The Helmet of Navarre
XXVIII
_St. Denis--and Navarre!_
As the gates clanged into place behind us, Gilles stopped short in histracks to say, as if addressing the darkness before him:
"Am I, Gilles, awake or asleep? Are we in Paris, or are we on the St.Denis road?"
"Oh, come, come!" Mademoiselle hastened us on, murmuring half to herselfas we went: "O you kind saints! I saw he could not make us out forfriends or foes; I thought my name might turn the scale. Mayenne alwaysgives a name for a countersign; to-night, by a marvel, it was mine!"
I like not to think often of that five-mile tramp to St. Denis. The roadwas dark, rutty, and in places still miry from Monday night's rain.Strange shadows dogged us all the way. Sometimes they were only bushesor wayside shrines, but sometimes they moved. This was not now a wolfcountry, but two-footed wolves were plenty, and as dangerous. Thehangers-on of the army--beggars, feagues, and footpads--hovered, likethe cowardly beasts of prey they were, about the outskirts of the city.Did a leaf rustle, we started; did a shambling shape in the gloom whinefor alms, we made ready for onset. Gilles produced from some place ofconcealment--his jerkin, or his leggings, or somewhere--a brace ofpistols, and we walked with finger on trigger, taking care, whenever arustle in the grass, a shadow in the bushes, seemed to follow us, totalk loud and cheerfully of common things, the little interests of ahumble station. Thanks to this diplomacy, or the pistol-barrels shiningin the faint starlight, none molested us, though we encountered morethan one mysterious company. We never passed into the gloom under anarch of trees without the resolution to fight for our lives. We nevercame out again into the faint light of the open road without wonderingthanks to the saints--silent thanks, for we never spoke a word of anyfear, Gilles and I. I trow mademoiselle knew well enough, but she spokeno word either. She never faltered, never showed by so much as the turnof her head that she suspected any danger, but, eyes on the distantlights of St. Denis, walked straight along, half a step ahead of us allthe way. Stride as we might, we two strong fellows could never quitekeep up with her.
The journey could not at such pace stretch out forever. Presently thedistant lights were no longer distant, but near, nearer, close athand--the lights of the outposts of the camp. A sentinel started outfrom the quoin of a wall to stop us, but when we had told our errand hebecame as friendly as a brother. He went across the road into aneighbouring tournebride to report to the officer of the guard, andcame back presently with a torch and the order to take us to the Duke ofSt. Quentin's lodging.
It was near an hour after midnight, and St. Denis was in bed. Save for adrowsy patrol here and there, we met no one. Fewer than the patrols werethe lanterns hung on ropes across the streets; these were the onlylights, for the houses were one and all as dark as tombs. Not till wehad reached the middle of the town did we see, in the second story of ahouse in the square, a beam of light shining through the shutter-chink.
"Some one in mischief." Gilles pointed.
"Aye," laughed the sentry, "your duke. This is where he lodges, over thesaddler's."
He knocked with the butt of his musket on the door. The shutter abovecreaked open, and a voice--Monsieur's voice--asked, "Who's there?"
Mademoiselle was concealed in the embrasure of the doorway; Gilles and Istepped back into the street where Monsieur could see us.
"Gilles Forestier and Felix Broux, Monsieur, just from Paris, withnews."
"Wait."
"Is it all right, M. le Duc?" the sentry asked, saluting.
"Yes," Monsieur answered, closing the shutter.
The soldier, with another salute to the blank window, and a nod of"Good-by, then," to us, went back to his post. Left in darkness, wepresently heard Monsieur's quick step on the flags of the hall, and theclatter of the bolts. He opened to us, standing there fully dressed,with a guttering candle.
"My son?" he said instantly.
Mademoiselle, crouching in the shadow of the door-post, pushed meforward. I saw I was to tell him.
"Monsieur, he was arrested and driven to the Bastille to-night betweenseven and eight. Lucas--Paul de Lorraine--went to the governor and sworethat M. Etienne killed the lackey Pontou in the house in the RueCoupejarrets. It was Lucas killed him--Lucas told Mayenne so. Mlle. deMontluc heard him, too. And here is mademoiselle."
