THE DUKE OF MONTVILLIERS
Darkness crept slowly over Vayenne. Lights shone in the wider
thoroughfares, and blinked dimly in the narrower streets. The taverns
and the cafes were full, and although there were some who went about
their business as though this night were as other nights, there were
many who had waited eagerly for the close of day and knew that the
hour of action was at hand. Only a few, perhaps, had any clear notion
what was to happen; the majority would merely follow where they were
led, do what they were told, without question, and without knowing to
what end their actions tended. Whatever that end might be, they
understood in a vague manner that it would be to their own individual
advantage, and in every city there are large numbers who want no
greater incentive than this to make them turn out of the ordinary
course of their daily routine. They will eagerly follow a possibility
without pausing to weigh probabilities. So they waited in the taverns,
in the cafes, and at street corners for their leaders, who were
discussing the final plans with Pierre Briant at the Cheval Noir.
Within the castle all was life and movement, all men working toward
the same purpose it would seem, and if there were an undercurrent
which set in an opposite direction, none but those interested in it
had time to notice it. Even the lynx-eyed Barbier surveyed his
preparations, and found little wanting. For the Duke must be crowned
with all ancient customs, and it was so long since a duke had been
crowned in Vayenne that some of the usages had been almost forgotten.
The custom had come down from ancient times, and Count Felix dared not
alter it. To-night was the civil crowning. In the great hall stood the
chair of state, mounted on a platform of six steps; and here in the
presence of the nobles of the land and representative burghers of the
city, must Felix claim to mount that throne as rightful heir, or by
the power given him of the people. If any choose, now might they
question him, and he must answer, but being once seated in the chair
of state, all right of question was over; only could petition be made
then, which the new Duke might answer or not as he willed. Then a
priest, placing a golden circle upon his brows, proclaimed him crowned
Duke of this land of Montvilliers, and bade him consecrate such
crowning on the morrow according to all rites and customs. Then must
the representative nobles and burghers, each and individually, bow the
knee and swear fealty to their sovereign, making oath to keep the
realm inviolate with their lives, and to hold their swords and
revenues at the Duke's service for the defence of the state and of his
person. Thus was the Duke crowned by his court and by his people.
To-morrow in St. Etienne must he be crowned by the Church. Here for a
space he must wear the iron crown of Montvilliers and make his vows
before the altar in the midst of gorgeous ceremonial and splendor.
There had been occasions when the religious crowning had not followed
the civil one immediately, but this was only when stress of state
affairs intervened, or an enemy thundered at the gates. Count Felix
had decreed that it should follow at once. To-night the civil,
to-morrow morning the religious ceremony. When darkness fell again
the double ordeal should be over.
The dwarf squatted upon his doubled-up legs in the deep embrasure of
one of the windows in the great hall which overlooked the square. He
was lifted well above the heads of those who were rapidly filling the
hall from end to end, and no one entered without Jean's keen eye
noting them and the particular position they took up. Yet to watch
him, one would not have supposed that he took any very keen interest
in what was going forward. He sat in a more huddled-up fashion than
usual, his eyes half closed, as though he might fall asleep at any
moment. His bauble was tucked under his arm, and held there so that
the little bells on it might not jingle; and although several men
looked up at him and made some passing jest, he had no answer for
them. The lights in the hall left this window somewhat in shadow, and
the dwarf seemed to have chosen it in order to draw as little
attention to himself as possible. Beside him lay a small, unlighted
torch.
The chair of state stood on its raised dais at the upper end of the
hall, and the space around it was at present empty. The less important
folk came into the hall first, soldiers and retainers, those who held
office about the castle, and others who held civil offices in the town
and who by custom had a right to be present at this ceremony.
Captain Barbier, still ignorant apparently of the release of the
prisoners, was the most conspicuous person in the assembly at present,
and Jean gave more than a passing glance to him. He noted how he
placed the company of guards who presently tramped into the hall,
noted that, for all his fine appearance and buoyant camaraderie, the
captain was no great favorite; a sneer met him here, and a look of
contempt followed him yonder. Barbier was quite oblivious of the one
and the other. He could afford to smile and strut in his gay new
feathers, for was he not trusted by the new Duke, was he not a man in
authority, one it would be ill considered to offend? Barbier knew the
full strength of his position, and was unlikely to let any of its
advantages slip. Jean was quick to recognize the tact and wisdom there
was in this man, and to understand that with a few more like him Duke
Felix's throne might stand firmer than it did at present.
