THE CHURCH UNDER THE GROUND
The wicket gate near the riding-school was used almost exclusively by
the servants of the palace, to whom it gave access to that maze of
nameless streets, dingy, tumble-down houses, and squalid shops that was
known as the Magasins. Here it was that the waiting-woman and the
lackey stole forth to meet their lovers. Through this filtered all the
backstairs' gossip of the Louvre, and more besides, for the small
shopkeepers of the Magasins upheld a reputation as evil as the place in
which they plied their trade.
At the mouth of one of these streets, only a few yards away from the
wicket, was a small eating-house. It was here that I repaired at
sunset, and calling for a basin of lentil soup sat me down at a rough
table near the door, which commanded a view of the gate. It had rained
that afternoon, a summer shower that passed as quickly as it came, but
the eaves were still dripping, and the water was trickling in
glistening lines down the walls and bubbling in the gutters. There
were three other clients in the house besides myself. One contented
himself, as I had, with some lentil soup, and the other two, sitting
near a great spit, impatiently watched a leg of kid they had brought
with them for their supper being turned thereon by a small dog, now and
then exchanging a word or so with the bare-armed hostess who was
supervising the process. Whilst this was going on my fellow-companion
with the lentil soup kept casting envious glances at the spit, sniffing
the savoury odour of the roasting meat as he slowly ate pieces of black
bread sopped in the thick soup.
The wicket was open, for until compline ingress and egress was free;
nevertheless, there was a sentry on duty, an arquebusier, who paced
slowly up and down whistling the "Rappel d'Aunis," stopping only to
exchange some barrack-room badinage with every serving-wench who, as
she went out or came in, found a moment or so to spare for him. It was
a lax enough watch, and it was clear that guard duty at the wicket was
not so dull a matter as one might have imagined.
One of these passing affairs was rather longer and more interesting
than usual, and he of the lentil soup was chuckling to himself over it,
when we heard the clattering of horses at a trot coming up the road
lying between us and the gate. The girl uttered a little cry and fled
down the walk towards the Louvre, whilst the sentry drew himself up
stiffly.
In another minute a party of about half a dozen horsemen filed up, a
spare horse with them, and judge of my surprise and fear when I saw it
was Simon himself who led them. As the sentry saluted the Vidame he
rode close up to the man, and, bending down from the saddle, said
something in a quick, low voice, but it was too far off for me to hear.
The sentry saluted again, and began a steady pacing backwards and
forwards; whilst Simon, dismounting three of his men, had the horses
taken towards the riding-school, he remaining at the gate on foot with
his three followers.
"An arrest!" exclaimed my unknown companion, and the words brought the
two others from their kid, which they were just sitting down to
demolish, to the door, where they were joined by the landlady and the
turnspit dog.
The worst suspicions crowded upon me, and from where I sat I watched
Simon anxiously, for all depended on his object in being here. He took
no notice of the little group observing him, however, but, drawing his
men up against the wall, leaned against a buttress, moodily pulling at
his long moustache.
"We are going to see pretty things," said the hostess; "that tall
crookback is the Vidame d'Orrain himself, and 'twas just the same way
last year that he took poor Monsieur de Mailly."
For about ten minutes we waited impatiently, but with no result, and so
the owners of the kid went back to their repast, and the man with the
lentil soup called for another basin. The suspense, however, was not
to be for long. Presently a man came down the walk towards the wicket,
coming slowly, keeping as much as possible in the shadow of the trees,
now and again stopping and looking around him as though he feared being
followed. Finally, as he neared the gate, he put a bold face on the
matter, and with an air of unconcern stepped towards the sentry. His
hat was pulled over his eyes; but there was no mistaking De Ganache,
and I watched with breathless interest. As he came up the arquebusier
began to whistle his eternal "Rappel d'Aunis" once more, and the
figures near the wall closed in around the buttress. In five paces De
Ganache had passed the sentry and was at the gate. In another step he
freed the wicket, and came face to face with the Vidame. De Ganache
started, retreated a half pace, and then, recovering himself, said with
affected gaiety:
"Well met, Orrain! I----" And then he stopped as he met the Vidame's
sombre look and saw drawn swords on either side of him.
