"Remember the Porte St. Antoine."
It was, perhaps, fortunate that about this time Mazarin kept me very
busy. Events moved quickly; the situation changed every day; no one
knew at one hour what would happen the next. The Cardinal remained
with the Court, but I spent most of my time on horseback, galloping
with hastily written letters from one leader to another.
One day I was sent to Villeneuve St. Georges, where Turenne, having
made a daring march, had just arrived. The Marshal was in a position
of extreme danger. Lorraine was in front of him with a large army;
Conde's troops were approaching swiftly from Etampes. There was an
even greater peril, of which, however, I had no idea, till the famous
soldier had read Mazarin's note.
"Here is news," said he, speaking to an officer of high rank; "Conde
has left Paris and has joined his troops. We must settle this affair
soon, or the prince will be too quick for us."
He possessed the highest respect for Conde as a soldier, and the prince
on his part regarded Turenne as the only enemy to be feared. These two
were, in fact, the most celebrated generals in Europe, and it was a
thousand pities for France that their swords were not pointed against a
common enemy.
"Let us see what the Cardinal offers," he continued, proceeding to read
Mazarin's note. "Hum! Lorraine won't accept those terms, unless I
back them up by a show of bayonets. Yet he must be got rid of! We
can't fight both him and Conde at the same time."
Presently turning to me he said, "Ride back to St. Germain, De Lalande,
and inform the Cardinal that I will send a messenger within twenty-four
hours. By then Lorraine will be in full retreat or His Majesty will be
minus an army."
Before leaving the camp I endeavoured to find Raoul, but without
success. Several officers informed me that he was rarely with the main
body, his troopers being chiefly used for scouting purposes. This was
disappointing; so, as there was clearly no chance of meeting him, I
returned to St. Germain and delivered my message.
How he managed it I cannot explain--some people hinted that Mazarin's
craft had most to do with it--but Turenne was as good as his word, and
the next evening an officer from his army galloped into St. Germain
with the information that, without striking a blow, Lorraine had broken
up his camp and was retreating to Flanders. Mazarin rubbed his hands
at the news, and purred softly, as he usually did when well pleased.
"We are getting on, gentlemen!" said he. "Before long His Majesty will
be in his capital again."
In this the Cardinal was mistaken, but every day still further improved
our position. The Court removed to St. Denis; Conde, who had posted
his troops on the bank of the Seine, near St. Cloud, was being pressed
day and night by Turenne, and was at length forced to retreat in the
direction of Charenton.
As soon as this became known in St. Denis the utmost excitement
prevailed, and every one began asking what the people of Paris would
do. Unless the gates of the city were opened the prince must either
win a brilliant victory or be crushed. On this point Mazarin spoke
very sensibly.
"Everything depends on the result of the first stroke," said he. "The
Duke of Orleans is in command of the town. He will blow hot and cold
after his manner: Conde will ask for shelter, and Gaston will hesitate.
There lies our chance. If we can catch and beat the prince meanwhile,
all will go well; Gaston ever leans to the strongest side."
Turenne, who had come to consult with the Cardinal, smiled grimly.
"Take His Majesty to Charonne," he advised, "and bid him write a letter
with his own hand to the Council, forbidding the gates to be opened.
It may do good: it cannot do harm."
"And meanwhile?" asked Mazarin.
"My cavaliers are hot on the prince's track. I have ordered La Ferte
to cross the river with his artillery, and Conde must either surrender
or accept battle at St. Antoine."
"Remember the Porte St. Antoine!" The words sounded in my ears so
clearly that it almost seemed as if I heard Raoul speaking.
"The Court will be in no danger," Turenne continued, "but I shall
require every man who can use a sword or fire a musket. Have you ever
seen a wild boar at bay? That is how Conde fights. I shall beat him,
but the pack will be badly mauled. Gentlemen, who will ride with
Turenne, and die with Turenne, if needs be, for the honour of France?"
There were a dozen of us, all belonging to Mazarin's body-guard, at the
lower end of the room, and instantly every sword leaped from its
scabbard and flashed in the air.
"I! I! I!" we shouted like a number of enthusiastic boys, and the
famous general laughed genially.
