"I've been about a bit in my time,
And troubles I've seen a few;
But I always found it the best of plans
To paddle my own canoe."
And I have sometimes had to paddle that canoe through tolerably stormy
waters. For generations a "Temperance lecturer" has usually been viewed
by the "respectable" classes with a mixture of pity and contempt.
Drink was blended with all our ideas of real happiness and enjoyment.
Doctors ordered drink as a potent medicine, and, at the same time, as a
valuable article of daily diet. Clergymen, certainly at times, mildly
hinted that their flocks might peradventure be more moderate in its
consumption, but rarely indeed condemned the thing itself.
Elections were won to the inspiriting cry of the "National Church and
the National Beverage," while all those who had enriched themselves by
the making and selling of strong drink were held in the highest esteem
and veneration by the rest of the community.
For anyone to enter on a crusade against drink was held to be
audacious, vulgar, disreputable, and unconstitutional, and a man who
took such a course was considered to be, if not a fool, certainly a
hypocritical knave. I have always thought that Dickens' portrait of
"Stiggins, the Temperance lecturer," did much to maintain this idea.
Any way, it was in full force at the time when I ventured to launch the
above-mentioned cause.
But I did not start as a Temperance lecturer. The field was already
well occupied. Father Mathew, Joseph Livesey, Samuel Bowling, and many
other devoted men had said pretty well all that could be said in favour
of abstinence from intoxicating liquor, and, where their teaching had
been followed, had done a world of good. What struck me as very hard
was, that these noble men should expend time, money, and labour at
their own charges in promoting the Temperance reformation which Richard
Cobden says "lies at the foundation of every social and political
reform," and that all the time the Government of the country should
appoint thousands and thousands of agents to promote the sale and
consumption of the very article which causes all the drunkenness and
misery.
[Illustration: FATHER MATHEW.]
[Illustration: AT EXETER.]
Be it remembered that the philanthropic Temperance advocates got no
monetary premium on any success which they might attain among the
people, while the Government agents who sold the drink were pecuniarily
interested in every glass which they could get their customers to
consume--their system being one of "payment by results." For anyone
to raise his voice against this most lucrative and powerful monopoly
was looked upon as an audacious impertinence. Our meetings were
occasionally broken up by the friends and supporters of the liquor
power. I remember a big meeting at Exeter with the present Bishop of
London in the chair. A disorderly force of men well primed for the
business invaded and pervaded the hall, yelling, singing, and jostling
the audience. They broke up the chairs and used them as weapons of
offence. The Bishop kept his seat, perfectly calm and collected, but,
as the police declined to interfere for our protection, the enemy
succeeded in their object and broke up the meeting, after breaking the
ribs of our unlucky men and covering the Bishop and Sir G. Trevelyan
and myself with flour, so that we looked as though we had just returned
from the "Derby."
At Sandwich, also, we once had a great row. The publicans' friends
pretty well packed the meeting, and with songs, coees, horns, &c.,
prevented our speaking. But we got a speech out of one of the rioters,
and although short, it was the best speech I had ever heard in favour
of prohibition.
The man was tolerably drunk, but able to stand. Close to the platform
was sitting the great brewer of the place, looking most demure and
respectable, but who had probably directly or indirectly organised the
riot. Steadying himself as well as he could, the man pointed with his
hand towards the great brewer, and simply said, "I want to know what's
to become of this gentleman?" If anyone will ponder on this speech for
a moment or two the nature and object of the licensing system will be
clear enough.
[Illustration: "WHAT'S TO BECOME OF THIS GENTLEMAN?"]
As a rule, I think it was generally in the places where the
brewers--our British Ale Kings--were exceptionally strong that these
violent scenes occurred. But generally when there had been a pretty
good rowdy meeting, we used to come again soon after, when our friends,
taught by the experience, used to take precautions for ensuring "law
and order," so that the rows probably eventually did us more good than
harm.
One thing which struck me much in perambulating the country was, that
wherever I went the friends who kindly entertained me were almost
always pessimists, who asserted that the place we were then in was one
of the very worst places for drunkenness which could possibly be found.
