WHAT MARGUERITE OF NAVARRE DID WHEN
SHE HEARD THE NEWS
I
When Messire Gilles de Crohin sought audience of Her Majesty the
Queen of Navarre on the following day at noon, she had just finished
dressing. She had been up betimes, been for a ride in the cool of
the early morning; she had broken her fast with a hearty appetite,
for she was young and full of health and vitality. All night she had
had happy dreams. The brother whom she loved, just as a mother loves
her most fractious and most unmanageable child, had at last been
brought to act decisively for himself; the goal of her ambitions for
him was in sight; in a very few months she--Marguerite--would have
the satisfaction of seeing him Sovereign Lord--King, perhaps--of one
of the finest countries in Europe, as powerful and more than was
brother Henri, King of France.
She woke up happy, gay as a lark, contented in mind and merry of
humour. After her ride and her breakfast she had a rest, then she
put on a pretty gown, for she was a beautiful woman and knew the
value of clothes. Her intention now was to remain in La Fère while
her dear brother was in Cambray and to watch over his interests until
after he had been formally betrothed to Jacqueline de Broyart. After
that, she would proceed to Nerac to rejoin her husband.
Having dressed and dismissed her waiting-women, Marguerite de Navarre
sat down beside the open casement-window in order to indulge in
pleasant daydreams. Five minutes later, one of her serving-men
entered in order to announce to Her Majesty that Messire Gilles de
Crohin, Seigneur de Froidmont, respectfully begged for an immediate
audience.
There are moments in life when to all the senses it appears as if a
blow of sledge-hammer power and weight has suddenly fallen upon the
brain, numbing every thought, every capability and every sentient
action. Just such a moment was this one for Marguerite of Navarre.
That simple announcement--that Messire Gilles de Crohin desired an
audience--was the sledge-hammer blow which seemed to crush in the one
instant her entire volition and energy and to leave her unthinking,
spell-bound, a mere breathing, human machine, alive only by the power
of the eyes, which remained fixed upon the doorway wherein presently
she would see Messire Gilles.
It was quite unconsciously that she had intimated to the serving-man
that she would receive Messire de Crohin. After that, she sat on and
gazed upon the doorway and listened as the familiar footfall
resounded along the corridor. Something had happened, or Gilles
would not be here. He would be on his way to Cambray with
_Monsieur_. Strangely enough, it never occurred to Marguerite of
Navarre that some simple, easily-explained if untoward accident had
brought Messire back to La Fère. She knew that something terrible
had happened, even before she saw Gilles standing at attention upon
the threshold.
But while the serving-man was still within earshot, she found the
courage to say quite quietly and almost naturally:
'Enter, Messire, I pray you, and close the door behind you. You are
right welcome.'
Then, as soon as the door was closed, she added rapidly and in a
curious choked and hoarse voice:
'My brother?' And as Gilles made no immediate reply, she continued:
'He hath met with an accident? He is dead?'
'No! No!' protested Gilles quickly.
'Then, what is it?' she queried. 'Speak, man, or I die of terror!'
'Monseigneur le Duc d'Anjou did not go to Cambray last night, your
Majesty,' said Gilles quietly.
Marguerite frowned. She did not understand. The news now appeared
trivial after what she had feared.
'Not gone to Cambray?' she said slowly. 'But I saw him go--with you,
Messire.'
'We started together, your Majesty, and rode together as far as
Noyon. Then Monseigneur went on his way and I returned hither.'
'Monseigneur went on his way? What do you mean? And why did you go
to Noyon, which is not on the way to Cambray?'
Gilles de Crohin sighed with impatience. But for his respect for the
exalted lady, he would have thought her strangely dull-witted to-day.
'Monseigneur did not go to Cambray,' he reiterated slowly, like one
who is trying to infuse a lesson into the mind of a doltish child.
'He hath gone to Paris, on his way to some spot unknown to any
one--certainly unknown to me. He will be absent weeks--perhaps
months. He desired your Majesty to try and conciliate Monseigneur le
Baron d'Inchy and the other Flemish lords as best you can.'
