A Gleam of Sunshine
"The heart beats, monsieur; faintly, but it beats."
"Are you sure, Jacques? Are you quite certain?"
"I can feel it plainly, monsieur. He has lost a great deal of blood. If we move him the bleeding may begin again; I will fetch a surgeon to dress his wounds here."
It seemed an age before Jacques returned with a surgeon, and meanwhile Felix lay perfectly still. There was not the flutter of an eyelid, not the twitching of a muscle; only by placing a hand over his heart could one tell that he still lived.
The surgeon shook his head as he bound up the wounds, evidently having little faith in my comrade's chance of recovery. We got him back to the camp, however, where Jacques and I watched by turns all night at his side. Toward morning he moved restlessly, and presently his eyes opened.
"Felix," I said softly, with a great joy at my heart, "Felix, do you know me?"
"The flag!" he said feebly, "follow the flag! Forward, brave hearts!" and he would have risen, but I held him down gently.
"The battle is over, Felix; we have won a great victory. It is I, Edmond. You have been wounded, but are getting better. We found you on the field."
"I dropped the flag," he said, smiling at me, but not knowing me.
"It is all right. We picked it up; it is here," and I placed it near him. His hand closed lovingly round the silken folds, and his eyes were filled with deep contentment.
Leaving the room quietly, I called to Jacques, saying, "He is awake, but he does not recognize me."
"Give him time, monsieur; his brain is not yet clear, but he will come round. Sit by him a while, so that he can see you; he will remember by degrees."
Acting on this suggestion, I returned to the bedside and sat down, but without speaking. Felix lay fingering the flag, but presently his eyes sought mine, wonderingly at first, but afterwards with a gleam of recognition in them.
I had sat thus for perhaps half an hour, when he called me by name, and I bent over him with a throb of joy.
"Edmond," he said, "where are we? Is the battle over?"
"Yes, and Cossé has been badly beaten. You were hurt in the last charge."
"Yes," he said slowly, "I remember. Ah, you found the flag!"
"It was lying beside you; your horse was killed."
"A pistol-shot," he said, "and a fellow cut at me with his sword at the same time. But I am tired. Is the Admiral safe?"
"Yes, I am going to him now. Jacques will stay with you, and I will send the surgeon."
Fearing lest he should overtax his strength, I went out, and after a visit to the surgeon proceeded to Coligny's tent. My heart ached as I gazed around at my comrades, and realized more fully what the victory had cost us.
"Is Bellièvre likely to recover?" asked one.
"I hope so; he is quite sensible, but very weak."
"He did a splendid thing! The Admiral is very proud of him."
"That piece of information will go a long way toward pulling him through!" I said.
Just then Coligny himself came from his tent, and hearing our talk inquired kindly after my comrade.
"He is sensible, my lord, and I am hoping he may recover," I replied.
"I trust so; we cannot well afford to lose such a gallant lad. I must come to see him presently, and tell him how much we owe him."
"That will do him more good than all the surgeon's skill!" I said.
The excitement of the closing scenes of the battle, the uncertainty as to my comrade's fate, and the long night's watch had driven from my head all remembrance of the incident connected with Henry of Bearn, but the prince himself had not forgotten.
During the forenoon he came riding over to Coligny's quarters, debonair and gracious as ever.
"I have come," said he to the Admiral, "not exactly to pay a debt, but to acknowledge it. I owe my life to one of your gentlemen; but for his bravery and skill with the sword Henry of Bearn would be food for the worms. I trust he still lives to accept my thanks."
"Le Blanc! It is Le Blanc!" murmured my comrades.
"That is the name," said the prince with his frank smile, "and there is the gentleman."
My comrades pushed me forward, and I advanced awkwardly, hot with confusion, but—I have no false shame about admitting the truth—my breast swelling with pride.
"Monsieur," exclaimed the prince genially, "yesterday we had leisure for but little speech, and my thanks were necessarily of the scantiest. To-day I wish to acknowledge before your comrades in arms that, when I was sorely beset and had no thought except to sell my life dearly, you came in the most gallant manner to my rescue. I have not much to offer you, monsieur, beyond my friendship, but that is yours until the day of my death."
He paused here, and, unbuckling his sword, placed it in my hands, saying, "Here is the token of my promise. Should the day ever come when you ask in vain anything that I can grant, let all men call Henry of Bearn ingrate and traitor to his plighted word. I call you, my Lord Admiral, and you, gentlemen, to witness."
I tried to say something in reply, but the words were choked in my throat; not one would come. But a still higher honour was in store for me. The Admiral—the great and good leader whom we all worshipped—removing my sword, buckled on the prince's gift with his own hands.
