AND THIS IS THE END OF MY STORY
I
And into the silent desolation of Cambray's deserted streets, there
penetrated once again the sounds of that life which was teeming
outside her walls. From the north and the south, from the east and
the west, rumour, like a wily sprite, flew over the crumbling walls
and murmured into ears that scarcely heard, that the promise given
long ago was being redeemed at last. Anxiety, sorrow and suffering
were coming to an end, so the elf averred. The hero who fought and
conquered once, had returned to conquer again.
Whereupon, those who had enough strength left in them to drag
themselves along, found their way to the ramparts, from whence they
could watch the approach of the man who would bring them liberty if
he succeeded, or bequeath them an heroic death if he failed. There
was no other issue possible. The sands of Cambray's endurance had
run down; she had no more resistance left in her, scarcely the power
to suffer any longer. If the relieving army failed to-day, the
setting sun would see the Spanish soldiery, drunk with victory,
swarming over the lonely streets, destroying all that famine and
disease had left whole, all that a dying population had no longer the
strength to defend.
Little could be seen of what went on in the distant plain, and hollow
eyes, wearied with weeping and anxiety, scanned in vain the horizon
far away. But those who had come to watch remained to pray, while
their minds, rendered super-sensitive by bodily want, conjured up
visions of that grim fight which was going on beyond their range of
vision.
The history of this heroic people has no more poignant page than that
which tells of this long watch by a crowd of miserable, half-starved
people, the while, out there upon the plain, brave men fought and
died for their sake.
Not only for their sake, but for the honour of France.
II
Once more the roar of artillery and of musketry fills the air with
its awe-inspiring sound. It is early morning, and the sky heavily
overcast. To the anxious watchers, that grim struggle out there is
only a dimly-perceived confusion, a medley of sights and sounds, a
clash of arms, the dull thunder of culverines and sharp report of
musketry. And, as the grey light of day begins to pick out with
crude precision the more distant objects, a kaleidoscope of colour
vies in brilliancy with the flash of steel, and tears asunder the
drab mist which lies upon the bosom of the plain.
The yellow and red of the Spaniards becomes easily distinguishable,
then the white and blue and gold of the French, the green of the
arquebusiers, the black of the archers, and even that tiny moving
speck, more brilliant even than the gleam of metal, the white banner
of France, sown with her Fleur de Lys.
But the watchers up on the ramparts vainly strain their hollow eyes
to see the man who has come to save Cambray. They can only guess
that he is there, where the fight is fiercest, where death stands
most grim and most relentless. They have a knowledge of his presence
keener than sight can give, and though voices at this hour are spent
and hoarse with pain, yet to every roar of cannon, to every volley of
musketry, there comes, like an answering murmur, the triumphant call,
which now sounds like a prayer and which their hero taught them four
months ago: 'Fleur de Lys and Liberty!'
The French lancers and halberdiers rush the Spanish forts. The
arquebusiers are fighting foot by foot; the musketeers and archers
stand firm--a living wall, which deals death and remains unmoved,
despite furious onslaughts from a foe who appears to be desperate.
The plain around is already strewn with dead.
The French have fought valiantly for close on six hours, have
repelled nine assaults against their positions, and now, at one hour
after noon, they still stand or crouch or kneel on one knee, crossbow
in hand or musket, they fire, fall out, reform and fire again.
Shaken, battered, decimated, they still shoot with coolness and
precision, under the eye of one who never tires. Their ranks are
still unbroken, but the Spaniards are giving ground at last.
'This time we are undone!' Parma cries in the excess of his rage.
He himself has been twice wounded; four of his young officers have
been killed. The French musketeers, the finest the world has ever
seen, work relentlessly upon his finest positions. And he
feels--this great captain, who hitherto hath not known defeat--he
feels that now at last he has met his match. Not a great leader like
himself, perhaps, not the victorious general in an hundred fights;
but a man whose stubbornness and daring, whose blind disregard of
danger and sublime defiance of evil fortune, gives strength to the
weakest and valour to the least bold.
'I thought you had rid me once of that pestilential rebel!' he
exclaims to de Landas, pointing to where Gilles de Crohin's tall
figure towers above the pressing mass of Spanish halberdiers.
De Landas murmurs an imprecation, crosses himself in an access of
superstitious fear.
'My God!' he says under his breath. 'He hath risen from the dead!'
In truth, Gilles appears endowed at this hour with superhuman
strength. His doublet and jerkin are torn, his breastplate riddled
with arrow-shot, he bleeds profusely from the hand, his face is
unrecognizable under a coating of smoke and grime. Enthusiasm and
obstinacy have given him the power of giants; his hatred of the foe
is supreme; his contempt of death sublime. De Landas sees in him the
incarnation of his own retributive destiny. 'Oh, that God's thunder
would smite him where he stands!' he mutters fervently.