Marguerite of Navarre listened to Gilles until the end. Slowly, very
slowly, the perception of what had happened penetrated into her
brain. Her eyes were fixed upon him, glowing with an intense inward
fire. Gradually her breath came and went with ever-increasing
rapidity. Her left hand, which rested on the arm of her chair,
gripped the carving with a more and more convulsive clutch. Then
suddenly, without a cry or warning, her right hand fastened on a
heavy, unloaded pistol which lay, carelessly flung aside, upon the
table close to her, and she flung it at Gilles de Crohin's head.
He dodged, and the massive weapon struck the door behind him and fell
with a clatter to the floor.
'I could kill you,' said Marguerite de Navarre huskily, 'for bringing
me this news!'
'If killing me would bring Monseigneur back,' riposted Gilles
quietly, 'your Majesty would be more than welcome to do it.'
This sobered her, and she pulled herself together, blushing to the
roots of her hair when she realized that her hand had already seized
upon the small Italian dagger which, in accordance with the
prevailing fashion, she wore fastened to her girdle. These were but
semi-civilized times, and the days were not very far distant when the
messenger of evil tidings was slain for his pains. But now, when
Marguerite de Navarre encountered Gilles de Crohin's quiet,
good-humoured gaze, she dropped the little dagger and laughed almost
shamefacedly.
'I ought not to have let him out of my sight,' she said simply.
'It would have been wiser, your Majesty,' rejoined Gilles with a sigh.
'Madame de Marquette sent for him, I suppose.' Then, as Gilles made
no reply to that, she added with sudden fierce contempt: 'And you
helped him to commit this treachery?'
'Would you have me betray the man who trusts me?' he retorted.
'He ordered you to play the farce of starting for Cambray?'
'Yes.'
'To throw dust in my eyes?'
'Yes.'
'To accompany him as far as Noyon?'
'Yes.'
'Then to return hither under cover of darkness?'
'Yes.'
'And to greet me on the morrow with the _fait accompli_?'
'Yes.'
'Holy Virgin!' she exclaimed. 'That men should be so base!'
Tears of mortification, of humiliation, of wild, passionate anger,
had risen to her eyes. Heavy sobs choked the words in her throat.
For once in her life Marguerite of Navarre felt weak and undone and
was not ashamed of her weakness. She had piloted the chariot of her
brother's destiny with such marvellous success up to the dizzy
heights of her own restless ambition only to see it fall crashing to
the ground through his own treachery.
'Oh, Messire Gilles!' she cried with bitter reproach; 'if only you
had served me as well as you have served my brother!'
'I would give my life in your Majesty's service now,' he rejoined
simply, 'if anything that I could do could retrieve Monseigneur's
folly.'
'If anything that you could do could retrieve Monseigneur's folly?'
murmured Marguerite slowly, laboriously, like a child repeating a
lesson. 'Alas! nothing can be done now to retrieve that, Messire.'
II
Outside, a soft-toned bell struck the midday hour. The little
market-place beyond the courtyard lay bathed in wintry sunlight. Men
and women were moving to and fro, stopping to chat with one another
or exchanging a hasty greeting; men-at-arms jingled their spurs upon
the uneven pavements; burghers in dark cloth surtouts flitted
solemnly across the place. Marguerite watched with dreamy,
unconscious eyes the pulsating life of the somnolent little city.
With her, even life appeared at a standstill. With this hideous
treachery on the part of her beloved François, with this unexpected
shattering of all her hopes in sight of goal, she felt as if she
herself no longer existed, as if some other entity had chased her
soul away--her loving, ambitious, romantic soul--and taken possession
of her body.
Gilles stood by, silent--looking down on her with infinite
compassion. He, the poor, homeless, penniless soldier of fortune,
found it in his heart to pity this young and adulated queen. He
would have liked to help her if he could. But the situation was now
a hopeless impasse. The curtain had rung up upon a brilliant drama
of glory and of satisfied ambition; but the principal actor was not
there to play his part, and the drama _must_ fail for want of him.
'Shall I go now, your Majesty?' asked Gilles at last.