Next there came into the hall representatives of the suites of the
nobles who had come to Vayenne for the funeral of the old Duke and for
the coronation of the new. Some of these nobles had been lodged in the
castle, some in the town. For the most part they had brought few
retainers with them, having, indeed, few to bring. There were rich men
in Montvilliers, but not many of them were of noble descent, and some
of the most ancient families were comparatively poor. De Bornais was
one of the exceptions, and besides loved to uphold his dignity. He had
come to Vayenne with a considerable retinue, and although all his
followers did not find a place in the hall to-night, he had a larger
representation there than anyone else. Jean looked at these men keenly
as they were marshalled to their places at the very edge of the open
space which surrounded the raised dais. They were fewer in number than
he could have wished, but they were stalwart men. One, who fell into
his place behind the others, and who, while Barbier was near, kept his
hand over his brow, hiding the upper part of his face, glanced
presently toward the window where the dwarf sat, and their eyes met.
No heads were turned to look at this man particularly, yet for Jean
the most important person who would find place in that assembly
to-night had already come. It was Roger Herrick.
And now from the side doors which led from the great hall, nobles
entered, and took up their positions in the vacant place around the
chair of state, and there were many ladies, their wives or daughters,
or those who in their own right held high place in the land. The
beautiful Countess Elisabeth drew all eyes to her as she took her
place at the foot of the dais. Jewels were at her throat and in her
hair, and there was no woman fairer to look upon in all that great
assembly. After her coming there was a pause, and then, followed by
Lucille, Christine de Liancourt entered the hall. A murmur of welcome,
like a ripple of low music, greeted her, and the eyes that had rested
upon the Countess turned to rest on her. Jewels were at her throat,
too, and on her brow a jewelled diadem; almost it seemed as though for
her all ceremony was at an end, that already she was crowned Duchess.
It was the first time Herrick had seen her arrayed in all the splendor
of beautiful womanhood, and that beauty and her position seemed to
lift her far beyond his reach. All that had happened in these last
days, the ride through the forest, the desperate encounter, the
charcoal-burners' hut, their last meeting in the house in the Place
Beauvoisin, all seemed to sink far back into the past, to fade and
take indefinite outline, to wrap themselves in the dim mantle which
belongs to dreams. The present, and all thought of the things he was
to do in it, was for the moment forgotten, and fascination riveted his
eyes on this woman as a man may look upward and gaze spellbound at the
beauty of a distant star. Was it true that only a few nights since she
had almost confessed that she loved him? That such a thing could be,
seemed impossible now.
Christine was pale, but her eyes shone, and the little firm mouth was
brave and determined; yet Lucille, who stood beside her, knew that she
was nervous. Christine spoke to her companion, looking into her eyes
as she uttered some commonplace. She paid no heed to the girl's
answer, her only desire was to steady herself. To-night something was
to happen, in a few moments it might be. What was to happen, how it
was to come, she did not know; she was only certain that whether came
success or failure, bloodshed must assuredly follow. What part had she
to play in this rebellion? Then growing steady, she turned and looked
to where de Bornais' men stood close behind their master, and saw how
Roger Herrick's eyes were fixed upon her. If she read any message at
all in them, it did not help her to understand what was to occur. She
did not glance at the window in the shadows. She had no knowledge that
Jean was there. "Obedience and trust," the dwarf was muttering to
himself and wondering how it was friend Roger had succeeded in making
her promise so much. Truth to tell there was something like resentment
in Christine's mind at that moment at being kept so entirely in the
dark. What could happen to-night? What power had this one man, who
stood, insignificant, behind de Bornais?
Suddenly there was movement in the hall and shouting, loud shouts of
welcome rising sharply above a low, murmuring accompaniment which
might be a welcome, differently expressed, or might not. At least
there was no harsh and unruly cry of dissatisfaction, nothing that
broke upon the ear as actual discord. Those at the back stretched
themselves and stood on tiptoe in an endeavor to look over their
neighbors' heads; and even Jean from his exalted position could not
see clearly what was going forward, for the crowd had closed in at
the upper end of the hall for a moment. Then it fell back a little, to
show that Count Felix stood at the foot of the dais, and that Father
Bertrand had mounted it and stood by the chair of state.
