THE KNIGHT-ERRANT
Poor Aloyse, whose life for many years had been passed in waiting, in
solitude, and in suffering, again sat two or three endless hours at the
window, to see if she could not catch a glimpse of her beloved young
master.
When the laborer to whom Gabriel had intrusted the letter knocked at the
door, Aloyse rushed to open it. "News at last!" she thought.
News at last, indeed, and terrible news! Aloyse, after the first few
lines, felt a mist coming before her eyes, and to conceal her emotion
hastened to return to her own room, where she finished with much
difficulty the perusal of the fatal missive, the tears streaming from
her eyes the while.
However, hers was a stout heart and a valiant soul; so she collected her
energies, wiped away her tears, and left her room to say to the
messenger,--
"It is well! Until this evening, when I shall expect you and your
companions."
André the page questioned her anxiously, but she bade him wait till the
following day for answers to his questions. Until then she had enough to
think of and to do.
When evening had fallen, she sent the people of the household to bed in
good season.
"The master will surely not return to-night," she told them.
But when she was left alone she thought,--
"Ah! the master will return; but, alas! it will be the old master, not
the young one,--it will be the dead, and not the living. For what body
would he command me to see entombed in the vault of the counts of
Montgommery, unless it were that of the Comte de Montgommery himself?
Oh, my noble lord, for whom my poor Perrot died, have you at last gone
to join your faithful servant? But have you carried your secret with you
to the tomb? Oh, mystery of mysteries!--mystery and terror everywhere!
But no matter! Though I know and understand nothing, though I hope not,
still will I obey; it is my duty, and I will do it. Oh, my God!"
Aloyse's sorrowful revery ended in a fervent prayer. It is the habit of
the human soul, when the burden of life becomes too heavy to bear, to
seek help and shelter in God's bosom.
About eleven o'clock, the streets being then entirely deserted, a loud
knocking was heard at the great door. Aloyse started and turned pale,
but summoning all her fortitude, she took a torch in her hand, and
descended to admit the men who bore the sad burden. She received with a
deep and respectful salute the master who thus returned to his own house
after such a long absence. Then she said to the bearers, "Follow me with
as little noise as possible. I will show you the way." Going in advance
with her light, she led them to the funeral vault.
When they had reached the spot, the bearers placed the coffin in one of
the open tombs, and put the cover of black marble in place; then the
poor fellows, who had been taught by suffering to look with holy awe
upon death, removed their caps, and falling on their knees, offered a
short prayer for the soul of the unknown dead.
When they had risen, the nurse led them back in silence, and on the
threshold slipped into the hand of one of them the sum Gabriel had
promised; whereupon they vanished like dumb spectres, without having
uttered a single word.
Aloyse returned to the tomb, and passed the rest of the night on her
knees, praying and weeping.
The next morning André found her pale but calm; she said to him
simply,--
"My child, we must never lose hope; but it is useless for us to expect
Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès any longer. So you must set about executing
the commissions with which he charged you in case he did not return at
once."
"Very well," said the page, sorrowfully. "I will start at once then to
go and meet Madame de Castro."
"In the name of your absent master, I thank you for your zeal, André,"
said Aloyse.
The boy did as he promised, and set out the same day. He inquired for
the noble traveller he was seeking at every halting-place on the road,
but did not meet her until he reached Amiens.
Diane de Castro had but just arrived at that city, with the escort with
which the Duc de Guise had furnished her as the daughter of Henri II.
She had stopped to rest a few hours at the house of Monsieur de Thuré,
the governor of the place.
As soon as Diane espied the page, she changed color; but controlling
herself with an effort, she made a sign to him to follow her into the
next room. When they were alone, she asked him,--
"Well, André, what have you for me?"
"Nothing but this, Madame," the page replied, handing her the package
containing the veil.
"Ah, it is not the ring!" cried Diane.
That was as far as her observation went at first; but she soon collected
herself somewhat, and a prey to that insatiable curiosity which makes
the unfortunate eager to anticipate the extremity of their sorrow, she
eagerly interrogated André.
