It was a clear bright day in the early autumn when the royal tilt-yard,
on the Isle de Paris, was prepared for a deadly conflict. The tilt-yard
was a regular, oblong space, enclosed with stout squared palisades, and
galleries for the accommodation of spectators, immediately in the
vicinity of the royal residence of the Tournelles, a splendid gothic
structure, adorned with all the rare and fanciful devices of that rich
style of architecture—at a short distance thence arose the tall gray
towers of Notre Dame, the bells of which were tolling minutely the dirge
for a passing soul. From one of the windows of the palace a gallery had
been constructed, hung with rich crimson tapestry, leading to a long
range of seats, cushioned and decked with arras, and guarded by a strong
party of gentlemen in the royal livery with partizans in their hands and
sword and dagger at the belt—at either end of the list was a tent
pitched, that at the right of the royal gallery a plain marquee of
canvass of small size, which had apparently seen much service, and been
used in real warfare. The curtain which formed the door of this was
lowered, so that no part of the interior could be seen from without; but
a particolored pennon was pitched into the ground beside it, and a
shield suspended from the palisades, emblazoned with bearings, which all
men knew to be those of Charles Baron de La-Hirè, a renowned soldier in
the late Italian wars, and the challenger in the present conflict. The
pavilion at the left, or lower end, was of a widely different kind—of
the very largest sort then in use, completely framed of crimson cloth
lined with white silk, festooned and fringed with gold, and all the
curtains looped up to display a range of massive tables covered with
snow-white damask, and loaded with two hundred covers of pure
silver!—Vases of flowers and flasks of crystal were intermixed upon the
board with tankards, flagons, and cups and urns of gold, embossed and
jewelled—and behind every seat a page was placed, clad in the colors of
the Count de Laguy—a silken curtain concealed the entrance of an inner
tent, wherein the Count awaited the signal that should call him to the
lists.—Strange and indecent as such an accompaniment would be deemed
now-a-days to a solemn mortal conflict—it was then deemed neither
singular nor monstrous—and in this gay pavilion Armand de Laguy, the
challenged in the coming duel, had summoned all the nobles of the court
to feast with him, after he should have slain, so confident was he of
victory, his cousin and accuser, Charles Baron de La-Hirè. The entrances
of the tilt-yard were guarded by a detachment of the King’s sergeants,
sheathed _cap-a-pié_ in steel, with shouldered arquebuses and matches
ready lighted—the lists were strewn with saw-dust and hung completely
with black serge, save where the royal gallery afforded a strange
contrast by its rich decorations to the ghastly draperies of the
battle-ground. One other object only remains to be noticed; it was a
huge block of black-oak, dinted in many places as if by the edge of a
sharp weapon and stained with plashes of dark gore. Beside this
frightful emblem stood a tall muscular gray-headed man, dressed in a
leathern frock and apron stained like the block with many a gout of
blood, bare-headed and bare-armed, leaning upon a huge two-handed axe,
with a blade of three feet in breadth. A little way aloof from these was
placed a chair, wherein a monk was seated, a very aged man with a bald
head and beard as white as snow, telling his beads in silence until his
ministry should be required.
The space around the lists and all the seats were crowded well nigh to
suffocation by thousands of anxious and attentive spectators; and many
an eye was turned to watch the royal seats which were yet vacant, but
which it was well known would be occupied before the trumpet should
sound for the onset. The sun was now nearly at the meridian, and the
expectation of the crowd was at its height, when the passing bell ceased
ringing, and was immediately succeeded by the accustomed peal,
announcing the hour of high noon. Within a moment or two, a bustle was
observed among the gentlemen pensioners—then a page or two entered the
royal seats, and, after looking about them for a moment, again retired.
Another pause of profound expectation, and then a long loud blast of
trumpets followed from the interior of the royal residence—nearer it
rang, and nearer, till the loud symphonies filled every ear and thrilled
to the core of every heart—and then the King, the dignified and noble
Henry, entered with all his glittering court, princes and dukes, and
peers and ladies of high birth and matchless beauty, and took their
seats among the thundering acclamations of the people, to witness the
dread scene that was about to follow, of wounds and blood and butchery.
All were arrayed in the most gorgeous splendor—all except one, a girl
of charms unrivalled, although she seemed plunged in the deepest agony
of grief, by the seductive beauties of the gayest. Her bright redundant
auburn hair was all dishevelled—her long dark eyelashes were pencilled
in distinct relief against the marble pallor of her colorless cheek—her
rich and rounded form was veiled, but not concealed, by a dress of the
coarsest serge, black as the robes of night, and thereby contrasting
more the exquisite fairness of her complexion. On her all eyes were
fixed—some with disgust—some with contempt—others with pity,
sympathy, and even admiration. That girl was Marguerite de
Vaudreuil—betrothed to either combatant—the betrayed herself and the
betrayer—rejected by the man whose memory, when she believed him dead,
she had herself deserted—rejecting in her turn, and absolutely loathing
him whose falsehood had betrayed her into the commission of a yet deeper
treason. Marguerite de Vaudreuil, lately the admired of all beholders,
now the prize of two kindred swordsmen, without an option save that
between the bed of a man she hated, and the life-long seclusion of the
convent.