"Is this a jest or an outrage? What does this mean, monsieur?" And,
hand to his sword, he faced Simon, who answered coldly:
"It means, monsieur, that you are my prisoner. Your sword, in the
King's name!"
"I! Arrested! It is impossible! What foolery is this?"
But the Vidame simply held out a paper. "You may read this if you
doubt."
Almost mechanically De Ganache took the paper and ran his eyes over it.
As he did so his fingers seemed to lose power, for the paper slipped
from his hand and fluttered to the ground. The Vidame picked it up,
and said again:
"Your sword, monsieur!" And then, with a bitter scorn in his voice: "A
traitor's game is a losing game, Monsieur le Vicomte, and the King
knows you at last."
What the words meant I was to find out later, but they took all heart
from De Ganache. He put his hand to his head as one dazed, and then,
dropping it again, unbuckled his sword, and handed it to the Vidame
without a word. There was a sharp whistle. The horses came up. De
Ganache, who seemed utterly broken, was mounted on the spare horse.
The troopers surrounded him, and then came the quick order:
"The Châtelet!" And they were gone.
"_Harnibleu_!" exclaimed the hostess, "that was not how Monsieur de
Mailly allowed himself to be taken. He swore like the Constable, and
fought right across the road, up to this very door, and might have
escaped had he not tripped up. As for that hare there--pouf!" And
with an expressive shrug of her shoulders and a snap of her fingers she
went back to her spit.
I sat still, wondering, but with a great relief in my heart. There was
a little talk, as will be when things of this kind occur, and then
matters settled down. A few more customers came in. The twilight
began to fall, and then, all at once, I saw two figures at the gate.
They were mademoiselle and De Lorgnac. In a moment I had joined them,
and together we went on towards the river face.
At the corner of the Rue St. Thomas, De Lorgnac bade us farewell, but
as he left us I took the opportunity to whisper to him the news of De
Ganache's arrest.
"Then put wings to your business," he said, and pressing my hand went
off, and mademoiselle and I were alone. Silently she took the arm I
offered, and we hastened towards the river.
It was the fall of the evening, and the moon, almost in its full, had
already arisen, dividing the sky with the last lights of sunset. We
had turned to the left on reaching the river, our faces towards the
Châtelet, whose square grey walls frowned over the Pont au Change.
Here and there the cloud edges still flamed in gold, that slowly faded
to a fleecy silver-white before the moonlight. To our left was the
long row of gabled houses, some of them seven storeys or more in
height, that stretched, a jagged outline of pointed roofs and
overhanging turrets, to the Rue St. Denis, there to be split up in the
labyrinth of streets between St. Denis, St. Martin, and the purlieus of
the Marais and the Temple. Above the houses peered the square tower of
St. Jacques de la Boucherie, and in the weird half light the river
droned along to our right. A grey, creeping mist was slowly covering
the faubourgs and the Ile de la Cité. Through this, as it quivered
onwards, one saw a limitless sea of roofs; and sharp and clear, for
they were still in light, stood out the lofty campaniles of Ste.
Chapelle and St. Severin. But what caught the eye and arrested the
glance was that which rose from the very heart of the great city; for
there, looming vast and immense, the stately pile of Nôtre Dame brooded
over Paris.
Mademoiselle shivered on my arm. "Oh, monsieur, these streets, these
houses, this immense city, they oppress me like a very spirit of evil!"
"Courage!" I answered. "In two hours we will have left the spirit of
evil behind."
And she sighed to herself as we pressed forward. We had passed the
Vallée de Misère and the Gloriette, and had now come to the fish
market. It was here, amidst the raucous cries of buyers and sellers,
that the crowd forced us to stop for a little. I drew my companion
into the shadow of a booth, and as I did so I heard a fragment of talk
between two men a little to one side of us.
"You think it will be successful?"
"Not one will escape. They are like rats in a trap."
The speaker laughed, and I would have sworn I knew the voice.
Mademoiselle had heard too, and her eyes were shining like stars.
"Do you hear that?" she whispered quickly. "Quick! Let us hasten!"
