."
"Yes," I said, as he hesitated.
"The courtyard was filled with Swiss guards. Your colleagues died
bravely, monsieur, some of them defiantly, taunting the king with their
last breath."
"The king!" I cried in astonishment, "where was the king?"
"Looking from an upper window."
"Yet you endeavoured to make me believe he was not responsible for the
massacre!"
"I still believe that to be true; but when it began, he became blood
mad."
"De Pilles was at the Louvre!"
"De Pilles is dead! Except Navarre, who cannot help even himself, you
have not a single friend left. You cannot return to Le Blanc, and
wherever you go you will be hunted down by Cordel's assassins. He can
strike at you now without fear, and he will do so. He has the promise of
your estates, and a strong hope of a patent of nobility. You cannot
leave Rochelle, and even there you will not be safe."
"Your comfort is but cold," I said, forcing myself to laugh.
"I want you to see the truth in all its nakedness, so that you may not
feed yourself with false hopes," he replied soberly.
"After what has happened in Paris there is little chance of my doing
that; but I must have time to think; I must consult with my friends at
Rochelle."
By this time the news of the fearful massacre on the day of St.
Bartholomew had spread far and wide; the whole country was wild with
excitement, and in the various towns through which we passed the
unhappy Huguenots were being hounded mercilessly to death. Thanks,
however, to L'Estang, I was never in any danger, and at length we
arrived at the gates of what had become a veritable city of refuge.
Here, with many expressions of good-will on both sides, we parted,
L'Estang to return to Paris, and I to enter the grief-stricken town.
Numbers of fugitives thronged the streets; everywhere one saw groups of
men, and weeping women, and frightened children who had abandoned their
homes in terror.
I proceeded slowly and haltingly, being still extremely weak, and many a
curious glance was directed toward my bandaged head. Expecting to find
Jeanne at my aunt's house, I went there first, and in the courtyard saw
two horses saddled and bridled as if for a journey. I stopped a moment
to speak to the servant, when a voice exclaimed joyfully, "'Tis he! 'Tis
Monsieur Edmond!" and Jacques came running out, his face beaming with
delight.
"We were coming in search of you," he cried. "Monsieur Braund is in the
house, bidding mademoiselle farewell. She is terribly alarmed on your
account; she believes you to be dead. She blames herself bitterly for
leaving you in Paris. Is the news true, monsieur? Is it really true that
the noble Coligny has been murdered?"
"Yes," I answered sadly, "it is too true. But you shall hear all about
it later; I must go to my sister."
Roger was endeavouring to comfort her, but on seeing me she broke from
him and ran across the room, crying, "Edmond! Edmond!" as if she could
scarcely credit the evidence of her senses.
"Did you think I was a ghost, Jeanne?" I asked laughingly. "'Tis I,
Edmond, and very much alive, I assure you. Come, let me dry those tears;
you will spoil your pretty eyes."
"Oh, Edmond," she gasped, "I thought you were killed! And you have been
wounded! Your head is bandaged."
"I have had a very narrow escape, Jeanne; but here I am, and there is no
need for any more sorrow on my account."
"And Felix?" she cried, "has he escaped too? Where have you left him?
Ah, he is dead! I am sure of it! I can read it in your face!"
"Yes," I answered sadly, "there have been terrible doings in Paris, and
Felix is among the slain."
"And he was so brave and good!" she sobbed. "Poor Felix! Tell me about
it, Edmond."
When she had become more composed I related the story just as it had
happened, but softening down the more brutal parts lest her grief should
break out afresh. She was silent for a little while, but presently she
said, "The Cause is ruined, Edmond!"
"Yes," I admitted, reluctantly, "with all our leaders slain, or in the
hands of the king, we are powerless. And now, my dear Jeanne, you had
better go to your room and rest a while."
"But you are hurt!" she exclaimed anxiously.
"The wound is not serious, and it has been skilfully dressed. However,
Roger shall fetch a surgeon."
"And you need food," she said, "you are weak and faint. It is you who
need rest, and I will take care of you."