The King was seated—the trumpets flourished once again, and at the
signal the curtain was withdrawn from the tent door of the challenger,
and Charles de La-Hirè stepped calmly out on the arena, followed by his
godfather, De Jarnac, bearing two double-edged swords of great length
and weight, and two broad-bladed poniards. Charles de La-Hirè was very
pale and sallow, as if from ill health or from long confinement, but his
step was firm and elastic, and his air perfectly unmoved and tranquil; a
slight flush rose to his pale cheek as he was greeted by an enthusiastic
cheer from the people, to whom his fame in the wars of Italy had much
endeared him, but the flush was transient, and in a moment he was as
pale and cold as before the shout which hailed his entrance. He was clad
very plainly in a dark morone-colored pourpoint, with vest, trunk-hose,
and nether stocks of black silk netting, displaying to admiration the
outlines of his lithe and sinewy frame. De Jarnac, his godfather, on the
contrary, was very foppishly attired with an abundance of fluttering
tags and ruffles of rich lace, and feathers in his velvet cap. These two
had scarcely stood a moment in the lists, before, from the opposite
pavilion, De Laguy and the Duke de Nevers issued, the latter bearing,
like De Jarnac, a pair of swords and daggers; it was observed, however,
that the weapons of De Laguy were narrow three-cornered rapier blades
and Italian stilettoes, and it was well understood that on the choice of
the weapons depended much the result of the encounter—De Laguy being
renowned above any gentleman in the French court for his skill in the
science of defence, as practised by the Italian masters—while his
antagonist was known to excel in strength and skill in the management of
all downright soldierly weapons, in coolness, in decision, presence of
mind, and calm self-sustained valor, rather than in slight and
dexterity. Armand de Laguy was dressed sumptuously, in the same garb
indeed which he had worn at the festival whereon the strife arose which
now was on the point of being terminated—and forever!
A few moments were spent in deliberation between the godfathers of the
combatants, and then it was proclaimed by De Jarnac, “that the wind and
sun having been equally divided between the two swordsmen, their places
were assigned—and that it remained only to decide upon the choice of
the weapons!—that the choice should be regulated by a throw of the
dice—and that with the weapons so chosen they should fight till one or
other should be _hors de combat_—but that in case that either weapon
should be bent or broken, the seconds should cry ‘hold,’ and recourse be
had to the other swords—the use of the poniard to be optional, as it
was to be used only for parrying, and not for striking—that either
combatant striking a blow or thrusting after the utterance of the word
‘hold,’ or using the dagger to inflict a wound, should be dragged to the
block and die the death of a felon.”
This proclamation made, dice were produced, and De Nevers winning the
throw for Armand, the rapiers and stilettoes which he had selected were
produced, examined carefully, and measured, and delivered to the kindred
foemen.
It was a stern and fearful sight—for there was no bravery nor show in
their attire, nor aught chivalrous in the way of battle. They had thrown
off their coats and hats, and remained in their shirt sleeves and under
garments only, with napkins bound about their brows, and their eyes
fixed each on the other’s with intense and terrible malignity.
The signal was now given and the blades were crossed—and on the instant
it was seen how fearful was the advantage which De Laguy had gained by
the choice of weapons—for it was with the utmost difficulty that
Charles de La-Hirè avoided the incessant longes of his enemy, who
springing to and fro, stamping and writhing his body in every direction,
never ceased for a moment with every trick of feint and pass and
flourish to thrust at limb, face and body, easily parrying himself with
the poniard, which he held in his left hand, the less skilful assaults
of his enemy. Within five minutes the blood had been drawn in as many
places, though the wounds were but superficial, from the sword-arm, the
face and thigh of De La-Hirè, while he had not as yet pricked ever so
lightly his formidable enemy—his quick eye, however, and firm active
hand stood him in stead, and he contrived in every instance to turn the
thrusts of Armand so far at least aside as to render them innocuous to
life. As his blood, however, ebbed away, and as he knew that he must
soon become weak from the loss of it, De Jarnac evidently grew uneasy,
and many bets were offered that Armand would kill him without receiving
so much as a scratch himself. And now Charles saw his peril, and
determined on a fresh line of action—flinging away his dagger, he
altered his position rapidly, so as to bring his left hand toward De
Laguy, and made a motion with it, as if to grasp his sword-hilt—he was
immediately rewarded by a longe, which drove clear through his left arm
close to the elbow joint but just above it—De Jarnac turned on the
instant deadly pale, for he thought all was over—but he erred widely,
for De La-Hirè had calculated well his action and his time, and that
which threatened to destroy him proved, as he meant it, his
salvation—for as quick as light when he felt the wound he dropped his
own rapier, and grasping Armand’s guard with his right hand, he snapped
the blade short off in his own mangled flesh and bounded five feet
backward, with the broken fragment still sticking in his arm.