"I rejoice," said he speaking slowly as was his wont, "that the son of the hero who died for the Cause at St. Jean d'Angely should thus add honour to his father's name."
I managed to stammer out a few words, and then my comrades crowded around, cheering me with generous enthusiasm. And, when the prince had gone, I had the further happiness of conducting the Admiral to our tent, and of hearing the words of praise he spoke to Felix, who would gladly have died a thousand deaths to have secured such honour.
I said nothing to him that day of the prince's gracious gift—he had already had as much excitement as he could bear—but Jacques, of course, had heard of it, and the trusty fellow showed as much pride as if he himself had received a patent of nobility. Roger Braund, too, came to congratulate me, and his pleasure was so genuine that it made mine the greater. Altogether I think that day after the battle of Arnay-le-Duc was the most wonderful of my life.
The defeat of Marshal Cossé was so complete that we met with no further opposition, but pushed on to Chatillon, the sleepy little town which had the honour of being the birth-place of our noble chief. Having to attend on the Admiral, I left my wounded comrade in the care of Jacques, who made him as comfortable as possible in one of the wagons, and waited upon him day and night. Whenever opportunity offered I rode back to see him, and each time found to my delight that he was progressing favourably.
At last we reached the town and rode along the main street through groups of cheering citizens to the castle, a strong and massive fortress with ample accommodation for thousands of persons. It stood in the midst of a vast enclosure, surrounded by a deep and wide fosse; and the thick walls, as Roger remarked, appeared capable of withstanding the assaults of a well-equipped army.
Inside the enclosure were large gardens and handsome terraces, while the huge tower, sixty feet high, looked down into a wide and spacious courtyard.
"This is pleasant and comfortable," said Roger that same evening, "but what does it mean? Why have we come here? I understood we were to march on Paris."
"I do not know; there is some talk of peace. Several important messengers were despatched post-haste to the king directly after the defeat of Cossé."
Roger shrugged his shoulders. "I think it a mistake," he said; "one should never come to terms with an enemy who is only half-beaten; it gives him time to recover."
"Well, this is pleasanter than marching through Dauphigny."
"So it is," he agreed laughingly; "what a magnificent old place it is! Your nobles are very powerful; almost too powerful for the king's comfort I should fancy. How is Felix?"
"Getting well rapidly, and clamouring to leave his bed. As usual, he is just a little too impatient."
"That is his chief failing," said Roger, "but he is a gallant fellow nevertheless. I wonder how your mother and sister are!"
"If we stay here, as seems likely, I shall despatch Jacques on a visit to Rochelle."
"Do not forget to say I send them my deepest respect and sympathy. Indeed, Jacques might carry a little note from me."
"To my mother?" I asked mischievously.
"Of course," he replied, with a blush that became him well; but all the same when, a few days later, Jacques started on his journey, I noticed that Roger's letter was addressed to Jeanne. Perhaps being in a hurry he had made a mistake!
We passed our time at Chatillon very pleasantly. Felix was soon able to leave his bed, and every day increased his strength. The rumours of an approaching peace became stronger, and at last it was announced that Coligny had signed a treaty, which secured to those of the Religion perfect freedom to worship as they pleased.
"As long as we keep our swords loose, and our horses saddled," said Felix, "but no longer," and Roger, rather to my surprise, agreed with him.
It was the time of evening, and we were walking on one of the terraces, when Jacques rode slowly into the courtyard. He looked tired and travel-stained, as was but natural, but his face wore a gloomy expression that could not be due to fatigue. I went down to him quickly with a sudden sinking of the heart.
"Well, Jacques, what news?" I cried, with forced cheerfulness.
"The country is quiet, monsieur, and the citizens are rejoicing in Rochelle."
"I care nothing for Rochelle just now; 'tis of my mother and sister I would hear. Are they well? Are they cheerful? Have they written to me? Speak out, man; is your tongue in a knot?"
"I would it were," said he, "if that would alter the news I bring. You must brace yourself, monsieur, to face another calamity. But here is a letter from Mademoiselle Jeanne."
"From Jeanne?" I repeated, and at that I understood the truth. My mother was dead!
I read the blotted and tear-stained paper with moist eyes. On the very day when we started from Narbonne on our memorable march, my poor mother, who had never really recovered from the shock of my father's death, breathed her last. Concerning herself, Jeanne said little except that she was living in the household of the Queen of Navarre, who was holding her court at Rochelle.
After telling Felix and Roger the sad news, I went away to brood over my sorrow alone. It was a heavy blow, and the heavier because so unexpected. The chance that my mother might die during my absence had never struck me, and I had been looking forward impatiently to meeting her again.