''Tis too late now,' retorts Parma, with ferocious spite. 'Too late
to call to God to help you. You should have bargained with the devil
four months ago, when you missed your aim. Risen from the dead,
forsooth!' he adds, purple with fury. 'Very much alive now, meseems,
and with the strength of Satan in his arm.'
He strikes at de Landas with his sword, would have killed him with
his own hand, so enraged is he with the man for his failure to murder
an enemy whom he loathes and fears.
'Unless those cowards rally,' he calls savagely, and points to where,
in the heart of the _mêlée_, confusion and disorder wield their
grisly sceptres, 'we shall have to retreat.'
But de Landas does not stop to hear. The fear of the supernatural
which had for the moment paralysed his thinking faculties, is soon
merged in that boundless hatred which he feels for the rival whom he
had thought dead long ago. In the heart of that confusion he has
spied Gilles, fighting, pursuing; slashing, hitting--intrepid and
superb, the centre and the life of the victorious army. De Landas
sets spurs to his horse and, calling to his own troop of swordsmen to
follow, dashes into the _mêlée_.
The battle now is at its fiercest. A proud army, superior in
numbers, in arms, in knowledge, feels itself weakening before an
enemy whose greatest power is his valour. The retreat has not yet
sounded, but the Spanish captains all know that the humiliating end
is in sight. Already their pikemen have thrown down their cumbersome
weapons. Pursued by the French lancers, they turn and fight with
hands and fists, some of them; whilst others scatter in every
direction. The ranks of their archers are broken, and the fire of
their musketeers has become intermittent and weak. Even the
horsemen, the flower of Parma's army, gentlemen all, are breaking in
the centre. With reins loose, stirrup-leathers flapping, swords cast
away and mantles flying loose, they are making a stand which is
obviously the last, and which within the next few minutes will with
equal certainty turn into rout.
Here it is that Gilles is holding his own with a small troop of
French horsemen. His steel bonnet has been knocked off, his wounded
arm roughly bandaged, the sleeves of his jerkin fly behind him like a
pair of wings, his invincible sword strikes and flashes and gleams in
the grey afternoon light.
For a few seconds, while the distance between himself and his enemy
grows rapidly less, de Landas sees and hears nothing. The blood is
beating in his temples, with a weird thumping which drowns the din of
battle. His eyes are blinded by a crimson veil; his hand, stiff and
convulsed, can scarcely grasp the pistol. The next instant he is in
the very thick of the turmoil.
'For Spain and Our Lady!' he cries, and empties his pistol into the
seething mass of Spanish horsemen who bar the way twixt him and his
enemy. The horsemen are scattered. Already on the verge of a
stampede, they are scared by this unexpected onslaught from the rear.
They fear to be taken between cross-fires, are seized with panic,
turn and flee to right and left. Two of them fall, hit by that
madman's pistol. All is now tumult and a whirling ferment. The air
is thick with smoke and powder, horses, maddened with terror, snort
and struggle and beat the air with their hoofs. De Landas' own troop
join in the _mêlée_; the French horsemen dash in pursuit; there is a
scrimmage, a stampede; men fight and tear and hit and slash, for dear
life and for safety.
But de Landas does not care, is past caring now. Another disaster
more or less, another scare, final humiliation, what matters? The
day is lost anyhow, and all his own hopes finally dashed to the
ground by the relief of Cambray and the irrevocable loss to him of
Jacqueline and her fortune. Already he has thrown aside his smoking
pistol, seized another from the hand of his nearest follower, and
points it straight at Gilles.
'For Spain and Our Lady!'
'Fleur de Lys and Liberty!'
The two cries rang out simultaneously--then the report of de Landas'
pistol, and Gilles' horse hit in the neck, suddenly swerves, rears
and paws the air, and would have thrown its rider had not the latter
jumped clean out of the saddle.
To de Landas' maddened gaze the smoke around appears to be the colour
of blood. Blindly he gropes for another pistol. His henchman is
near him, thrusts a weapon into the young Spaniard's trembling hand.
For the fraction of a second, destiny, waiting, stays her hand.
Gilles is free of his struggling horse, he has his sword in his hand;
but de Landas once more points a pistol straight at him.
'Satan! guide thou my hand this time!' he calls out, in a passion of
fury.
Then suddenly a raucous cry rises above the din; there is a double,
sharp report, a loud curse, a final groan of despair and of rage, and
de Landas, struck in the breast by an almost savage blow from a
lance, throws up his arms, falls, first on his knees, then backwards
on the soft earth, would have been buried then and there under a
seething mass of struggling men and beasts, had not Gilles rushed to
him with one bound, caught him by the shoulders and dragged his now
lifeless body to comparative shelter a few paces away. Now Gilles
picks up a fallen cloak from the ground and lays it reverently over
his fallen foe.
