WHILE OTHERS FAILED
I
Of a truth, Monseigneur the governor was not gravely perturbed by his
ward's sudden attack of faintness. He knew that women were subject
to megrims and sundry other fancies, and he was willing to admit that
in his excitement he had, perhaps, been too abrupt with her and too
brusque. She had been scared, bewildered, no doubt, and lost
consciousness in her agitation. But old Nicolle had quickly come to
the rescue with restoratives; and with the prerogative of an old and
trusted servant, she had bundled Monseigneur and Monsieur de Lalain
incontinently out of the room. Madame would soon be well, she said,
only needed rest. She was overwrought and over fatigued with so many
banquets and public functions--such late hours, too; and Madame not
twenty! Young people needed plenty of sleep, and Madame, after a
good and peaceful night, would be quite well on the morrow.
So Monseigneur, fully reassured, went back to his apartments and to
his own business. There was still a great deal to be done, a great
deal to see to--many people to interview and many more orders to
give, to ensure that to-morrow's ceremony should be conducted not
only with perfect smoothness, but also that the preparations for it
be concluded with perfect secrecy.
M. de Lalain, d'Inchy's old friend, was an invaluable helpmate, and
de Landas too had for the occasion thrown off that supercilious
manner which he had adopted of late, and had entered fully into the
spirit of the affair. There was no fear that the wily Valois fox
would slip from out the trap which was being so skilfully laid for
him.
Already messengers, dressed in Monseigneur the governor's livery,
were flying all over the town, carrying letters and sign-manuals.
Directly these were delivered, extraordinary bustle and activity came
at once into being in the official and municipal centres of the city.
The Provosts could be seen, wearing their chain of office and
hurrying to the Town Hall, where they were received by the Chief
Magistrate. Orders and counter-orders flew from one end of the town
to the other, from the Citadel to the Palace and from Cantimpré to
the Château, while, by special command of M. le Marquis de Landas,
the entire garrison, which manned the forts, was under arms during
the whole of that night.
The humbler folk, scared by this unwonted turmoil, shut themselves up
with their families inside their houses, until a persistent rumour
reassured them that no fresh assault on the part of the besieging
army was expected, but rather that a happy, joyful and hopeful
proclamation would be made by Monseigneur the governor on the morrow,
from the balcony of the Town Hall. Whereupon fear and trouble were
for the moment put resolutely away. The people were beginning to
suffer so acutely, that they were abjectly thankful for any ray of
hope, which gleamed through the darkness of their ever-present
misery. With the Duke of Parma's armies at their gates, they were
still clinging to the thought that some mighty Power would take
compassion on them, and come to their rescue with a force strong
enough to inflict a severe defeat upon the Spaniard. They had not
yet reached the final stages of despair. They were still ready to
seize every opportunity for forgetfulness, for enjoyment even,
whenever it was offered or allowed them. Rumour had been persistent
about the help which was to come from France. Messire de Balagny's
presence in the city had confirmed the hopes which had rested upon
those rumours. Now, with the knowledge that Monseigneur had a joyful
announcement to make, mercurial temperaments rose for
awhile--especially among the young. The older people had been too
often deluded with flowery promises to believe in any good fortune
for their unfortunate city. They had seen the fate of others--of
Mons and of Mechlin and of Gand. The might of the Spanish armies
always conquered in the end, and the rebellious cities had been made
to suffer untold brutalities, as a punishment for their heroic
resistance.
Fortunately for the morale of Cambray, these older people, these
wiseacres, were still in the minority, and hope is of all human
attributes the strongest and the most persistent. So, despite the
prognostications and fear of pessimists, people rose early on the
following morning, in order betimes to decorate their houses. Soon
after dawn, activities began; flags were dragged out of old, disused
coffers and hung out of windows and balconies; the women sought, in
their worm-eaten dower chests, for any scraps of finery that may have
survived from the happy olden days, before their Spanish tyrants had
made of this prosperous land a forlorn wilderness.
By eight o'clock the beleaguered city looked almost gay. The shops
were closed; soldiers paraded the streets; the city guilds, their
masters and their 'prentices, came out with banners flying, to stand
in groups upon the Grand' Place. If a stranger could have dropped
into Cambray from the skies on that fine April morning, he would of a
truth have doubted if any Spanish army was encamped around these
walls.
II
Even Gilles de Crohin, absorbed as he was in his own affairs, could
not fail to notice the generally festive air which hung about the
place. In the quarter where he lodged, it is true that very little
of that holiday mood had found its way down the narrow streets and
into the interior of squalid houses, where the pinch of cold and
hunger had already made itself insistently felt. But as soon as he
was past the Place aux Bois, he began to wonder what was in the wind.