No one, I fear, waited for the Cardinal's consent, and when, a few
minutes later, Turenne mounted his horse, fifty headstrong cavaliers
fell in joyously behind him.
"For the King! gentlemen," cried he. "For the King!" we echoed
loyally, and the royal boy, with flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes, came
in person to bid us farewell.
"I thank you, gentlemen, all," said he, and there was a curious catch
in his voice. "I would I were riding in your ranks, but while the King
has such loyal servants France need fear no rebels. I wish you
success, gentlemen, you and your gallant leader."
At this, waving our plumed hats high, we cheered again and swept
forward with a rush. From the Faubourg St. Denis came the sounds of
musketry, of wild battle shouts, and cries of triumph and despair.
"Forward!" cried Turenne. "Forward!"
Riding with loose reins we spurred hard to the scene of conflict, just
in time to see the backs of Conde's rearguard. The gallant fellows had
fought stubbornly, contesting every foot of ground, and sacrificing
themselves in order to delay our advance. Now, however, they were in
retreat, and Turenne, leaving his victorious infantry to re-form,
collected his horsemen and pressed on in pursuit.
Among the foremost rode my old comrade, and my heart beat fast at sight
of him. His head was bare, his long fair curls fell about his
shoulders, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes fiercely bright. I had
never seen him in such a state of intense excitement. As I joined him
he greeted me with a forced smile, but there was no time for speech.
Side by side we dashed through the streets into the Faubourg St.
Martin. Here several squadrons of Conde's cavalry barred our way, but
Raoul halted not.
"For the King!" he cried, waving his sword. "For the King!" as we
leaped at the horsemen, while our comrades, answering with a lusty
shout, galloped madly behind us.
Crash! We were in the midst of the throng, cutting, thrusting,
parrying, pressing the rebels back slowly. They fought well, as became
Frenchmen, but we were too many, and at last they broke.
"Forward!" cried Raoul, who was still in front, but Turenne called us
back.
"Softly, softly," exclaimed our leader; "a few hundred horsemen cannot
defeat an army in position. We must go slowly for a while. The enemy
are entrenched behind barricades in the Faubourg St. Antoine."
Raoul looked at me meaningly, and I became unnerved by the odd
coincidence. Was it chance or fate?
"Together till the end," he whispered. "Do not grieve for me, dear
friend, it is written in the stars, and I am content."
I tried to reply, but my lips were dumb; I could only press his hand in
silence.
Like a wise general Conde was meanwhile seizing and strengthening every
defensible post. His men pierced the houses for musketry, raised new
obstacles everywhere, heightened the barricades, and dragged the big
guns into the open space. Every moment's delay on our part rendered
the position more formidable, and we listened anxiously for the tramp,
tramp, of our brave infantry.
"Can't we take the place at a rush?" asked one man impetuously, and
Raoul looked at him with a smile.
"You do not know the Faubourg St. Antoine," said he; "I do. I was here
when Lorraine's troops put up the barricades. Even with our infantry
we shall be too weak to force a passage."
"Bah!" cried a listener impatiently, "there are three broad streets
leading to the gate, and we can have our choice of them. Then Conde
will be cornered."
"Every house is a fortress," said Raoul, "and a dozen narrow streets
lead into each avenue. Turenne will attack when the infantry arrives,
but with any other general I should call it madness to move without La
Ferte's artillery."
My comrade's reputation for reckless bravery was so well established
that his words produced some impression, though it was tantalising to
wait there while the enemy worked with all their might to render the
Faubourg impregnable. Presently, a thundering cheer announced the
arrival of our infantry, and we looked anxiously at Turenne to discover
if he would risk the hazard of the die. A very rash general would have
flung us at the barricades without a thought; a weak one would have
hesitated too long; what would Turenne do?
Sitting his horse calmly at the head of his troops, he summoned his
principal officers around him, and explained his intentions. We could
only guess at his words, but very soon the group broke up, the officers
galloped to their stations, commands were issued: first one section,
then another of the troops moved slowly forward, and we became aware
that Turenne had resolved to attack without waiting for his artillery.
It has been mentioned that three principal streets led to the open
space before the gate, and along these avenues of death we fought our
way in three divisions. Raoul and I accompanied Turenne in the centre.
Foot by foot, almost inch by inch, we advanced beneath a hail of
bullets. Men fell fast, but the survivors struggled on undauntedly.