'Because Jacqueline loved you once,' he murmurs under his breath.
Then he turns to his faithful Jehan. 'You were just in time,' he
says simply.
Jehan has been glancing down with mingled rage and contempt on the
man whom in his loyal heart he hated in life with a wellnigh
ferocious intensity. Now he looks at his master--his friend whom he
loves--sees him on one knee by the side of that abominable murderer,
trying to struggle back to his feet, but evidently weak and dizzy.
With a cry like an enraged tiger, Jehan casts his still streaming
lance away, is already kneeling beside Gilles, supporting him in his
arms as gently as a mother would shelter her child.
'H-h-h-hurt?' he stammers laconically. 'That d-d-d-devil hit you?'
'Only in the thigh,' replies Gilles. 'You diverted his aim right
enough, my dear Jehan! And once more I owe my life to you. Just
help me to get up,' he adds with his wonted impatience. 'Do not let
me miss another second of the glorious spectacle of our victory!'
III
Out in the western sky, a vivid band of blue and gold breaks the
bosom of the clouds. The afternoon sun illumines with its glowing
rays the final rout of the Spanish army. Le Carpentier's laconic
words tell us more than any lengthy chronicle could do.
'The Duke of Parma,' he says curtly, 'abandoned his forts and retired
in haste to Valenciennes.'
So much that was mighty and great and invincible has succumbed before
the power which comes from a sense of justice, from valour and
enthusiasm and the decrees of God. God has decided that Cambray has
suffered enough; He has broken the might of Parma and set an end to
the miseries of an heroic people. And when, like a tidal wave of
steel, the Spanish troops begin to oscillate toward the north, where
lies Valenciennes and safety, up on the ramparts of Cambray hundreds
of men and women and children fall on their knees, and thank God with
fervour for their freedom and for victory.
They are too weak to shout, too weak even to raise their arms. The
pikemen lean upon their arms, the musketeers upon their muskets, the
gunners lie half-exhausted upon their culverines. Of the twenty-five
thousand citizens of Cambray, scarce fifteen thousand have remained
to bid the returning hero welcome.
Up in the fort of Cantimpré, the city guard--what is left of it--wait
for the entry of the victorious army. The bridge is lowered, the men
stand as if on parade. The city fathers are there too, and amongst
them stands Monseigneur the governor.
Gaunt and careworn they all look. Their ranks too have been rudely
thinned. Monseigneur's hair is now snow-white; the hand with which
he leans upon a stick is emaciated almost to the bone. His other arm
rests on that of Jacqueline de Broyart, whose pale, wan face hath a
curious air of mystery and of detachment.
'Here they come!' Monseigneur says at last, as on the horizon far
away a glowing speck begins to move, to gather shape as it draws
nearer, catching, reflecting and throwing back the roseate flashes of
the setting sun.
The whole city now is watching; her very soul is in the eyes of her
expectant children. A curious, nervous thrill has taken the place of
bodily exhaustion. Only Jacqueline stands quite silent and
impassive. Boundless gratitude fills her heart for the deliverance
of the city; but the overwhelming joy which she feels is drowned in
the immensity of her sorrow. For her, in truth, life is gone,
happiness lies buried beneath the city walls. She can rejoice at the
coming of the man whom the people believe to be their hero, but for
her he is the stranger. The real defender of Cambray--her brave and
spotless knight--gave his precious life for her city all these weary
months ago.
People crowd more insistently round her. The speck on the horizon
has become a moving multitude. Steel and gold flash in the evening
light, banners wave in the gentle, summer breeze. The French army,
glorious after victory, wends its way to the city which it has saved.
In the forefront march the halberdiers, with their blue hose and
huge, unwieldy trunks, small bonnets on their heads and a cloak about
their shoulders. Then the pikemen, in striped doublets, their
enormous hats slung behind their backs, and the musketeers with tall
boots which reach half-way up their thighs. Immediately behind them
comes a long train of carts and waggons--the provisions collected
together for the starving city. The Master of the Camp is in charge
of these. He is mounted on a black charger, surrounded by his staff.
The ends of his blue silk scarf are smothered in dust, as are his
boots and his plumed hat. Some way behind the waggons, the archers
come, marching three abreast, and then the foot-soldiers, with huge
steel gauntlets covering their hands, their heavy lances borne upon
their shoulders.
Nearer and nearer the procession comes, and as it approaches, a
strange exultation born of weakness and of fever, rises in the hearts
of the watchers. It seems as if an unendurable weight were lifted
from their shoulders, as if they themselves had in a mysterious
manner been dead for weeks and months, and now had risen again in
order to gaze into the setting sun, from whence their liberator had
come to them again.
The streets are no longer deserted now. Furtive forms, gaunt and
haggard, stand under doorways or congregate upon the open places.