I held her back for a little, until the two had passed before us. As
the light from the booth fell on them I saw that I was right--the last
speaker was Camus, but the other man I knew not.
"Now, across!" I said, as the two were lost in the crowd, and with that
I hurried mademoiselle to the other side of the road.
"Monsieur," she said, "these men were talking of us, of my people, I
mean--I feel sure of it--and we are too late."
"Not yet!" And I tried to reassure her, but my heart was full of
misgiving. In its wonderful way her woman's instinct had warned her,
and I, knowing what I did know, feared the worst despite all my
assurances to her to the contrary.
It was night when we reached the Rue des Mathurins, for the way was
long. Narrow and dark, the street wound before us. On one side the
upper storeys of the houses were white with moonlight; but the opposite
side was in shadow, and all around us was a velvet darkness, except
where, here and there, a lamp, hanging to a rope slung across the
street, cast a feeble and uncertain glow. Some dim figures moved
before us, and occasionally we heard a footfall behind. That was all.
We had come to the fifth door on our right. It lay in the black
darkness, faced by the huge blank wall of the Mathurins, and not a ray
gleamed from any of the windows. All was silent as the grave.
"This is the place," I said, and we stopped.
"Are you sure?" whispered mademoiselle. "It looks deserted; perhaps
they have been warned."
But, even as she spoke, we heard faint voices singing. The sound
seemed to rise from beneath our feet, and muffled and far distant rose
the sweet, solemn chant of the Huguenot hymn: "When Israel went forth
from Egypt."
"They are there!" And mademoiselle's fingers tightened on my arm.
For answer I was about to step up to the door when hurrying feet came
towards us. I pulled mademoiselle back into the deepest shadow, and as
I did so two dark figures appeared, and halted before the door. Like
us, all unknowing we were so near, they stopped too, listening to the
hymn, and after a little one of the two began to sing.
"Hush!" said the other; but the singer answered fiercely:
"I care not, nor do I fear to give my testimony to the Lord."
But now the hymn ended, and the two went to the door. This was my
chance, and so, with mademoiselle on my arm, I boldly stepped up and
joined them. They turned on us as we came; but I allayed their fears.
"Messieurs, we have come as you have. See! There is a lady with me."
"Then you are well come," answered one, and with that he tapped softly
at the door. A shutter opened, and a voice asked:
"Why come ye?"
"For the faith," was the reply.
"Enter, then!" With these words the door swung back, and one by one we
passed in, I being the last. The door was immediately closed and
barred after us, and we found ourselves in the presence of a small,
pale-faced man, who peered at us with blinking eyes. The two strangers
went on at once, after a word of greeting; but, throwing back her hood,
mademoiselle placed her hand on the arm of the little man, saying:
"Ferrières, do you not know me?"
His dim eyes searched her through the dim light, and an exclamation
broke from him.
"Mademoiselle! You! There will be many a glad face to-night. Almost
all of us are here."
"Hush!" she said. "I have come to warn you. There is danger at hand.
The edicts are to be enforced again, and at once."
He looked at her, and shook his head.
"Nay, mademoiselle; we have the King's word."
"Tell him, then!" and she turned to me. "Monsieur, this is the Sieur
de Ferrières, who has known me from childhood, and who refuses to
believe me--tell him what I say is true!"
I did so in ten words; but the King's word was the King's word to him,
and the fool was blind in his folly.
"Then take us to others who will hear," burst out mademoiselle; "in an
hour it may be too late; it may be too late even now."
"Surely," he replied, "I will take you to the meeting-place, for you
are of the flock, and the Lord is with us to-night; but you are
mistaken, that I know."
Mademoiselle glanced at me in despair as we followed him across the
hall, and down a stair that led to an underground passage. Along this
we went, and, our guide gently pushing open a door, we saw before us a
large room filled with people of both sexes. All were on their knees,
absorbed in prayer. At the upper end of the room was a raised
platform, and on this was a single figure, also kneeling, the face
covered by the hands.
