THE CRYPT OF ST. ETIENNE
During many generations of men the spire of St. Etienne, like a silent
witness day and night, had pointed upward to the great beyond, to the
immeasurable depths of stars, away from this world of struggle,
passion, and human desire. Men had fought, schemed, died, and been
forgotten since the rising sun first turned its fane to golden fire;
yet still it silently showed the small worth of earthly matters and
the limitless possibilities of the future. Jean had understood the
message ever since the first night he had crept into the great church
to sleep.
And through the fleeting hours day and night the carillon had rung out
its happy, irresponsible music, now a laughing cadence which echoed in
the night air, now a low whisper like the inspiration of a child's
prayer. There was a wail of sadness in its music sometimes, but ever
was it suddenly turned into a little burst of gladness. There might be
pain in the city, care, and toil, and breaking hearts; but only for a
time, laughed the music night and day, and Time is a little thing, and
passes as a dream. The sound had floated into many a sick-room, an
angel's whisper to many a wearied soul. Jean had understood the
message of the carillon ever since he had walked in this beautiful
House of God.
The last evening prayer had been said long since, the great west doors
were shut, the great church was silent and empty. Darkness was in its
vaulted roof, darkness about its forest of pillars, darkness along its
aisles. There was no moon to-night to send a delicate finger of light
through the painted windows, or to touch with mystery the great rose
jewel high in the transept; only one dim mystic flame floated before
an altar, as though a spirit hovered there keeping watch through the
silent hours. Yet Jean might have seen visions to-night, thin shapes
near the tombs of the Dukes of Montvilliers and by the stone effigies,
might have heard voices out of the silence.
Listen! Nothing. Only a chair which slips being insecurely set against
another, or perhaps a bird fluttering in the roof. All is silent,
silent as the grave. Listen! That is not a chair, birds' fluttering
wings give no such sound as that. That is the stealthy lifting of a
heavy latch, a sharp and certain sound, for the silence after it seems
so dead; and surely that is the rough grating of a slowly opened door
somewhere in the north aisle, a small door, and one not often used,
for the hinges are rusty. Then comes a long pause, one of fear it may
be at finding the great church in darkness, or is it one of caution,
of keen listening to make certain that no one is about?
"Empty!" The word is spoken in a whisper, but it sounds clearly in the
silence. The rusty hinges grate again, and then there are footfalls on
the stone flags, steps that endeavor to tread softly and only
partially succeed.
"Quite empty!" comes the whisper again. "No need for a light. Touch
me, so; keep close. I will lead the way."
The door closes again, and the heavy latch stealthily falls into its
place. One, two, three, four--how many footsteps are there, clearly
heard although they go on tiptoe? Then a sharp ringing sound that
seems to strike upward through the darkness to the very roof. The end
of a scabbard unwittingly let fall upon the stone floor! Silence for a
moment, then again the careful opening of a door, but no rusty hinges
this time.
"Twenty-four steps!" says a low voice, "and we may find a lantern
below."
"They will be slow hours to morning," comes the answer.
"But we are in time. Here, close to the right, are the west doors.
They will enter that way."
Then steps descending--one, two, three, four, and they grow confused;
it is impossible to count them. Another pause, then again the closing
of a door, so quietly that the sound might pass for fancy. Then comes
the faint music of the carillon laughing in the night. Time passes,
and the schemes of men succeed or come to naught, and new life stirs
upon the earth, and Death touches all in turn. Time passeth into
eternity, laughs the music.
The voice of the carillon floated at intervals into Christine's
chamber, but for her there was little laughter in it. It brought
sadness, and regret, and uncertainty to her sleepless hours. She had
made her decision, and one side of her nature applauded her; but there
was another side which shrank away from it, and whispered warnings.
How many in the world before her had mistaken the false for the true,
had found disaster where they had hoped to lay hold upon salvation?
Christine knew Felix, but did she really understand Roger Herrick?
Herrick passed in and out of her waking dreams, tormenting her. She
dreaded the coming day and what she was to do in it. Love at this
eleventh hour took forcible possession of her. Was there anything in
life worth setting in opposition to it? No, a thousand times no, came
the answer, and then again a strong purpose urged: "Yes; your
country." They are not the only martyrs who die for their convictions;
some there are who live, having bartered all they hold most dear. So
for Christine the hours crept all too quickly toward the new day. Out
of the darkness the towers and battlements of the castle began to take
gray shape in the early glimmer of the dawn. Even in the crypt of St.
