THE PARISIAN MATINS.
There are some statements for which it is impossible to be prepared;
statements so strong and so startling that it is impossible to answer
them except by action--by a blow. And this of M. de Pavannes was one
of these. If there had been any one present, I think I should have
given him the lie and drawn upon him. But alone with him at midnight
in the shadow near the bottom of the Rue des Fosses, with no witnesses,
with every reason to feel friendly towards him, what was I to do?
As a fact, I did nothing. I stood, silent and stupefied, waiting to
hear more. He did not keep me long.
"She is my wife's sister," he continued grimly. "But I have no reason
to shield her on that account! Shield her? Had you lived at court
only a month I might shield her all I could, M. de Caylus, it would
avail nothing. Not Madame de Sauves is better known. And I would not
if I could! I know well, though my wife will not believe it, that
there is nothing so near Madame d'O's heart as to get rid of her sister
and me--of both of us--that she may succeed to Madeleine's inheritance!
Oh, yes, I had good grounds for being nervous yesterday, when my wife
did not return," he added excitedly.
"But there at least you wrong Madame d'O!" I cried, shocked and
horrified by an accusation, which seemed so much more dreadful in the
silence and gloom--and withal so much less preposterous than it might
have seemed in the daylight. "There you certainly wrong her! For
shame! M. de Pavannes."
He came a step nearer, and laying a hand on my sleeve peered into my
face. "Did you see a priest with her?" he asked slowly. "A man
called the Coadjutor--a down-looking dog?"
I said--with a shiver of dread, a sudden revulsion of feeling, born of
his manner--that I had. And I explained the part the priest had taken.
"Then," Pavannes rejoined, "I am right There IS a trap laid for me.
The Abbess of the Ursulines! She abduct my wife? Why, she is her
dearest friend, believe me. It is impossible. She would be more
likely to save her from danger than to--umph! wait a minute." I did:
I waited, dreading what he might discover, until he muttered, checking
himself--"Can that be it? Can it be that the Abbess did know of some
danger threatening us, and would have put Madeleine in a safe retreat?
I wonder!"
And I wondered; and then--well, thoughts are like gunpowder. The least
spark will fire a train. His words were few, but they formed spark
enough to raise such a flare in my brain as for a moment blinded me,
and shook me so that I trembled. The shock over, I was left face to
face with a possibility of wickedness such as I could never have
suspected of myself. I remembered Mirepoix's distress and the priest's
eagerness. I re-called the gruff warning Bezers--even Bezers, and
there was something very odd in Bezers giving a warning!--had given
Madame de Pavannes when he told her that she would be better where she
was. I thought of the wakefulness which I had marked in the streets,
the silent hurrying to and fro, the signs of coming strife, and
contrasted these with the quietude and seeming safety of Mirepoix's
house; and I hastily asked Pavannes at what time he had been arrested.
"About an hour before midnight," he answered.
"Then you know nothing of what is happening?" I replied quickly. "Why,
even while we are loitering here--but listen!"
And with all speed, stammering indeed in my haste and anxiety, I told
him what I had noticed in the streets, and the hints I had heard, and I
showed him the badges with which Madame had furnished me.
His manner when he had heard me out frightened me still more. He drew
me on in a kind of fury to a house in the windows of which some lighted
candles had appeared not a minute before.
"The ring!" he cried, "let me see the ring! Whose is it?"
He held up my hand to this chance light and we looked at the ring. It
was a heavy gold signet, with one curious characteristic: it had two
facets. On one of these was engraved the letter "H," and above it a
crown. On the other was an eagle with outstretched wings.
Pavannes let my hand drop and leaned against the wall in sudden
despair. "It is the Duke of Guise's," he muttered. "It is the eagle
of Lorraine."
"Ha!" said I softly, seeing light. The Duke was the idol then, as
later, of the Parisian populace, and I understood now why the citizen
soldiers had shown me such respect. They had taken me for the Duke's
envoy and confidant.
But I saw no farther. Pavannes did, and murmured bitterly, "We may say
our prayers, we Huguenots. That is our death-warrant. To-morrow night
there will not be one left in Paris, lad. Guise has his father's death
to avenge, and these cursed Parisians will do his bidding like the
wolves they are! The Baron de Rosny warned us of this, word for word.