A whispered "Stay here!" to me, and mademoiselle stepped forward,
gliding softly past the bowed figures to the right and left of her
until she came to the edge of the platform; and there, unable to
interrupt that silent prayer, she too knelt. So for a space, until at
last the pastor rose, and stood surveying the worshippers. For a
moment my glance rested curiously on the thin, ascetic face, full of
lofty resolve, and then with a rush memory came back to me, and I stood
as if lightning-struck. As he looked around my mind went back with a
leap to the days gone by, to that hideous morning when my hot hand had
struck a death-blow at my friend. It could not be he? And yet! I
stared and stared. Yes; it was Godefroy de la Mothe, the friend of my
youth, whom I had thought I had slain. There was never a doubt of it!
And there, as I stood, the mercy of God came to me, and the weight of a
great sin was lifted from my soul. For moments that seemed years all
was a dream, and there was a haze before my eyes. Through this I saw
mademoiselle arise and face the preacher; but I could not hear her
words, though I saw that she spoke quickly and eagerly. And as she
spoke there were whisperings and strange glancings amongst the people,
and they pressed forward to listen too, but La Mothe lifted his hand.
"Brethren," he said in deep, sonorous accents, "we have believed the
word of a prince, and the tyrant has lied to us. The edicts are
renewed. But, brethren, He lives that delivered His people from Egypt.
He lives that defended His Church against Caesars, kings, and
profligate princes. His shield is over us, before whose footstool we
kneel. Fear not, and be brave! And now, friends, we must part; but,
ere we part--some of us, perhaps, never to meet again--let us pray."
He knelt once more, and the people with him, and there was a deep
silence, broken at last by La Mothe's solemn voice as he began to pray
aloud. And as he prayed there came to us from without the muffled
tramp of feet, and the murmuring of many voices rising and falling like
the swell of the sea, whilst now and again a tongue, shriller and more
high-pitched than those of its fellows, would ring out a sharp,
menacing bark. Still La Mothe went on unmoved, though uneasy looks
were beginning to be exchanged; but at last he too stopped, for the
murmurs had swelled to one long roar of savage fury, and the words of
the mob reached us distinctly.
"To the fire with them! Death to the Christaudins!"
There was an instant of scared, blanched silence, and then a girl burst
into hysterical sobbing, and her voice broke the tension. In a moment
all was confusion and terror unspeakable, through which I forced my way
to mademoiselle's side. Men shouted and raved, women screamed and
prayed. Some flew to the doors, others, again, huddled together like
sheep; and from outside rose higher and higher the dreadful voice of
the mob, mad with blood lust, and ever above all rang out the harsh
clang of the tocsin of the Mathurins.
I looked at mademoiselle; her face was white and her eyes were shining,
but she held herself bravely. I drew my sword as La Mothe, the old
soldier spirit awake within him, called out in a loud voice:
"The women in the centre, gentlemen! Draw swords, and make for the
door, else we die here like rats."
His voice rang out clear and strong. The few who retained their heads
seconded him well, and in less time that I take to tell this we had
ringed in the women, and stood around them with drawn swords.
La Mothe was near the door, his spare figure erect, his look high. He
alone carried no arms. I was a few feet from him, with Diane by my
side.
In this formation we left the meeting-room, and reached the hall, where
the huge iron-studded door was already yielding to the battering from
outside.
"Throw open the door," La Mothe called out. Someone, I think it was
Ferrières, stepped forward and undid the bar, springing back quickly as
the door flew open; and for an instant we heard a hoarse roar, and by
the light of many torches, and a huge fire lit in the street, saw a
countless swarm of cruel faces. Out we rushed, striking to the right
and left, splitting them before us as a plank is split by a wedge. So
impetuous was the sally that the crowd gave way on all hands. But our
success was only for a moment. They rallied, and surged back, savage,
furious, thirsting for blood. I shall never forget that night: the
tall, dark houses, the flare-lit street, and that devoted few, around
whom the howling mob raged like the sea about some desolate isle.
Still we pushed them back, for they seemed to have no leaders; but now
one appeared, a man mounted on a tall white horse, and we began to feel
the difference.
"Down with them," he called out; "down with the devil's brood." And
the light of a torch falling on his face I saw it was Simon. His words
gave courage to the mob. He himself led them on, and then there was
fierce, desperate work. We were fighting for our lives--and men fight
hard then--and so we beat them off once more, though one or two had
fallen, and there was scarcely one of us who was not wounded somewhere.