[Illustration: "A PESSIMIST."]
Of course they could always be the worst, but this testimony leads one
to think that things must be bad enough all round.
I suppose the Editor, when asking for reminiscences of "Thirty Years'
Temperance Advocacy" includes advocacy in the House of Commons. No one
would think that it was personally needed in that assembly, but only
for the check of intemperance outside.
Yet I once heard a member, who was known not to be a teetotaler, say
that he could not believe something which the Government had stated,
although he could swallow a great deal--a statement which was received
with great acquiescent cheering from all parts of the House. But my
advocacy in the House was of prohibition of the liquor traffic, and
not of total abstinence. I proposed that there should be prohibitory
districts wherever the inhabitants clearly and distinctly expressed a
desire for freedom from liquor shops. This was thought to be a most
shocking proposition. Was it to be supposed that the magistrates, who
were the licensing authorities, did not know the requirements of the
neighbourhood far better than the inhabitants of that neighbourhood
knew it themselves! The very idea was looked upon as a species of
blasphemy.
A Bill must have two names endorsing it before it can be introduced
into the House of Commons. At that time I hardly knew where I should
get the second name which was required. I at last got it in this way.
Mr. Bazley (afterwards Sir Thomas Bazley) then represented Manchester.
Some working men who were either his neighbours or constituents, and
who were very keen about the Bill, interviewed him and talked over the
Bill. I fancy he made some objection to it, when the men said, "Mr.
Bazley, is there not a village which belongs to you, and where you
prohibit all sale of drink?"
"Yes," said Mr. Bazley, "and with the best effect."
"And will you not give us the same power of protecting ourselves which
you enjoy?"
"I will," said Mr. Bazley, and he put his name on the back of my Bill.
[Illustration: SIR WILFRID LAWSON.]
But few indeed would vote for such a measure in those days. Lord
Randolph Churchill said that in that very year, 1890, two-thirds of
the members of the House of Commons were terrorised by the liquor
trade. And many must have been in that abject condition in 1865, when
the first Bill was introduced. At all events, whether through terror
of publicans, or contempt for Temperance advocates, or ignorance of
the enormity of the evil arising from drinking, the great majority
of the House of Commons were dead against any legislation tending to
cripple the "liquor traffic." We had all the old arguments trotted
out--"Liberty of the Subject"--"Making men sober by Act of Parliament,"
and so forth. I have sometimes wondered why they thought it absolutely
necessary to iterate and reiterate all this unmeaning jargon. They
had made up their minds that it would not be safe to vote against the
publicans, and the preliminary talk was a superfluous expenditure
of energy. On the first division I only got about forty votes, and
that was a larger number than most persons expected. But I must not
commence a long story of how we slowly but steadily gained ground
in the House. The history of all reforms is in its general features
pretty much the same. Someone has roughly summed up the progress of
reforms by saying, First, they are laughed at; then they are said to
be contrary to Scripture; then it is said that everybody knew them
before. We have long left for ever the days of divisions of forty,
and now almost everyone admits that the public are entitled to _some_
powers of self-protection from the liquor trade. It is still thought
the proper thing to call everyone who is in earnest in trying to get
that protection for the people, an extreme man; but everyone knows that
this is only the orthodox political slang which must be employed when
argument is wanting.
Lord Rosebery has declared that the Temperance men are the backbone of
the Liberal Party. The Conservative Party also now announce themselves
to be warm advocates of Temperance. We cannot say that they have been
at it for "thirty years," since they only took, as a party, any overt
legislative action two years ago by their Compensation to Brewers'
Bill, which they again attempted to pass last year.
Many persons thought that endowing publichouses would not tend to
reduce drinking, but, be that as it may, it was pleasant to see the
intense zeal with which the leaders of the Conservative Party devoted
themselves to what they considered the interests of Temperance. All
the other business of the Session was set aside. The Government
Press urged no surrender. Diminishing majorities did not damp their
ardour. The forces were summoned to be present at all costs when this
Temperance measure was on hand. One memorable day many legislators were
absolutely compelled to hurry back from Ascot to take part in an early
division. Lord Hartington was among the number, and it is said that,
being only just in time, he was seen to _run_ through the lobby, a fact
unprecedented in modern political history.