“Hold!” shouted each godfather on the instant—and at the same time De
La-Hirè exclaimed, “give us the other swords—give us the other swords,
De Jarnac—”
The exchange was made in a moment, the stilettoes and the broken weapons
were gathered up, and the heavy horse-swords given to the combatants,
who again faced each other with equal resolution, though now with
altered fortunes. “Now De La-Hirè,” exclaimed De Jarnac, as he put the
well poised blade into his friend’s hand—“you managed that right
gallantly and well—now fight the quick fight, ere you shall faint from
pain and bleeding!”—and it was instantly apparent that such was indeed
his intention—his eye lightened, and he looked like an eagle about to
pounce upon his foe, as he drew up his form to its utmost height and
whirled the long new blade about his head as though it had been but a
feather. Far less sublime and striking was the attitude and
swordsmanship of De Laguy, though he too fought both gallantly and well.
But at the fifth pass, feinting at his head, Charles fetched a long and
sweeping blow at his right leg, and striking him below the ham, divided
all the tendons with the back of the double-edged blade—then springing
in before he fell, plunged his sword into his body, that the hilt
knocked heavily at his breast bone and the point came out glittering
between his shoulders—the blood flashed out from the deep wound, from
nose, and ears, and mouth, as he fell prostrate, and Charles stood over
him, leaning on his avenging weapon and gazing sadly into his stiffening
features—“Fetch him a priest,” exclaimed De Nevers—“for by my halidome
he will not live ten minutes.”
“If he live _five_,” cried the King rising from his seat—“if he live
_five_, he will live long enough to die upon the block—for he lies
there a felon and convicted traitor, and by my soul he shall die a
felon’s doom—but bring him a priest quickly.”
The old monk ran across the lists, and raised the head of the dying man,
and held the crucifix aloft before his glazing eyes, and called upon him
to repent and to confess as he would have salvation.
Faint and half choked with blood he faltered forth the words—“I do—I
do confess guilty—oh! double guilty!—pardon! oh
God—Charles!—Marguerite!”—and as the words died on his quivering lips
he sank down fainting with the excess of agony.
“Ho! there!—guards, headsman”—shouted Henry—“off with him—off with
the villain to the block, before he die an honorable death by the sword
of as good a knight as ever fought for glory!”
Then De La-Hirè knelt down beside the dying man, and took his hand in
his own and raised it tenderly, while a faint gleam of consciousness
kindled the pallid features—“May God as freely pardon thee as I do, oh
my cousin!”—then turning to the King—“You have admitted, sire, that I
have served you faithfully and well—never yet have I sought reward at
your hand—let this now be my guerdon. Much have I suffered, even thus
let me not feel that my King has increased my sufferings by consigning
one of my blood to the headsman’s blow—pardon him, sire, as I do—who
have the most cause of offence—pardon him, gracious King, as we will
hope that a King higher yet shall pardon him and us, who be all sinners
in the sight of his all-seeing eye!”
“Be it so,” answered Henry—“it never shall be said of me that a French
King refused his bravest soldier’s first claim upon his justice—bear
him to his pavilion!”
And they did bear him to his pavilion, decked as it was for revelry and
feasting, and they laid him there ghastly and gashed and gory upon the
festive board, and his blood streamed among the choice wines, and the
scent of death chilled the rich fragrance of the flowers—an hour! and
he was dead who had invited others to triumph over his cousin’s
slaughter—an hour! and the court lackeys shamefully spoiled and
plundered the repast which had been spread for nobles.
“And now,” continued Henry, taking the hand of Marguerite—“Here is the
victor’s prize—wilt have him, Marguerite?—’fore heaven but he has won
thee nobly!—wilt have her, De La-Hirè, methinks her tears and beauty
may yet atone for fickleness produced by treasons such as his who now
shall never more betray, nor lie, nor sin forever!—”
“Sire,” replied De La-Hirè very firmly, “I pardon her, I love her
yet!—but I wed not dishonor!”
“He is right,” said the pale girl—“he is right, ever right and
noble—for what have such as I to do with wedlock? Fare thee
well!—Charles—dear, honored Charles!—The mists of this world are
clearing away from mine eyes, and I see now that I loved thee best—thee
only! Fare thee well, noble one, forget the wretch who has so deeply
wronged thee—forget me and be happy. For me I shall right soon be
free!”
“Not so—not so,” replied King Henry, misunderstanding her meaning—“not
so, for I have sworn it, and though I may pity thee, I may not be
forsworn—to-morrow thou must to a convent, there to abide for ever!”
“And that will not be long,” answered the girl, a gleam of her old pride
and impetuosity lighting up her fair features.
“By heaven, I say forever,” cried Henry, stamping his foot on the ground
angrily.
“And I reply, not long!”
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[1] See the “False Ladye,” page 27.
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