IV
The Council Room was crowded when Gilles entered. At first he felt quite dazed. The whole scene was so ununderstandable, so different to what he had expected. He had thought of finding Monseigneur the governor alone in a small apartment; and here he was ushered into a magnificent hall, harmoniously ornamented with priceless Flemish tapestry above the rich carving of the wainscoting. The hall was crowded with men, some of whom he had vaguely seen on the night of the banquet at the Archiepiscopal Palace. There was the Chief Magistrate, a venerable old man, gorgeously decorated with a massive gold chain and other insignia of authority; there were the Mayors of the City guilds, each recognizable by their robes of state and the emblems of their trades; there were the Provosts and the Captains of the guard and the Chiefs of the Guild of Archers, with their crimson sashes, and there was also Monseigneur the governor, looking more pompous and solemn than he had ever done before.
Gilles was once more deeply thankful for the mask which covered his face, together with its expression of boundless astonishment, amounting to consternation, which must inevitably have betrayed him. Already he would have retreated if he could; but even as the swift thought crossed his mind, the ushers closed the doors behind him, the guard fell in, and he was—there was no mistaking it—a virtual prisoner.
Dressed for the journey, booted and spurred, with leather jerkin and heavy belt, he stood for a moment, isolated, at the end of the room, a magnificent and picturesque figure, mysterious and defiant—yes, defiant! For he knew in one instant that he had been trapped and that he, the gambler, had been set to play a losing game.
His quick, keen glance swept over the dignified assembly. Monseigneur, in the centre, was advancing to greet him, bowing almost to the ground in the excess of his deference. Every head was bared, the captains of the guard had drawn their swords and held them up to the salute. Through the wide-open, monumental windows, the pale April sun came peeping in, throwing a glint of gold upon the rich robes of the Provosts and the Mayors. A murmur of respectful greeting went round the room, followed immediately by loud and prolonged cheering; and Gilles—suddenly alive to the whole situation—took his plumed hat from off his head and, with a splendidly insolent gesture, made a sweeping bow to the assembled dignitaries. His life, his honour, his safety, were hanging by a thread. He stood like a trapped beast before a number of men who anon would be clamouring perhaps for his blood; but the whole situation suddenly struck him as so boundlessly humorous, the solemnity of all these worthy Flemings would presently be so completely ruffled, that Gilles forgot the danger he was in, the precariousness of the position in which he stood, only to remember its entirely ludicrous aspect.
'Long live His Highness le Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon!' came in rousing cheers, which woke the echoes of the old Town Hall.
And outside, on the Grand' Place, the people heard the cheering. They did not know yet what it was about, but they had come out on this fine April morning to enjoy themselves, to forget their troubles, their danger, their miseries; and when they heard the cheering, they responded with full throat and heart, and acclaimed not what they knew but what they hoped.
'You have beaten me, Messire,' Gilles said in a good-humoured whisper to Monseigneur the governor, as the latter bent one knee to the ground and kissed the gracious hand of the Valois Prince. 'Never was game so skilfully trapped! All my compliments, Messire. You are a born——' 'liar' he would have said, but checked himself just in time and used the smoother word—'diplomatist.'
'Your Highness will not grudge us our little ruse,' d'Inchy riposted under his breath with a suave smile. 'It is all for your glorification and the exaltation of our promised union with France.'
'Take care, Messire!' retorted Gilles, 'that your want of trust in me doth not receive the punishment it deserves.'
He had still the thought that he might run away. The only time in the whole course of his life that Gilles de Crohin had the desire to show a clean pair of heels to the enemy! If he could only have seen the slightest chance of getting away, he would have taken it—through door or window, up the chimney or the side of a house—any way, in fact, out of this abominable trap which these astute Flemings had so skilfully laid for him. And this, despite the fact that he had spied his arch-enemy, de Landas, at the far end of the room—de Landas, who was gazing on him, not only in mockery but also in triumph.
Nevertheless, Gilles was ready to turn his back even on de Landas—anything, anything, in fact, to get away; for the situation, besides being ludicrous, was tragic too, and desperate. One false move on his part, one unconsidered word, and the whole fabric of Madame la Reyne's schemes would totter to the ground. He seemed to see her now, with her gracious hand extended towards him and the tears streaming down her cheeks, while she said with solemn earnestness: 'When a prince of the house of Valois breaks his word, the shame of it bears upon us all!' He seemed to see himself with his hand upon the crosshilt of his sword, swearing by all that he held most sacred and most dear that he would see this business through to the end. Indeed, the end was in sight, and he felt like a soldier who has been left all alone to defend a citadel and ordered to hold it at all costs.
That citadel was the honour of France.
And the soldier-nature in him not only refused to give in, but at this supreme hour rejoiced in the task. He would hold on at all costs for the honour of Monsieur, his master; but, above all, for the honour of France. If contumely, disgrace or shame was to fall, in consequence of this gigantic hoax, then it must fall entirely on him—Gilles de Crohin, the penniless adventurer—not upon a Prince of the Royal House of France. Either he would be able to extricate himself from this desperate position with the mask still upon his face and Monsieur's secret still inviolate before these assembled Flemings, or the whole burden of knavery and imposture must fall upon him alone—the shameless rogue who had impersonated his master for some unavowable purpose, and perpetrated this impudent fraud for the sake of some paltry gain.
It only took him a few seconds thus to pass the whole situation, present and future, in a brief review before his mind. Having done it, he felt stronger and keener for the fight and ready for any eventuality. The honour of France!—and he left here to guard it! ... Ye gods! but he felt prouder than any king! Contumely, disgrace, exposure, an ignominious flight—mayhap a shameful death. Bah! what mattered anything so long as the honour of France and of her Royal House remained untarnished before the world?
Fortunately Jacqueline was not here! Perhaps she would not come! Perhaps these wily fools, when they had set their trap, had left her out of their reckoning. In which case, all might be well; the chances of exposure remained remote. A little more impudence, a brief half-hour still of this abominable rôle, and the curtain must fall at last upon the farcical tragedy and he, Gilles, would be free to become an honest man once more.
A little luck!! And, remember that he was a gambler, and staking his all upon the last throw!
And as, one by one, the city dignitaries came up to be presented by the governor to His Highness, and as the minutes sped away, hope once more knocked at the gateway of the adventurer's heart. One by one they came, these solemn Flemings. They bent the knee and kissed the hand of the Prince who was to be their Sovereign Lord. And some of them were old and others very rheumatic; most of them appeared to Gilles highly ridiculous in this homage rendered to an impostor. The desire to laugh aloud became positive torture after awhile, and yet nothing but self-possession could carry the day, now that every second rendered Gilles' position more hopeful.
For still Jacqueline did not come! Jacqueline! the only person inside this city who could betray him, and she the one being in the entire world before whom he would have wished to remain deserving and unimpeached. She of a truth would know him amongst a thousand; her loving, searching eyes would laugh at masks and disguises! Her finger alone could, at sight of him, point at him with scorn; her voice, like that of an avenging angel, could be raised against him, saying:
'That man is a liar and a cheat! He is not the Duc d'Anjou!'