But she made no reply. She sat on in the high-backed chair, looking
out upon the world beyond. There were happy people out there,
contented people. People who had humble aspirations, but who saw
them fulfilled. Better far to long for mere subsistence, to have few
and simple desires and see them satisfied, than to let one's ambition
soar to impossible heights which must for ever remain unattainable.
And Gilles remained standing some distance away from the Queen,
watching a whole world of varied emotions flitting rapidly over her
mobile face. First came anger and despair, hot resentment and bitter
contempt. The eyes looked steely and glittered with a fierce, inward
wrath, whilst not one line of tenderness softened the curve of the
closely set mouth. At this stage of her grim meditations it was
obvious to the keen watcher that Marguerite de Navarre felt that she
would never quite forgive the dearly loved brother this culminating
act of treachery.
Then something of the hardness of the look went, and gave place to
one of utter hopelessness which, to Gilles who knew her buoyant
disposition, appeared quite heartrending. It were absolutely useless
now, that look seemed to say, to try and redeem so much folly, such
black and despicable cowardice. And there was the shameful
humiliation too, to endure, the necessary abasement before those
stiff-necked Flemish lords, those proud purists, rigid in their code
of honour. There was the bitter acknowledgment to come that a prince
of the House of France could so vilely break his word.
But presently, even as the tears of wrath and humiliation still
glistened in Marguerite de Navarre's beautiful eyes, there crept
gradually into her face a strange look of puzzlement. It came
slowly, very slowly, just as if Fate, having struck her blow, was
beginning to relent and to whisper words of hope. Frowns came and
went between the pencilled brows, and inaudible whispers seemed to
come through the slightly parted lips. Then, still quite gradually,
a glow of excitement spread over the face, the eyes shone less
sombre, a ray of light, like unto a faint smile, played round the
corners of the lips.
Then Marguerite de Navarre turned her pretty head and fixed her eyes
upon Gilles. And he who stood by, listening and watching, heard
distinctly that her lips murmured the two little words: 'Why not?'
A quarter of an hour had gone by. Both the actors in this
palpitating little interlude had lost count of time--Gilles gazing
pityingly, almost remorsefully, on the Queen, and she, thinking,
thinking, wrestling with Fate, unwilling even now to give in.
And all the while she was looking on Gilles with a puzzled frown,
whilst her lips kept on murmuring, as if unconsciously: 'Why not?'
III
'Messire de Crohin,' said Marguerite of Navarre at last. 'You said
just now that you would give your life in my service if anything that
you could do at this hour would retrieve Monsieur's folly. Did you
mean all that you said, Messire?'
Gilles smiled. 'I am not a Royal prince, Madame,' he said simply.
'I cannot afford the luxury of playing with my word. 'Tis all I
have.'
She sighed and looked on him with those appealing yet compelling eyes
of hers, which had such marvellous power to bend poor, feeble man to
her will.
'Oh! but do repeat what you said, Messire,' she said naïvely. 'If
you only knew how I long for an assurance of fidelity from one who is
really a man!'
'I do repeat then, your Majesty, what I said before,' rejoined Gilles
solemnly; 'that I would give my life in your service if aught that I
can do will retrieve Monseigneur's folly.'
She seemed to drink in his simple words as if they were nectar to her
soul--her soul, which was thirsting for loyalty, for service, for
strength and truth. Then she said quietly:
'I'll put you to the test, Messire.'
'If your Majesty pleases,' he replied.
'I pray you,' she then resumed, speaking very quietly and with slow
but firm emphasis, 'to listen in silence and to the very end to what
I am going to say. However surprised or--or--unwilling you may feel,
do not raise any objections till after I have told you of the scheme
which I have just evolved in my mind, and which I firmly believe will
yet retrieve our family honour and secure for my brother the throne
of the Netherlands. God knows,' she added with a bitter sigh, 'that
he hath not deserved that you or I should still be working for him!
But when a prince of the House of Valois breaks his word, the shame
of it bears upon us all.'
She paused, and in accordance with her desire Gilles remained silent,
listening.