All this proves that there never were so many Temperance advocates as
there are at this instant. At the same time, I am inclined to think
that there has seldom been more drinking than there is in the season of
good trade and high wages. Whether it will require an additional thirty
years of Temperance advocacy before we deal an effectual blow at what
has been termed the "intoxicating interests," who can say? The good
sign, as noted above, is, that everybody is calling out that something
must be done. Englishmen generally say this for a long time before they
really do anything, but the recent prolific response to General Booth's
appeal for funds to rescue the perishing, seems to indicate that the
public are really and keenly touched by all the misery around them.
[Illustration]
The General says "Nine-tenths of England's misery is Drink." That is
just what the Temperance advocates have been saying for nearly twice
thirty years. Their hour of triumph is growing appreciably nearer. It
will come so soon as the good, noble, and self-denying men who now deal
with the misery which General Booth tells us is the effect of drink,
will strike at the drink which is the _cause_ of that misery. When we
have done that, we may confidently look forward to an England which
shall be as different from the England of to-day, as light is from
darkness.
"Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
In their lowly dwelling sing,
Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,
Undiscovered as their spring;
We shall scatter through the land
Blessing with a secret hand."
_The King's Stratagem._
+By Stanley G. Weyman.+
In the days when Henry the Fourth of France was King of Navarre only,
and in that little kingdom of hills and woods which occupies the
south-west corner of the larger country, was with difficulty supporting
the Huguenot cause against the French court and the Catholic League--in
the days when every isolated castle, from the Garonne to the Pyrenees,
was a bone of contention between the young king and the crafty
queen-mother, Catherine de Medicis, a conference between these notable
personages took place in the picturesque town of La Réole.
[Illustration: "TWO MEN SAT AT PLAY."]
La Réole still rises grey, time-worn, and half-ruined on a lofty cliff
above the broad green waters of the Garonne, forty odd miles from
Bordeaux. But it is a small place now. In the days of which we are
speaking, however, it was important, strongly fortified, and guarded
by a castle which looked down on a thousand red-tiled roofs, rising in
terraces from the river. As the meeting-place of the two sovereigns it
was for the time as gay as Paris itself, Catherine having brought with
her a bevy of fair maids of honour, in the effect of whose charms she
perhaps put as much trust as in her own diplomacy. But the peaceful
appearance of the town was delusive, for even while every other house
in it rang with music and silvery laughter, each party was ready to fly
to arms without warning, if it saw that any advantage was to be gained
thereby.
On an evening shortly before the end of the conference two men sat at
play in a room, the deep-embrasured window of which looked down from
a considerable height upon the river. The hour was late, and the town
silent. Outside, the moonlight fell bright and pure on sleeping fields
and long, straight lines of poplars. Within the room a silver lamp
suspended from the ceiling threw light upon the table, leaving the
farther parts of the room in shadow. The walls were hung with faded
tapestry. On the low bedstead in one corner lay a handsome cloak, a
sword, and one of the clumsy pistols of the period. Across a chair
lay another cloak and sword, and on the window seat, beside a pair of
saddle-bags, were strewn half-a-dozen such trifles as soldiers carried
from camp to camp--a silver comfit-box, a jewelled dagger, a mask, and
velvet cap.
The faces of the players, as they bent over the dice, were in shadow.
One--a slight, dark man of middle height, with a weak chin, and a mouth
as weak, but shaded by a dark moustache--seemed, from the occasional
oaths which he let drop, to be losing heavily. Yet his opponent, a
stouter and darker man, with a sword-cut across his left temple, and
that swaggering air which has at all times marked the professional
soldier, showed no signs of triumph or elation. On the contrary, though
he kept silence, or spoke only a formal word or two, there was a gleam
of anxiety and suppressed excitement in his eyes, and more than once he
looked keenly at his companion, as if to judge of his feelings or learn
whether the time had come for some experiment which he meditated. But
for this, an observer looking in through the window would have taken
the two for only one more instance of the hawk and pigeon.