The populace had been at obvious pains to put aside for the moment
every outward sign of the misery which it endured. The women had
donned their best clothes, the men no longer hung about at street
corners, looking hungry and gaunt. They did not even scowl in the
wake of the masked stranger, so lately the object of their ire, as
the latter hurried along on his way to the Palace.
And then there were the flags, and the open windows, the draped
balconies and pots of bright-coloured early tulips--all so different
to the dreary, drab appearance which Cambray had worn of late.
But, nevertheless, Gilles himself would have told you afterwards that
no suspicion of Monseigneur d'Inchy's intentions crossed his mind.
Vaguely he thought that Messire de Balagny's arrival had been
announced to the townfolk, and that the promise of help from France
had been made the occasion of a public holiday. And he himself was
in too much of a fume to pay serious heed to anything but his own
affairs--to anything, in fact, but his own departure, which had been
so provokingly delayed until this morning.
And this veracious chronicle has all along put it on record that
Messire Gilles de Crohin was not a man of patience. Imagine his
choler, his fretting rage when, fully prepared for his journey,
mounted upon the same horse which had brought him into Cambray a
month ago, and duly accompanied by Maître Jehan, who had a pack-horse
on the lead, he had presented himself on the previous afternoon at
the Porte Notre Dame with his original safe-conduct, and was
incontinently refused exit from the city, owing to strict orders
issued by the commandant of the garrison that no one should be
allowed to pass out of the gates under any pretext whatsoever.
Gilles had argued, persuaded, demanded; but he himself was too
thorough a soldier not to have realized from the first that every
argument would be futile. The captain of the guard assured him that
he could do nothing in the face of the strict and uncompromising
orders which he had received. Gilles was of course quite certain
that some one had blundered--a mere matter of formality, which
Monseigneur the governor could put right with a stroke of the
pen--but it was obviously not for a subordinate officer to question
his orders, or to take any revision thereto upon himself; and Gilles,
after receiving the captain's courteous regrets, had no option but to
ride away.
It was then six o'clock of the afternoon, and the brilliance of the
early spring day was quickly fading into dusk. A boisterous wind had
sprung up, which brought heavy banks of cloud along, threatening
rain. But, rain or shine, Gilles had no thought as yet of giving up
his purpose. There were other gates within the city walls, and
wrapping his mantle closely round his shoulders, he gave spur to his
horse and started on a new quest, closely followed by Maître Jehan.
It is on record that he went the round of every gate, armed with his
safe-conduct and with as much patience as he could muster.
Alternately he tried bribery, persuasion, stealth; but nothing
availed. The town garrison was everywhere under arms; orders had
been given, and no one, be he the highest in the land, was allowed to
leave.
Had the matter been vital or the adventure worth the trial, I doubt
not but what Messire would have endeavoured to get through at all
costs--have scaled the city walls, swam the river, challenged the
Spanish lines and run the gauntlet of archers and gunners, in order
to accomplish what he wanted, if he had wanted it badly. But a few
hours' delay in his journey could make no matter, and truth to tell
he was in no mood for senseless adventure.
In the meanwhile, however, several hours had been wasted on fruitless
errands. It was late evening. The heavy gale had brought along its
due complement of rain. It were certainly not seemly to disturb
Monseigneur the governor in the Palace at this hour, so Gilles and
Jehan returned, sorely disappointed, to their lodgings, there to
spend a sleepless night, waiting for the first reasonable hour in the
morning wherein Monseigneur the governor might be expected to
transact business. And I can confidently affirm that no suspicion of
what was in contemplation for the confusion of the fickle Prince,
crossed Gilles' mind, as he lay half the night, staring into the
darkness, with the image of Jacqueline haunting his tortured brain.
III
At eight o'clock the next morning, he was once more at the
Archiepiscopal Palace, demanding to see Monseigneur. Not wishing to
challenge any comparison at this eleventh hour between his two
entities, he had elected to present himself under his disguise and
his mask, and to send in a greeting to Monseigneur with the message
that Messire le Prince de Froidmont desired to speak with him
immediately.
But it seems that Monseigneur had been very ill all night and had not
yet risen. A leech was in attendance, who, ignorant of the true rank
of this early visitor, strictly forbade that the sick man should be
disturbed. No doubt if Messire le Prince de Froidmont would present
himself a couple of hours later--the leech added suavely--Monseigneur
would be prepared to see him.