'Messire Gilles,' resumed Marguerite after awhile. 'There is, so I
am told, Valois blood in your veins. That blood hath given you a
glibness of tongue, at times wholly out of keeping with your
adventurous temperament. It has also given you--so gossip
avers--that persuasive eloquence which tickles pleasantly the ear of
women. In temperament and in bearing Nature hath favoured you more
generously than she did my brother. This perhaps is the only
possible hitch in the plan which I have devised.'
Gilles frowned. It was his turn now to be exceedingly puzzled.
'It has been arranged, Messire--and to this the Flemish lord gave his
consent--that _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon shall woo his
future wife under a mask--under a mask,' she reiterated slowly.
'Ah!' she exclaimed, seeing that Gilles had suddenly given an
involuntary gasp. 'I see that already you understand! There is
something that you can do, Messire, to retrieve _Monsieur's_ folly.
You can act the rôle which I had assigned to him. You can don a mask
and woo Madame Jacqueline from beneath her casement window. How oft
in the past years have you impersonated your princely master in a
less avowable cause? How many blows and sabre-cuts have you received
on his behalf whilst he pursued some less worthy adventure? Nay! you
cannot deny that. I know so much of what my dear brother would
conceal from me. It can be done, Messire Gilles,' she added eagerly.
'It can be done, if you will loyally and faithfully serve me to this
end.'
She paused, breathless and excited, and with glowing eyes fixed upon
Gilles de Crohin as if to probe his very soul and to extract from him
not only a consent, of which she was already assured, but the same
enthusiasm for her scheme which she felt herself.
'Messire Gilles!' she exclaimed. 'It can be done! And now, in
Heaven's name, I pray you, speak! I can endure your silence no
longer!'
Gilles smiled at her quaint inconsequence. Then he passed his
toil-worn hand through his rumpled hair. His look of utter
bewilderment was so ludicrous that, despite her anxiety, Marguerite
could not help but laugh.
'Oh, Messire Gilles!' she cried. 'If you only knew how comical you
look!'
'Comical, Madame?' retorted Gilles with a growl. 'So would you look
comical if you were suddenly confronted with so wild a proposition!'
'Wild, Messire?' riposted the Queen. ''Tis the Flemish lords who
would be wild if my inventive brain had not conceived the
proposition.'
'But, Madame----' protested Gilles feebly.
'But, Messire,' retorted the Queen, mimicking the unfortunate man.
'Tell me,' she added more soberly, 'have you or have you not
impersonated _Monsieur_ before now?'
'Well!' murmured Gilles, 'I confess that I...'
'There was the affair with Monsieur de Ravache, for instance,' she
continued firmly. 'The sword-thrust which that invincible duellist
received in a certain affair of honour last June was openly
attributed to _Monsieur_; but those who were in the know have averred
that it was Messire Gilles de Crohin, and not the Duc d'Anjou, who
fought Monsieur de Ravache that night.'
Gilles shrugged his shoulders and Marguerite went on glibly:
'And in the fracas in a low booth outside Arras, when an irate father
and three bellicose brothers vowed vengeance against the princely
lover of an over-trusting wench, was it indeed _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou
who, beneath a mask and cloak, kept half a dozen sturdy swordsmen at
bay for close on half an hour? Or was it not rather Messire Gilles
de Crohin who fought single-handed thus valiantly, even while
_Monsieur_, disguised and furtive, found safety in flight?'
'Your Majesty, I protest,' broke in Gilles firmly, 'that rumour is
nearly always a lying jade----'
'Bah!' quoth Marguerite lightly. 'I'll challenge you to deny either
of these tales on your oath. And there is the story of the
jeweller's daughter, and that of Madame de Franqueville. The latter,
I believe, is still under the impression that M. le Duc d'Anjou is
the most ardent lover and the most chivalrous foe in France and that
he wears about his person all the evidences of a hard and adventurous
life. But why argue, Messire?' she continued impatiently. 'Even if
you had never in your life impersonated the shifty prince whom you
serve, I would ask you to do it now for his sake as well as for mine
own.'
'But, in the name of all the saints in the calendar!' exclaimed
Gilles with an air of laughable helplessness, 'how is it all going to
be done? I shall be seen ... recognized ... the fraud exposed within
the first few hours ... and our second state will be distinctly worse
than our first.'