Fortunately, the newly-signed peace brought me many active duties. The army was disbanded, and most of our chiefs began their preparations for a visit to Rochelle. Felix and I were kept busy, and indeed until the journey began we had few idle moments.
The little band of Englishmen who had survived the war—gallant hearts, they had spent themselves so recklessly that barely a dozen remained—accompanied us, and naturally we saw a great deal of Roger.
"I suppose," said Felix to him one day, "that now you will return to England?"
"My comrades are returning at once," he replied, "but I shall stay a while longer; perhaps even pay a visit to Paris before I leave."
"If you wish to see Paris," said Felix, "it will be well to go quickly, before the clouds burst again"; but Roger observed with a smile that he intended to stay in Rochelle for a few weeks at least.
Our entry into the city was very different from that after the rout of Montcontour. Cannon boomed, church bells rang merrily, the streets were gay with flags and flowers and triumphal arches; while the citizens, dressed in their best, with happy smiling faces, cheered until they were hoarse, as the Admiral, with Henry of Bearn on his right and the youthful Condé on his left, rode through the gateway.
Jeanne, with several of the queen's ladies, was sitting in the balcony of the Hôtel Coligny. Catching sight of us, she stood up and waved her hand, and we bowed low in our saddles, and smiled, and waved our hands in return.
"Your sister is more beautiful than ever, Edmond," said my comrade enthusiastically.
"She looked paler, I thought," I replied, as we turned into the courtyard; "but now the war is over we shall have a chance to cheer her a little."
"Did she see Roger Braund, do you think?"
"It is likely enough," I laughed; "he is a fair size, and sits up well in the saddle," a harmless pleasantry which, to judge by his peevish exclamation, Felix did not appreciate.
That evening we all met at the reception given by the Queen of Navarre, a reception brilliant by reason of the number of brave men and beautiful women assembled. I had spent an hour alone with Jeanne during the afternoon, and she had told me of our mother's illness, and of her last loving message to myself.
I asked how she came to be in the Queen of Navarre's household, and her eyes kindled and her face flushed as she answered, "Oh, Edmond, the queen has been the kindest of friends! She sought me out in my sorrow, saying it was not right that the daughter of so brave a soldier as my father should be left to bear her grief alone. She insisted on my becoming one of her ladies-in-waiting, and ever since has done her best to make me happy."
My sister was certainly very beautiful, and I could not wonder to see the numbers of handsome and highborn cavaliers who clustered around her that evening. But Jeanne was staunch and leal, and, though courteous to all, it was in the company of her old friends Felix and Roger she found her chief pleasure.
We four were chatting together, and Felix was describing in his lively way some of our adventures, when Henry of Bearn drew near.
"Le Blanc," he exclaimed, looking at me, "surely it is Le Blanc!" and taking my arm he added jovially, "come with me, I must present you specially to my mother. She ought to know to whom she is indebted for her son's life."
Jeanne looked at me in surprise, and as we moved away I heard Felix saying, "I warrant he never told you a word of that. By my faith, one could hardly blame him had he cried it from the housetops!"
Meanwhile the prince marched up the room, his arm placed affectionately on my shoulder, and presented me to the gracious lady who was such a tower of strength to the Cause.
"Madame," he said in his hearty way, "this is the cavalier of whom I spoke. But for his courage Henry of Bearn would have been left lying on the field at Arnay-le-Duc."
She gave me her hand to kiss, and thanked me graciously, saying that while she or her son lived I should not want a true friend.
"Madame," I replied, "in taking my sister under your gracious protection you have already shown your kindness."
"Your sister!" she said in surprise; "who is your sister?"
"Jeanne Le Blanc, whom your Majesty has honoured by making one of your ladies-in-waiting."
"Then you must be the Sieur Le Blanc!"
"Edmond Le Blanc, your Majesty. My father sacrificed his title and his lands, as well as his life, for the Cause!"
"How is this?" asked her son, and when I had related the story, he declared roundly that, with the Admiral's support, he would force the king to restore my rights.
Presently I withdrew, and Jeanne, to whom Felix had related the adventure, kissed me and made much of me, to the envy of my two comrades, who, poor fellows, had no pretty sister of their own. It was a proud night for me, but the shadow of my parents' death lay on my happiness, and I would gladly have sacrificed all my honours for their presence.
"If life at Rochelle is to be as agreeable as this," remarked Roger, with a glance at my sister, "I shall be loth to return to England."
"Then you can be no true Englishman!" laughed Jeanne, as she wished us good-night before going to attend upon her royal mistress.