Etienne black nothingness began to take ghostly form, ay, and vibrate
with movement too.
All night the waters of the river had lapped about the piers of the
old stone bridge, and no light showed from the closed gateway of the
city. Men slept secure within while the sentry paced above, and never
a sound across the river alarmed him. Stars for a while were
quiveringly reflected in the running water, but the sentry could
distinguish no moving shadows on the opposite bank; and when the dawn
came there was no sign of threatening danger. The city was shut up,
few went in or out; the sentry did not expect to see any one come
slowly over the bridge in these early hours; and beyond, the woods
were empty and silent, growing slowly out of the night, just as he had
seen them do many a time before. So he paced his round, waiting for
the relief, and men began to stir in the guard-room below.
In a narrow street not far from the city gate was a low little tavern
of somewhat evil repute. It dozed in the morning hours, stale and half
conscious as a man who has drunk heavily overnight. A sleepy youth
might unbar its doors early enough, but they might as well have
remained shut, for scarce a man passed in before noon, and few until
night had fallen. It was after dark that it awoke to life and was
filled with drinkers loud in quarrel and coarse oaths. Its frequenters
had stumbled and cursed their way homeward last night, and the
landlord, no better than his guests, had fallen quickly into his
drunken sleep. The narrow street had become quiet, and had remained so
for some hours. But a little before dawn there were creeping shadows
in it, which stole into door-ways and alleys, and waited. About the
time that relief came to the sentry over the gate the bars of the
tavern door were unfastened, and immediately the sleepy youth was
surrounded by men threatening his life if he uttered a sound. His
worthless existence was valuable to him, and he remained silent. So
was it with the landlord, who was too muddled rightly to understand
what had happened to him.
"See that no one enters," said the leader. "This retreat will hide us
for an hour or two until it is time to strike. There is a wedding
to-day, at what hour does it take place?" he asked, turning to the
youth.
"Early; before noon," was the answer.
The man nodded, and was satisfied, and gave instructions to one of his
companions that when they left the tavern presently, he was to remain
and shoot any one in the house who attempted to escape or utter a
sound which might betray them.
Vayenne woke from its sleep early to-day. There would be crowds in the
streets by the castle and St. Etienne, and those who came late would
see little. Quite early little groups began to take their way to the
upper part of the city. Few besides the sick and the infirm remained
in the neighborhood of the gate, and the narrow street in which the
low tavern stood was soon deserted.
There were not many soldiers in the guard-rooms at the gate. All who
could be spared had gone on duty near the castle and the great church;
and most of them could be spared. There was no danger outside the
city, and if danger should come, was not the gate strong enough to be
easily defended until help could be obtained? The Captain of the Guard
had no misgivings, and his men grumbled that it had fallen to their
lot to stay there where there was nothing to do.
The captain was a young man, new to his dignity, and proud of it, or
rather of himself. Perhaps never had quite so worthy a man worn the
uniform so fittingly, he argued. He sat in the lower chamber of one of
the towers, and seemed lost in admiration of the shapely leg he
stretched out, tightly clothed and well booted and spurred. Through
the open door was a glimpse of the cobbled space before the gate and
the street which led down to it; and outside the door a sentry paced,
passing it at regular intervals. The captain looked up as he passed;
the presence of the sentry pleasingly emphasized the dignity of his
own position, and he wondered what further reward he should attain to
when this new Duke and Duchess were firmly seated on the throne. It
would be strange indeed if he could not find means to force himself
upon their notice, and his own advancement was their chief utility so
far as he was concerned.
"A good man, if he has wisdom in him, must always rise like a cork to
the top of the water," he mused.
Then he started hastily to his feet. There was the dull thud of a
heavy blow, the beginning of a groan which was immediately smothered,
and as the captain rushed to the door men met him on the threshold,
and forced him back.
"A sound means death!" one man said hoarsely, "If you are wise you
will keep what bravery you have for a better cause."
"Pierre Briant!" exclaimed the prisoner.
"The same--a captain in the forces of Duke Roger. The gate is ours,
the city will be ours presently. Up, men, see that none escape or give
the alarm, but treat them kindly if they will let you."
The self-satisfied young officer sank back into his chair with a
groan.
"Hearten up, man," said Briant. "You have failed in a bad cause, you
may live to succeed in a good one. You're over-young to be a captain."
The man was quiet for a moment, and then he sprang from his chair.
"Don't be a fool!" said Pierre Briant, and the young captain shrank
back from the gleaming revolver barrel.