'Exposed?' rejoined the Queen coolly. 'Who by? _Monsieur_ hath
never been in Cambray. Who should be acquainted with his appearance?
And, moreover, there will be the mask to ward off any untoward or
chance recognition.'
'But hath your Majesty thought of Messire de Montigny?' retorted
Gilles dryly. 'He hath just spent half an hour in Monseigneur's
presence and is not blind, I imagine. A mere mask would not deceive
him.'
'Ah! I thought that you would mention Messire de Montigny,' riposted
Marguerite triumphantly. 'Have you forgotten that he said he would
only just have time to see his brother and M. d'Inchy in Cambray, as
he was on his way to join the army of the Prince of Orange at
Utrecht?'
'He may return at any time.'
'He may,' said Marguerite calmly. 'I did not say,' she added with a
significant little smile, 'that there would be no risks, no dangers,
connected with the undertaking. If you fear to affront them, Messire
... why, there's nothing more to be said.'
Marguerite de Navarre was far too clever not to know that in uttering
the word 'danger' she would be playing her trump card. 'Gilles'
objections were suddenly dissolved like smoke in thin air. He
laughed and said good-humouredly:
'That was a clever move, Madame! I hated the affair until you spoke
of danger.'
'And now?' she queried, smiling.
'Now? Now?' he said. 'I merely repeat: how is it going to be done?'
'In exactly the same manner in which the affair, say, with Madame de
Franqueville was conducted,' she replied.
'But there we had an object to attain, Madame--a none too avowable
one, I own, but still an object. But here ... suppose I sigh beneath
Madame Jacqueline's window effectually? Suppose she falls in love
with her unknown swain? Suppose she grants him an interview?.... We
should still be where we now are! 'Tis Monseigneur who will have to
marry Madame Jacqueline de Broyart--not I.'
'Do not trouble your head about that, good Messire,' retorted
Marguerite dryly. 'We only want to gain time. You do your wooing;
I'll see that _Monsieur_ is there to wed.'
'But----'
'Oh! I know him well enough,' she continued with an impatient sigh.
'His present caprice--I suppose it is Madame de Marquette--will not
last a week. At the end of a sennight or less he will come back
fawning to me, satiated, bored and repentant, ready to do
anything--even to marry Madame Jacqueline blindfolded--in order to
regain my good graces. All that we want,' pleaded Marguerite with a
sudden softening of her voice and of her whole attitude, 'is to gain
time--a few days' time, Messire--while I go hunting for my faithless
brother. I cannot go and tell Monseigneur de Lalain and M. le Baron
d'Inchy that _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou of the princely House of Valois
hath fled from his obligations. Those obligations must be fulfilled
at all costs, Messire ... at all costs, you understand? Nominally,
Monsieur must be in Cambray within three days, and you must keep
Madame Jacqueline amused and happy until I send you word that
_Monsieur_ is on his way--ready to take your place.'
'But----' murmured Gilles again, in a final attempt at protest.
She, however, would not allow him to get in a word edgewise now.
'When Monseigneur arrives,' she went on with eager volubility, 'you,
Messire, will give up your dual rôle, become once again the one and
only Sire de Froidmont. When _Monsieur_ appears unmasked before his
promised bride, we must see to it that plenty of padding do
supplement his somewhat narrow shoulders and sunken chest, for Madame
Jacqueline and her entourage will have been accustomed by then to
your broad stature, Messire; but no one will have seen the face of
the masked swain. Oh, Messire Gilles! Messire Gilles!' she
exclaimed, clasping her hands together with a gesture of passionate
entreaty. 'With a little thought, a little care and a little luck,
it can all be done so easily if you will but consent! Say yes,
Messire! and the prayers of a harassed Queen and a doting sister will
bring blessings down upon your loyal head!'
IV
The tears were in Marguerite de Navarre's eyes as she extended an
appealing hand to Gilles de Crohin. He, poor wretch, had not much
choice. His loyalty had been requisitioned in such terms that he
could not refuse. And, remember, that Gilles de Crohin, the soldier
of fortune, was nothing if not adventurous. Deep down in his heart
something was already stirring which tickled his imagination and
fired his ardent blood. Like a war-horse scenting battle, he scented
excitement, danger, hair-breadth escapes, sword-thrusts given and
received--all of which was to him the very essence of life. And
there was something exceedingly pleasant, too, in the gratitude of
this beautiful and accomplished woman--a Queen indeed, in the highest
acceptance of the word.