"Very well," I said, thinking it would be better perhaps if she had
something to occupy her mind, "you shall nurse back my strength."
Now that the excitement of the journey had passed I felt, indeed,
painfully weak, and for several days kept to my bed, being waited upon
by Jeanne and Roger, while Jacques slept at night in my chamber.
One morning toward the end of the week Roger came as usual to sit with
me. Jeanne was in the room, but she disappeared quickly, her pretty
cheeks covered with blushes.
"You have frightened Jeanne away!" I exclaimed, laughing.
"She knows that I wish to have a talk with you," he answered, and upon
my word he began to blush like an overgrown boy.
"One would fancy it a matter of some importance!"
"Of the greatest importance," he replied earnestly, "since it affects
all your future life. Do you realize that unless you desert your faith,
and go to mass, your career is ruined? Your account of the massacre was
under rather than over the mark. With the exception of Condé and Navarre
there does not appear to be a single Huguenot leader left, and it is
reported that Condé has recanted in order to save his life."
"The Cause is not dead because Condé has forsaken it."
"No," agreed Roger, "but it is dead nevertheless. Henry is a prisoner in
Paris; the Huguenots are scattered and dispirited; they have no leaders,
no arms, no money; there is not a single district in which they are not
at the mercy of the king's troops. Already the Paris massacre has been
repeated in several towns."
"Well," I said, wondering whither all this tended.
"You yourself cannot leave Rochelle except at the risk of your life."
"Because of Cordel?"
"Because of Cordel. He means to possess your estates; he has a powerful
patron in Anjou, and you cannot obtain the ear of the king."
"'Twould do me little service if I could!"
"What will you do in Rochelle?"
"I shall not stay here long; I shall sail to our colony in America,
where one can at least worship God in peace."
"Yes," he said musingly, "you can do that"; and then as if the thought
had but just occurred to him, "it will be a terribly rough life for
Jeanne--I mean for your sister."
"I had forgotten Jeanne. Well, that plan must be given up."
"There is one way out of the difficulty," he continued, coming finally
to the point toward which he had been leading. "I am rich, and my own
master. I have a good estate in England."
"Yes," I said, leaving him, rather ungenerously, to flounder through as
best he could.
"I love your sister," he blurted out. "I wish to make her my wife. Do
you object to having me for a brother, Edmond?"
Now, I was very fond of my English friend; he was a gallant gentleman,
and the soul of honour. To be quite frank, I had once hoped that Jeanne
would marry Felix, but he, poor fellow, was dead.
I gave Roger my hand, saying, "There is no one living to whom I would
rather trust my sister's happiness. Besides, that gets rid of all our
difficulties at once. With you to protect Jeanne, I can carry out my
plans."
"Not so fast, Edmond," he interposed. "Jeanne is willing to be my wife,
but she is not willing to part from you. She still blames herself for
leaving you in Paris, though that, of course, is nonsense. She could not
have done you any good."
"Most probably, had she stayed, both of us would have been killed.
However, to return to our point; I cannot ask you to cross the ocean
with us."
"It is unnecessary," said he, smiling cheerfully; "I can ask you to
cross the Channel with me. No, don't speak yet. The scheme has several
advantages. You will be out of Cordel's way, and yet close at hand.
Things are bound to change. The king may die, or Henry of Navarre may
obtain greater influence. He cannot be kept a prisoner all his life, and
the time may come when he is once more at the head of an army. That
will be your opportunity. A few days will take you across the water, and
with Navarre as your friend--for he is not likely to go back on his
pledged word--you can hope for justice."
"There is something in that," I said thoughtfully.
"There is everything, my dear fellow. Now, on the other hand, by sailing
to the New World, you will cut yourself off from France for ever; and
lose all chance of regaining your estates. The rascally lawyer will be
left to enjoy his stolen property in peace."
This was an argument that touched me nearly, and Roger, perceiving the
effect it produced, harped upon it so strongly that at last I agreed to
accompany him to his English home. There was, however, still my servant
to be considered, but Roger declared merrily there was plenty of room
for Jacques, who should be given the charge of the stables.