At last the younger player threw down the caster, with a groan.
"You have the luck of the evil one," he said, bitterly. "How much is
that?"
"Two thousand crowns," replied the other without emotion. "You will
play no more?"
"No! I wish to heaven I had never played at all!" was the answer. As
he spoke the loser rose, and going to the window stood looking moodily
out. For a few moments the elder man remained seated, gazing at him
furtively, but at length he too rose, and, stepping softly to his
companion, touched him on the shoulder. "Your pardon a moment, M. le
Vicomte," he said. "Am I right in concluding that the loss of this sum
will inconvenience you?"
"A thousand fiends!" exclaimed the young Vicomte, turning on him
wrathfully. "Is there any man whom the loss of two thousand crowns
would not inconvenience? As for me----"
"For you," continued the other, smoothly filling up the pause, "shall I
be wrong in saying that it means something like ruin?"
"Well, sir, and if it does?" the young man retorted, drawing himself up
haughtily, his cheek a shade paler with passion. "Depend upon it you
shall be paid. Do not be afraid of that!"
"Gently, gently, my friend," the winner answered, his patience in
strong contrast with the other's violence. "I had no intention of
insulting you, believe me. Those who play with the Vicomte de Lanthenon
are not wont to doubt his honour. I spoke only in your own interest. It
has occurred to me, Vicomte, that the matter might be arranged at less
cost to yourself."
"How?" was the curt question.
"May I speak freely?" The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders, and the
other, taking silence for consent, proceeded: "You, Vicomte, are
governor of Lusigny for the King of Navarre; I, of Créance, for the
King of France. Our towns lie only three leagues apart. Could I by any
chance, say on one of these fine nights, become master of Lusigny, it
would be worth more than two thousand crowns to me. Do you understand?"
"No," the young man answered slowly, "I do not."
"Think over what I have said, then," was the brief answer.
For a full minute there was silence in the room. The Vicomte gazed
out of the window with knitted brows and compressed lips, while his
companion, sitting down, leant back in his chair, with an air of
affected carelessness. Outside, the rattle of arms and hum of voices
told that the watch were passing through the street. The church bell
struck one. Suddenly the Vicomte burst into a hoarse laugh, and,
turning, snatched up his cloak and sword. "The trap was very well laid,
M. le Capitaine," he said almost jovially; "but I am still sober enough
to take care of myself--and of Lusigny. I wish you good-night. You
shall have your money, never fear."
"Still, I am afraid it will cost you dearly," the Captain answered, as
he rose and moved towards the door to open it for his guest. His hand
was already on the latch when he paused. "Look here," he said, "what do
you say to this, then? I will stake the two thousand crowns you have
lost to me, and another thousand besides against your town. Fool! no
one can hear us. If you win, you go off a free man with my thousand. If
you lose, you put me in possession one of these fine nights. What do
you say to that? A single throw to decide."
The young man's pale face reddened. He turned, and his eyes sought
the table and the dice irresolutely. The temptation indeed came at
an unfortunate moment, when the excitement of play had given way to
depression, and he saw nothing before him outside the door, on which
his hand was laid, but the cold reality of ruin. The temptation to
return, and by a single throw set himself right with the world was too
much for him. Slowly he came back to the table. "Confound you!" he said
irritably. "I think you are the devil himself, Captain."
"Don't talk child's talk!" said the other coldly, drawing back as his
victim advanced. "If you do not like the offer you need not take it."
[Illustration: "WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THAT?"]
But the young man's fingers had already closed on the dice. Picking
them up he dropped them once, twice, thrice on the table, his eyes
gleaming with the play-fever. "If I win?" he said doubtfully.
"You carry away a thousand crowns," answered the Captain, quietly. "If
you lose you contrive to leave one of the gates of Lusigny open for me
before next full moon. That is all."
"And what if I lose, and not pay the forfeit?" asked the Vicomte,
laughing weakly.