It was in very truth a trial of patience, and I marvel how Gilles'
temper stood the strain. The fact that he was a stranger in the
city, without a friend, surrounded too by a goodly number of enemies,
may be accountable for his exemplary patience. Certain it is that he
did once again return to his lodgings, anathematizing in his heart
all these stodgy and procrastinating Flemings, but otherwise calm
and, I repeat, wholly unsuspecting.
At ten o'clock, a runner came to him with a message that Monseigneur
had been unexpectedly summoned to the Town Hall, but, not wishing to
disappoint M. le Prince de Froidmont, he begged the latter to go
forthwith to see him there. So Gilles left horses and baggage in
Maître Julien's charge and, accompanied by Jehan, he proceeded on
foot to the Town Hall. He had much difficulty in forcing his way
through the crowd, which had become very dense, especially in and
about the Grand' Place.
Gilles, indeed, could not help but notice the festive appearance of
the town, the flags, the flowers, the banners of the guilds. Above
all, the good-humour of the crowd was in such strange contrast to
their habitual surliness. Instead of uttering insults against the
masked stranger, as he jostled them with his elbows and a rapid 'By
your leave!' they chaffed and teased him, laughed and joked among
themselves in perfect good-humour.
In and about the Town Hall there was a large concourse of people,
city fathers and high dignitaries in official attire. The perron
steps were decorated with huge pots of Dutch earthenware, placed at
intervals all the way up as far as the entrance doors and filled with
sheaves of white Madonna lilies, produced at great cost at this
season of the year in the hothouses of the Archiepiscopal Palace.
Pots containing the same priceless flowers could also be seen up on
the huge balcony above the entrance, and showing through the
interstices of the stonework of the splendid balustrade. There was
also a guard of honour--halbardiers in their gorgeous attire--who
lined the hall and the grand staircase as far as the upper floor.
When Gilles appeared outside the huge entrance gates, an usher in
sober black came forward from some hidden corner of the hall, and
approached him with marked deference. Monseigneur the governor had
given orders that directly M. le Prince de Froidmont presented
himself at the Town Hall he was to be shown up to the Council Room.
Gilles, having ordered Jehan to wait for him below, followed the
usher up the grand staircase, noting with the first gleam of
suspicious surprise that the guard presented arms as he went by.
But even then he did not guess.
IV
The Council Room was crowded when Gilles entered. At first he felt
quite dazed. The whole scene was so ununderstandable, so different
to what he had expected. He had thought of finding Monseigneur the
governor alone in a small apartment; and here he was ushered into a
magnificent hall, harmoniously ornamented with priceless Flemish
tapestry above the rich carving of the wainscoting. The hall was
crowded with men, some of whom he had vaguely seen on the night of
the banquet at the Archiepiscopal Palace. There was the Chief
Magistrate, a venerable old man, gorgeously decorated with a massive
gold chain and other insignia of authority; there were the Mayors of
the City guilds, each recognizable by their robes of state and the
emblems of their trades; there were the Provosts and the Captains of
the guard and the Chiefs of the Guild of Archers, with their crimson
sashes, and there was also Monseigneur the governor, looking more
pompous and solemn than he had ever done before.
Gilles was once more deeply thankful for the mask which covered his
face, together with its expression of boundless astonishment,
amounting to consternation, which must inevitably have betrayed him.
Already he would have retreated if he could; but even as the swift
thought crossed his mind, the ushers closed the doors behind him, the
guard fell in, and he was--there was no mistaking it--a virtual
prisoner.
Dressed for the journey, booted and spurred, with leather jerkin and
heavy belt, he stood for a moment, isolated, at the end of the room,
a magnificent and picturesque figure, mysterious and defiant--yes,
defiant! For he knew in one instant that he had been trapped and
that he, the gambler, had been set to play a losing game.
His quick, keen glance swept over the dignified assembly.
Monseigneur, in the centre, was advancing to greet him, bowing almost
to the ground in the excess of his deference. Every head was bared,
the captains of the guard had drawn their swords and held them up to
the salute. Through the wide-open, monumental windows, the pale
April sun came peeping in, throwing a glint of gold upon the rich
robes of the Provosts and the Mayors. A murmur of respectful
greeting went round the room, followed immediately by loud and
prolonged cheering; and Gilles--suddenly alive to the whole
situation--took his plumed hat from off his head and, with a
splendidly insolent gesture, made a sweeping bow to the assembled
dignitaries. His life, his honour, his safety, were hanging by a
thread. He stood like a trapped beast before a number of men who
anon would be clamouring perhaps for his blood; but the whole
situation suddenly struck him as so boundlessly humorous, the
solemnity of all these worthy Flemings would presently be so
completely ruffled, that Gilles forgot the danger he was in, the
precariousness of the position in which he stood, only to remember
its entirely ludicrous aspect.