At the word she came out of the shadow and slowly over the threshold.
Her alarm and passion had swept her to the door of the Hotel St. Quentinas a whirlwind sweeps a leaf. She had come without thought of herself,without pause, without fear. But now the first heat of her impulse wasgone. Her long tramp had left her faint and weary, and here she had toface not an equery and a page, hers to command, but a great duke, theenemy of her house. She came blushfully in her peasant dress, shoesdirty from the common road, hair ruffled by the night winds, to showherself for the first time to her lover's father, opposer of her hopes,thwarter of her marriage. Proud and shy, she drifted over the door-silland stood a moment, neither lifting her eyes nor speaking, like a birdwhom the least movement would startle into flight.
But Monsieur made none. He kept as still, as tongue-tied, as she,looking at her as if he could hardly believe her presence real. Then asthe silence prolonged itself, it seemed to frighten her more than theharsh speech she may have feared; with a desperate courage she raisedher eyes to his face.
The spell was broken. Monsieur stepped forward at once to her.
"Mademoiselle, you have come a journey. You are tired. Let me give yousome refreshment; then will you tell me the story."
It was an unlucky speech, for she had been on the very point ofunburdening herself; but now, without a word, she accepted his escortdown the passage. But as she went, she flung me an imploring glance; Iwas to come too. Gilles bolted the door again, and sat down to wait onthe staircase; but I, though my lord had not bidden me, followed him andmademoiselle. It troubled me that she should so dread him--him, thewarmest-hearted of all men. But if she needed me to give her confidence,here I was.
Monsieur led her into a little square parlour at the end of the passage.It was just behind the shop, I knew, it smelt so of leather. It wasdoubtless the sitting-and eating-room of the saddler's family. Monsieurset his candle down on the big table in the middle; then, on secondthought, took it up again and lighted two iron sconces on the wall.
"Pray sit, mademoiselle, and rest," he bade, for she was starting up innervousness from the chair where he had put her. "I will return in amoment."
When he had gone from the room, I said to her, half hesitating, yeteagerly:
"Mademoiselle, you were never afraid on the way, where there was goodcause for fear. But now there is nothing to dread."
She rose and fluttered round the walls of the room, looking forsomething. I thought it was for a way of escape, but it was not, for shepassed the three doors and came back to her place with an air ofdisappointment, smoothing the loose strands of her hair.
"I never before went anywhere unmasked," she murmured.
Monsieur entered with a salver containing a silver cup of wine and someRheims biscuit. He offered it to her formally; she accepted withscarcely audible thanks, and sat, barely touching the wine to her lips,crumbling the biscuit into bits with restless fingers, making thepretence of a meal serve as excuse for her silence. Monsieur glanced ather, puzzled-wise, waiting for her to speak. Had the Infanta Isabellacome to visit him, he could not have been more surprised. It seemed tohim discourteous to press her; he waited for her to explain herpresence.
I wanted to shake mademoiselle. With a dozen swift words, with a glanceof her blue eyes, she could sweep Monsieur off his feet as she had sweptVigo. And instead, she sat there, not daring to look at him, like achild caught stealing sweets. She had found words to defend herself fromthe teasing tongues at the Hotel de Lorraine, to plead for me, to lashLucas, to move Mayenne himself; but she could not find one syllable forthe Duke of St. Quentin. She had been to admiration the laughingcoquette, the stout champion, the haughty great lady, the frank lover;bu
t now she was the shy child, blushing, stammering, constrained.
Had Monsieur attacked her with blunt questions, had he demanded of herup and down what had brought her this strange road at such amazing hourand in such unfitting company, she must needs have answered, and, oncestarted, she would quickly have kindled her fire again. Had he, on otherpart, with a smile, an encouraging word, given her ever so little apush, she had gone on easily enough. But he did neither. He wascourteous and cold. Partly was his coldness real; he could not look onher as other than the daughter of his enemy's house, ward of the man whohad schemed to kill him, will-o'-the-wisp who had lured his son todisaster. Partly was it mere absence; M. Etienne's plight was more tohim than mademoiselle's. When she spoke not, he turned impatiently tome.