"I trust to your honour," said the Captain. And, strange as it may
seem, he knew his man. The young noble of the day might betray his
cause and his trust, but the debt of honour incurred at play was
binding on him.
"Well," said the Vicomte, "I agree. Who is to throw first?"
"As you will," replied the Captain, masking under an appearance of
indifference a real excitement which darkened his cheek, and caused the
pulse in the old wound on his face to beat furiously.
"Then do you go first," said the Vicomte.
"With your permission," assented the Captain. And taking the dice up in
the caster he shook them with a practised hand, and dropped them on the
board. The throw was seven.
The Vicomte took up the caster and, as he tossed the dice into it,
glanced at the window. The moonlight shining athwart it fell in
silvery sheen on a few feet of the floor. With the light something
of the silence and coolness of the night entered also, and appealed
to him. For a few seconds he hesitated. He even made as if he would
have replaced the box on the table. But the good instinct failed. It
was too late, and with a muttered word, which his dry lips refused to
articulate, he threw the dice. Seven!
Neither of the men spoke, but the Captain rattled the little cubes, and
again flung them on the table, this time with a slight air of bravado.
They rolled one over the other and lay still. Seven again!
The young Vicomte's brow was damp, and his face pale and drawn. He
forced a quavering laugh, and with an unsteady hand took his turn. The
dice fell far apart, and lay where they fell. Six!
The winner nodded gravely. "The luck is still with me," he said,
keeping his eyes on the table that the light of triumph which had
suddenly leapt into them might not be seen. "When do you go back to
your command, Vicomte?"
The unhappy man stood like one stunned, gazing at the two little cubes
which had cost him so dearly. "The day after to-morrow," he muttered
hoarsely, striving to collect himself.
"Then shall we say the following evening?" asked the Captain.
"Very well."
"We quite understand one another," continued the winner, eyeing his man
watchfully, and speaking with more urgency. "I may depend on you, M. le
Vicomte, I presume?"
"The Lanthenons have never been wanting to their word," the young
nobleman answered, stung into sudden haughtiness. "If I live I will put
Lusigny into your hands, M. le Capitaine. Afterwards I will do my best
to recover it--in another way."
[Illustration: "HE WAS ALONE WITH HIS TRIUMPH."]
"I shall be entirely at your disposal," replied the Captain, bowing
lightly. And in a moment he was alone--alone with his triumph, his
ambition, his hopes for the future--alone with the greatness to which
his capture of Lusigny was to be the first step, and which he should
enjoy not a whit the less because as yet fortune had dealt out to him
more blows than caresses, and he was still at forty, after a score of
years of roughest service, the governor of a paltry country town.
Meanwhile, in the darkness of the narrow streets, the Vicomte was
making his way to his lodgings in a state of despair and unhappiness
most difficult to describe. Chilled, sobered, and affrighted he looked
back and saw how he had thrown for all and lost all, how he had saved
the dregs of his fortune at the expense of his loyalty, how he had seen
a way of escape and lost it for ever! No wonder that as he trudged
alone through the mud and darkness of the sleeping town his breath
came quickly and his chest heaved, and he looked from side to side as
a hunted animal might, uttering great sighs. Ah, if he could only have
retraced the last three hours!
Worn out and exhausted, he entered his lodging, and securing the door
behind him stumbled up the stone stairs and entered his room. The
impulse to confide his misfortunes to someone was so strong upon him
that he was glad to see a dark form half sitting, half lying in a chair
before the dying embers of a wood fire. In those days a man's natural
confidant was his valet, the follower, half-friend, half-servant, who
had been born on his estate, who lay on a pallet at the foot of his
bed, who carried his _billets-doux_ and held his cloak at the duello,
who rode near his stirrup in fight and nursed him in illness, who not
seldom advised him in the choice of a wife, and lied in support of his
suit.
The young Vicomte flung his cloak over a chair. "Get up, you rascal!"
he cried, impatiently. "You pig, you dog!" he continued, with
increasing anger. "Sleeping there as though your master were not ruined
by that scoundrel of a Breton! Bah!" he added, gazing bitterly at his
follower, "you are of the _canaille_, and have neither honour to lose
nor a town to betray!"
