"Who is that boy?" said one of the early shopkeepers of Rochelle,
speaking to his neighbor, who was engaged in the same laudable
occupation as himself,--namely, that of opening his shop for the
business of the day. At the same time he pointed out a handsome lad,
well but plainly dressed, who was walking along somewhat slowly toward
the better part of the city. "Who is that boy, I wonder?"
"He's a stranger, by that cloak with the silver lace," replied the
other: "most likely come over in the ship that nearly ran upon the pier
last night. He carries a sword, too. Those English make monkeys even of
their children; but he is a good looking youth nevertheless, and bears
himself manly. Ah! there is that worthless vagabond, Pierrot la Grange,
speaking to him. And now Master Pierrot is coming here. I will have
naught to do with him or his." And, so saying, he turned into his shop.
The other tradesman waited without, proposing in his own mind to ask
Pierrot sundry questions regarding his young companion; for, although he
had no curiosity, as he frequently assured his neighbors, yet he always
liked to know who everybody was, and what was his business.
Pierrot, however, had only had time to cross over from the other corner
of the street and ask, in a civil, and even sober, tone, where the
dwelling of Monsieur Clement Tournon could be found, when the good
tradesman exclaimed, "My life! what is that?" and instantly darted
across the street as fast as a somewhat short pair of legs could carry
him.
Now, the street there was not very wide; but it was crossed by one much
broader within fifty yards of the spot where the shopkeeper was
standing, called in that day "Rue de l'Horloge." It may have gone by a
hundred names since. The street was quite vacant, too, when Pierrot
addressed the tradesman; but the moment after, two sailors came up the
Rue de l'Horloge, and one of them, as soon as he set eyes on Master Ned,
who was standing with his back to the new-comers, laid his hand upon his
shoulder and said something in a tone apparently not the most civil, for
the lad instantly shook himself free, turned round, and put his hand
upon the hilt of the short sword he carried. It seemed to the good
shopkeeper that he made an effort to draw it; but whether it fitted too
close, or it had got somewhat rusted to the scabbard during the previous
rainy night, it would not come forth; and in the mean time the sailor
struck him a thundering blow on the head with a stick he carried. The
youth fell to the ground at once, but he did not get up again, and the
two tradesmen ran up, crying, "Shame! shame! Seize the fellow!"
"You've killed him, Tom, by the Lord!" cried the other sailor. "You
deserve hanging; but get back to the ship if you would escape it. Quick!
quick! or they will stop you."
"He was drawing his sword on me!" cried our friend Tom, whose
quarrel--not the first one--with Master Ned we have already seen as the
ship neared the Isle of Rhé. But, not quite confident in the
availability of his excuse, he took his companion's advice and began to
run, turning the corner of the Rue de l'Horloge. One of the tradesmen
pursued him, however, shouting, "Stop him! stop him!" and the malevolent
scoundrel had not run thirty yards, when he was seized by a strong,
middle-aged man, who was walking up the street with an elderly companion
and was followed by two common men dressed as porters.
The sailor made a struggle to get free, but it was in vain; and the
shopkeeper, who was pursuing, soon made the whole affair known to his
captors.
The elderly man with the white beard put one or two questions to the
prisoner, to which he received no reply; for since that untoward event
of the Tower of Babel the world is no longer of one speech, and Tom was
master of no other than his own.
"Take him to the prison," said the old man, addressing the two men who
had been following him. "Do not use him roughly, but see that he does
not escape."
"He shall not get away, Master Syndic," replied one of the porters; and,
while the syndic was speaking a few whispered words to his companion,
Tom was carried off to durance vile.
The two gentlemen then walked on with the tradesman by their side, and
were soon on the spot where the assault had been committed. By this time
a good many people had gathered round poor Master Ned; and the other
English sailor had lifted the lad's head upon his knee, while Pierrot
was pouring some water on his face. The shopkeeper, to whom the latter
had been speaking when the misadventure had occurred, was trying to
stanch the blood which flowed from a severe cut on the head; but the
moment he saw the syndic approach he exclaimed, "Ah, Monsieur Clement
Tournon, this poor lad was inquiring for you when that brute felled
him."