Messire Gilles' life had been very dull and dreary of late. He had
set out once--very long ago and when he was a mere lad--to carve out
his own fortune in the world. Penniless, and bearing a noble name
which the penury of two generations had somewhat tarnished, he
dreamed, when he was still in his teens, that Fate reserved something
very glorious and very wonderful for him. A decade and more had gone
by since then, and Messire Gilles had found that the cornucopia of
Fate held more thistles than roses for him. The wars now were so
inglorious; the days of chivalry had gone, never to return. The
princes in high places, whom adventurers such as he were destined to
serve, had nothing to offer for devoted allegiance save a miserable
pittance often withheld.
As a matter of fact, Messire Gilles de Crohin had of late been
heartily sick of life. The spirit of adventure that glowed within
him was gradually becoming somnolent. He felt that even his blood
would become sluggish in time if he dragged on this uneventful
existence in the wake of an indolent and dissolute prince.
Then, in the midst of all this dreary dullness, came this ray of
sunshine--an adventure such as he, Gilles, had not dreamed of since
his boyhood--an adventure proposed to him by the fairest lips in
Europe--which would bring all the excitement with it for which he
yearned so passionately. No wonder that every objection seemed to
him all at once to be futile, every obstacle mere child's play.
And Marguerite, keen and clever, saw at once that he was wavering,
just as de Montigny had done yesterday. Long before either of these
two men realized themselves that they were yielding, she _knew_ that
she had gained her point.
'You gave me your word, Messire,' she said gently.
'And I'll not go back on it, Madame,' he replied.
'Yet you hesitate!'
'Your pardon, Madame,' he rejoined with a smile. 'I was only
bewildered.'
'Then you consent?' she exclaimed joyfully.
He shrugged his shoulders with his habitual easy-going good-humour.
'Madame gives me no choice,' he said. 'I cannot go back on my word.'
He bent the knee and kissed the gracious hand which was extended to
him. Marguerite's eyes were still bathed in tears.
'If anything that I can do,' reiterated Gilles de Crohin solemnly,
'will retrieve Monseigneur's folly I'll do it.'
'Ah!' she riposted gently. 'But 'tis your solemn oath I want,
Messire Gilles.'
'My word of honour, Madame,' he retorted bluntly, 'hath always been
found sufficient.'
'Nay! your oath!' she insisted, pleading once more. 'A solemn,
binding oath! One,' she added naïvely, 'which, if broken, would land
you in hell.' Then, as a sudden scowl gathered on Gilles' brow, she
continued in a tone of sadness and self-pity: 'Do not be angered,
Messire. I know you for a loyal gentleman and have no doubt that, to
you, your word is as good as your oath. But I have been so oft
deceived, so oft befooled, that a man's word of honour hath lost its
value in mine eyes. Can you blame me, remembering what I am
suffering now?'
Gilles' sense of humour saved the situation. His word of honour had
of a truth never been doubted, but in face of this sorely outraged
woman, he could not take offence.
'What oath shall I take,' he queried, with a good-humoured smile,
'that will satisfy the Queen of Navarre?'
'On your immortal soul, Messire,' she said solemnly; 'on your hopes
of salvation; on all that you hold most precious and most dear, swear
to me that you will serve me in this matter as I shall direct you,
and until I myself do release you from this bond.'
He drew his cross-hilted sword and held it fixed before his eyes.
Then he placed his right hand upon the hilt and said with solemn
earnestness: 'I swear.'
Marguerite gave a quick sigh of content. She watched Gilles with
evident satisfaction as he rose to his feet, sheathed his sword and
then stood before her in all his picturesque ruggedness, a perfect
presentment of a man, strong, reliable--oh! above all, reliable!!!
'Now, Madame,' said 'Gilles finally, 'will you deign to tell me just
what I am to do?'