"Tell me, Felix, all about it."
Before I could answer him the door behind us opened to admit twogentlemen, shoulder to shoulder. They were dressed much alike, plainly,in black. One was about thirty years of age, tall, thin-faced, and dark,and of a gravity and dignity beyond his years. Living was seriousbusiness to him; his eyes were thoughtful, steady, and a little cold.His companion was some ten years older; his beard and curling hair, wornaway from his forehead by the helmet's chafing, were already sprinkledwith gray. He had a great beak of a nose and dark-gray eyes, as keen asa hawk's, and a look of amazing life and vim. The air about him seemedto tingle with it. We had all done something, we others; we were noshirks or sluggards: but the force in him put us out, penny candlesbefore the sun. I deem not Jeanne the Maid did any marvel when sherecognized King Charles at Chinon. Here was I, a common lout, neverheard a heavenly voice in all my days, yet I knew in the flick of an eyethat this was Henri Quatre.
I was hot and cold and trembling, my heart pounding till it was like tochoke me. I had never dreamed of finding myself in the presence. I hadnever thought to face any man greater than my duke. For the moment I wasutterly discomfited. Then I bethought me that not for God alone wereknees given to man, and I slid down quietly to the floor, hoping I didright, but reflecting for my comfort that in any case I was too small togive great offence.
Mademoiselle started out of her chair and swept a curtsey almost to theground, holding the lowly pose like a lady of marble. Only Monsieurremained standing as he was, as if a king was an every-day affair withhim. I always thought Monsieur a great man, but now I knew it.
The king, leaving his companion to close the door, was across the roomin three strides.
"I am come to look after you, St. Quentin," he cried, laughing. "Icannot have my council broken up by pretty grisettes. The precedent isdangerous."
With the liveliest curiosity and amusement he surveyed the top ofmademoiselle's bent head, and Monsieur's puzzled, troubled countenance.
"This is no grisette, Sire," Monsieur answered, "but a very high-borndemoiselle indeed--cousin to my Lord Mayenne."
Astonishment flashed over the king's mobile face; his manner changed inan instant to one of utmost deference.
"Rise, mademoiselle," he begged, as if her appearance were the mostnatural and desirable thing in the world. "I could wish it were my goodadversary Mayenne himself who was come to treat with us; but be assuredhis cousin shall lack no courtesy."
She swayed lightly to her feet, raising her face to the king's. Into hiscountenance, which mirrored his emotions like a glass, came a quickdelight at the sight of her. The colour waxed and waned in her cheeks;her breath fluttered uncertainly; her eyes, anxious, eager, searched hisface.
"I cry your Majesty's good pardon," she faltered. "I had urgent businesswith M. de St. Quentin--I did not guess he was with your Majesty--"
"The king's business is glad to step aside for yours, mademoiselle."
She curtseyed, blushing, hiding her eyes under their sooty lashes;thinking as I did, I made no doubt, here was a king indeed. His Majestywent on:
"I can well believe, mademoiselle, 'tis no trifling matter brings you atmidnight to our rough camp. We will not delay you further, but be atpains to remember that if in anything Henry of France can aid you hestands at your command."
ON THE WAY TO ST. DENIS.]
He made her a noble bow and took her hand to kiss, when she, like achild that sees itself losing a protector, clutched his hand in herlittle trembling fingers, her wet eyes fixed imploringly on his face. Hebeamed upon her; he felt no desire whatever to be gone.
"Am I to stay?" he asked radiantly; then with grave gentleness he added:"Mademoiselle is in trouble. Will she bring her trouble to the king?That is what a king is for--to ease his subjects' burdens."
She could not speak; she made him her obeisance with a look out of thedepths of her soul.
"Then are you my subject, mademoiselle?" he demanded slyly.