There was a moment's pause, during which the shifting feet became
silent, and Jean, leaning backward in the shadow of the embrasure,
stole a glance down into the great square below.
"It has ever been our custom to crown the Dukes of Montvilliers
according to certain peculiar rites and customs," said Father
Bertrand, speaking slowly and in a tone which carried his words
clearly to the utmost limits of the great hall. "You know, most of
you, what these ancient rites and customs are, how your future Duke,
claiming this throne, must stand to answer your questioning before he
seats himself to receive your homage. There have been occasions when
the claim has stood more by might than by right, when your voices by
common consent have bid a warrior, or a deliverer from oppression, to
wear the crown and rule over you. This is no such occasion. Since
Maurice, son of the late Duke, is dead, Count Felix stands before you,
the legal heir to Duke Robert. I have then but to ask him those
questions which every Duke that has reigned in Montvilliers has been
asked, solemn questions which here, in this old hall of Vayenne, each
one of them has been required to answer. Count Felix, I demand by what
right you claim to ascend this throne of Montvilliers?"
"By right of birth," came the answer, spoken quickly and in a loud
voice.
There was a pause, but no sound broke the silence which followed.
"Count Felix, I charge you, is there any reason known to you which
makes your claim a false one?"
"There is no such reason," said the Count. Again he spoke quickly and
in a clear tone, and he looked at Christine. Her eyes met his for a
moment, but hers were the first to look away. Whatever she knew or
believed, she was not going to speak.
Again the silence remained unbroken.
"Count Felix, do you swear to govern this land according to the same
laws of right and liberty by which it has heretofore been governed,
and to hold the welfare of your people as a sacred trust?"
"All this I swear to do," answered the Count.
"My lords, knights, burghers, and men of Montvilliers, those are the
questions I have to ask, and which you have heard the Count answer.
Now question him as you will," said Father Bertrand.
Count Felix stood on the lower step of the dais, and turned to face
his questioners. He was pale as a man facing such an ordeal well might
be, but he smiled bravely. He felt that the worst was over. Christine
had not spoken. The time for the questions which he had dreaded most
seemed to be passed. Christine did not look at him. Her eyes were
fixed upon the group of men behind de Bornais. One of them no longer
kept himself in the background. His companions had made way for him,
and he stood almost at de Bornais' side. Why had Roger Herrick not
spoken? Had fear kept him dumb at the last moment?
For some little time no question was asked, and then a burgher,
stammering in his words and half fearful of the sound of his own
voice, prayed for an alteration in some civic law, a mere triviality
it seemed to break so momentous a silence. Yet it set others asking
questions, and Felix answered them, promising future grave attention
where no immediate relief could be given. Such questioning served to
stimulate the Count, and a color gradually stole into his face. A new
courage was in his soul as may come to a man who feels himself whole,
and knows that the danger he has so much dreaded is past.
The questioning was over. A long pause had come, and not a voice was
raised in the hall. The dwarf silently put down his bauble by his
side, careful that the little bells should not jingle, and took up the
torch. Matches were in his hand, but his eyes were fixed upon the
dais. No movement below caused him to look away for an instant.
"Count Felix," the priest's voice rang out clearly, "you have answered
my questions, you have answered the questions of your people as
represented by this assembly. To this throne you must now ascend."
Count Felix turned, and his foot was on the second step of the dais
when a loud voice cried:
"Stay!"
Felix, white again suddenly, and to his very lips, looked down into
the face of the man who had dared thus to approach the throne and
stand even with his foot upon the first step. He wore the uniform of
the de Bornais, but Felix hardly noticed this. It was the face of the
man that riveted his attention. He recognized it. How could he forget
it, since when last he looked into those eyes it had been across keen,
naked blades. Does a man ever forget a face seen thus?
"Your interference comes late," said the priest, "yet is it not, I
think, against the ancient custom. Until the Duke is seated he may be
questioned. What is your question?"
Christine bent suddenly forward almost as though she expected the
question to be asked in a whisper. But the words rang out clearly.
"It is no question I would ask, but a demand I make, not to Count
Felix, but to those assembled in this hall. I, Roger Herrick, claim my
right by birth to ascend this throne as the true and lawful Duke of
Montvilliers!"