Two hours had not passed after the sun's rising above the horizon when
Edward Langdale stood with a small group of officers at the extreme
outpost of the royal army, before what was called the Niort gate of the
city of Rochelle. There was still a space of about five hundred yards
between him and the walls; and before him rose all those towers and
pinnacles, many of which have since been destroyed, but which rendered
then and still render Rochelle one of the most picturesque cities of
France when seen from a distance. During the whole siege the operations,
though sure and terrible, had been slow and apparently tardy. The
Rochellois had been glad to husband their powder; and it was no part of
Richelieu's plan to breach the walls or to do more than harass the
citizens by an occasional attack. On this morning there had been no
firing on either side, and the town looked as quiet and peaceable as if
there were no hostile force before it. But, as Edward Langdale and his
companion, a young officer of the cardinal's guard, had ridden down from
Mauzé, the latter had pointed out to the young Englishman that famous
dyke which, stretching across the mouth of the port, had gradually cut
off the city from all communication with friends at home or allies
abroad. He had, in a jesting way, too, put some questions to Edward in
regard to the objects of his journey; but he obtained no information,
and did not dare to press them closely.
"You had better take some more breakfast, sir," said an old officer
commanding at the advance-posts. "You will get none in there; and,
though we are forbidden to suffer the slightest morsel to go in, I
presume that does not apply to what a man can carry in his stomach."
"I shall soon be back again if they let me in at all," answered Edward.
"Can any one give me a white flag? for I may as well not draw the fire.
That is a sort of breakfast I have no inclination for."
A small white flag was soon procured, and, leaving his horse with
Pierrot and Beaupré, who had followed him down the hill, Edward set out
on foot. He carried the white flag in his hand and approached the gate
with a calm, steady pace. He saw some men walk quickly along the wall
toward the same point to which his own course was directed; but the flag
of truce was respected, and he was permitted to come within five or six
yards of the heavy gate. Then, however, a voice shouted from behind a
small grated wicket, "Stand back! What seek you here?"
"I seek to speak with the syndic Clement Tournon," said Edward; "and, if
not with him, with Monsieur Guiton, mayor of the city."
"Stand back! You cannot enter here," said the man on the other side.
"Will you cause the mayor to be informed," said Edward, "that Master
Edward Langdale, an English gentleman well known in Rochelle, stands
without and desires admittance, if it be but for an hour?"
The man grumbled something which Edward did not hear, and there seemed
to be a consultation held within, at the end of which the same voice
told him to keep on the other side of the drawbridge while they informed
the mayor. The young gentleman accordingly retired, and seated himself
on a large stone at the end of the bridge, where for nearly an hour he
had nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts, with every now and then
a puff of smoke from one of the royalist batteries, which had lately
begun firing, and one gun replying from the walls. It seemed all child's
play, however; and he soon ceased to think of the matter at all. His
mind then turned to his own position and the curious fact of Richelieu
having suffered him to visit Rochelle with so very little opposition. He
could not but ask himself how much the gold cup had to do with the
minister's acquiescence; but, as he reflected more deeply upon the
cardinal's character and upon various incidents which had come to his
knowledge, he concluded in his own mind that Richelieu might be well
pleased to make another effort to open a communication with the citizens
without compromising his own dignity. The position of the besieging
force, he thought, might not be so good as it appeared. The dyke, on
which so much depended, and which he had had no means of examining
closely, might not be sufficiently solid to resist the action of the sea
and winds. The English armament might be, to Richelieu's knowledge, of a
more formidable character and more advanced state of preparation than
was admitted; and all these circumstances might render the speedy
capture of Rochelle upon any terms absolutely necessary.
In little more than an hour, the same voice he had heard before called
him up to the gate, and the wicket was partly opened to give him
admittance under the archway, where he found five or six men with
halberds on their shoulders and otherwise well armed, while a young man
bearing the appearance of an officer advanced to meet him. The steel
caps of the soldiers in some degree concealed their faces; but the
broad-brimmed, plumed hat of the young officer served in no degree to
hide the gaunt, pallid features, the high cheek-bones, the fallen-in
cheeks, the hollow eyes, and the strong marking of the temples, which
told a sad tale of the ravages of famine, even amongst the higher and
more wealthy classes of the town. A feeling of delicacy made Edward
withdraw his eyes after one hasty glance at the young gentleman's
countenance; and, as the other paused without speaking for a moment, he
said, "May I ask, sir, if any one has conveyed my message to the syndic
Clement Tournon or to the mayor?"
"Monsieur Tournon is ill in his own house," replied the young officer:
"but Monsieur Guiton, the mayor, has come down to a house near this
gate, and will receive you there, as it might be inconvenient to invite
you to the town-house, for fear of any disturbance."
"I am ready to wait upon him," replied Edward, "wherever he pleases."
"I am sorry to say," replied the young officer, "that even for so short
a distance you must give up your arms and suffer your eyes to be
bandaged."