I would to Heaven we had taken his advice!"
"Stay!" I cried--he was going too fast for me--"stay!" His monstrous
conception, though it marched some way with my own suspicions, outran
them far! I saw no sufficient grounds for it. "The King--the king
would not permit such a thing, M. de Pavannes," I argued.
"Boy, you are blind!" he rejoined impatiently, for now he saw all and
I nothing. "Yonder was the Duke of Anjou's captain--Monsieur's
officer, the follower of France's brother, mark you! And HE--he obeyed
the Duke's ring! The Duke has a free hand to-night, and he hates us.
And the river. Why are we not to cross the river? The King indeed!
The King has undone us. He has sold us to his brother and the Guises.
VA CHASSER L'IDOLE" for the second time I heard the quaint phrase,
which I learned afterwards was an anagram of the King's name, Charles
de Valois, used by the Protestants as a password--"VA CHASSER L'IDOLE
has betrayed us! I remember the very words he used to the Admiral,
'Now we have got you here we shall not let you go so easily!' Oh, the
traitor! The wretched traitor!"
He leaned against the wall overcome by the horror of the conviction
which had burst upon him, and unnerved by the imminence of the peril.
At all times he was an unready man, I fancy, more fit, courage apart,
for the college than the field; and now he gave way to despair.
Perhaps the thought of his wife unmanned him. Perhaps the excitement
through which he had already gone tended to stupefy him, or the
suddenness of the discovery.
At any rate, I was the first to gather my wits together, and my
earliest impulse was to tear into two parts a white handkerchief I had
in my pouch, and fasten one to his sleeve, the other in his hat, in
rough imitation of the badges I wore myself.
It will appear from this that I no longer trusted Madame d'O. I was
not convinced, it is true, of her conscious guilt, still I did not
trust her entirely. "Do not wear them on your return," she had said
and that was odd; although I could not yet believe that she was such a
siren as Father Pierre had warned us of, telling tales from old poets.
Yet I doubted, shuddering as I did so. Her companionship with that
vile priest, her strange eagerness to secure Pavannes' return, her
mysterious directions to me, her anxiety to take her sister home--home,
where she would be exposed to danger, as being in a known Huguenot's
house--these things pointed to but one conclusion; still that one was
so horrible that I would not, even while I doubted and distrusted her,
I would not, I could not accept it. I put it from me, and refused to
believe it, although during the rest of that night it kept coming back
to me and knocking for admission at my brain.
All this flashed through my mind while I was fixing on Pavannes'
badges. Not that I lost time about it, for from the moment I grasped
the position as he conceived it, every minute we had wasted on
explanations seemed to me an hour. I reproached myself for having
forgotten even for an instant that which had brought us to town--the
rescue of Kit's lover. We had small chance now of reaching him in
time, misled as we had been by this miserable mistake in identity. If
my companion's fears were well founded, Louis would fall in the general
massacre of the Huguenots, probably before we could reach him. If
ill-founded, still we had small reason to hope. Bezers' vengeance
would not wait. I knew him too well to think it. A Guise might spare
his foe, but the Vidame--the Vidame never! We had warned Madame de
Pavannes it was true; but that abnormal exercise of benevolence could
only, I cynically thought, have the more exasperated the devil within
him, which now would be ravening like a dog disappointed of its
victuals.
I glanced up at the line of sky visible between the tall houses, and
lo! the dawn was coming. It wanted scarcely half-an-hour of daylight,
though down in the dark streets about us the night still reigned. Yes,
the morning was coming, bright and hopeful, and the city was quiet.
There were no signs, no sounds of riot or disorder. Surely, I thought,
surely Pavannes must be mistaken. Either the plot had never existed,
that was most likely, or it had been abandoned, or perhaps--Crack!
A pistol shot! Short, sharp, ominous it rang out on the instant, a
solitary sound in the night! It was somewhere near us, and I stopped.
I had been speaking to my companion at the moment. "Where was it?" I
cried, looking behind me.
"Close to us. Near the Louvre," he answered, listening intently. "See!
See! Ah, heavens!" he continued in a voice of despair, "it was a
signal!"