"Did Monsieur d'Exmès intrust you, besides this, with no writing for
me?"
"No, Madame."
"But surely you must have some verbal message to give me?"
"Alas!" the page replied, shaking his head, "Monsieur d'Exmès said only
that he gave you back all your promises, Madame, even to that of which
this veil is the pledge; he added nothing to that."
"But under what circumstances did he send you to me? Had you given him
my letter? What said he after reading it? When he put this package in
your hands, what did he say? Speak, André! You are devoted and
faithful, I know, and my whole future depends on your answers; the very
least word may serve as a guide and consolation to me in the darkness
which surrounds me."
"Madame," said André, "I will tell you all that I know; but that all is
very little."
"Oh, go on, speak, pray speak!" cried Madame de Castro.
André thereupon told her faithfully--omitting nothing, for Gabriel had
not enjoined secrecy upon him--all that his master before his departure
had charged Aloyse and himself to do, in the event that his absence were
prolonged. He told of the young man's hesitation and his bitter
suffering; that after reading Diane's letter he had seemed at first to
be on the point of speaking, but had ended by saying nothing except a
few vague and indefinite words. In fact, André kept his promise, and
forgot nothing,--not a gesture, or a half-uttered word, or a failure to
speak. But he had said truly that he knew scarcely anything, and his
story only contributed to Diane's doubt and uncertainty.
She looked mournfully at the black veil, the lone messenger from her
lover, and the true symbol of her destiny. It seemed as if she were
questioning its sombre folds, and seeking help and counsel from them.
"One of two things must have happened," she said to herself. "Either
Gabriel has learned that he is really my brother, or he has lost all
hope of ever penetrating the fatal mystery. I have only to choose
between these two calamities. Yes, it must be so, and I have no more
illusions on which I can feed my hope. But ought not Gabriel to have
spared me this cruel uncertainty? He gives me back my word; but why? Oh,
why does he not confide to me what is going to become of him, and what
he means to do? Ah, this silence terrifies me more than all the anger
and all the threats in the world!"
Diane questioned her very soul to know whether she would do better to
follow her first plan, and enter some convent in Paris or the Provinces,
never to leave its walls again; or whether it was not her duty to return
to court, try to see Gabriel once more, and beg him to tell her the
truth as to what had occurred and as to his future plans, and whatever
happened, to watch over the life of the king, her father, which might
perhaps be in danger.
Of her father? But was Henri II. her father? Might she not prove herself
to be the impious and guilty daughter of her real father in trying to
impede the righteous vengeance which strove to punish or even to slay
the king? A frightful alternative!
But Diane was a woman, and an affectionate and noble-hearted woman. She
said to herself that in any event there might be repentance for anger,
but that no one could repent of having forgiven; and so, carried away by
her naturally kindly disposition, she determined to return to Paris, and
until she should have reassuring news of Gabriel and his designs, to
remain by the king's side to safeguard and defend him. Even Gabriel
himself might have need of her intervention, who could say? When she
should have saved the two beings who were dearest of all on earth to
her, it would be time to take refuge in God's bosom.
Having determined upon this course, Diane, the brave-hearted, hesitated
no longer, but continued her journey to Paris.
She reached her destination three days later, and went at once to the
Louvre, where she was welcomed by Henri with unfeigned delight and a
wealth of affection truly paternal.
But, in spite of all her endeavors, she could not force herself to adopt
any except a sorrowful and cold demeanor in receiving these proofs of
fondness; and the king himself, remembering Diane's affection for
Gabriel, oftentimes felt embarrassed and moved in his daughter's
presence. She reminded him of certain matters which he would have much
preferred to forget.
Thus he no longer dared to mention her alliance to François de
Montmorency, which had been formerly projected, and so Madame de
Castro's mind was at rest upon that point at least.
She had, however, many other subjects of anxiety. Neither at the
Montgommery mansion, nor at the Louvre, nor in fact anywhere, was any
definite news of Gabriel to be had.
