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.