'Long live His Highness le Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon!' came in rousing
cheers, which woke the echoes of the old Town Hall.
And outside, on the Grand' Place, the people heard the cheering.
They did not know yet what it was about, but they had come out on
this fine April morning to enjoy themselves, to forget their
troubles, their danger, their miseries; and when they heard the
cheering, they responded with full throat and heart, and acclaimed
not what they knew but what they hoped.
'You have beaten me, Messire,' Gilles said in a good-humoured whisper
to Monseigneur the governor, as the latter bent one knee to the
ground and kissed the gracious hand of the Valois Prince. 'Never was
game so skilfully trapped! All my compliments, Messire. You are a
born----' 'liar' he would have said, but checked himself just in time
and used the smoother word--'diplomatist.'
'Your Highness will not grudge us our little ruse,' d'Inchy riposted
under his breath with a suave smile. 'It is all for your
glorification and the exaltation of our promised union with France.'
'Take care, Messire!' retorted Gilles, 'that your want of trust in me
doth not receive the punishment it deserves.'
He had still the thought that he might run away. The only time in
the whole course of his life that Gilles de Crohin had the desire to
show a clean pair of heels to the enemy! If he could only have seen
the slightest chance of getting away, he would have taken it--through
door or window, up the chimney or the side of a house--any way, in
fact, out of this abominable trap which these astute Flemings had so
skilfully laid for him. And this, despite the fact that he had spied
his arch-enemy, de Landas, at the far end of the room--de Landas, who
was gazing on him, not only in mockery but also in triumph.
Nevertheless, Gilles was ready to turn his back even on de
Landas--anything, anything, in fact, to get away; for the situation,
besides being ludicrous, was tragic too, and desperate. One false
move on his part, one unconsidered word, and the whole fabric of
Madame la Reyne's schemes would totter to the ground. He seemed to
see her now, with her gracious hand extended towards him and the
tears streaming down her cheeks, while she said with solemn
earnestness: 'When a prince of the house of Valois breaks his word,
the shame of it bears upon us all!' He seemed to see himself with
his hand upon the crosshilt of his sword, swearing by all that he
held most sacred and most dear that he would see this business
through to the end. Indeed, the end was in sight, and he felt like a
soldier who has been left all alone to defend a citadel and ordered
to hold it at all costs.
That citadel was the honour of France.
And the soldier-nature in him not only refused to give in, but at
this supreme hour rejoiced in the task. He _would_ hold on at all
costs for the honour of _Monsieur_, his master; but, above all, for
the honour of France. If contumely, disgrace or shame was to fall,
in consequence of this gigantic hoax, then it must fall entirely on
him--Gilles de Crohin, the penniless adventurer--not upon a Prince of
the Royal House of France. Either he would be able to extricate
himself from this desperate position with the mask still upon his
face and _Monsieur's_ secret still inviolate before these assembled
Flemings, or the whole burden of knavery and imposture must fall upon
him alone--the shameless rogue who had impersonated his master for
some unavowable purpose, and perpetrated this impudent fraud for the
sake of some paltry gain.
It only took him a few seconds thus to pass the whole situation,
present and future, in a brief review before his mind. Having done
it, he felt stronger and keener for the fight and ready for any
eventuality. The honour of France!--and he left here to guard it!
... Ye gods! but he felt prouder than any king! Contumely, disgrace,
exposure, an ignominious flight--mayhap a shameful death. Bah! what
mattered anything so long as the honour of France and of her Royal
House remained untarnished before the world?
Fortunately Jacqueline was not here! Perhaps she would not come!
Perhaps these wily fools, when they had set their trap, had left her
out of their reckoning. In which case, all might be well; the
chances of exposure remained remote. A little more impudence, a
brief half-hour still of this abominable rôle, and the curtain must
fall at last upon the farcical tragedy and he, Gilles, would be free
to become an honest man once more.
A little luck!! And, remember that he was a gambler, and staking his
all upon the last throw!
And as, one by one, the city dignitaries came up to be presented by
the governor to His Highness, and as the minutes sped away, hope once
more knocked at the gateway of the adventurer's heart. One by one
they came, these solemn Flemings. They bent the knee and kissed the
hand of the Prince who was to be their Sovereign Lord. And some of
them were old and others very rheumatic; most of them appeared to
Gilles highly ridiculous in this homage rendered to an impostor. The
desire to laugh aloud became positive torture after awhile, and yet
nothing but self-possession _could_ carry the day, now that every
second rendered Gilles' position more hopeful.