From every window sped the leaden messengers into our midst; from
behind each barricade flashed a flame of fire.
"The houses must be cleared!" exclaimed the general. "Let the
musketeers clear them one by one!" and he ordered us to seek shelter,
though he himself continued in the open, coolly directing the
operations.
With fierce cries the musketeers swarmed into the buildings, and at the
point of the bayonet drove the enemy from room to room, slaying all
those who refused to surrender. I had thought the fight on the plain
of Blenau terrible, but it was child's play to this. Stoutly and
gallantly the rebels fought, but one by one the houses fell into our
hands; the barricades were torn down, and again the signal sounded for
the cavalry to advance.
Alas! Already many of the gay gentlemen who had ridden so joyously
through St. Martin had fallen; but there was no time to mourn their
loss. Turenne was in front, and the folds of the King's banner,
shot-torn and blackened, were fluttering in the breeze. In after years
our gracious monarch's colours were borne in many a hot encounter, but
never, I think, in a more desperate fray than the struggle at St.
Antoine, between--shame on those who made it possible--Frenchmen and
Frenchmen.
No war is good to look upon in cold blood, when the lust of battle has
died away, but a cruel fight between men of the same blood and race is
abominable. Yet, on that day, I question if it made any of us more
gentle to know that our enemies were Frenchmen.
"Forward!" cried our chief, and with a rush we swept the street from
end to end, crying, "_Vive le Roi!_" as if victory were already won.
Then, suddenly, the roar of the guns greeted us, and, under cover of
the smoke, Conde leaped into our midst at the head of his household
troops. From the first I have maintained that the prince did France a
foul wrong in setting himself against his rightful monarch, but it
cannot be denied that he was a splendid soldier. With his war-cry
ringing high and clear above the tumult he came at us; the fight grew
terrible; our infantry, unable to avoid the horses, fell back in
confusion, leaving a scattered handful of cavaliers to continue the
contest alone. Seeing his advantage, the prince flung every available
horseman at us, and, though fighting desperately, we were driven back
by force of numbers.
Again and again we returned to the charge, and many gallant feats of
arms were performed, but victory appeared hopeless, and we listened
anxiously for the sound of La Ferte's cannon. Thus far, at least,
Raoul's judgment had proved correct. Ill news came both from right and
left. Our men, suffering fearfully from the hidden musketry fire, made
headway only at a wasteful expense of life. More than one high officer
had fallen at the barricades, and Conde, who seemed to be in several
places at once, beat back each fresh assault.
Everywhere our soldiers were growing dispirited, and even talked of
waiting for help; but Turenne, who had an iron will, would not hear of
defeat. Rising in his stirrups, and looking steadily at his band of
cavaliers, he cried cheerfully, "One more charge, gentlemen!"
"For the King!" answered Raoul, waving his stained sword above his
head, and we all echoed the cry lustily.
Turenne gave the word, and once again we swept like a hurricane through
the street. The rebels awaited the onset, but the shock was too great.
Back they went, steadily at first, then swiftly, and at last in
headlong flight. Conde, brave as a lion--to my thinking no braver man
took part in the fight--endeavoured in vain to rally them; only his
staunchest leaders stayed at his side. Raoul, a horse's length in
front of us, galloped forward, and struck furiously at the rebel chief.
The blow partly missed, but the sword drew blood.
"For the King!" shouted my comrade.
"Down with Mazarin!" responded our opponents defiantly, and surrounding
Conde forced him against his will to retire.
Meanwhile our musketeers, swarming into the houses, maintained an
incessant and destructive fire, The rebels in their turn lost heart,
and even their leader's matchless courage could hardly keep them at
their posts. A cheer on the right announced our success in that
quarter, and presently arose an answering cry from the left. The three
divisions had fought their way to the open space, and unless the
Parisians unbolted the gate the rebel army was doomed. Paris was at
their backs, we were in front, and they could not break through us.
A band of their leaders held the last barricade with heroic courage.
Separated from all their friends, they were in desperate plight; yet
they blenched not. One after another they fell grievously wounded, and
some among them bore the highest names in France. It was a pitiful
sight, yet they refused to surrender, though Turenne, I am certain,
would gladly have spared them. Presently Conde, who had meanwhile been
endeavouring to stem the tide of battle elsewhere, observed their
plight, and, collecting a band of devoted adherents, made a gallant
attempt at rescue.