Women in ragged kirtles with children clinging to their skirts, sick
and maimed and halt from disease and want, crawl out of the squalid
houses to watch the entry of the French troops. Many, at sight of
those brave men all covered with smoke and powder and dust, fall down
on their knees and a long-forgotten prayer rises to their lips.
Anon down the Bapaume road it is quite easy to perceive the white
banner sown with the gold Fleur de Lys. It is borne by a herald who
sits upon a cream charger, and immediately behind him a man rides
alone. He is hatless; but he holds his head erect and looks straight
out towards the city. He has the reins of his horse in one hand, the
other is hidden under his cloak. Some little way behind him ride a
number of cavaliers in brilliant multi-coloured doublets and hose,
with drawn swords in their hands, which flash and gleam in the
setting sun. They are still close on half a league away, but adown
the long, flat road Monseigneur's keen eyes have already perceived
them.
'It is His Highness the Duc d'Anjou!' he exclaims.
But, with a strange instinct which has for ever remained
inexplicable, Messire de Balagny retorts:
'It is the saviour of Cambray!'
And while he goes at once to transmit the governor's orders that all
the church bells in the city shall at once begin to ring, Jacqueline
de Broyart's gaze is fixed upon the road which lies like a winding
ribbon down below, stretching as far as the glowing horizon far away.
The sky is suffused with a joy-blush of crimson and orange and gold,
the sinking sun illumines with a roseate hue that distant group of
cavaliers, in the forefront of whom rides the defender of Cambray.
After the turmoil of battle, an immense silence reigns over the bosom
of the plain. Even the tramp of thousands of men, the clatter of
horses' hoofs and of arms, seem like an integral part of that great
and solemn silence, which has its birth in the stricken city. The
victorious army has entered Cambray, not with music and with
cheering, not with shouts of joy. Joy is in every heart, but an
abundance of sorrow has stilled its outward expression. The plain
itself is strewn with dead and wounded; hundreds of valiant lives
have been freely given for the deliverance of Cambray. Those that
remain--some five thousand of them--cross the bridge at the foot of
Cantimpré, marching three abreast. It takes an hour for the first
portion of the victorious army to enter the city. The service men
bring provision waggons in plenty, together with news that more will
follow as quickly as may be. By nightfall there would not be one
hungry mouth left in Cambray.
Relief, content, the shadow of happiness, are too poignant to find
expression in words--perhaps they have come just a little too late.
But gratitude is immense. Soon the streets of Cambray are encumbered
with train and equipment, with carts and waggons and barrows, horses
loosely tethered, litters of straw for the wounded and the ailing.
The distribution of the food is the most pressing need. Everywhere
men in faded, ragged clothing, with gaunt faces and hollow eyes,
hurry to the Grand' Place and to the Marche aux Bois, where the food
waggons are set up under the eye of the Master of the Camp.
A pathetic procession of eager, half-starved shadows--women and
children too--with the humble, deprecating air of the desperately
indigent, crowd around the waggons. Fifteen thousand mouths gaping
for food. There is only a very little for everybody at first. More
will come to-night. More again to-morrow. France, who has saved,
will also provide. Of order there is none. People push and scamper
as the hungry are wont to do, but all are too feeble to do one
another much harm. The soldiers, flushed with victory, are patient
and good-natured. My God! the very aspect of the streets is enough
to make any staunch heart quake with horror! Some of the men have
wife and family in far-off Artois or Provence. They can hardly
restrain their tears as wee, grimy hands, thin to the bone, are
stretched out to them in pitiable eagerness. They are as lavish as
they can be, giving up their own supper to feed these unfortunates:
generous now as they were brave out there, when they fought under the
eye of the staunchest man they had ever seen in battle.
''Tis a fine candle you folk of Cambray owe to Monseigneur de
Froidmont!' the Master of the Camp says to a group of burghers who,
self-restrained and stoical, are giving help in the distribution,
waiting till all the poor and the ignorant are fed before they
themselves receive their share.
'Monseigneur de Froidmont?' one of them exclaims. 'Why, who is he?'
'Who is he?' retorts the Master of the Camp. 'Nay, by the Mass! He
is above all the most doughty knight who hath ever wielded a sword.
He it is who has saved your city for you, my friends. If the Spanish
soldiery is not inside your walls this night, 'tis to him that ye owe
it, remember!'
Most of the burghers look gravely puzzled. Their spokesman ventures
on the remark:
'To His Highness the Duc d'Anjou, surely!'
The Master of the Camp shrugs his shoulders.
'That is as it may be,' he says dryly. 'But you might all have
rotted inside your walls but for the valour of Monseigneur de
Froidmont.'
'But the Duc d'Anjou...' hazards some one timidly.
