Ah! ’Twas sweet and holy thinking for me. But alive or dead, my wish to cease this idle play at service to the King and be up and doing something to find her, or to avenge her death, came upon me again strong as upon the sand-spit when my heart beat high with hope. I must go back in search of Mademoiselle. I could not wait with this fever of hope burning into my heart. I wished now that I had never left the country—that I had thrown in my lot with the Indians and thus lost no opportunity to hang upon the trail of the Spaniards and so have learned the truth beyond any doubt. De Brésac would say nothing. He merely shook his head, or, sighing deeply, shrugged his shoulders. M. de Teligny advised that I give up all hope of ever seeing Mademoiselle again. So I had no encouragement, save only that hope which came like an instinct from my own breast.
The days dragged slowly by. Another messenger had been sent to Forquevaulx and another answer had arrived from the Court of Spain. The whole affair was now the property of the people, and in every inn could be heard expressions of horror and consternation from Catholic and Protestant alike. Charles had written Forquevaulx in this fashion:
“It is my will that you renew your complaint, that reparation be made for the wrong done me and the cruelties committed on my subjects, to which I cannot submit without too great a loss of reputation. The Seigneur de Forquevaulx will not fail to insist, be the answer what it may, in order that the King of Spain shall understand that His Majesty of France has no less spirit than his predecessors to repel an insult.”
Brave words enough. Words indeed! Words were made to hide the thoughts of courtiers!
Forquevaulx fulfilled his commission. Philip’s only reply was to refer him to the Duke of Alava.
“I have no hope,” wrote Forquevaulx after this, “that the Duke d’Alava will give any satisfaction as to the massacre, for it was he who advised it from the first.”
That was the news we heard, and that was like to be the end of the matter. The King of France had been three times insulted and now refused to raise further voice in reply. Charles and the Queen-mother would not quarrel with Spain, and all France rang with the indignity. They had resigned themselves to the affront. We saw the King almost daily going to the hunt, a faint color stealing into his sallow cheeks as he cantered down the crooked streets with his brave following. Smiles wreathed the lips where sternness should have been; and eyes that should have wept his own heart’s blood danced and sparkled with the joy and passion of the chase. It was a grievous thing to see a man of his good presence falling deeper and deeper under the blight of his weakness. For all Charles cared, outraged humanity might forever cry aloud, the blood of hundreds of murdered Frenchmen might stain his very hearthstone, and the proud standards of France be lowered and trampled in the dust by the soldiers or assassins of any nation of the earth. Was he not the King? Was the stag-hunting not good? And had he not written a sonnet to the eyes of Marie Touchet and an ode to “Justice,” both of which M. Ronsard had pronounced incomparable?
But there were still gallant men in France. Our petitions and those of the relatives of the martyrs were not to be made in vain. Upon the morning of a certain day, while we were yet within doors, came a gentleman asking for M. de Brésac. He was a soldier of ancient birth and high renown, named Dominique de Gourgues of Mont-de-Marsan. De Brésac had served with him, and had told me something of his vigorous fiery nature and life; how as a boy he had been taken by the Spaniards near Sienna; how with brutal insult they had chained him to the oar as a galley-slave; how the Turks had captured this vessel and carried her to Constantinople; how they had put to sea again and were captured by a galley of the Knights of Malta who had set the prisoners free. De Gourgues had served in all parts of the world and his reputation as a naval commander in France was high—second only to that of the martyred Ribault. He hated the Spaniards with a mortal hatred and the tidings which we had brought from Florida had set his hot Gascon blood a boiling.
But I was ill-prepared for the figure he presented. I had pictured him a great swarthy man built somewhat upon the scale of Diego de Baçan, with a deep roaring voice and the manner of a bravo. The person I saw was none of this; for he was not large in stature, having a figure tight-knit even to slenderness. Yet it was plain to see he was built upon the model of a hound, and that the muscles upon him were as steel springs fastened upon a frame of iron. His head was ugly beyond expression, somewhat in the shape of a pear, with a wide bulging forehead, the flesh falling away at the temples and cheeks almost to emaciation. I looked in vain to his mouth and chin for the force I could not find in his brows; and then back to his eyes, where my gaze at last rested enthralled. All else might have been as nothing and those mysterious eyes would have revealed how deep lay the soul of the man. I saw them not often in repose upon this morning, for they were flashing forth the fire that was raging in his heart; but when he paused a moment they opened wide under the broad brows,—melancholy, penetrating, but frank, sincere and true; eyes to watch, to grieve, to weep even, but not to deceive those he held in esteem. His voice was not strident or harsh, even as he spoke loudly, but soft as that of a woman. But in it there was that note of command which no man who has served with a great officer can ever forget.
He bounded up the stone stairs, two steps at a time, and came into the chamber with an unmistakable vigor and firmness, as one accustomed and sure of his welcome.