Raoul, evidently thinking this a fine opportunity to seize the prince,
spurred into the open; I raced after him quickly, others followed, and
crying, "Down with Conde!" charged in a body at the princely rebel.
While some of his friends rescued the survivors at the barricade, the
others rode in our direction. With a ringing cheer we sprang at them,
struck out furiously right and left, spurred our horses into the
throng, pierced it in every direction, till finally it fell apart.
Disdaining meaner foes, Raoul rode at the prince, engaging him in
deadly combat. He still wore the King's gift on his breast, and fought
as if he were the monarch's sole champion. Whether he was Conde's
equal in swordsmanship I cannot say, but he kept the prince well
employed.
Suddenly, as they fought, the roar of La Ferte's guns broke out, and we
had the enemy at our mercy. Conde, as if recognising this, began to
withdraw, and Raoul was pressing on more vigorously when a rebel
horseman, spurring toward the gate, cut him down. I saw the tragedy
distinctly, but could do no more than utter a warning cry, which, alas,
my comrade did not hear.
How the Parisians by opening the gate and letting the rebels through
robbed us of victory, the world knows, but at the moment I cared
little. All my hopes and fears were centred in Raoul, and, heedless of
the dropping bullets, I rode across to the spot where he lay. He was
in terrible pain, stricken I feared unto death, but his wonderful
courage remained unbroken, and he did not even murmur when, with the
assistance of some trusty comrades, I carried him to one of the empty
houses.
The fight was over now; Conde's troops had escaped into the city; the
sullen roar of the guns died away; men thought only of succouring the
wounded who dotted the ground in large numbers. A kindly surgeon,
hearing of Raoul's plight, hurried to the room where we had placed him,
but at the first glance he shook his head sorrowfully, and I knew there
was no hope.
"An hour, or two at the most," he whispered to me. "The best physician
in France could do no more than ease his pain."
He did what he could and went his way, for there were many who needed
his services; the soldiers, too, had departed, and I alone remained to
watch my friend die. Very still, and with closed eyes he lay, but his
breathing was laboured, and from time to time a hoarse rattle sounded
in his throat. Presently his eyes opened, and he looked at me with a
faint smile. Then pointing to the King's star, he whispered, "For
Marie," and I, not trusting myself to speak, bowed my head.
"True friend," said he softly, "ever loyal! Do not grieve, Albert; it
must be for the best. I am happy, quite happy. Let me clasp your
hand. Ah, heaven was good in giving me such a friend!"
His voice became more and more broken; the last sentence I could
understand only by following closely the movements of his lips. What
could I say? I could not bid him hope; we both knew he was dying, and
that, in fact, his very moments were numbered. So I sat there in the
gathering gloom, holding his hand, and at intervals wiping the
perspiration from his forehead.
He spoke again, but now his mind wandered, and his thoughts drifted
back to the happy days of our youth. He recalled past events, smiling
or frowning as they pleased or angered him in the days gone by. Then
for a time he lay still, but suddenly, as if coming to his senses, he
looked up straight into my face.
"Good-bye," he murmured. "Tell Marie. The open space--the guns and
the hoof-beats. Strange, strange!"
And that was the end of it! Raoul was dead! How I mourned for him
none can ever know: it is not seemly to lay bare the inmost secrets of
our hearts to the gaze of curious eyes.
Raoul was dead, and on the very threshold of life.
We took him to St. Denis with many another gallant cavalier who had
ridden out joyously to the fight with the cry of "For the King!" on his
lips. The monks buried him in a plot of consecrated ground without the
monastery walls, and Turenne, who recognised his worth, attended the
funeral. Stalwart John Humphreys, who had been chosen to guard the
young King, was there also. He had loved the dead man dearly, and
though he could say nothing to lessen my bitter grief, yet somehow his
presence comforted me.
The next day I despatched Pillot with the star and a letter to Aunay,
paid a farewell visit to Raoul's grave, and before the sun had gained
his full power was riding sword in hand at Turenne's side. For in
warfare action alone must be the solace for one's private griefs.