V
The letter fell from Messire Gilles' hand unheeded on to the floor. He was staring straight out before him, a world of perplexity in his eyes. Maître Jehan tried in vain to fathom what went on behind his master's lowering brow. Surely the news which he had brought was of the most cheering and of the best. The present humiliating position could not now last very long. Messire de Balagny was on his way, and within a few days—hours, perhaps—he and Messire could once more resume those happy, adventurous times of the past. And yet it seemed as if Messire was not altogether happy. There was something in his attitude, in the droop of his listless hands, as if something bright and hopeful had just slipped out of his grasp—which to Jehan's mind was manifestly absurd.
So he shrugged his wide shoulders and solemnly picked up the fallen letter and pressed it back into Messire's hand. The action roused Gilles from his gloomy meditations.
'Well, my good Jehan!' he said with a grim laugh, which grated very unpleasantly on faithful Jehan's ears. 'If the rest of your news is as good as that contained in Madame la Reyne's letter, you and I will presently find ourselves the two luckiest devils in Flanders.'
Jehan nodded. 'I have n-n-n-no f-f-f-further news,' he blurted out. 'Messire de B-b-b-b-balagny was at La F-f-f-fère when I was th-th-there.'
'With a strong troop?'
Jehan nodded dubiously.
'A couple of hundred men?'
'Or s-s-s-s-so,' retorted Jehan.
'But he himself will be within sight of Cambray to-day?'
'A-a-a-at this hour.'
'And inside the city to-morrow?'
Jehan nodded again.
'And Monseigneur le Duc d'Anjou?'
'In P-p-p-p-aris: ready to st-st-st-start.'
'He does not mean to play a double game this time?'
'No-n-n-n-no-no!' came in rapid and vigorous protest from Maître Jehan.
'Then the sooner I secure his bride for him, the better it will be for Madame la Reyne's schemes,' concluded Gilles dryly. Then suddenly he jumped to his feet, gave a deep sigh, and stretching out his arms with a gesture of impatience and of longing, he said: 'If we could only vacate the field without further ado, honest Jehan! and let Fate do the rest of the dirty work for us!'
His hand as it fell back came in contact with his sword, which was lying across the table; not the exquisite Toledo rapier, the gift of a confiding Queen, but his own stout, useful one, which he had picked up some three years ago now, after his own had been broken in his hand on the field of Gembloux. There it lay, the length of its sheath in shadow; but the slanting rays of the early morning sun fell full upon the hilt, which was shaped like a cross. With it in his hand, with that cross-hilt before his eyes, Gilles de Crohin had sworn by all that he held most sacred and most dear that he would see this business through and would not give it up, until Marguerite of Navarre herself gave him the word. And these were days when the sworn word was a thing that was sacred above all things on this earth; and as Gilles himself had said it on that same memorable occasion, he was not a prince and he could not afford to toy with his word—it was the only thing he possessed. Therefore, though more than one historian, notably Enguerrand de Manuchet, has chosen to cast a slur upon Gilles de Crohin for his actions, I for one do not see how he could have acted otherwise and kept his honour intact. He was pledged to Marguerite de Navarre, had pledged himself to her with eyes open and full knowledge of the Duc d'Anjou's character. To have turned back on his promise, to have broken his word to the Queen, would have been the act of a perjurer and of a coward. He could at this precise moment have walked out of Cambray, that we know. The Duke of Parma's armies at the time that Balagny succeeded in reaching Cambray only occupied that portion of the Cambrésis which adjoined the French frontier. On the West the way lay open, and the whole world on that side was free to the soldier of fortune, even though he would have been forced, after such a course of action, to shake the dust of France for ever from his feet.
But he chose to remain. He chose to continue the deception which had been imposed upon him, even though it involved the happiness of the woman he loved, even though it meant not only to relinquish her to another man, but to a man who was wholly unworthy of her.
Far be it from the writer of this veracious chronicle to excuse Gilles de Crohin in what he did. I do not wish to palliate, only to explain. Far be it from me, I say, to run counter to Messire de Manuchet's learned opinion. But the history of individuals as well as that of nations has a trick of seeming more clear and more proportionate when it is viewed through the glasses of centuries, and it is just possible—I say it in all humility—that Messire de Manuchet, who in addition to being a very capable historian was also a firm adherent of the policy of a French alliance for the sorely stricken Netherlands, felt aggrieved that Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, the fairest heiress in Flanders, did not after all wed Monsieur Duc d'Alençon et d'Anjou, own brother to the King of France, and did not thereby consolidate that volatile Prince's hold upon the United Provinces, and that the learned historian hath vented his disappointment in consequence on the man who ultimately failed to bring that alliance about.
That, of course, is only a surmise. Messire de Manuchet's history of that stirring episode was writ three hundred years ago: he may have been personally acquainted with the chief actors in the palpitating drama—with d'Inchy and Jacqueline de Broyart, with Gilles de Crohin and the Marquis de Landas; even with the Queen of Navarre and Monsieur Duc d'Anjou. He may also have had his own peculiar code of honour, which was not the one laid down by Du Guesclin and Bayard, by Bussy d'Amboise and Gilles de Crohin, and all the protagonists of chivalry.