But they had only gone back to breathe, and came on again in such
numbers that those in front could not go back if they would, and I
began to think the end was not far. This time they divided us into
two, and I found myself in a little group near the wall of the
Mathurins, whilst the crowd closed over the rest. Diane was still
safe, but there was death all around us, and my heart sank, not for
myself but for her whom I loved.
"Leave me, Orrain," she gasped. "Save yourself!"
And for answer I drew her closer to me, and fought as I had never
fought before.
The place had become a shambles, though here and there were little
knots of Christaudins fighting for their lives. Again and again I
strove to cut a way through, but it was impossible. For a moment,
however, we found a breathing space. For one little moment the mob
gave way and left us, and it was then that I saw Ferrières. He had
become detached from us, and was alone. Simon was near him, and with a
face white with terror he seized my brother's stirrup and begged for
mercy. I saw the cruel hand go up; there was a flash of steel, and
Ferrières fell, his grey hairs dabbled in blood, and the white horse
trampled over him as Simon turned towards us. The light of fifty
torches was on us, and he knew us at once. With a cry like that of an
animal he pointed at us.
"There! Those two. A hundred--nay, two hundred gold crowns to him who
takes them. On! on!"
And he strove to reach us; but even he, mounted as he was, found the
press too great.
But his words were heard, and they came on howling, a ring of snarling
faces, of hearts more pitiless than wolves'. Twice they rushed in and
twice they fell back, and my sword was red to the hilt. They wavered
for a moment, and then came on a third time. One man went down, but
someone sprang to my sword arm and pulled me forward. I tripped over
something, and came to my knees, and as I did so the mob went over me
like a wave, and I heard Diane's voice and its shrill note of agony.
God knows how I managed it, but I rose to my feet once more--the very
thickness of the press perhaps saved me then--but I could see nothing
of Diane.
"Diane," I called out, "I am here--here!"
And they laughed at me, and one raising a poniard made a sudden, swift
thrust, that would have found my heart, but that a shining blade came
between us, and the ruffian fell with a horrid cry. The next moment I
heard De Lorgnac's voice. He seemed to have dropped from the clouds.
"Behind me! Your back to the wall till you get breath." And his tall
figure faced the crowd; and then I saw what the best sword in France
could do, and even I shuddered. They backed before him in a crescent,
snarling, growling, and cursing, but never an one dared to come within
reach of that long red blade.
Where was Diane? Dizzy and faint I leaned against the wall behind me,
my eyes searching here, there, and everywhere. But she was gone; and I
cursed my arm that had failed me in my need.
Simon was still some distance away, striving to reach me, and our eyes
met. It was enough for me. I sprang at him, past De Lorgnac; and the
mob gave, only to wedge me in and bear me backwards, for at this moment
there rose a cry:
"The archers! The guards! Fly! Fly!"
Ay! They had come at last! When it was too late, with Martines, the
lieutenant of the Châtelet, at their head. They drove the mob before
them, striking them down, riding them over, and surrounded the few of
us who were left.
In my confusion, as I strove to reach Simon, the hand of some fallen
wretch clutched me by the ankle, and I stumbled forward. In a trice I
was down, and seized; and struggling desperately, but in vain, was
dragged into safety, but a prisoner.
The mob driven off, though not defeated yet, came on again, refusing to
be balked of their prey; but disciplined strength was too much for
them, and once more they gave way, howling around the few prisoners,
whom they were only kept from tearing in pieces by the guards.
By the flare of the torches I saw Martines and Simon riding side by
side talking eagerly. Suddenly the latter reined in, sprang from his
horse, and lifted something in his arms. It was a woman's figure, limp
and lifeless. He placed her on the saddle before him, and mounted
again, whilst the mob hooted and jeered, and as the light fell on the
white face I saw it was Diane.
Martines leaned forward and looked at her, with pity in his glance; but
Simon laughed out:
"_Corbleu_, monsieur! this is the worst Christaudin of them all."
The words roused me to madness, and with a mighty effort I shook myself
free and sprang forward, but the butt of a lance brought me down, and
once more I was seized.