For still Jacqueline did not come! Jacqueline! the only person
inside this city who could betray him, and she the one being in the
entire world before whom he would have wished to remain deserving and
unimpeached. She of a truth would know him amongst a thousand; her
loving, searching eyes would laugh at masks and disguises! Her
finger alone could, at sight of him, point at him with scorn; her
voice, like that of an avenging angel, could be raised against him,
saying:
'That man is a liar and a cheat! He is not the Duc d'Anjou!'
V
Monseigneur the governor acted throughout as the Master of
Ceremonies. Obsequious and suave, he seemed to have no wish save to
please His Highness in all things, and to make him forget the want of
trust that the present ceremony implied. He hovered round Gilles,
executing a manoeuvre which the latter was certainly too guileless to
notice. It was a case of: 'On this side, I entreat Your Highness!'
and 'Here is Messire de Haynin, who craves the honour...' or 'If Your
Highness would deign to speak with Messire d'Anthoin.' All very
subtle and unnoticeable, but it meant that every time a city father
came to kiss hands, Gilles, in order to greet him, had to take a step
or two forward, and that each step brought him a trifle nearer to the
open window. That window gave directly on La Bretèque, the vast
terrace-like balcony which overlooked the Grand' Place and which had
so often been the scene of historic proclamations. Suddenly Gilles
found himself there, in the open, with a huge concourse of people
down below at his feet.
He had Monseigneur the governor on his left, and the company of city
fathers and dignitaries had followed him out on La Bretèque. They
were standing in a compact group around him; and all down the length
of the balcony, at the foot of the balustrade, there were huge pots
filled with those Madonna lilies, which seemed like the very emblem
of Jacqueline.
Time had gone on; the crowd had cheered at sight of him, and Gilles
had gradually been lulled into a semblance of security. Then
suddenly, from the far end of the balcony, some fifty paces away,
there came the sound of an usher's voice calling in stentorian tones:
'Make room for Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, Duchesse et Princesse de
Ramèse, d'Espienne et de Wargny! Make room!'
And down the vista of the long terrace, he caught sight of Jacqueline
advancing towards him between the avenue of lilies. She was dressed
in a white satin gown, and she had pearls round her neck and in her
hair. The April sun fell full upon her, and the soft breeze blew the
tendrils of her hair, like strands of gold, about her face. With a
sinking of the heart, Gilles saw that she walked with a weary and
listless step; but she held herself very erect, with head slightly
thrown back, looking straight out before her as she came. A mask of
black satin hid her face, but even though he could not see those
heavenly blue eyes of hers, Gilles had realized in a moment that his
beloved knew everything.
An access of wellnigh savage rage sent the hot blood up to his head.
For the space of one second everything around him took on a blood-red
hue, and he turned on d'Inchy with convulsed fingers, prepared to
grip him by the throat. Already the cry 'You miserable scoundrel!'
hovered on his lips.... Then he checked himself. What was the good?
D'Inchy had acted rightly, in accordance with his own lights. He
wished to make sure that the Valois Prince, who had broken so many
promises in his life, should at least on this one occasion be
irrevocably fettered. The assembled dignitaries, the crowd down
below, the whole city of Cambray should witness the solemn plighting
of his troth. And Jacqueline--the unfortunate, innocent pawn in all
these intrigues--should be the one whose weak, small hands would hold
him indissolubly to his bond.
There was a moment of tense silence. Gilles could hear his own heart
beating in his breast. He had of a truth ceased to feel and to
think. The situation was so hopeless now, so stupendous, that it was
beyond human power to grapple with. He hardly felt that he was
alive; a kind of greyish veil had interposed itself between his eyes
and that group of solemn Flemish worthies around him. And through
that veil he could see their podgy faces, red and round, and grinning
at him with great cavern-like mouths, and eyes that darted fierce
flames upon him. Of a truth, he thought that he was going mad, had a
wild desire to throw back his head and to laugh--laugh loudly and
long; laugh for ever at the discomfiture of some fool who was
standing there in his--Gilles de Crohin's--shoes; at that fool who
had thought to carry through a long farce unchecked, and who
presently would be unmasked by the very woman whom he loved, and
driven forth under opprobrium and ignominy into an outer world, where
he could never look an honest man in the face again.
Perhaps he would have laughed--for the muscles round his mouth were
itching till they ached--only that, just then, in the very midst of
the crowd below, he caught sight of de Landas' mocking glance--de
Landas, who had been in the Council Room awhile ago, and who
apparently had since mixed with the crowd for the sole purpose of
witnessing his successful rival's discomfiture. This seemed to
stiffen him suddenly, to drag him back from out that whirlpool of
wild sensations wherein he was floundering, and which was bowling him
along, straight to dementia.