It was. One, two, three! Before I could count so far, lights sprang
into brightness in the windows of nine out of ten houses in the short
street where we stood, as if lighted by a single hand. Before too I
could count as many more, or ask him what this meant, before indeed, we
could speak or stir from the spot, or think what we should do, with a
hurried clang and clash, as if brought into motion by furious frenzied
hands, a great bell just above our heads began to boom and whirr! It
hurled its notes into space, it suddenly filled all the silence. It
dashed its harsh sounds down upon the trembling city, till the air
heaved, and the houses about us rocked. It made in an instant a
pandemonium of the quiet night.
We turned and hurried instinctively from the place, crouching and
amazed, looking upwards with bent shoulders and scared faces. "What is
it? What is it?" I cried, half in resentment; half in terror. It
deafened me.
"The bell of St. Germain l'Auxerrois!" he shouted in answer. "The
Church of the Louvre. It is as I said. We are doomed!"
"Doomed? No!" I replied fiercely, for my courage seemed to rise again
on the wave of sound and excitement as if rebounding from the momentary
shock. "Never! We wear the devil's livery, and he will look after his
own. Draw, man, and let him that stops us look to himself. You know
the way. Lead on!" I cried savagely.
He caught the infection and drew his sword. So we started boldly, and
the result justified my confidence. We looked, no doubt, as like
murderers as any who were abroad that night. Moving in this desperate
guise we hastened up that street and into another--still pursued by the
din and clangour of the bell--and then a short distance along a third.
We were not stopped or addressed by anyone, though numbers, increasing
each moment as door after door opened, and we drew nearer to the heart
of the commotion, were hurrying in the same direction, side by side
with us; and though in front, where now and again lights gleamed on a
mass of weapons, or on white eager faces, filling some alley from wall
to wall, we heard the roar of voices rising and falling like the murmur
of an angry sea.
All was blur, hurry, confusion, tumult. Yet I remember, as we pressed
onwards with the stream and part of it, certain sharp outlines. I
caught here and there a glimpse of a pale scared face at a window, a
half-clad form at a door, of the big, wondering eyes of a child held up
to see us pass, of a Christ at a corner ruddy in the smoky glare of a
link, of a woman armed, and in man's clothes, who walked some distance
side by side with us, and led off a ribald song. I retain a memory of
these things: of brief bursts of light and long intervals of darkness,
and always, as we tramped forwards, my hand on Pavannes' sleeve, of an
ever-growing tumult in front--an ever-rising flood of noise.
At last we came to a standstill where a side street ran out of ours.
Into this the hurrying throng tried to wheel, and, unable to do so,
halted, and pressed about the head of the street, which was already
full to overflowing; and so sought with hungry eyes for places whence
they might look down it. Pavannes and I struggled only to get through
the crowd--to get on; but the efforts of those behind partly aiding and
partly thwarting our own, presently forced us to a position whence we
could not avoid seeing what was afoot.
The street--this side street was ablaze with light. From end to end
every gable, every hatchment was glowing, every window was flickering
in the glare of torches. It was paved too with faces--human faces, yet
scarcely human--all looking one way, all looking upward; and the noise,
as from time to time this immense crowd groaned or howled in unison,
like a wild beast in its fury, was so appalling, that I clutched
Pavannes' arm and clung to him in momentary terror. I do not wonder
now that I quailed, though sometimes I have heard that sound since.
For there is nothing in the world so dreadful as that brute beast we
call the CANAILLE, when the chain is off and its cowardly soul is
roused.
Near our end of the street a group of horsemen rising island-like from
the sea of heads, sat motionless in their saddles about a gateway.
They were silent, taking no notice of the rioting fiends shouting at
their girths, but watching in grim quiet what was passing within the
gates. They were handsomely dressed, although some wore corslets over
their satin coats or lace above buff jerkins. I could even at that
distance see the jewels gleam in the bonnet of one who seemed to be
their leader. He was in the centre of the band, a very young man,
perhaps twenty or twenty-one, of most splendid presence, sitting his
horse superbly. He wore a grey riding-coat, and was a head taller than
any of his companions. There was pride in the very air with which his
horse bore him.