"And," added the generous fellow, "I shall be the gainer by that, for he
is a splendid judge of horses!" which was perfectly true.
I had a talk with Jacques the same evening and asked him to give me his
opinion freely on the subject. The honest fellow did not hesitate an
instant.
"Go with Monsieur Braund by all means," said he. "As long as the King of
Navarre remains a prisoner you can do nothing, but directly he is free
you will have a chance of settling accounts with this Cordel. To go to
the New World will be to acknowledge yourself beaten."
"You are right, Jacques," I said; "we will stay in England, and bide
our time."
"It will come, monsieur, be assured of that; and then let Etienne Cordel
look out for himself."
We were still talking about the lawyer when Roger came in, bringing a
note that had been left by a stranger at the _Hôtel Coligny_. It was
addressed to me, and I recognized the handwriting immediately.
"'Tis from L'Estang," I said; "what can he have to say?"
"Open it and see," suggested Roger merrily, "that is the easiest way of
finding out!"
The contents were brief, but they made me bite my lips hard. "Cordel has
been granted the Le Blanc estates, and in all likelihood a patent of
nobility will be made out in a few weeks. His assassins are still
seeking for you."
"Well," said Roger, "as it happens, they will seek in vain, and when
they do find you, they may be sorry for the discovery."
Now that my decision was made, I felt anxious to get away, hoping that
new scenes and new faces might blunt the misery which L'Estang's letter
had caused me. Roger was also desirous to return immediately, and, as
there was a vessel timed to sail in a few days, he arranged that we
should take our passage in her.
It was a beautiful September morning when we went on board, and as the
ship moved slowly from the harbour I took a sad farewell of my fair but
unhappy country. Stronger men might have laughed at my weakness, but my
eyes were dim as, leaning over the vessel's side, I watched the receding
shore. Who could foretell if I should ever behold my own land again?
"Courage, monsieur!" whispered Jacques; "we shall return."
"Yes," I replied, with a sudden glow of confidence, "we shall return;
let us hold fast by that!"
L'ENVOI.
My story as I set out to tell it really ends on the day when the _White
Rose_ left the harbour of Rochelle, but those who have followed my
fortunes thus far may not take it amiss if I relate very briefly the
upshot of my adventures.
Concerning Jeanne and her English husband there is little to tell.
Happy, it is said, is the country that has no history, and their lives
were one long happiness, passed in their beautiful home, surrounded by
friends, and blessed by the presence of little children.
For four years I stayed with them, until, indeed, the joyful news of
Henry's escape from Paris sent me, accompanied by the faithful Jacques,
in hot haste to France, where the offer of my services was gladly
accepted by the great Huguenot chief.
"The dawn is long in coming, Le Blanc," he said kindly; "but it will
come at last."
It would take too long to tell you of the years of strife, of our
marches and countermarches, of our defeats and victories, of how we
changed from hope to despair, and from despair to hope, until on that
memorable field of Ivri we smote our enemies hip and thigh, and broke
the League that had brought so much misery on the country.
It was at Ivri, right at the moment of triumph, I lost Jacques, who,
through good and ill, had followed my fortunes with a loyalty and
devotion that no man ever exceeded, and fell just when I had the power
to reward his services.
Renaud L'Estang I rarely met after my return. He served his patron
faithfully and well, and on Anjou's death joined the household of the
Duke of Guise, who held him in high esteem. He was, I believe, slain in
one of the numerous skirmishes, but even that I learned only by hearsay.
In spite of my vaunts and boastings Etienne Cordel enjoyed his
ill-gotten gains for several years, and then it was not to me, but to a
higher judge he had to render his account.
But when Henry of Navarre became King of France, the estates of Le Blanc
were restored to their rightful owner, and in the old castle to-day,
hung in the place of honour, is the sword which Henry gave me at
Arnay-le-Duc, and on which he has graciously caused to be inscribed,
"From Henry of Navarre to the Sieur Le Blanc."