'No, my friend Gilles!' he said to himself. 'Since you are to die
dishonoured, at least die like a man. Not before all these people;
not before that man who hates you, not before that woman who loves
you, shall you flinch in the face of Destiny. You have played many
ignoble parts these days; do not now play that of a coward!'
And he stood quietly there, still picturesque and magnificent, still
defying Fate which had played him this last, desperate trick, while
Monseigneur advanced to Jacqueline, took her hand and said aloud in
measured tones of ceremony, so that every one there might hear:
'My dear Jacqueline, it is with inexpressible joy that mine old eyes
behold this happy hour. _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, Prince
of the House of France, hath asked your hand in marriage. We, your
guardians, do but await your consent to this union which we had
planned for the great good of our beloved country. Say the word, my
dear Jacqueline, and I myself will proclaim to our poor, sorrowing
people the joyful news that a Liberator hath come to them at last,
and that the United Provinces of the Netherlands may look to him as
their Sovereign Lord and King.'
Jacqueline had listened to Monseigneur's peroration with perfect
composure. She stood then not ten paces away from Gilles--the only
woman in the midst of all these men who were gambling with her
destiny. Through her mask she was looking on Gilles, and on him
only, feeling that the whole abyss of loathing, which filled her soul
for him, would be conveyed to him through her look.
She had believed in him so completely, trusted him so implicitly,
that now that she knew him to be both a liar and a cheat, she felt
that the very well-spring of her love had turned to bitter hate. And
hate in a strong and sensitive nature is at least as potent as love.
What the mystery was wherewith he chose to surround himself, she did
not know. What the object of the hideous comedy which he had played
could be, she hardly cared. All that she knew was that he had
cheated her and played her false, stolen her love from her to suit
some political intrigue of which he held the threads--helped in any
case in a hideous and clumsy deception which would leave her for ever
shamed.
But now she knew just what she had to do. She might have unmasked
the deception last night, told Monseigneur the truth and opened his
eyes to the stupid fraud that was perpetrated upon him. What stopped
her from doing that she did not know. Perhaps she still hoped that
something would occur that would give a simple explanation of the
difficult puzzle. Perhaps she thought that when she would be brought
face to face with the man who was impersonating the Duc d'Anjou, that
man would prove to be some low impostor, but not her knight--not the
man who had held her in his arms and sworn that his love for her was
as pure as that of the lark for the sun. And if, indeed, she had
been so hideously deceived, if her idol prove to have not only feet
of clay but heart of stone and soul of darkness, then she would
unmask him, publicly, daringly, before the entire people of Cambray,
humiliate him so utterly that his very name would become a by-word
for all that was ignominious and base, and find some solace for her
misery in the satisfaction of seeing him brought to shame.
Therefore Jacqueline had said nothing last night to
Monseigneur--nothing this morning. When requested by her guardian to
prepare for this day's ceremony, she had obeyed without a word. Now
she listened to his speech until the end. After which, she said
calmly:
'Like yourself, Monseigneur, I am covered with confusion at thought
of the great honour which a Prince of the House of France will do to
our poor country. I would wish, with your permission, to express my
deep respect for him ere I place my hand in his.'
Whereupon Monseigneur stood a little to one side, so that Jacqueline
and Gilles remained directly facing one another. Every one was
watching the young pair, and kindly murmurs of approval at the beauty
of the girl, and the martial bearing of the man, flew from mouth to
mouth.
Jacqueline, stately and dignified as was her wont, advanced a step or
two. Then she said slowly:
'And is it of a truth _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon who stands
before me now?'
She looked straight at him, and he in imagination saw beneath the
mask which hid the expression of her face--saw those blue eyes which
had looked on him yesterday with such ineffable tenderness; saw those
exquisite lips which had murmured words of infinite love. An utter
loathing overcame him of the part which he had to play, of the fraud
which was to deliver his beloved into the keeping of a worthless
reprobate. He was conscious only of a wild desire to throw himself
at her feet in an agony of remorse and repentance, to kiss her gown,
the tips of her velvet shoes; and then to proclaim the truth, to put
it for ever out of that profligate Prince's power to claim this
exquisite woman as his bride--to proclaim the truth, and then to run
away like a second Cain, from the scene of an unforgivable crime; to
flee like the treacherous soldier who hath deserted the citadel; to
flee, leaving behind him the tattered rag of France's honour lying
for ever soiled in the dust, beneath the feet of a duped and
credulous nation.
Just then she put out her hand--that perfect hand, which he had held
in his and which to his touch had seemed like the petal of a flower,
and she said, with the same solemn deliberation:
'Is it in truth to the Duc d'Anjou himself that I herewith plight my
troth?'