I did not need to ask Pavannes who he was. I KNEW that he was the Duke
of Guise, and that the house before which he stood was Coligny's. I
knew what was being done there. And in the same moment I sickened with
horror and rage. I had a vision of grey hairs and blood and fury
scarcely human, And I rebelled. I battled with the rabble about me. I
forced my way through them tooth and nail after Pavannes, intent only
on escaping, only on getting away from there. And so we neither halted
nor looked back until we were clear of the crowd and had left the blaze
of light and the work doing by it some way behind us.
We found ourselves then in the mouth of an obscure alley which my
companion whispered would bring us to his house; and here we paused to
take breath and look back. The sky was red behind us, the air full of
the clash and din of the tocsin, and the flood of sounds which poured
from every tower and steeple. From the eastward came the rattle of
drums and random shots, and shrieks of "A BAS COLIGNY!" "A BAS LES
HUGUENOTS!" Meanwhile the city was rising as one man, pale at this
dread awakening. From every window men and women, frightened by the
uproar, were craning their necks, asking or answering questions or
hurriedly calling for and kindling tapers. But as yet the general
populace seemed to be taking no active part in the disorder.
Pavannes raised his hat an instant as we stood in the shadow of the
houses. "The noblest man in France is dead," he said, softly and
reverently. "God rest his soul! They have had their way with him and
killed him like a dog. He was an old man and they did not spare him!
A noble, and they have called in the CANAILLE to tear him. But be
sure, my friend"--and as the speaker's tone changed and grew full and
proud, his form seemed to swell with it--"be sure the cruel shall not
live out half their days! No. He that takes the knife shall perish by
the knife! And go to his own place! I shall not see it, but you will!"
His words made no great impression on me then. My hardihood was
returning. I was throbbing with fierce excitement, and tingling for
the fight. But years afterwards, when the two who stood highest in the
group about Coligny's threshold died, the one at thirty-eight, the
other at thirty-five--when Henry of Guise and Henry of Valois died
within six months of one another by the assassin's knife--I remembered
Pavannes' augury. And remembering it, I read the ways of Providence,
and saw that the very audacity of which Guise took advantage to entrap
Coligny led him too in his turn to trip smiling and bowing, a comfit
box in his hand and the kisses of his mistress damp on his lips, into a
king's closet--a king's closet at Blois! Led him to lift the
curtain--ah! to lift the curtain, what Frenchman does not know the
tale?--behind which stood the Admiral!
To return to our own fortunes; after a hurried glance we resumed our
way, and sped through the alley, holding a brief consultation as we
went. Pavannes' first hasty instinct to seek shelter at home began to
lose its force, and he to consider whether his return would not
endanger his wife. The mob might be expected to spare her, he argued.
Her death would not benefit any private foes if he escaped. He was for
keeping away therefore. But I would not agree to this. The priest's
crew of desperadoes--assuming Pavannes' suspicions to be correct--would
wait some time, no doubt, to give the master of the house a chance to
return, but would certainly attack sooner or later out of greed, if
from no other motive. Then the lady's fate would at the best be
uncertain. I was anxious myself to rejoin my brothers, and take all
future chances, whether of saving our Louis, or escaping ourselves,
with them. United we should be four good swords, and might at least
protect Madame de Pavannes to a place of safety, if no opportunity of
succouring Louis should present itself. We had too the Duke's ring,
and this might be of service at a pinch. "No," I urged, "let us get
together. We two will slip in at the front gate, and bolt and bar it,
and then we will all escape in a body at the back, while they are
forcing the gateway."
"There is no door at the back," he answered, shaking his head.
"There are windows?"
"They are too strongly barred. We could not break out in the time," he
explained, with a groan.
I paused at that, crestfallen. But danger quickened my wits. In a
moment I had another plan, not so hopeful and more dangerous, yet worth
trying I thought, I told him of it, and he agreed to it. As he nodded
assent we emerged into a street, and I saw--for the grey light of
morning was beginning to penetrate between the houses--that we were
only a few yards from the gateway, and the small door by which I had
seen my brothers enter. Were they still in the house? Were they safe?
I had been away an hour at least.