V
For an hour and more after that, these two--veritable conspirators
now--sat together, the Queen of Navarre talking and explaining
eagerly and Gilles listening; for of a truth he was still rather
bewildered at the proposition and at the part which he would have to
play in it. Not that the rôle itself was unfamiliar to him. He had
played it often enough, as Marguerite had very shrewdly said, and in
far less avowable causes; but never for any length of time. It had
been a matter of fighting a duel or meeting an inconvenient
interlocutor; a matter of stepping into his Royal master's shoes for
half an hour or so, and as oft as not under cover of a dim light.
But now he would have to sustain the part for days--weeks,
perhaps--never forgetting, always on the alert, always fearful lest a
word, a gesture, an inflexion of the voice, should betray him. And
he had sworn so solemnly on what he held most sacred and most dear
that he would see the business through! Ye gods! but it was a hard
proposition for a simple-minded soldier of fortune to tackle!
Marguerite of Navarre, however, was for laughing away every
difficulty which stood in her path.
'It has got to be done, Messire!' she said more than once, and with
ever-increasing earnestness. 'For the honour of France and of her
Royal House.'
She began by giving Gilles more money than he had ever seen before,
taking purse after purse of gold from her private coffer and watching
him as, puzzled and confused, he stowed these away in the inner
pockets of his doublet and breeches.
'I haven't earned all this yet,' he muttered ruefully.
'You will want it,' she rejoined. 'You are a prince, remember, and
though you will be travelling incognito, you must live like a prince.'
But the question of clothes was the most difficult one to settle.
Gilles de Crohin possessed none save those in which he stood up at
this moment: a well-worn doublet of faded kerseymere, a stout jerkin
and cloth trunks. His hose showed a multiplicity of darns, and his
boots, though stout and solid, were not exactly suited to a lady's
drawing-room.
'Time is too short to fashion new ones,' said Marguerite
thoughtfully; 'even if this little town did boast of silken materials
and Court tailors; which it certainly does not!'
'It certainly doth appear in the light of an insurmountable
difficulty,' rejoined Gilles with a hopeful sigh.
'No difficulty is insurmountable, Messire, when the honour of France
is at stake,' she retorted with a frown.
'But----'
'What hath _Monsieur_ done with his wardrobe?' asked Marguerite. 'He
always travels with trunk-loads of frippery.'
'Monseigneur left all his clothes here and most of his jewellery. I
am to convey them to his house in Paris when an opportunity occurs.'
'Very well,' she rejoined firmly; 'we must find what you want among
them.'
'But----' he broke in once more, disconcerted at the suggestion.
'But what?'
'The trunks are locked.'
'I'll break them open,' she rejoined simply. 'Have no fear, Messire;
I am taking all the responsibility of this affair upon my shoulders.'
'But I cannot strut about in another man's clothes!' protested Gilles
dolefully.
'Why not?'
'Because ... because ... _parbleu!_ because they would not fit me!'
Marguerite smiled. Then she threw another admiring glance on Gilles'
massive figure.
'My brother is very nearly as tall as you are, Messire, she said,'
even though not quite so broad. I have two very skilful seamstresses
who will adjust _Monsieur's_ doublets across your splendid shoulders.
With his love of slashings and puffings, such alterations are very
easily done.'
'But the boots----' protested Gilles again.
'You have the small foot, Messire,' she replied dryly, 'which you
inherit from your Valois ancestor.'
'The Lord help me, your Majesty!' he exclaimed piteously. 'You have
thought of everything, and I am a puppet in your august hands.'
'Therefore I entreat you not to argue any further,' she retorted
gaily, 'or I shall think that you are repenting of your bargain--and
of your oath.'
Which suggestion caused Gilles to cease from further protests, even
though he did express a hope that Her Majesty's seamstresses would
not make gossip all about the town that he--the Sire de
Froidmont--was going to walk about in another man's clothes.
'My women never gossip,' said Marguerite dryly, after which she
abruptly changed the subject. 'And now tell me,' she said. 'A man
like you must have a friend, a comrade or a servant--some one, in
fact, who would be faithful and trustworthy. You will want a
companion on your journey. Messire, have you such a friend?'