The sleeping man moved in his chair and half turned. The Vicomte, his
patience exhausted, snatched the bonnet from his head, and threw it
on the ground. "Will you listen?" he said. "Or go, if you choose look
for another master. I am ruined! Do you hear? Ruined, Gil! I have lost
all--money, land, Lusigny itself, at the dice!"
The man, aroused at last, stooped with a lazy movement, and picking up
his hat dusted it with his hand, and rose with a yawn to his feet.
[Illustration: "SIRE!" HE SAID.]
"I am afraid, Vicomte," he said, his tones quiet as they were, sounding
like thunder in the Vicomte's astonished and bewildered ears, "I am
afraid that if you have lost Lusigny, you have lost something which was
not yours to lose!"
As he spoke he struck the embers with his foot, and the fire, blazing
up, shone on his face. The Vicomte saw, with unutterable confusion
and dismay, that the man before him was not Gil at all, but the last
person in the world to whom he should have betrayed himself. The astute
smiling eyes, the aquiline nose, the high forehead, and projecting
chin, which the short beard and moustache scarcely concealed, were only
too well known to him. He stepped back with a cry of horror. "Sire!" he
said, and then his tongue failed him. He stood silent, pale, convicted,
his chin on his breast. The man to whom he had confessed his treachery
was the master whom he had conspired to betray.
"I had suspected something of this," Henry of Navarre continued,
after a pause, a tinge of irony in his tone. "Rosny told me that that
old fox, the Captain of Créance, was affecting your company a good
deal, M. le Vicomte, and I find that, as usual, his suspicions were
well-founded. What with a gentleman who shall be nameless, who has
bartered a ford and a castle for the favour of Mademoiselle de Luynes,
and yourself, I am blest with some faithful followers! For shame!" he
continued, seating himself with dignity, "have you nothing to say for
yourself?"
The young noble stood with his head bowed, his face white. This was
ruin, indeed, absolutely irremediable. "Sire," he said at last, "your
Majesty has a right to my life, not to my honour."
"Your honour!" quoth Henry, biting contempt in his tone.
The young man started, and for a second his cheek flamed under the
well-deserved reproach; but he recovered himself. "My debt to your
Majesty," he said, "I am willing to pay."
"Since pay you must," Henry muttered softly.
"But I claim to pay also my debt to the Captain of Créance."
"Oh," the King answered. "So you would have me take your worthless
life, and give up Lusigny?"
"I am in your hands, sire."
"Pish, sir!" Henry replied in angry astonishment. "You talk like a
child. Such an offer, M. de Lanthenon, is folly, and you know it. Now
listen to me. It was lucky for you that I came in to-night, intending
to question you. Your madness is known to me only, and I am willing to
overlook it. Do you hear? Cheer up, therefore, and be a man. You are
young; I forgive you. This shall be between you and me only," the young
prince continued, his eyes softening as the other's head drooped, "and
you need think no more of it until the day when I shall say to you,
'Now, M. de Lanthenon, for France and for Henry, strike!'"
He rose as the last word passed his lips, and held out his hand. The
Vicomte fell on one knee, and kissed it reverently, then sprang to his
feet again. "Sire," he said, standing erect, his eyes shining, "you
have punished me heavily, more heavily than was needful. There is only
one way in which I can show my gratitude, and that is by ridding you of
a servant who can never again look your enemies in the face."
"What new folly is this?" said Henry, sternly. "Do you not understand
that I have forgiven you?"
"Therefore I cannot give up Lusigny, and I must acquit myself of my
debt to the Captain of Créance in the only way which remains," replied
the young man, firmly. "Death is not so hard that I would not meet it
twice over rather than again betray my trust."
"This is midsummer madness!" said the King, hotly.
"Possibly," replied the Vicomte, without emotion; "yet of a kind to
which your Majesty is not altogether a stranger."