Anxious as I was about them, I looked round me very keenly as we
flitted across the road, and knocked gently at the door. I thought it
so likely that we should be fallen upon here, that I stood on my guard
while we waited. But we were not molested. The street, being at some
distance from the centre of the commotion, was still and empty, with no
signs of life apparent except the rows of heads poked through the
windows--all possessing eyes which watched us heedfully and in perfect
silence. Yes, the street was quite empty: except, ah! except, for
that lurking figure, which, even as I espied it, shot round a distant
angle of the wall, and was lost to sight.
"There!" I cried, reckless now who might hear me, "knock! knock
louder! never mind the noise. The alarm is given. A score of people
are watching us, and yonder spy has gone off to summon his friends."
The truth was my anger was rising. I could bear no longer the silent
regards of all those eyes at the windows. I writhed under them--cruel,
pitiless eyes they were. I read in them a morbid curiosity, a patient
anticipation that drove me wild. Those men and women gazing on us so
stonily knew my companion's rank and faith. They had watched him
riding in and out daily, one of the sights of their street, gay and
gallant; and now with the same eyes they were watching greedily for the
butchers to come. The very children took a fresh interest in him, as
one doomed and dying; and waited panting for the show to begin. So I
read them.
"Knock!" I repeated angrily, losing all patience. Had I been foolish
in bringing him back to this part of the town where every soul knew
him? "Knock; we must get in, whether or no. They cannot all have left
the house!"
I kicked the door desperately, and my relief was great when it opened.
A servant with a pale face stood before me, his knees visibly shaking.
And behind him was Croisette.
I think we fell straightway into one another's arms.
"And Marie," I cried, "Marie?"
"Marie is within, and madame," he answered joyfully; "we are together
again and nothing matters, But oh, Anne, where have you been? And what
is the matter? Is it a great fire? Or is the king dead? Or what is
it?"
I told him. I hastily poured out some of the things which had happened
to me, and some which I feared were in store for others. Naturally he
was surprised and shocked by the latter, though his fears had already
been aroused. But his joy and relief, when he heard the mystery of
Louis de Pavannes' marriage explained, were so great that they
swallowed up all other feelings. He could not say enough about it. He
pictured Louis again and again as Kit's lover, as our old friend, our
companion; as true, staunch, brave without fear, without reproach: and
it was long before his eyes ceased to sparkle, his tongue to run
merrily, the colour to mantle in his cheeks--long that is as time is
counted by minutes. But presently the remembrance of Louis' danger and
our own position returned more vividly. Our plan for rescuing him had
failed--failed!
"No! no!" cried Croisette, stoutly. He would not hear of it. He
would not have it at any price. "No, we will not give up hope! We
will go shoulder to shoulder and find him. Louis is as brave as a lion
and as quick as a weasel. We will find him in time yet. We will go
when--I mean as soon as--"
He faltered, and paused. His sudden silence as he looked round the
empty forecourt in which we stood was eloquent. The cold light, faint
and uncertain yet, was stealing into the court, disclosing a row of
stables on either side, and a tiny porter's hutch by the gates, and
fronting us a noble house of four storys, tall, grey, grim-looking.
I assented; gloomily however. "Yes," I said, "we will go when--"
And I too stopped. The same thought was in my mind. How could we
leave these people? How could we leave madame in her danger and
distress? How could we return her kindness by desertion? We could
not. No, not for Kit's sake. Because after all Louis, our Louis, was
a man, and must take his chance. He must take his chance. But I
groaned.
So that was settled. I had already explained our plan to Croisette:
and now as we waited he began to tell me a story, a long, confused
story about Madame d'O. I thought he was talking for the sake of
talking--to keep up our spirits--and I did not attend much to him; so
that he had not reached the gist of it, or at least I had not grasped
it, when a noise without stayed his tongue. It was the tramp of
footsteps, apparently of a large party in the street. It forced him to
break off, and promptly drove us all to our posts.
But before we separated a slight figure, hardly noticeable in that dim,
uncertain light, passed me quickly, laying for an instant a soft hand
in mine as I stood waiting by the gates. I have said I scarcely saw
the figure, though I did see the kind timid eyes, and the pale cheeks
under the hood; but I bent over the hand and kissed it, and felt, truth
to tell, no more regret nor doubt where our duty lay. But stood,
waiting patiently.