'Aye! that I have,' replied Gilles fervently, his whole face beaming
with joy at thought of having his faithful Jehan with him in this mad
expedition.
'One who would serve you faithfully?' she continued.
'To the death, your Majesty.'
'And cleverly?' she insisted. 'You will both have to keep your wits
about you.'
Gilles smiled. 'Maître Jehan,' he said, 'hath no wits to speak of,
Madame; but he hath a heart of gold and muscles of steel. Nature
hath forced him to hold his tongue, for he stutters like a clucking
hen. He is invaluable for circumventing an inopportune visitor or
misunderstanding an imperative command. We have fought side by side
these past ten years and have nearly bled to death or been frozen to
death together before now. Jehan will do for me what I would do for
you, Madame.'
'You are lucky, Messire,' rejoined Marguerite simply, 'to have such a
friend. And I,' she added, with an engaging smile,' to have such an
one, too. Maître Jehan shall journey to Cambray with you as your
serving-man. With his prowess and your own invincible courage and
strength, the very thought of failure appears treasonable. Ah,
Messire Gilles!' she continued eagerly, 'I beg of you to cast all
doubts aside! Have no fear, I entreat you--no fear of failure or of
gossip! And, above all, trust me! Trust me, Messire, that whatever
happens, I will not leave you in the lurch. Only trust me! Trust
me! You shall not suffer through serving me! On the faith of
Marguerite of Navarre!'
She gave him her hand again, and through tears of emotion gave him a
glance of appreciation and of confidence. Gilles had no more
resistance left in him; and as he looked into those lovely eyes which
had already played such havoc with men's wills and with men's hearts,
he sighed with resignation and with only a transient thought for the
morrow. None knew better than the Sire de Froidmont the exact value
of promises made by princes or by women. To-day Marguerite of
Navarre's clever mind and warm heart were filled with enthusiasm for
this new scheme of hers; a week hence, mayhap, she would have thought
of something else, and Gilles--as like as not--would indeed be left
to bear the brunt of failure.
But these were just the vicissitudes which were wont to attend the
career of a soldier of fortune these days. A dazzling prize or a
gibbet might await the adventurer at the end of his goal. For the
nonce, Gilles had sworn to serve this gracious lady and to redeem the
unpardonable folly of a faithless prince, and with a careless shrug
of the shoulders he left the future in Dame Fortune's hands.
'I will give you an autograph letter,' resumed Marguerite more
quietly after awhile, 'for M. le Baron d'Inchy, governor of Cambray,
and one for Maître Julien at the hostelry of "Les Trois Rois." These
will serve as your credentials in addition to the safe-conducts which
Messire de Montigny delivered to _Monsieur_. You have those, I hope.'
'Yes, Madame,' replied Gilles. 'Monseigneur left them with me. If
your Majesty deigns to remember, they were e'en made out in my name.'
'In the name of Messire Gilles de Crohin, the equerry and of
Monseigneur le prince de Froidmont!' she exclaimed gleefully.
'Indeed, I mind it well! You will not even have to change your name,
Messire; and the title shall be yours, an' you desire it, when my
brother is King of the Netherlands.'
Gilles shrugged his shoulders. 'Oh! a title, Madame...!' he said
lightly.
'I know! I know!' she riposted, with the volubility of intense
excitement. 'I know your proud device: "Roy ne suys, ne Prince, ne
Duc, ne Comte. Je suys Sire de Froide Monte." Ah, Messire Gilles!
you were fated to belie that device! Prince de Froidmont--'tis no
mean title.'
'I prefer that of Friend of the Queen of Navarre,' he said simply.
'You are that indeed, Messire, and more,' she rejoined solemnly.
'Ah! if my brother were only like you, what glorious destiny would
have been his!'
'Our destinies are of our own making, Madame,' he retorted.
'You have started to carve them out for yourself now, Messire Gilles,
on the tablets of my memory.'
'Then may God and the Fates favour me!'
'The Fates?' she cried gaily. 'Why, you and I have conquered the
Fates, Messire. Will you deny that they are our handmaidens now?'