She shook the tears from her lashes, and found her voice and her smileto answer his:
"Sire, I was a true Ligueuse this morning. But I came here halfNavarraise, and now I swear I am wholly one."
"Now, that is good hearing!" the king cried. "Such a recruit fromMayenne! Also is it heartening to discover that my conversion is not theonly sudden one in the world. It has taken me five months to turn mycoat, but here is mademoiselle turns hers in a day."
He had glanced over his shoulder to point this out to his gentleman, butnow he faced about in time to catch his recruit looking triste again.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "you are beautiful, grave; but, as you had thegraciousness to show me just now, still more beautiful, smiling. Now weare going to arrange matters so that you will smile always. Will youtell me what is the trouble, my child?"
"Gladly, Sire," she answered, and dropped down a moment on her kneesbefore him, to kiss his hand.
I marvelled that Mayenne and all his armies had been able to keep thisman off his throne and in his saddle four long years. It was plain whyhis power grew stronger every day, why every hour brought him new alliesfrom the ranks of the League. You had only to see him to adore him. Onceget him into Paris, the struggle would be over. They would put up withno other for king.
"Sire," mademoiselle said with hesitancy, "I shall tire you with mystory."
"I am greatly in dread of it," the king answered, ceremoniously placingher in a chair before seating himself to listen. Then, to give her amoment, I think, to collect herself, he turned to his companion:
"Here, Rosny, if you ache to be grubbing over your papers, do not let usdelay you."
"I am in no haste, Sire," his gentleman answered, unmoving.
"Which is to say, you dare not leave me alone," the king laughed out. "Itell you, St. Quentin, if I am not dragooned into a staid, discreet,steady-paced monarch, 'twill be no lapse of Whip-King Rosny's. I amlistening, mademoiselle."
She began at once, eager and unfaltering. All her confusion was gone.It had been well-nigh impossible to tell the story to M. de St. Quentin,impossible to tell it to this impassive M. de Rosny. But to the King ofFrance and Navarre it was as easy to talk as to one's playfellow.
"Sire, I am Lorance de Montluc. My grandfather was the Marshal Montluc."
"Were to-day next Monday, I could pray, 'God rest his soul,'" the kingrejoined. "But even a heretic may say that he was a gallant general, anhonour to France. He married a sister of Francois le Balafre? Andmademoiselle is orphaned now, and my friend Mayenne's ward?"
"Yes, Sire. I came here, Sire, to tell M. de St. Quentin concerning hisson. And though I am talking of myself, it is all the same story. Threeyears ago, after the king died, M. de Mayenne was endeavouring with allhis might to bring the Duke of St. Quentin into the League. He offeredme to him for his son, M. de Mar."
"And you are still Mlle. de Montluc?"
She turned to Monsieur with the prettiest smile in the world.
"M. de St. Quentin, though he has not fought for you, Sire, has everbeen whole-heartedly loyal."
"Ventre-saint-gris!" the king exclaimed. "He is either an incredibleloyalist or an incredible ass!"
Even the grave Rosny smiled, and the victim laughed as he defendedhimself. r />
"That my loyalty may be credible, Sire, I make haste to say that I hadnever seen mademoiselle till this hour."
"I know not whether to think better of you for that, or worse," the kingretorted. "Had I been in your place, beshrew me but I should have seenher."
Monsieur smiled and was silent, with anxious eyes on mademoiselle.
"M. de St. Quentin withdrew to Picardie, Sire, but M. de Mar stayed inParis. And my cousin Mayenne never gave up entirely the notion of themarriage. He is very tenacious of his plans."
"Aye," said the king, with a grimace. "Well I know."
"He blew hot and cold with M. de Mar. He favoured the marriage on Sundayand scouted it on Wednesday and discussed it again on Friday."
"And what were M. de Mar's opinions?"
She met his probing gaze blushing but candid.
"M. de Mar, Sire, favoured it every day in the week."
"I'll swear he did!" the king cried.
"When M. le Duc came back to Paris," mademoiselle went on, "and it wasknown he had espoused your cause, Sire, Mayenne was so loath to lose thewhole house of St. Quentin to you that he offered to marry me out ofhand to M. de Mar. And he refused."