The words appealed strongly to that love of the chivalrous which formed
part of the King's nature, and was one cause alike of his weakness and
his strength, which in its more extravagant flights gave opportunity
after opportunity to his enemies, in its nobler and saner expressions
won victories which all his astuteness and diplomacy could not have
compassed. He stood looking with half-hidden admiration at the man whom
two minutes before he had despised.
"I think you are in jest," he said, presently.
"No, sire," the young man answered, gravely. "In my country they have
a proverb about us. 'The Lanthenons,' say they, 'have ever been bad
players, but good payers.' I will not be the first to be worse than my
name!"
[Illustration: "THE VICOMTE FELL ON ONE KNEE."]
He spoke with so quiet a determination that the King was staggered, and
for a minute or two paced the room in silence, inwardly reviling the
generous obstinacy of his weak-kneed supporter, yet unable to withhold
his admiration from it. At length he stopped, with a low, abrupt
exclamation.
"Wait!" he cried. "I have it! _Ventre Saint Gris_, man, I have it!" His
eyes sparkled, and, with a gentle laugh, he hit the table a sounding
blow. "Ha! ha! I have it!" he repeated, joyously.
The young noble gazed at him in surprise, half sullen, half
incredulous. But when Henry in low, rapid tones had expounded his plan,
the Vicomte's face underwent a change. Hope and life sprang into it.
The blood flew to his cheeks. His whole aspect softened. In a moment
he was on his knee, mumbling the King's hand, his eyes full of joy and
gratitude. After that the two talked long, the murmur of their voices
broken more than once by the ripple of low laughter. When they at
length separated, and Henry, his face hidden by the folds of his cloak,
had stolen away to his lodgings, where, no doubt, more than one watcher
was awaiting him with a mind full of anxious fears, the Vicomte threw
open his window and looked out on the night. The moon had set, but the
stars still shone peacefully in the dark canopy above. He remembered on
a sudden, his throat choking with silent repressed emotion, that he was
looking towards his home--the stiff grey pile among the beech woods of
Navarre which had been in his family since the days of St. Louis, and
which he had so lightly risked. And he registered a vow in his heart
that of all Henry's servants he would henceforth be the most faithful.
Meanwhile the Captain of Créance was enjoying the sweets of coming
triumph. He did not look out into the night, it is true, but pacing up
and down the room he planned and calculated, considering how he might
make the most of his success. He was still comparatively young. He had
years of strength before him. He would rise. He would not easily be
satisfied. The times were troubled, opportunities many, fools many;
bold men with brains and hands few.
At the same time he knew that he could be sure of nothing until Lusigny
was actually his, and he spent the next few days in considerable
suspense. But no hitch occurred. The Vicomte made the necessary
communications to him; and men in his own pay informed him of
dispositions ordered by the governor of Lusigny which left him in no
doubt that the loser intended to pay his debt.
It was, therefore, with a heart already gay with anticipation that the
Captain rode out of Créance two hours before midnight on an evening
eight days later. The night was dark, but he knew the road well. He
had with him a powerful force, composed in part of thirty of his own
garrison, bold, hardy fellows, and in part of six score horsemen, lent
him by the governor of Montauban. As the Vicomte had undertaken to
withdraw, under some pretence or other, one-half of his command and
to have one of the gates opened by a trusty hand, the Captain trotted
along in excellent spirits, and stopped to scan with approval the dark
line of his troopers as they plodded past him, the jingle of their
swords and corselets ringing sweet music in his ears. He looked for
an easy victory; but it was not any slight misadventure that would
rob him of his prey. As his company wound on by the river-side, their
accoutrements reflected in the stream or passed into the black shadow
of the olive grove which stands a mile to the east of Lusigny, he felt
little doubt of the success of his enterprise.
[Illustration: "HIS COMPANY WOUND ON BY THE RIVER-SIDE."]
Treachery apart, that is; and of treachery there was no sign. The
troopers had scarcely halted under the last clump of trees before a
figure detached itself from one of the largest trunks, and advanced
to their leader's rein. The Captain saw with surprise that it was the
Vicomte himself. For a second he thought something had gone wrong, but
the young noble's first words reassured him. "It is all right," M. de
Lanthenon whispered, as the Captain bent down to him. "I have kept my
word, and I think that there will be no resistance. The planks for
crossing the moat lie opposite the gate. Knock thrice at the latter,
and it will be opened. There are not fifty armed men in the place."