"I have no arms," replied Edward, "as you may see. I purposely came
without. As to bandaging my eyes, do as you please. I am no spy nor
agent of the French Government." He pulled off his hat as he spoke,
bending down his head for the handkerchief to be tied over his eyes;
and, as soon as that somewhat disagreeable operation was performed, the
young officer took him by the hand, and, with one of the soldiers
following, led him into Rochelle. When they had passed on perhaps a
hundred yards, Edward received a painful intimation of the state of the
city. As they seemed to turn into another street, the young officer
caught him by the arm and pulled him sharply aside, saying to the
soldier, "Have that body removed. These sights serve to scare the people
and make them clamorous."
"I don't think she is dead yet," said the soldier.
"Then have her carried to the hospital as quickly as possible. Don't let
her lie there and die."
He then led Edward on, and in two or three minutes more stopped at the
door of a house and entered what seemed a small passage, where he
removed the handkerchief from Edward's eyes. "Monsieur Guiton is here,"
he said, opening a door where, in a little room and at a small table,
was seated a man of middle age with a dagger by his side and a sword
lying on the table. His form seemed once to have been exceedingly
powerful and his face firm and resolute; but there was that gaunt and
worn expression in every line which Edward had seen in the countenance
of his guide.
"Who are you, sir?" said the mayor; "and what is the motive of so rare a
thing as the visit of a stranger to the town of Rochelle?"
"My name is Edward Langdale," replied the young Englishman,--"a poor
follower of my Lord Montagu, who once bore letters from his Grace of
Buckingham to the city of Rochelle."
"Ay, I remember," said the mayor, thoughtfully: "you were roughly used,
if I remember right. But now, sir, to your business."
"It is in a great degree personal," replied Edward; "but, as it is
private, I would rather speak to you alone."
"Leave us," said the mayor, addressing the young officer, who at once
quitted the room and closed the door. "Now, sir," continued Guiton, "I
am ready to hear. But be brief, I pray you. Occupation here is more
plenty than time, and time more plenty than provisions. Therefore I
cannot offer you refreshment nor show you much courtesy."
"I require neither, sir," answered Edward. "My business refers to
Monsieur Clement Tournon. He is aged,--infirm; and I have with some
difficulty obtained from the Cardinal de Richelieu permission and a pass
for him to quit Rochelle."
"Ha!" said the mayor. "Ha! This is strange, young gentleman! You must be
in mighty favor! Why, sir, he has driven back women and children and old
men--all starving--from the French lines into this city of famine! You,
an Englishman, an enemy,--he show such favor to you! Pah! There must be
something under this. Have you no message for me?"
"No distinct message, sir," replied Edward: "the cardinal indeed said,
in terms so vague that I cannot and will not counsel any reliance upon
them, that if Rochelle would submit she should have favorable terms,--as
favorable as even I could expect. But I am not his messenger, sir.
Neither is there any thing that I know under the plain fact which I have
stated."
"Let me see your pass," said Guiton, abruptly. Edward handed it to him,
and he examined it minutely. "'Edward Langdale and one companion,--to
wit, the syndic Clement Tournon'!" he said. "Well, this is marvellous
strange! I cannot let this pass without some further knowledge of so
unaccountable a matter."
"Well, Monsieur Guiton," answered Edward, firmly, "pray remember that I,
comparatively, a stranger to him, have perilled much to aid and rescue
a man who once showed me kindness, nursed me like a father when I was
sick, and trusted me as he would his son when I had recovered; and that
it is you--his ancient friend, as I am told--who keep him here to die of
famine or of sickness when he can be of no further service either with
hand or head. I have done my duty. Probably you think you are doing
yours."
The mayor waved his hand. "Not so many words," he said. "Can you give me
any explanation of this strange matter?"
"None," replied Edward, boldly.
"Does Clement Tournon wish to leave the city?" demanded the mayor again.
"I do not know," replied the young Englishman. "He is old, infirm, and,
I am told, sick. I have had no communication with him. But he knows that
he can be of no further service in Rochelle, or I believe he would
remain in it till the last man died and the last tower fell."
"He is sick," said the mayor, "of a very common disease here. But yet we
are not so badly off that we cannot maintain the city till the English
fleet arrives."
"The dyke!" said Edward, emphatically.
"Oh," replied Guiton, with a scoffing and unnatural-sounding laugh, "the
first storm, such as I have seen many, will sweep that dyke away."
"But, if it stands fourteen days," said Edward, "will you not have a
storm within these walls which will sweep away the people of Rochelle?"
Guiton covered his eyes with his hands and remained silent.
"But I have nothing to do with these things, sir," said Edward. "It was
only to give aid, to give safety, to a friend, an old noble-minded man
who befriended me when I had need of friendship, that I came into
Rochelle at all. May I ask what is this sickness that you speak of so
lightly?"
"Famine, sir! famine!" said Guiton, sharply. "An ounce of meat,--God
knows of what kind,--two ounces of dried peas, and a draught of cold
water, is but a meagre diet for old men and babes. We strong men can
bear it; but there be some who are foolish enough to die rather than
endure it a little longer."
"And have you the heart, sir," asked Edward, with some indignation in
his tone, "to refuse the means of escape offered to an old man, and that
man Clement Tournon, and to speak lightly of his sufferings,--his
martyrdom, I might say?"
"No! no! no!" cried the mayor, vehemently, stretching forth his hands.