"Ventre-saint-gris!" Henry cried. "We will marry you to a king's son. Onmy honour, mademoiselle--"
"Sire," she pleaded, "you promised to hear me."
"That I will, then. But I warn you I am out of patience with these St.Quentins."
"Then you are out of patience with devotion to your cause, Sire."
"What! you speak for the recreants?"
"I assure you, Sire, you have no more loyal servant than M. de Mar."
"Strange I cannot recollect the face of my so loyal servant," the kingsaid dryly.
But she, with a fine scorn of argument, made the audacious answer:
"When you see it, you will like it, Sire."
"Not half so well as I like yours, mademoiselle, I promise you! But hecomes to me well commended, since you vouch for him. Or rather, he doesnot come. What is this ardent follower doing so long away from me? Wherethe devil does this eager partizan keep himself? St. Quentin, where isyour son?"
"He had been with you long ago, Sire, but for the bright eyes of a ladyof the League. And now she comes to tell me--my page tells me--he is inthe Bastille."
"Ventre-saint-gris! And how has that calamity befallen?"
She hesitated a moment, embarrassed by her very wealth of matter,confused between her longing to set the whole case before the king, andher fear of wearying his patience. But his glance told her she need haveno misgiving. Had she come to present him Paris, he could not have beenmore interested.
In the little silence Monsieur found his moment and his words.
"Sire, may I interrupt mademoiselle? Last night, for the first time ina month, I saw my son. He was just returned from an adventure under herwindow. Mayenne's guard had set on him, and he was escaped by the skinof his teeth. He declared to me that never till he was slain should hecease endeavour to win Mlle. de Montluc. And I? Marry, I ate my words inhumblest fashion. After three years I made my surrender. Since you arehis one desire, mademoiselle, then are you my one desire. I bade himGod-speed."
She gave her hand to Monsieur, sudden tears welling over her lashes.
"Monsieur, I thought to-night I had no friends. And I have so many!"
"Mademoiselle," the king cried in the same breath, "fear not. I will getyou your lover if I sell France for him."
She brushed the tears away and smiled on him.
"I have no fear, Sire. With you and M. de St. Quentin to save him, I canhave no fear. But he is in desperate case. Has M. de St. Quentin toldyou of his secretary Lucas, my cousin Paul de Lorraine?"
"Aye," said the king, "it is a dolourous topic--very painful! Eh,Rosny?"
"I do not shrink from my pains, Sire," M. de Rosny answered quietly. "Ihold myself much to blame in this matter. I thought I knew the Lucasesroot and branch--I did not discover that a daughter of the house hadever been a friend to Henri de Guise."
"And how should you discover it?" the king demanded. He had made theattack; now, since Rosny would not resent it, he rushed himself to thedefence. "How were you to dream it? Henri de Guise's side was the lastplace to look for a girl of the Religion. But I forgive him. If he stolea Rochelaise, we have avenged it deep: we have stolen the flower ofLorraine."
"Paul Lucas--Paul de Lorraine," she went on eagerly, "was put into M. leDuc's house to kill him. He went all the more willingly that he believedM. de Mar to be my favoured suitor. He tried to draw M. de Mar into thescheme, to ruin him. He failed. And the whole plot came to naught."
"I have learned that," the king said. "I have been told how a countryboy stripped his mask off."
He glanced around suddenly at me where I stood red and abashed. He wasso quick that he grasped everything at half a word. Instantly he hadturned to the lady again. "Pray continue, dear mademoiselle."
"Afterward--that is, yesterday--Paul went to M. de Belin and sworeagainst M. de Mar that he had murdered a lackey in his house in the RueCoupejarrets. The lackey was murdered there, but Paul de Lorraine didit. The man knew the plot; Paul killed him to stop his tongue. I heardhim confess it to M. de Mayenne. I and this Felix Broux were in theoratory and heard it."
"Then M. de Mar was arrested?"