'A murrain on the Duc d'Anjou!' breaks in the Master of the Camp
good-humouredly. ''Tis of the defender of your city you should think
at this hour. Ah!' he exclaims, with a sigh of satisfaction, ''tis
good to hear that your city fathers at the least are giving him a
rousing welcome!'
He himself sets up a cheer, which is taken up by his soldiers; for
just then the bells of Notre Dame have begun their joyous peal. Soon
Ste. Croix follows suit and St. Géry from the heights toward the
north. Peal after peal resounds, till the whole air vibrates with
that most inspiriting sound, chasing away with its melody the very
shadow of silence and desolation.
The last rays of the sun have now sunk in the west. Twilight is
slowly fading into dusk. Out beyond Cantimpré, the herald upon his
charger has halted at the foot of the bridge, the white banner of
France, gay with its golden Fleur de Lys, is gently stirred by the
evening breeze. The group of cavaliers has halted too, while the
defender of Cambray rides slowly into the city.
IV
Monseigneur the governor awaited the victor in the courtyard of the
citadel. He stood in the midst of his Sheriffs and his Provosts and
the other dignitaries of the city, all of them still dignified and
imposing, despite the faded appearance of their clothes and the
gaunt, hungry look in their wan faces. All around the courtyard was
lined with troops, the mere remnants of the garrison who had fought
so valorously on that never-to-be-forgotten day in April, a little
over four months ago, and of the small body of French troops who had
come to their assistance then.
Gilles dismounted at the bridge-head, disdaining, despite his wounds,
the aid of his faithful henchman's arm. Only limping very slightly,
the bandage on his hand hidden in the folds of his cloak, he passed
in on foot and alone under the gateway. For the space of one
heart-beat he paused just inside the courtyard, when he saw before
him this large concourse of people who, at his appearance, had slowly
dropped on their knees. They were for the most part faces which had
been familiar to him all those months ago--faces which even now wore
an expression of deference and of awed respect.
A bitter sigh rose to Gilles' lips. For him, despite the grandeur of
his victory, this was a bitter hour. Within the next few moments
these proud and brave people would have to be told that a prince of
the House of France had proved himself to be both fickle and base.
Messire de Balagny was not there; and at first he did not see
Jacqueline. She had retired into the guard-room at the desire of her
guardians. 'It were seemly,' they had said, 'that we, your
protectors, should first receive His Highness and pay him our
respects. Then he will ask for his future bride, and ours shall be
the honour of bringing you to him!'
So she was not there for the moment, and Gilles felt freer in her
absence--even caught himself hoping that he would not be put to the
torture of seeing her again. It were best for him and best for her
that she should not hear that awful confession from his lips, that a
Valois prince had broken his word to her, and in his wanton infamy
had repudiated the perfect gift of God which had been offered to him.
'Do not tarry one moment, Messire,' Marguerite de Navarre had
entreated of him at the last. 'Take advantage of the moment of
boundless relief and gratitude when your victorious troops enter
Cambray to release _Monsieur_ of his promise to wed the Flemish
heiress. Do not enter the city till you have made it clear to the
Flemish lords that the Duc d'Anjou will accept the Sovereignty of the
Netherlands, and in exchange will give the support of France, of her
wealth and of her armies; but that he will not enter into personal
alliance with one of his future subjects.'
So now, when at Gilles' approach the governor and the city fathers
all bent the knee before him, he said at once, directly and simply:
'I entreat you, Messeigneurs, not to kneel to me. That honour
belongs by right only to the puissant Prince whom I represent.'
'Your Highness----' began d'Inchy humbly.
'I am no Highness, Monseigneur,' he rejoined firmly. 'Only the
servant of the Duc d'Anjou, who will be here as soon as may be, to
claim from you that gratitude which you owe to him and not to me.'
D'Inchy and the others did not move. Their limbs were paralysed,
their lips dumb. Their ears refused to convey to their over-tired
brains that which they had just heard. It all seemed like a dream;
the gathering dusk made everything appear unreal--the ringing of the
joy-bells, the far-away crowd of soldiers and cavaliers, who filled
the very air with clatter and jingle of spurs and accoutrements, with
creaking of waggons, snorting of horses and snatches of songs and
laughter. And in the centre of the courtyard, this tall figure of a
man, with the tattered doublet and the bleeding hand, and the voice
which seemed as if it rose straight out of a glorious grave.
'Do not look so puzzled, Messeigneurs,' Gilles went on with a smile,
half-sad, wholly good-humoured. 'The Duc d'Anjou will not tarry, my
word on it. He bids me say that he accepts the Sovereignty of the
Netherlands, and will place at the disposal of her people the might
and the armies of France, his own power, wealth and influence.'
Still as in a dream, d'Inchy and the Sheriffs and the Provosts
staggered to their feet. The mystery, in truth, was greater than
their enfeebled minds could grasp. They were for the most part
chiefly conscious of a great feeling of disappointment.