The avowal was on Gilles' lips.
'Madame----' he began, and looked unflinchingly, straightforwardly at
her.
But before he could speak another word, a cry suddenly rang
out--shrill and terrifying--out of the crowd.
'Do not touch him, Madame! Do not touch him! He is not the Duc
d'Anjou! He is an impostor and a liar! A Spanish spy! Beware!!'
Monseigneur, the city fathers, the Mayor--every one on La Bretèque,
in fact--gasped with horror. How dared these abominable agitators
mar the beauty of this affecting ceremony? Monseigneur went forward,
leaned over the balustrade in order to try and ascertain who it was
who was trying to create a disturbance. He saw de Landas down below
in the midst of the throng, vaguely wondered what the young
commandant was doing there, when his place was up on La Bretèque
amongst those of his own rank. Anyway, he spoke to de Landas,
shouted himself hoarse to make the young man hear, for an unpleasant
turmoil had followed that first cry of 'Spanish spy'--people were
shouting and gesticulating and the call 'Down with him!' came
repeatedly from several points in the rear of the crowd.
De Landas looked up, but he pretended not to hear, laughed and
shrugged his shoulders, as if the matter did not concern him. And
yet there was no mistaking the persistence with which that ominous
cry 'Spanish spy!' was taken up again and again, nor the disturbing
effect which it had upon the crowd.
Monseigneur then tried to harangue the mob, to point out to them the
evil of their ways. Had they forgotten that they were out to enjoy
themselves, to forget their troubles, to forget the very fact that
the words 'Spaniard' and 'Spanish' existed in their lexicon. But
Messire de Landas' paid agents would not let him speak. They had
been paid to create a disturbance, not to let the people stand about
placidly, listening to windy harangues.
So, the moment Monseigneur opened his mouth, the whole gang of them
took up the provocative cry: 'A Spanish spy! Take care, Madame
Jacqueline!' until it was repeated over and over again by numberless
voices, hoarse with excitement and with spite. The crowd oscillated
as if driven by a sudden blast; ominous murmurs came from those
points where women and men stood in compact and sullen groups.
'Spanish spy! Beware!' rang out again and again.
Monseigneur the governor was in a wild state of agitation. He could
not understand what it was that had set some rowdy malcontents to
disturb the peaceful serenity of this eventful morning. Unable to
make himself heard, he turned in helpless bewilderment to Gilles.
'Monseigneur,' he began, in a voice quivering with consternation. 'I
do entreat you...'
But he got no further. Above this peroration, above the shuffling
and the mutterings of his friends on the balcony, above the cries and
murmurs down below, there had suddenly resounded the dull boom of
distant cannon. The crowd gave one terrific, full-throated roar of
terror:
'The Spaniards! They are on us!'
And in the seething mass of humanity on the Grand' Place could be
seen just that awful, ominous swaying which precedes a stampede.
Already the women screamed and some men shouted: 'Sauve qui peut!'
'The Spanish spy!' cried a voice. 'What did I tell you, citizens?
He hath taken advantage of this holiday to bring the Spaniards about
your ears!'
Now the swaying of the crowd became like a tidal wave upon the bosom
of the ocean. Hundreds of men and women and little children started
to move, not in one direction but in several, like frightened sheep
who know not whither to go. Yells and screams, some of rage others
of terror, rose in a wild tumult from below. And through it all a
few persistent voices--recognizable by the well-known guttural tone
peculiar to those of Spanish blood--shouted themselves hoarse with
the persistent cry: 'The Spaniards are on us! We are betrayed!'
VI
Monseigneur the governor, unable to make himself heard, helpless and
gravely perturbed, hurried into the Council Room, and after him
trooped the city fathers like a flock of scared hens. Confusion at
once reigned inside the Town Hall as much as out on the Place--a
confusion that could be felt rather than heard, a dull murmur of
voices, a scurrying and pattering of feet.
Once more the cannon roared, and the weird sound was followed by a
prolonged volley of musket shot.
'They are on us! Sauve qui peut!'
Then, suddenly, far away in the direction of Cantimpré, a huge column
of smoke rose to the sky. It was immediately followed by a
stupendous report which literally shook the ground beneath the feet
of this terror-stricken mass of humanity. A shower of broken glass
fell at several points with a loud clatter on to the pavements below,
and in absolutely wild and unreasoning terror, the crowd began to
push and to jostle, to drive, and shove, and batter anything or any
one that came in the way. Men and women in their terror had become
like a herd of stampeding beasts, tearing at every obstacle, hurling
maledictions and missiles, fighting, pushing, to get back to their
homes, hammering at doors that had already been hastily barred and
bolted, by those who happened to have found shelter inside the houses
close by.