"Not then. The officers missed him. To-day he came to our house, dressedas an Italian jeweller, with a case of trinkets to sell. Madameadmitted him; no one knew him but me and my chamber-*mate. On the wayout, Mayenne met him and kept him while he chose a jewel. Paul deLorraine was there too. I was like to die of fear. I went in to M. deMayenne; I begged him to come out with me to supper, to dismiss thetradespeople that I might talk with him there--anything. But it availednot. M. de Mayenne spoke freely before them, as one does before commonfolk. Presently he led me to supper. Paul was left alone with M. de Marand the boy. He recognized them. He was armed, and they were not, butthey overbore him and locked him up in the closet."
"Mordieu, mademoiselle! I was to rescue M. de Mar for your sake, but nowI will do it for his own. I find him much to my liking. He came awayclear, mademoiselle?"
"Aye, to be seized in the street by the governor's men. When M. deMayenne found how he had been tricked, Sire, he blazed with rage."
"I'll warrant he did!" the king answered, suppressing, however, indeference to her distress, his desire to laugh. "Ventre-saint-gris,mademoiselle! forgive me if this amuses me here at St. Denis. I trow itwas not amusing in the Hotel de Lorraine."
"He sent for me, Sire," she went on, blanching at the memory; "heaccused me of shielding M. de Mar. It was true. He called me liar,traitor, wanton. He said I was false to my house, to my bread, to myhonour. He said I had smiling lips and a Judas-heart--that I had kissedhim and betrayed him. I had given him my promise never to holdintercourse with M. de Mar again, I had given my word to be true to myhouse. M. de Mar came by no will of mine. I had no inkling of suchpurpose till I beheld him before madame and her ladies. He came toentreat me to fly--to wed him. I denied him, Sire. I sent him away. Butwas I to say to the guard, 'This way, gentlemen. This is my lover'?"
"Mademoiselle," the king exclaimed, "good hap that you have turned yourback on the house of Lorraine. Here, if we are but rough soldiers, weknow how to tender you."
"It was not for myself I came," she said more quietly. "My lord had theright to chasten me. I am his ward, and I did deceive him. But while hefoamed at me came word of M. de Mar's capture. Then Mayenne swore heshould pay for this dear. He said he should be found guilty of themurder. He said plenty of witnesses would swear to it. He said M. de Marshould be tortured to make him confess."
With an oath Monsieur sprang forward.
"Aye," she cried, starting up, "he swore M. de Mar should suffer thepreparatory and the previous, the estrapade and the brodekins!"
"He dare not," the king shouted. "Mordieu, he dare not!"
"Sire," she cried, "you can promise him that for every blow he strikesEtienne de M
ar you will strike me two. Mar is in his hands, but I am inyours. For M. de Mar, unhurt, you will deliver him me, unhurt. If hetorture Mar, you will torture me."
"Mademoiselle," the king cried, "rather shall he torture every chevalierin France than I touch a hair of your head!"
"Sire--" the word died away in a sigh; like a snapt rose she fell at hisfeet.
The king was quick, but Monsieur quicker. On his knees beside her,raising her head on his arm, he commanded me:
"Up-stairs, Felix! The door at the back--bid Dame Verney comeinstantly."
I flew, and was back to find him risen, holding mademoiselle in hisarms. Her hair lay loose over his shoulder like a rippling flag; herlashes clung to her cheeks as they would never lift more.
"St. Quentin," his Majesty was saying, "I would have married her to aprince. But since she wants your son she shall have him,ventre-saint-gris, if I storm Paris to-morrow!" And as Monsieur wascarrying her from the room, the king bent over and kissed her.
"Mademoiselle has dropped a packet from her dress," M. de Rosny said."Will you take it, St. Quentin?"
The king, who was nearest, turned to pass it to him; at the sight of ithe uttered his dear "ventre-saint-gris!" It was a flat, oblong packet,tied about with common twine, the seal cut out. The king twitched thestring off, and with one rapid glance at the papers put them intoMonsieur's hand.
"Take them, St. Quentin; they are yours."