"Good!" the Captain answered, in the same cautious tone. "But you--"
"I am believed to be elsewhere, and must be gone. I have far to ride
to-night. Farewell."
"Till we meet again," the Captain answered; and with that his ally
glided away and was lost in the darkness. A cautious word set the
troop again in motion, and a very few minutes saw them standing on
the edge of the moat, the outline of the gateway tower looming above
them, a shade darker than the wrack of clouds which overhead raced
silently across the sky. A moment of suspense, while one and another
shivered--for there is that in a night attack which touches the nerves
of the stoutest--and the planks were found, and as quietly as possible
laid across the moat. This was so successfully done that it evoked no
challenge, and the Captain crossing quickly with some picked men, stood
almost in the twinkling of an eye under the shadow of the gateway.
Still no sound was heard save the hurried breathing of those at his
elbow or the stealthy tread of others crossing. Cautiously he knocked
three times and waited. The third rap had scarcely sounded, however,
before the gate rolled silently open, and he sprang in, followed by his
men.
So far so good. A glance at the empty street and the porter's pale face
told him at once that the Vicomte had kept his word. But he was too
old a soldier to take anything for granted, and forming up his men as
quickly as they entered, he allowed no one to advance until all were
inside, and then, his trumpet sounding a wild note of defiance, his
force sprang forward in two compact bodies, and in a moment the town
awoke to find itself in the hands of the enemy.
As the Vicomte had promised, there was no resistance. In the small
keep a score of men did indeed run to arms, but only to lay them down
without striking a blow when they became aware of the force opposed
to them. Their leader, sullenly acquiescing, gave up his sword and
the keys of the town to the victorious Captain, who, as he sat his
horse in the middle of the market-place, giving his orders and sending
off riders with the news, already saw himself in fancy Governor of a
province and Knight of the Holy Ghost.
[Illustration: "THEY HAVE GOT CRÉANCE!"]
As the red light of the torches fell on steel caps and polished
hauberks, on the serried ranks of pikemen, and the circle of
white-faced townsmen, the picturesque old square looked doubly
picturesque. Every five minutes, with a clatter of iron on the rough
pavement and a shower of sparks, a horseman sprang away to tell the
news at Montauban or Cahors; and every time that this occurred, the
Captain, astride on his charger, felt a new sense of power and triumph.
Suddenly the low murmur of voices was broken by a new sound, the
hurried clang of hoofs, not departing but arriving. There was something
in the noise which made the Captain prick his ears, and secured for
the messenger a speedy passage through the crowd. Even at the last the
man did not spare his horse, but spurring to the Captain's side, then
and then only sprang to the ground. His face was pale, his eyes were
bloodshot. His right arm was bound up in blood-stained cloths. With an
oath of amazement, the Captain recognised the officer whom he had left
in charge of Créance, and thundered out, "What is it?"
"They have got Créance!" the man gasped, reeling as he spoke. "They
have got Créance!"
"Who?" the Captain shrieked, his face purple with rage.
"The little man of Béarn! He assaulted it five hundred strong an hour
after you left, and had the gate down before we could fire a dozen
shots. We did what we could, but we were but one to seven. I swear,
Captain, we did all we could. Look at this!"
Almost black in the face, the Captain swore another frightful oath.
It was not only that he saw governorship and honours vanish like
Will-o'-the-wisps, but that he saw even more quickly that he had made
himself the laughing-stock of a kingdom! And he had. To this day, among
the stories which the southern French love to tell of the prowess and
astuteness of the great Henry, there is none more frequently told,
or more frequently laughed over, than that of the famous exchange of
Créance for Lusigny.
[Illustration]
_Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._
[Illustration:
_From a Painting by_ +AGE 37.+
_R. Lehmann._]
[Illustration:
_From a Photo. by_ +PRESENT DAY.+
_Messrs. Elliott & Fry._]