The traitor's way

by S. Levett Yeats

“The King has agreed to his death; but there is still hope. I bring his message to you. It is: Take the young child and flee into Egypt. And, madame—go now—for it will be too late to-morrow.” He said the last words quickly, as if he felt he would not have time to finish his speech, and then fell sideways into my arms like a dead man.

And now I saw what a good woman can do. Save for a rapid gesture of despair as Maligny gave his abrupt message, she made no sign, but bent over the fainting man, giving some orders about him as calmly as if he, and he alone, were the one object that filled her mind. We carried him to the nearest room—mine—and Chandieu, the Prince’s chaplain, a man skilled in wounds, was soon by his side. To our intense relief, he pronounced Maligny merely faint from fatigue, saying that the wound on his arm was nothing, and that he would be as well as ever in a few hours. Then he took charge of him, driving us all from the room as he would be alone with his patient.

We gathered in a group on the rush-covered daïs of the great hall. We were all there except Marcilly, whom I saw nowhere. Lanoy had accounted for his man, and Coqueville was limping and bruised. It was he who had been ridden down, and it was thought killed, by the one who had escaped, but he had come to no hurt.

We were discussing Maligny’s tidings and Condé’s message, and Coqueville was earnest in his entreaty for the Princess to leave Châtillon at once.

“Madame,” he said, “it is not for ourselves I speak. There is monseigneur here to think of, the heir of the Sires des fleurs des lys.” As he spoke he placed his sunburnt hand lightly on the shoulder of the slender, fair-haired boy, her son, who stood by her side. He was not alone in pressing the matter, and it was for an hour or more, perhaps, that we discussed it, until we reached the last corner in madame’s patience, for she spoke firmly and crisply:

“Messieurs! Very well! I shall leave Châtillon now; but for Orleans. My place is there. I have neglected my duty too long.”

She was facing us, a small, slight woman she was, but for the moment she seemed to have grown absolutely tall. “As for Henri here,” she went on, stooping and giving the boy a fierce little kiss, “he must live for vengeance if need be.”

What more she would have said I know not, but now Maligny appeared, his arm bandaged, and leaning for support on Jean. Behind came Chandieu, a tall, dark figure. As they approached it was impossible not to be struck by Marcilly’s resemblance to Condé. In a crowd a hundred men would have sworn he was the Prince. He had the same slight, spare figure, the same red-brown hair, the same eyes, even his voice, his very gestures were the same.

In the moment of excitement I had forgotten about myself, else I had not dared to face Marcilly with the consciousness of my recent shameful action upon me. It is one crowning mercy that there are moments when even the most sinful forget—even I do sometimes—for a very little.

“Madame,” said Maligny, “I have come to finish what I fear I began too bluntly. It is true that the sentence has been passed, but the Chancellor has refused to affix the Great Seal, and no day has been appointed for——” and he hesitated a moment, and then went on, not finishing his sentence, though we all understood: “The King is very ill, and at any time may relent. Strange as it may seem, the Italian is veering round in our favor. The Guise grow too great, and she realizes now what that greatness will mean for her. The Admiral knows her mind, and ’tis said that the Constable will now move from Yvoy le Marron. There is a plan even now to save the Prince”; he looked at Marcilly, and then went on: “but, in the mean time, it is of the first importance that you and the young Prince should be safe from harm. Monseigneur kisses your hands, and begs you to leave Châtillon for St. Bauld, where d’Andelot lies with fifty horse to escort you to the Admiral and safety. There is one, too, who aids us in secret—I dare not give the name—and I tell you that no sword will be drawn to stay us if we leave within the next few hours. Who those wasps were who attacked me in the wood, I know not. They are done with, however, for the present. The danger now is in staying—none in going—but we must go now.”