The traitor's way

by S. Levett Yeats

“And I demand Marcilly’s release.” It was Condé’s voice that cut in, and Achon answered sullenly:

“You must ask for him from the Holy Office, and its hold is firm.”

“But he shall be freed, or you, Monsieur of Arles, will answer for it.” And now I could wait to hear no more. My scattered senses were recovering themselves. I could not linger until all knew my shame, and this they would know soon enough, for such things travel like lightning from mouth to mouth. Lorgnac was still near to me. He still believed me to be a man of honor. He would help me once more, and bending forward I said to him:

“Monsieur! Can you get me out of this? I—I must go.”

He nodded and smiled. Then putting his arm through mine, he led me along the passage into the courtyard. None dared to hinder him. Even if they had dared, they could have done nothing, for everywhere around us were the Queen’s guards. The gates, too, were no longer kept by the archers, but by grim-looking men in a strange uniform of sombre black.

“They are the gendarmes of Aunis,” said Lorgnac, as we passed the gates. “And, now, adieu! I suppose I shall see you to-morrow at the palace, in the Prince’s suite.”

I took the hand he held out to me for a moment, and, muttering my thanks, turned hastily and mingled with the crowd on the pavement, leaving Lorgnac staring after me in astonishment at my abrupt departure.

In a crowd one is soon lost, and in the uncertain light it would have required sharp eyes to have recognized me, as I threaded my way through the heaving throng. Not that I gave a thought to recapture. My mind was absorbed with one idea, and that was to put miles between me and the scene of my shame. For the moment I was tortured by neither remorse nor fear. I seemed dead to all sensations. All that I wanted was to quit Orleans.

Finally I reached a street that was still in quietness, and halted under a lamp set in the wall of a house above the image of the Virgin. I looked around me. There were but few people stirring here, but some shops were open, and one of these, almost opposite to me, was a place where I saw that I might renew my apparel to some extent, and perhaps get another sword. My purse was still with me, and it was heavy enough, for I was rich in the world’s goods. I determined to act at once; so, crossing the road, I went into the shop and purchased what I wanted—a stout, serviceable sword and a good cloak. The shop-keeper tried to enter into converse with me about the events of the day, the death of the King, and other things, but I cut him short, and paying him his money, stepped out into the street. Once there, I walked on at a brisk pace toward the city gates. No one attempted to stop me, and passing through, I gained the river shore, and looked out for a ferry-boat, but there was not one in sight. I stood for a little, straining my eyes into the night. The moonlight fell soft and clear on the long quay, and on the slow, creeping river before me. Behind me was the city, and the hum of voices joined themselves to the dreamy lapping of the Loire at my feet. On the opposite bank of the river, the night lights of a few boats were burning, and farther still twinkled a long chain of camp-fires, marking the spot where the Constable lay. Thrice I hailed a boatman, calling loudly, but there was no reply, and I heard nothing except the hum from the city behind, and the whisperings of the stream before me. Seeing at last it was useless to waste time here, I turned to the left, and followed the river face, hoping to come across a boat, but with no results. Finally I stopped again and looked around. Yes! There was no doubt of it. I was close to the spot where Caillaud had suffered his martyrdom, on the day of our entry into Orleans. The scaffold was still there, the stacks of wood, not completely used, near it, and perhaps the ashes of the fire were still warm. I stepped up to the scaffold, and, as I did so, a homeless dog rose from behind the wood, and with a quick, short bark at me, fled into the shivering night. From the distance I heard him howling, and my heart sank within me as I thought how even a dog had fled in terror at my approach, a dog to whom I meant no harm.

There as I stood near the scaffold, my mind was again full of bitter thoughts, of useless self-reproach, of hopeless sorrow. I looked toward the river. It moved so calmly. It was so still and deep. Under its placid surface perhaps there would be peace. Better death than this torment in my soul. I made a step toward it, but whether it was cowardice or not, I cannot say; but I stayed myself, and then that hope which never dies flickered once more in my heart. Perhaps I could retrieve myself. If not, surely there was another death yet left to me to die. Not this! I moved back again near the scaffold, and, seating myself on the pile of wood, began to think; but my brain seemed stricken with palsy. All that flamed before my mind, in endless scrolls of fire, was the thought of my infamy. I rose again, but a mist seemed to gather before me. There was a drumming in my ears, and, tottering forward, I clung to the scaffolding to save myself from falling. With my hands clenched to the hoardings, I stood shaking in every limb, and then I suppose I must have fainted. I seemed to be dropping, dropping through endless space, amid the turmoil and din of chaos, amid the unearthly mowings of devils rejoicing at my fall. Then all became blank oblivion. Slowly, slowly I came to myself, and, after a minute or so, gathered strength to stand without the support of the hoardings. I wiped my forehead, which, cold as it was, was damp with sweat, and once more looked around. It was evident that the excess of my mental torture had broken my strength, and strength I must have to go. I determined to retrace my steps, obtain some food, and then risk swimming the Loire, if necessary, to get out of Orleans. I found myself, soon after, in the Rue des Tanneurs, and finally reached a little square just beyond St. Pierre le Puellier, in the corner of which stood a cabaret of some pretensions. Obscure as the square was, cold as the night was, there were numbers of people about, and, as I peered into the cabaret, I saw that it was all but full. Every gossip, every babbler, every idler who had a brown piece in his pocket, was spending it in Vouvray, in Rochecorbon, or in Cognac, while he talked over the news. I entered quietly, and, seeing in a corner a small vacant table, settled myself there, and ordered some food and a bottle of wine. The food I could barely touch, although I forced myself to eat a little; but the wine warmed me, and I began to recover my faculties, and also gained some of that courage that liquor gives to the weakest.