The young man had in a certain sense disappeared.
Days and weeks and whole months rolled by, and Diane in vain made
inquiries directly and indirectly; no one could say what had become of
Gabriel.
Some persons thought that they had met him, always sombre and gloomy.
But no one had spoken to him; the suffering soul which they had taken
for Gabriel had always shunned them, and vanished at their first attempt
to approach him. Moreover, no two agreed as to the locality where they
had encountered Vicomte d'Exmès. Some said at St. Germain, some at
Fontainebleau, others at Vincennes, and some even located him in Paris.
What reliance could be placed upon such contradictory reports?
Yet many of them were right. For Gabriel, spurred on by a terrible
remembrance and by still more terrible thoughts, could not remain two
days in the same place. A never-ending need of action and movement drove
him from a locality as soon as he arrived there. On foot or in the
saddle, in town or country, he must always be in motion, pale and
forbidding in appearance, and like Orestes of old haunted by the Furies.
His wanderings, too, kept him always out-of-doors; and he never entered
within the walls of a house except when driven by absolute necessity.
On one occasion, however, Master Ambroise Paré, who had come back to
Paris, his patients being all cured, and hostilities somewhat relaxed in
the North, was surprised by a visit at his own house from his old
acquaintance Vicomte d'Exmès. He received him with the deference due to
one of gentle birth and the cordiality with which one welcomes a friend.
Gabriel, like a man newly returned from foreign lands, interrogated the
surgeon upon matters which everybody knew all about.
Having in the first place asked him about Martin-Guerre, who, thoroughly
cured, was probably on his way to Paris at that time, he questioned him
about the Duc de Guise and the army. In that quarter matters had
progressed marvellously. Le Balafré was before Thionville; Maréchal de
Thermes had taken Dunkirk; Gaspard de Tavannes had taken possession of
Guines and the province of Oie. In fact, the English no longer held one
foot of ground in the whole kingdom, as François de Lorraine had sworn
should be the case.
Gabriel listened with grave face, and apparently with little interest,
to this good news.
"I am obliged to you, Master," he said to Ambroise Paré; "I rejoice to
learn that our enterprise at Calais will not be without enduring results
for France, at all events. Nevertheless it was not curiosity to hear of
these matters which was my principal reason for coming to you. Master,
long before I came to admire you for your great skill at the bedside of
the wounded, I remember that certain words I heard you speak moved me
deeply; it was one day last year in the little house on the Rue St.
Jacques. Master, I have come to talk with you about these matters of
religion, which your keen insight has penetrated so to the core. You
have definitively embraced the cause of the Reformed religion, I
suppose?"
"Yes, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Ambroise Paré, firmly. "The
correspondence which the great Calvin was kind enough to enter into with
me has removed my last doubts and my last scruples. I am now the most
thoroughly devoted reformer of them all."
"Well, then, Master," said Gabriel, "will you not share your knowledge
with a neophyte of the best intentions? I speak of myself. Will you not
strengthen my doubting faith, as you would put in place a broken limb?"
"It is my duty to comfort and relieve the souls of my fellow-creatures
as well as their bodies, when I can do so," said Ambroise Paré. "I am
quite at your service, Monsieur d'Exmès."
For more than two hours they talked together, Ambroise ardent and
eloquent, Gabriel calm and sorrowful, but a docile pupil.
At the end of that time Gabriel rose, and said to him, as he warmly
pressed his hand,--
"Thanks! This conversation has done me much good. Unfortunately The time
has not yet come when I can openly declare myself one of your number. It
is necessary that I should wait yet a little while, even in the best
interests of the Religion itself. Otherwise my conversion might well
expose your holy cause to persecution some day, or to calumny at least.
I know what I am saying. But now I understand, thanks to you, Master,
that you and your fellows are really marching in the right path, and
from this moment, believe that I am with you in heart, if not bodily.
Adieu! Master Ambroise, adieu! We shall soon meet again."
Gabriel, without further elucidation of his words, took his leave of the
surgeon-philosopher, and left the house.