Here stood before them, tall and magnificent even beneath rags and
grime, the man whom they revered above all others, the hero whose
personality was enshrined in the very hearts of the people of
Cambray. What the mystery was which clung round him they did not
know, nor did they care: he was the man of their choice, the saviour
of Cambray now, as he had been their defender in the hour of their
gravest peril. The victor of this glorious day was the hero of the
ramparts on that memorable April day, the man who four months ago had
defended them with heart and will and undaunted courage then, and to
whom they owed their freedom, the honour of their wives and daughters
and the future of their race.
To think of him as other than the Duc d'Anjou, their chosen Sovereign
Lord, the husband of Jacqueline de Broyart, was positive pain. Most
of them even now refused to believe, stared at Gilles as if he were a
wraith set to mock them in their weakness and their dependence.
'Not the Duc d'Anjou?' the Chief Magistrate murmured. 'Impossible!'
Gilles could not help but smile at the farcical aspect of his own
tragedy.
'It is not only possible, Messeigneurs,' he said, 'but is e'en a
positive fact. Messire de Balagny would soon tell you so: and His
Highness the Duc d'Anjou himself will be here on the morrow to prove
to you that I am but an humble substitute, a representative of His
Graciousness.'
'But,' stammered d'Inchy, still in a state of complete bewilderment,
'that day in April ... your--you, Monseigneur ... in the Town Hall
... Madame Jacqueline...'
With a quick gesture, Gilles put up his hand.
'I entreat you, Monseigneur,' he said earnestly, 'to wait awhile ere
you probe further into His Highness' secrets. For the moment, will
you not be content to rejoice with me at your deliverance? His
Highness accepts from you the Sovereignty of the Netherlands.
To-morrow he will be here, ready to receive the acclamations and the
welcome of his people. He hath proved himself not only ready, but
able, to defend you against all your enemies. He hath this day
gained a signal victory over the powerful armies of the King of
Spain. Henceforth the whole might of France will stand between you
and the relentless foe who threatens your lives and your liberties.
Join me, Messeigneurs,' he concluded earnestly, 'in acclaiming His
Highness the Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, prince of the House of France,
as your Sovereign Lord!'
His inspiring words were received in silence. Not one voice was
raised in response to his loyal call. Gilles frowned, feeling that
the supreme hour had come. A moment or two longer, and the
inevitable question would be put 'And what of Madame Jacqueline,
Monseigneur? What of the lady whom His Highness has sworn to wed?'
Already he had steeled himself to give answer, though the answer
could only proclaim dishonour, both for himself and for the Valois
prince whom he was trying so faithfully to serve unto the end. He
saw the frown of puzzlement which gathered on d'Inchy's brow. The
governor, in truth, was the first to recover his presence of mind.
Leaning upon his stick, with back bent, but his whole attitude one of
supreme dignity, he came nearer to Gilles and fixed a stern gaze upon
his face.
'If you are not the Duc d'Anjou, Monseigneur,' he said slowly, 'will
you tell us who it was who defended Cambray with such indomitable
valour four months ago? Will you tell us who it is that saved
Cambray to-day? For, of a truth, my friends and I are bewildered,
and the mystery before us is one which we cannot fathom. Therefore I
dare ask you once again in all respect--I may say in all affection:
if you are not the Duc d'Anjou, who is it that stands before me now?'
'The saviour of Cambray!' came in a clear, ringing voice from the
further end of the courtyard. 'My promised Lord and King!'
The sound of Jacqueline's voice sent a spark of living flame through
those minds, atrophied by all this mystery. All eyes were at once
turned to where she stood, dimly outlined in the gathering gloom.
She was clad in a sombre gown and wore a dark veil over her fair
hair. Her young, girlish figure, free from the hideous trammels of
hoops or farthingale, appeared ethereal against the background of
grim, frowning walls. Only the last lingering grey light in the west
brought into bold relief her pale face and graceful shoulders, smooth
like ivory. Just for a minute or two she stood quite still, like an
exquisitely graven image, rigidly still yet pulsating with life.
Then she advanced slowly towards Gilles. Her eyes held his and he
scarcely dared to breathe, for fear that perfect vision should vanish
into the skies, whence, of a truth, it must have descended. He could
not have uttered a word then, if his very existence had depended on
it. It seemed to him as if his very heart had stopped in its
beating, as if life and time and the whole universe was stilled while
Jacqueline's blue eyes sought his own, and she came, with hands
extended as if in entreaty, to him.
Was it a minute or a cycle of years! He himself could not tell you.
He saw nothing of what went on around; the city walls had fallen
away, the men in their sombre clothes become mere shadows, the very
sky overhead had receded into the realm of nothingness.
And through that state of semi-consciousness, her exquisite voice
came to him as from another world.