The capture was accomplished in silence and without bloodshed; even
the sentry over the gate had been seized and gagged before he had time
to utter a cry. He had heard men ascending the winding stairs, but had
only thought of the relief coming earlier than he had expected.
The soldiers of the guard were gathered together in one room with
their captain, and Briant explained the situation, after disarming
them.
"My men have orders to fire upon the first who cries out or tries to
escape," he said. "They are all men fresh from fighting on the
frontier, where they have learned to obey orders without question."
So Pierre Briant carried out the instructions which Herrick had given
him a few hours since in the house by the wall. The gate had been
secured silently, and a messenger was sent across the bridge to the
woods, where Lemasle lay with a strong force.
"Tell him the gate is ours and the wedding is before noon," said
Briant.
Lemasle and many of his men had entered the city, and crowded into the
guard-rooms at the gate, or stood close in side streets so as not to
attract the attention of any one who might be loitering in the
neighborhood, when a carriage came down the street and toward the
gate. It was stopped by the sentries placed there by Lemasle.
The Countess Elisabeth, who was the only occupant, produced an order
permitting her to leave Vayenne. It was signed by Christine de
Liancourt and Count Felix.
"Madame, you cannot pass."
"But there is the order."
Lemasle came forward, and looked at the paper.
"Only the Duke's signature is of any value, madame."
"But Count Felix has----"
"I speak of Duke Roger, madame," said Lemasle, "and he has given
orders that none shall pass out of the gates to-day."
"But Duke Roger----"
"Is in Vayenne," said the captain.
A sharp exclamation burst from her lips, and then the Countess was
thoughtful for a moment. As she leaned forward to give a direction to
the coachman, Lemasle interrupted her.
"Pardon, madame, but I must detain you. It is not yet generally known
that the Duke has entered the city, and secrecy is still necessary.
You shall be made as comfortable as possible in one of the
guard-rooms here until we know the Duke's will."
The carriage was drawn into a side street, the coachman and footman
were warned and added to the prisoners in the lower guard-room, while
the Countess was shut in a little room in the tower of the gateway.
She was powerless to help Felix any more.
Long before noon the streets about the castle and St. Etienne were
crowded. Even with the soldiers at the castle there were not very many
in the city, and in some places the crowd grew disorderly. Ugly little
rushes were made for more commanding positions, or out of pure
wantonness; little control could be exercised, and the Count's
carriage had threaded its way to the great west doors of St. Etienne
with difficulty. A few cheers had greeted him as he passed, but the
crowd seemed chiefly enthusiastic about its own pleasure.
The great church was full. Lights burned upon and before the high
altar. Music, now tremulous, now deeply thundering, rolled along the
aisles. Priests and choir waited in the chancel, and alone, a striking
figure, stood Father Bertrand.
In the porch by the great doors stood Felix, waiting for the new
Duchess, his bride. Ceremonial demanded that he should meet her there,
that together they should pass to the altar. Near him stood de
Bornais, and one or two others of importance in Vayenne. It was plain
that both the Count and de Bornais were ill at ease. Christine was
long in coming, and they fretted at the delay.
Behind them was a small, fast-shut door. Perhaps neither of them knew
that it opened upon the steps leading down to the crypt.
Lucille sat opposite to Christine in the carriage, which slowly made
its way through the crowd. The shouting now was loud enough, for the
people of Vayenne, high and low, had always loved Christine de
Liancourt. Very beautiful she looked, but very pale, and never a smile
played about her lips as she bowed to this side and to that. It was no
happy bride who slowly passed on to St. Etienne.
"She is coming," whispered Felix.
Father Bertrand moved slowly toward the altar, the music crashed out,
and the cheers from without rose louder and louder, sounding even to
the crypt below.
The carriage with its guard, chiefly de Bornais' men, halted, and as
Christine descended Felix went forward to meet her, followed by those
who had stood beside him. For a moment the porch was empty, and then
the crypt door burst open. A strange figure in scarlet and green
rushed out, a dozen men following close behind him.
"Long live the Duke!" he cried.
Felix turned sharply, and Christine looked up to meet the steady eyes
of Roger Herrick. There was the sharp ring of steel. The men behind
him stood with drawn swords in their hands.
"So we return to find treason," said Herrick. "Mademoiselle, you are
my prisoner, and will return to the castle. Arrest Count Felix and de
Bornais." And then raising his voice he cried: "Let him who dares
dispute the will of the Duke!"