In the early days of the following month,--May, 1558,--he appeared for
the first time since his mysterious departure at his own home in the Rue
des Jardins St. Paul.
There were new-comers there. Martin-Guerre had returned a fortnight
previously, and Jean Peuquoy and his wife Babette had been living there
for three months.
But God had not decreed that Jean's devotion should be put to the final
test, nor perhaps that Babette's fault should go wholly unpunished. A
few days before, she had been prematurely delivered of a dead child.
The poor mother had wept bitterly, but had bowed her head in humble
acceptance of a grief which seemed like an expiation to her repentant
heart; and as Jean Peuquoy had generously offered his sacrifice to her,
so she in her turn for his sake resigned herself to the hand of God.
Moreover, the comforting affection of her husband and Aloyse's motherly
encouragement did not fail the sweet child in her affliction.
Martin-Guerre, with his wonted good-humor, did his best to console her.
One day, as the four were sitting in friendly converse together, the
door opened, and to their great amazement and still greater joy the
master of the house, Vicomte d'Exmès himself, suddenly appeared,
walking slowly and with a grave and sober face.
Four exclamations were heard as one; and Gabriel was quickly surrounded
by his two guests, his squire, and his nurse.
When their first transports of delight had subsided, Aloyse began
eagerly to question him whom in words she called her lord and master,
but who was always her child in the language of her faithful heart.
What had become of him during his long absence? What did he mean to do
now? Did he not intend at last to remain among those who loved him so
dearly?
Gabriel laid a finger on his lips, and with a mournful but firm glance,
imposed silence upon Aloyse's loving anxiety.
It was clear that he did not choose to explain his movements in the past
or in the future, or that he could not.
But he took his turn at asking questions of Jean and Babette about their
own affairs. Had they wanted for anything? Had they any recent
intelligence of their good brother Pierre at Calais?
He tenderly expressed his sympathy for Babette, and tried to comfort her
so far as it is possible to comfort a mother who is weeping for her
child.
Thus Gabriel passed the remainder of the day amid his friends and his
retainers, always kind and affectionate toward them, but never for an
instant shaking, off the melancholy which overshadowed him like a black
pall.
As for Martin-Guerre, who never once took his eyes off his dear master,
found again at last, Gabriel spoke with him and inquired about his
health with much interest. But throughout the whole day he never
breathed a word of the promise he had made him months before, and seemed
to have forgotten the engagement he had entered into to punish the
wretch who had stolen his name and his honor, and had persecuted poor
Martin with impunity for so long.
Martin himself was too respectful and too unselfish to direct his
master's mind to the subject.
But when it was evening Gabriel rose, and said in a tone which admitted
neither contradiction nor remonstrance, "I am obliged to leave you now."
Then turning to Martin-Guerre, he added,--
"My good Martin, I have been busy in your behalf during my travels, and
unknown as I was, I have inquired and investigated; and I believe that I
have at last found traces of the real truth of the matter in which you
are interested; for I have not forgotten my engagement with you,
Martin."
"Oh, Monseigneur!" cried the squire, overjoyed and embarrassed at the
same time.
Gabriel continued, "I say again, I have collected sufficient proofs to
justify me in believing that I am on the right track. But now I must
have your assistance, my friend. At the end of this week, start for your
own province, but do not go directly there. Be at Lyons one month from
to-day. I will meet you there at that time, and we will take measures
for acting together."
"I will do as you say, Monseigneur," said Martin-Guerre; "but shall I
not see you again, meanwhile?"
"No, no, I must be alone henceforth," Gabriel replied, vigorously. "I
am going away again now; and do not try to hinder me, for it would
simply cause me needless pain. Adieu, my dear friends. Martin,
remember,--at Lyons, a month hence."
"I will await you there, Monseigneur," said the squire.
Gabriel took leave with great warmth of Jean Peuquoy and his wife,
pressed Aloyse's hands in his, and without seeming to notice the good
soul's grief, set out once more to resume that wandering life to which
he seemed to have condemned himself.