'Nay! my dear Lord,' she said, with her enchanting smile, 'you'll not
refuse me the joy of paying something of my country's eternal debt of
gratitude to you.'
He still stood half-dazed and silent. Then suddenly he took her
hands and slowly bent the knee, and buried his battle-stained face in
her sweet-scented palms.
It had all occurred within half a dozen seconds. The governor, the
Chief Magistrate, the city fathers, gazed on uncomprehending, silent
and puzzled at what they saw. After awhile, d'Inchy murmured vaguely:
'Madame Jacqueline ... we ... that is...'
But quickly now she turned and faced them all, while Gilles still
knelt and rested his hot forehead against her cool white hand.
Through the gloom they could just discern her face, white and serene
and withal defiant and firm, and irradiated with an enormous
happiness.
'Messeigneurs,' she said with solemn earnestness, 'you heard, two
sennights ago, the profession of faith which I made publicly before
the assembled people of Cambray. There I swore by the living God Who
made me that I would cherish and serve, loyally and faithfully, even
until death, the noble and valorous hero who defended our city in the
hour of her gravest peril. That dauntless hero is before you now.
Once again he has saved our city from destruction, our sisters from
dishonour, our men from shame. To him did I plight my troth, to him
alone will I be true!'
Then, as all the men around her remained silent, moved to the depth
of their hearts by the sublime note of passion which rang through her
avowal, she continued, and this time with a note of unswerving
defiance and magnificent challenge in her voice:
'Ask the people of Cambray, Messeigneurs! Let them be the arbiters
of my fate and their own. Ask them to whom they would have me turn
now--to the mighty Prince who would only use me and them and our
valiant race as stepping stones to his own ambition, or to the hero
who has offered his life for us all.'
A low murmur went round the assembly. Grave heads were shaken,
toil-worn hands were raised to wipe a furtive tear. The evening
gloom descended upon this strange scene, upon the reverend seigneurs
and the stolid soldiers, upon the man who was kneeling and the
woman--a mere girl--who stood there, commanding and defiant, secure
in her love, proud of her surrender, ready to fight for her happiness.
'Ask the people of Cambray, Messeigneurs,' she reiterated boldly, 'if
you have a doubt!'
She let her eyes wander slowly over the crowd. One by one, she
looked these grave seigneurs in the face, these men who arrogated the
right to rule over her destiny. They were her friends, had been her
daily companions in the past four months of horror and of misery.
They had trembled with her over Cambray's danger, had wept with her
over Cambray's woes. With her they had acclaimed the hero who had
defended them, had wept when they saw him fall; and to-day, again
to-day, had been ready to deify him as their hero and her knight.
'Messeigneurs,' she pleaded, 'ask the people of Cambray.'
She knew what would be the people's answer. Now that the hour of
their liberty had struck, now that the Spaniard no longer thundered
at their gates, they were ready to carry their Liberator
shoulder-high and give him the universe in their gratitude, if they
had it to give. What cared they if their Liberator was a Duc d'Anjou
or a nameless knight? He was the man whom they worshipped, the man
who had made them free.
And now, when she still saw doubt, hesitation, embarrassment, upon
the face of all these grave dignitaries, she frowned with wounded
pride and with impatience.
'Messeigneurs,' she said boldly, 'Heaven forgive me, but ye seem to
hesitate! The man to whom you owe your life, your future, the honour
of your name, asks nothing more of your gratitude. But I, who am
privileged to read in his heart, know that it is in my power to repay
him in full for all that he hath done. And yet you hesitate! I am
content to make appeal to the people of Cambray. But I know too what
goes on in your minds. Ye think that ye are pledged to _Monsieur_
Duc d'Anjou! that Jacqueline de Broyart, if she refuse to wed him,
would sully your honour and, what were infinitely worse, would
besmirch the fair fame of Flanders. Isn't that so, Messeigneurs?'
Their silence had become eloquent.
'The honour of Flanders----' Monseigneur began, then paused. A
premonition of something which he could not put into words caused him
to remain silent too, and to let the girl plead her cause without any
interruption from him.
'The honour of Flanders, as you say, Monseigneur,' Jacqueline went on
firmly, 'demands above all things that you and I and the guardians of
our city do keep our word. Therefore, even before we make appeal to
the people of Cambray, we will ask Monseigneur de Froidmont, who is
here on behalf of His Highness, the Duc d'Anjou, to renew in His
Highness' name the demand of my hand in marriage. On his answer
should depend our future conduct. Is that not so, Messeigneurs?' she
asked once again, and let her calm gaze wander from one solemn face
to the other, search serenely every troubled eye.
D'Inchy this time realized that he must be the spokesman for all
these representatives, his city and of his province. Vaguely
troubled still by the mystery which surrounded the man to whom
Cambray owed her deliverance, he thought once for all, by a straight
question, to put an end to the many doubts and fears which assailed
him and his friends. Jacqueline already had turned once more to
Gilles; with a slight pressure of her hand she asked him to rise.