"Indeed!" said the old man, with less appearance of interest than might
perhaps have been expected. "Leave stopping the blood: its flow will do
him good; and some one carry him to my house, where he shall be well
tended."
Pierrot had risen from his knee as the syndic spoke, and now whispered a
word in his ear, which he evidently thought of much consequence; but the
old man remained unmoved, merely saying, "Not quite so close, my friend!
I tell you he shall be well tended. Neighbor Gasson, for charity, call
two or three of your lads and let them carry the poor lad up to my
dwelling."
At this moment the younger and stouter man who had seized and held
Master Ned's brutal assailant suggested that it would be better to take
the boy to his dwelling, as it was next door but one to the house of the
famous physician Cavillac.
"Nay, nay, Guiton," replied the syndic, "my poor place is hard by; and
yours," he added, in a lower tone, "may be too noisy. You go and send
down the doctor,--though I think the lad is but stunned, and will soon
be well again. Pierrot la Grange, follow us up, if you be, as you say,
his servant,--though how he happened to hire such a drunken fellow I
know not. Yes, I know you, Master Pierrot, though you have forgotten
me." Thus saying, he drew the personage whom he had called Guiton aside
and spoke to him during a few moments in a whisper. In the mean time,
two or three stout apprentices had been called forth from the
neighboring houses; and the youth, being raised in their arms, was being
carried along the Rue de l'Horloge. Clement Tournon followed quickly,
leaving his friend Guiton at the corner; and at the tenth door on the
left-hand side the party stopped and entered the passage of a tall house
standing somewhat back from the general line of the street. It was
rather a gloomy-looking edifice, with small windows and heavy doors
plated on the inner side with iron; but whether sad or cheerful mattered
little to poor Master Ned, for the state of stupor in which he lay was
not affected by the act of bearing him thither, nor by the still more
troublesome task of carrying him up a narrow stairs. That he was not
dead his heavy breathing showed; but that was almost the only sign of
life which could be discovered by a casual observer.
"Carry him into the small room behind the saloon," said Clement
Tournon, who was at this time following close; and in another minute the
lad was laid upon a bed in a room situated in the back of the house,
where little noise could penetrate, and which was cheerful and airy
enough.
"Thank you, lads; thank you!" said the syndic, speaking to the
apprentices. "Now leave us. You, Pierrot la Grange, stay here: undress
him and get him between the sheets."
The noise and the little crowd going up the steps had brought forth
several women-servants, belonging to Monsieur Tournon's household, in
large, helmet-shaped, white caps; and, after gazing in silence for a
moment or two, with wonder and compassion, upon the handsome pale
countenance, all bedabbled with blood, of the poor lad, they began to
make numerous suggestions to their master, who answered nothing, but
inquired, "Where is Lucette?"
She was gone, they told him, to Madame Loraine's school; and then,
rejecting all their counsels, and merely telling them that Dr. Cavillac
would soon be there, he ordered the room to be cleared of every one but
Pierrot and himself.
The old syndic paused for a moment or two after his commands had been
obeyed, gazing upon the pale face before him with a look of greater
interest than he had yet suffered to appear upon his countenance. Then,
suddenly turning to Pierrot, he said, "Now tell me all you know about
this youth. Who is he? What did he come hither for? What is his business
with me?"
"What is his business with you, Monsieur Tournon? I do not know,"
replied Pierrot la Grange. "What he came hither for was to bring letters
or messages from England; and as to who or what he is or was, that is
very simple. He is Lord Montagu's page."
"And his name?" asked the syndic.
"We used to call him Master Ned," replied Pierrot. "That was when I was
with the English army in the Isle de Rhé; but his name by rights, I
believe, is Edward Langdale." The old man continued silent; and Pierrot,
whose tendency to loquacity easily broke bounds, went on to tell how
Etienne Jargeau had received, some days before, information that Master
Ned would arrive upon the coast on business of importance, with
directions to have a small beacon-fire lighted that night, and every
night after, on a little hill just above the _trou bourbé_, till the lad
appeared. "You know Jargeau used to be a retainer of the Prince de
Soubise, monsieur," Pierrot continued; "but of late he has left his
service and has gone over--some say bought--to the French party."