"Young man, you mistake me! Could my blood nourish him, he should have
the last drop. What! old Clement Tournon, my dear, dear friend,--would I
deprive him of one hour's life? But it is that I cannot comprehend how
you are here,--why you are here. This story that you tell is mere
nonsense."
"It is true, nevertheless," said Edward. "But if my word will not
satisfy you,--as, indeed, I see no reason why it should,--come with me
to Clement Tournon, and he perhaps can tell you how much I can dare to
serve a friend."
"I will!" cried Guiton, starting up; but then he sat down again
immediately, saying, "No, no! I cannot bear those faces in the streets.
Can you find your way yourself?--for I can spare no men."
"Not if I am to be blindfolded," said Edward: "otherwise I could find
it, I am sure."
"Pshaw!" said the mayor, "what use of blindfolding you? You will see
dying and dead, plague-eaten, famine-stricken. But you can go and tell
the Cardinal de Richelieu how the citizens of Rochelle can die rather
than see their privileges torn from them, their religion trodden under
foot. You can tell him, too, that I will defend those walls as long as
there is one soldier left to man them and one hand capable of firing a
gun, unless we have security for our faith. You are sure he said nothing
more?"
"No, nothing more," answered Edward: "merely that he would give you the
most favorable terms, but that he would not have rebellion in the land."
"Rebellion!" muttered Guiton, scornfully. "Who first drew the sword? But
let us think of Clement Tournon. I am willing to believe you, young
gentleman. If I remember rightly, I have heard the old man speak well
of you. And, after all, what harm can you do? You can but repeat a story
of our sufferings which I am aware they already know too well in yonder
camp. What they do not know is the courage with which we can bear them.
Go to the syndic. He has not come forth for several days. Go to him, and
see if the prospect of relief can give fresh strength to those enfeebled
limbs, fresh energy to that crushed and scarcely-beating heart. Tell him
that I not only permit but beseech him to go with you,--that even one
mouth less in Rochelle is a relief. He has done his duty manfully to the
last. He can do it no longer. Beseech him to go. And yet," he continued,
in a sad tone, "I much doubt his strength. Could he have crawled even to
the council-chamber, we should have seen his face. Could he have lifted
his voice, we should have heard his inspiring words. He was alive last
night, I know. But to-day----Alas, alas, my poor friend!" And some tears
ran down the worn cheek of the gallant defender of Rochelle.
"I have some brandy under my coat," whispered Edward. "I brought it on
purpose for him. It may give him strength at least to reach the
outposts."
Guiton seized his hand and wrung it hard. "Noble young man! well
bethought!" he said. "But he must have a little food. Stay; he shall
have my dinner. I do not want it. By Heaven! the thought that we have
saved old Clement Tournon will be better than the best of meals to me!"
He rose from the table, and, approaching the door, gave some orders to
those without, and then returned, saying, "There is still much to be
thought of, young gentleman, and we have little time to think. I fear if
you go out in the daytime the people will pour forth after you, and all
will be driven back by cannon-shots."
"It must now be near one o'clock," said Edward, "and it will probably
take some time to restore his strength a little. If you, sir, nobly give
him up your own food, it must be administered to him by slow degrees,
and----"
"What! an ounce of meat?" said Guiton, with a miserable smile: "my fare
is the same as the rest, sir. But I must leave all that to you. His own
ration will be served to him in an hour. Mine you shall take and give
him as it seems best to you. I will write a pass for you and him, that
you may not be stopped at any hour of the night or day; and then I must
go back to the town-hall, lest men should wonder at my long absence. My
only fear is that the good old man will not take my ration if he knows
it comes from me."
"Take a little of these strong waters, sir," said Edward, drawing the
flask from beneath his coat. Guiton hesitated, and Edward added, "There
is much more than he can or ought to use; and, if I tell him that I
brought you some supply, he will take the food you send more readily."
The mayor took the flask and drank a very little, giving it back again
and saying, "Mix it with water ere you give him any. By Heaven, it is
like fire! Yet it will keep me up, I do believe. Hark! there are steps.
Put it up, quick. They might murder you for it, if any of the common
people were to see it."
The steps were those of a soldier bringing the scanty meal, which was
all the mayor allowed himself. A pen and ink and a scrap of paper were
then procured, and the pass for Edward and Clement Tournon was soon
written. To make all sure, Guiton called the young officer, in whom he
seemed to have much confidence, and asked if he would be on guard at the
gates that night. The young man answered in the affirmative; and the
mayor gave strict directions that Monsieur Edward Langdale and the
syndic Tournon should be passed safely and unmolested on their way
toward the royal camp. A smile of hope and pleasure came upon the
officer's face, and Guiton added, "Do not deceive yourself, Bernard.
This is no treaty for surrender. We must suffer a little longer; and
then we shall have relief. Here, go with Monsieur Langdale, first to the
gate by which he entered, then to the end of the Rue de l'Horloge. There
leave him. Farewell, sir," he continued, turning to Edward, and then
adding, in a lower tone, "Mark well the turnings from the gate, and walk
somewhat slow and feebly, so as not to draw attention. The people are in
an irritable state."