This he did, feeling strangely elated, just as if Destiny, tired of
buffeting him, was smiling encouragingly to him from afar. In the
midst of the many confused impressions which had struck his wearied
mind during the past quarter of an hour, one thought stood out with
heavenly clearness: Jacqueline loved him! Her love had neither
faltered nor tired through these weary months. She was as steadfast
and true to him at this hour as she had been when in the
clematis-covered arbour she had lain against his breast. Now her
woman's quick wit had divined the truth and come to the aid of her
love. Even when she challenged those grave seigneurs to ask him the
straight and momentous question, she knew what his answer would be.
The task which lay before him no longer seemed irksome and
humiliating. He still blushed for the shame which rested on the
fickle Prince whom he served, but already in his heart he had
registered the vow that, God helping as He had done hitherto, the
honour of France should shine forth before these heroic people, in
all its brightness and glory, through the glorious deeds of her sons.
'Monseigneur,' began d'Inchy tentatively, 'you have heard what Madame
Jacqueline de Broyart hath said. We have all passed through much
sorrow, have witnessed the miseries and the patience of our people.
The hour of victory has come, but found us weak in body and tortured
in mind. We place our faith with complete confidence in the honour
and integrity of France. We are prepared to receive His Highness,
the Duc d'Anjou with open hearts and to acclaim him as our Sovereign
Lord. Will he in exchange keep faith with us, and wed our ward,
Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, to whom he hath akeady plighted his
troth?'
Even while the governor spoke, the city dignitaries all tried to read
the expression on Gilles' face through the fast-gathering gloom, and
anxious eyes scanned those war-worn features which they had learned
to love. Even through the darkness they could see him, standing
there in his rags and his battered breastplate, hatless and begrimed,
splendid in his valour and his pride, and with Jacqueline's hand held
tightly in his own--splendid still, now that he stood silent and
shamed before them all.
To Monseigneur's peremptory question he had given no reply, remained
almost motionless, while Jacqueline, proud in the face of the crying
insult which a faithless Prince had put upon her, threw back her head
and gave a deep sigh of content.
Monseigneur the governor had received his answer in Gilles de
Crohin's obstinate silence. A bitter cry of unbridled anger rose to
his lips, his emaciated hand trembled visibly upon the stick which he
held.
Then, just as suddenly, his wrath gave way. It almost seemed as if
an angel of reconciliation and of love had whispered into his ear,
and had, with cool and gentle fingers, smoothed away the angry frown
upon his brow. All that was fine and noble in the heroic race from
which he sprang clamoured for the only possible solution of the
present difficulty, a solution which would ensure the happiness of a
brave and proud woman, and the dignity of the country which he
represented.
One last second of hesitation, one final regretful sigh for the
ambitious personal schemes which he saw crumbling into ashes at his
feet, then Monseigneur d'Inchy, governor of Cambray, sank slowly down
on his knees.
'Monseigneur,' he said slowly and impressively, 'Madame Jacqueline de
Broyart has spoken and shown us the path of our duty. To-morrow we
will acclaim His Highness the Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon as our
Sovereign Lord; but to-day we welcome you as the saviour of our city.
Whatever your wishes are, they are a law unto us. You have heard
what Madame Jacqueline has said. Will you in your turn plight your
troth to her? Will you love and cherish her and serve her faithfully
and loyally as her liege lord, until death?'
'And beyond!' Gilles murmured softly.
The last streak of grey light was still lingering in the sky.
Everything in the enclosure of the tall, grim walls became mysterious
and shadowy; darkness drew her kindly mantle over the scene. She hid
from prying eyes what went on under the immediate shadow of the great
gate, where for one brief moment Jacqueline lay against her loved
one's heart.
From the towers of the city's churches the bells were still sending
their happy carillon through the evening air. A group of pikemen
brought torches into the courtyard. A wild shout of delight--the
first which Cambray had heard, for many months--sent its joyous sound
through the evening air.
And in the homes which all these months of misery had devastated, the
sick and the weary roused themselves for a moment, marvelling what
these shouts of joy might mean. And those who had suffered for so
long and who were now comforted, those who had been hungry and were
now fed, ran into the houses of sickness and of sorrow, in order to
bring the gladsome, the great, the wonderful news.
'The Duc d'Anjou, brother of the King of France, is to be Sovereign
Lord of the Netherlands. He will enter Cambray to-morrow, with his
great army. He will be proclaimed Protector of the Liberties of
Cambray and Sovereign of the Cambrésis!'
'And he will wed Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, the great
heiress?--our Jacqueline?'
'Oh, no! The Duc d'Anjou will be our Sovereign Lord. But Madame
Jacqueline will wed the saviour of Cambray.'
_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner _Frome and London_