"I trust we are all of the true French party," replied Monsieur Tournon.
"But the lad landed last night, you say. Had he no baggage with him?"
"Yes, two large leather bags with padlocks on them," rejoined Pierrot:
"they are left safe under lock and key at the Coq d'Or, where we were
obliged to rest last night because the guard was so sound asleep that we
could not wake them to let us in."
"Ay? so sluggardly? This must be amended," said the syndic. "At the Coq
d'Or, in the suburb? That is no safe place for such bags."
"So I was just thinking," replied Pierrot: "I will go up and fetch them.
He has got the key of the room in his pocket."
The worthy gentleman made a movement toward the bed, as if to take
the key; but Clement Tournon stopped him with a somewhat sarcastic
smile, saying, "If the Coq d'Or is no safe depository, Pierrot la Grange
is no safe messenger."
The man's face flushed. "You do me wrong, sir!" he exclaimed. "Bad
enough I may be; but I never stole a thing in my life."
"Not a cup of brandy?" asked the syndic, with another smile.
Pierrot laughed. "Fair booty, fair booty!" he cried: "strong waters are
fair booty everywhere, monsieur."
"Well, I suspect you of nothing worse," replied Tournon; "but, if you
were once to go for the bags, Heaven knows when we should see you again;
and then you would come without the bags; for there would be plenty of
people to lighten you of your load. Besides, the people of the cabaret
would not let you take them. I will send my head-polisher with you and
give him an order to receive the baggage in my name. They dare not
refuse my order. Get the key gently. I do not love putting my hands into
other people's pockets."
As soon as the key had been obtained, Clement Tournon led his companion
into a large, curious-looking apartment on the floor below, where round
the room appeared a number of dingy glass cases, through the small panes
of which came the gleam of various articles of gold and silver, while in
different parts of the room were several anvils and work-benches, with
some half-dozen men filing, hammering, and polishing. Near the window
was a tall desk within a sort of iron cage, and two clerks writing.
Every thing was orderly in the house of Clement Tournon; and, advancing
to one of the scribes, he directed him to write the order he had
promised, saw it made out and signed it, and then called a strong,
middle-aged man from a bench, whom he ordered to accompany Pierrot to
the tavern and return with him. He then took his way back to the little
room behind the great saloon and sat down by the bedside of Master Ned,
murmuring, "Poor boy! poor boy! He reminds me of my own poor Albert."
Ere five minutes were over, he was joined by the physician,--a man
celebrated in his day, well advanced in years, and with that peculiar
look of mysterious noncompromising solemnity which many a doctor still
affects, and which was then as necessary to the profession as rhubarb.
As a description of medical treatment in those times, though it might
prove in some degree interesting to those who are fond of "picking the
bare bone of antiquity," would neither interest nor instruct the general
reader, I will pass over in silence all the remedial means resorted to
in the case of Master Ned. I only know that cataplasms were applied to
the soles of his feet, and that some blood was taken from his arm. The
doctor, after examination, declared that the skull was not
fractured,--which might well have been the case; for, by a curious
arrangement of nature, those whose brains are the best worth preserving
have uniformly the thinnest cases in which to put them. "No, the skull
was not fractured," Monsieur Cavillac said; but the lad had received a
severe concussion of the brain, which was sometimes worse. He, however,
held out good hope, though he told the syndic that he did not
anticipate any change till the sun went down, and read him a lecture
upon the effect of the various changes of the moon, and even of the day,
upon the human frame, assuring him--a fact in which many still
believe--that a scotched viper never dies till the sun sets.
After he was gone, Clement Tournon took care to have all the directions
carried out to the letter, and the cataplasms had just been prepared and
applied when Pierrot and the polisher returned with the bags.
"Take him below," said the syndic, addressing his workman, and
indicating Pierrot by a nod of his head toward him,--"take him below,
and let him feed with our people; but take care that he does not get at
strong drink. Now, keep this place as quiet as possible, but tell old
Marton to come here in half an hour: for I have affairs, and must go at
that time."