'They are on us! Sauve qui peut!'
This time it was a company of the city guard, who came running
helter-skelter from the direction of the Citadel, halbertmen and
pikemen, most of them unarmed, others with their steel bonnets set
awry upon their heads, not a few leaving a trail of blood behind them
as they ran.
'Sauve qui peut!' The deathly call of the runaway soldier, the most
awesome sound the ear of man can hear. And over from St. Géry came
others running too, the archers from Notre Dame, and on the right
there were the gunners from Seille. They were running; like hunted
deer, swiftly, panting, their jerkins torn, the slashings of their
doublets hanging on them in strips.
They added the final horrible note of hopelessness to the terror and
the confusion. From every corner of the city there rose cries of
distress, shrill screams from women and children, loud curses from
the men. The very air was filled with these dismal sounds, whilst
the Unseen which was happening somewhere upon the ramparts of the
city, appeared vastly more terrifying than the Seen.
And, far away, the cannon still roared and columns of fire and smoke
rose with lurid significance to the sky.
VII
And yet it had all occurred within a very few minutes. Gilles and
Jacqueline were left alone now on La Bretèque, and neither of them
had thought of fleeing. For each of them the awesome moment was just
a pause wherein their minds faced the only important problem--how to
help and what to do, singly, against that terrible tide.
It was just a moment--the space, perhaps, of a dozen heart-beats.
All around them the turbulent passions of men--fear, enmity,
greed--were raging in all their unbridled frenzy. The cannons
roared, the walls of the ancient city tottered; but they stood in a
world apart, he--the man who unknowingly had played so ignominious a
part--and she, the woman whom he had so heinously wronged. He tried
to read her innermost thoughts behind that forbidding mask, and a mad
appeal to her for forgiveness rose, even at this supreme instant, to
his lips.
But the appeal was never made. The man's feelings, his grief, his
shame were all swept aside by the stirring of the soldier's soul. It
was the moment when first the cannon roared and the runaway guard
came running through the streets, Gilles saw them long before they
had reached the Grand' Place. He realized what it all meant, saw the
unutterable confusion and panic which would inevitably render the
city an easy prey to the invader. He gave a cry of horror and dismay.
'My God! but 'tis black treachery that has been at work this day!' he
exclaimed involuntarily.
She had not yet seen the runaway guard, did not perhaps for the
moment realize the utter imminence of the peril. Her mind was still
busy with the difficult problem--how to help, what to do. But his
involuntary cry suddenly roused her ire and her bitter
disillusionment.
'You should know Messire,' she retorted. 'You are well versed in the
art.'
'God forgive me, I am!' he ejaculated ruefully. 'But this!' he added
with a smothered oath, and pointed down to the panic-stricken
soldiers. 'This! ... Oh, my God! Your safety, your precious life at
stake! You'll not believe, Jacqueline,' he pleaded, 'that I had a
hand in selling your city to your enemies?'
'In selling the city!' The words appeared to have whipped up her
spirit as with a lash. She looked at him, wrathfully, boldly, with a
still unspoken challenge lurking in her eyes. 'You do not believe
that----'
'That traitors have engineered her perdition?' he broke in rapidly.
'I do!'
'But----'
'The disturbance in the crowd ... the panic ... the deserters ...
those abominable agitators! In a few hours the Spaniards will be
inside the city--and Cambray lost!'
'Cambray lost! Impossible!'
'With no discipline, no leaders.... She cannot resist----'
'Then you must lead her,' she said firmly.
'I?'
'Yes! You!'
She had taken the mask from off her face and confronted him now with
a glowing challenge in her eyes.
'You!' she reiterated, speaking very rapidly. 'Whoever you are, save
Cambray ... defend her ... save her! I know that you can.'
In the look which she gave him he read something which filled his
very soul with rapture. He gave her back glance for glance, worship
for this trust.
'I can at any rate die for her,' he said quietly. 'If you, ma donna,
will forgive.'
'Save Cambray,' she reiterated with superb confidence, 'and I'll
forgive everything!'
'Then may God have you in His keeping,' he called to her. And,
before she could realize what was in his purpose, he had climbed to
the top of the tall balustrade, stood for one moment there high above
her, silhouetted against the clear blue of the sky, like a living
statue of youth and enthusiasm and springtide, animated by that faith
which moveth mountains and sets out to conquer the world in order to
lay it at the loved one's feet.
'Jehan!' he called. 'À moi!'
Then, swinging himself with the easy grace of perfect strength, he
jumped down on to the perron below.