"Can I not stay and attend upon my young master?" asked Pierrot, in a
respectful tone.
"No," said the syndic, dryly: "men who drink are always noisy."
When left alone with the door shut, what imaginations came upon the good
old merchant! "Would that I knew the lad's errand!" he thought; and his
eyes turned toward the bags, which had been set down at the foot of the
bed. "His letters must be in there," said Tournon to himself, "and the
key of the padlocks is doubtless in his pocket."
Ah, Mr. Syndic, it is a moment of temptation.
"Perhaps his business is matter of life and death, and an hour even may
be of vast consequence to me, to the city, to the Protestant cause.
Indeed, it must be so, or they never would have sent him over in such
stormy weather." So said fancy,--a quality much more nearly allied to
curiosity than people think; and Clement Tournon rose from his seat. But
the fine moral sense that was in him interfered. "No, never!" he said;
"no, never! I will not touch them so long as he lives. They shall not be
fingered by any one in my house."
Still, he felt strongly tempted; and after a while he rose again and
went to call Marton, feeling it would be better for him not to remain in
that room alone. His large-capped pippin-faced maid-servant was then
duly imbued with all the doctor's directions, warned to change the
cataplasms every two hours and to keep the wet cloths on the head cool;
and then Clement Tournon walked forth from his house toward the fine old
town-hall.
Marton sat and sewed. The invalid did not stir, and an hour passed by.
"It must be time to change the cataplasms," she thought: "he will not
wake till I come back: would Heaven he could, poor lad!" and down she
went to the kitchen where what she needed had been left to keep warm.
In the mean time, we may as well look about the room. It was a very
pretty little chamber, well and even luxuriously furnished withal. Two
windows looked out to the back court, and the sunshine came in over a
lower house behind. The rays first fell upon a small writing-desk of
dark carved oak, then touched upon a small bookcase in the same style,
well provided with books, and then upon a large armory, as it was then
called, or wardrobe, as we should now term it. There was moreover a
corner cupboard, also richly carved, with a glass door on two sides,
showing a number of little knick-knacks selected with great taste, some
ivory figures exquisitely cut, and a child's sampler of not the best
needlework.
Suddenly the door opened, and, with a quick step, but so light that one
could not hear a footfall, there entered a creature that seemed like a
dream, or a fairy, or a wreath of morning mist with fancy to shape it
into the form of a young girl. She could not be more than fifteen years
of age; but yet there were traces of early womanhood in neck and
shoulders and rounded limbs. But we may have to describe her hereafter,
and here we only stop to speak of the look of strange surprise which
opened the long, blue, deeply-fringed eyes more wide, and expanded the
nostril of the delicate nose, and raised the arched eyebrow, and showed
the pearl-like teeth between the rosy lips, as she beheld the pale and
bloody figure of the poor lad lying upon her own bed. She stood for a
moment in silent astonishment, and then was approaching slowly on
tiptoe--as if her foot could have made any noise--toward the bedside,
when a soft voice behind her said, "Lucette."
She started and turned round, and the old syndic, who stood in the
doorway, beckoned her into the passage beyond.
"My dear child," he said, "I have been obliged to give your room to a
poor young lad who has been sadly hurt, because it was the only one
where he could have perfect quiet. I will put you in the blue room on
the other side, where you may have some noise; but I know your good
heart will not let you feel annoyed at giving up your chamber for a day
or two to him and our good Marton, who has to nurse him."
"I will nurse him myself," said the young girl, "or at least help
Marton. Annoyed, grandfather? Could you think I would be annoyed in such
a case as his? Poor fellow! I will go and speak to him." And, before the
old man could tell her that it was in vain, she ran up to the bedside,
and said, in a low, sweet voice, "Be of good cheer, young gentleman: we
will nurse and tend you till you are quite well."
Her lips almost touched his ear as she spoke; and, whether it was that
the soft breath fanned him sweetly, or that the sound of a woman's
tongue had something that found a way to his heart when even hearing
failed, Ned Langdale turned suddenly in his bed, murmuring, "Mother,
dear mother, do not leave me."