“De Pean does not lie, Le Gardeur,” answered she, frightened at his look. “The Bourgeois struck you first. I saw him strike you first with his staff. You are a gentleman and would kill the King if he struck you like a dog with his staff. Look where they are lifting him up. You see it is the Bourgeois and no other.”
Le Gardeur gave one wild look and recognized the well-known form and features of the Bourgeois. He threw his sword on the ground, exclaiming, “Oh! oh! unhappy man that I am! It is parricide! parricide! to have slain the father of my brother Pierre! Oh, Angélique des Meloises! you made me draw my sword, and I knew not who it was or what I did!”
“I told you, Le Gardeur, and you are angry with me. But see! hark! what a tumult is gathering; we must get out of this throng or we shall all be killed as well as the Bourgeois. Fly, Le Gardeur, fly! Go to the Palace!”
“To hell sooner! Never shall the Palace see me again!” exclaimed he madly. “The people shall kill me if they will, but save yourself, Angélique. De Pean, lead her instantly away from this cursed spot, or all the blood is not spilt that will be spilt to-day. This is of your contriving, De Pean,” cried he, looking savagely, as if about to spring upon him.
“You would not harm me or her, Le Gardeur?” interrupted De Pean, turning pale at his fierce look.
“Harm her, you fool, no! but I will harm you if you do not instantly take her away out of this tumult. I must see the Bourgeois. Oh God, if he be dead!”
A great cry now ran through the market-place: “The Bourgeois is killed. The Grand Company have assassinated the Bourgeois.” Men ran up from every side shouting and gesticulating. The news spread like wild-fire through the city, and simultaneously a yell for vengeance rose from the excited multitude.
The Recollet Brother Daniel had been the first to fly to the help of the Bourgeois. His gray robe presently was dyed red with the blood of the best friend and protector of their monastery. But death was too quick for even one prayer to be heard or uttered by the dying man.
The gray Brother made the sign of the cross upon the forehead of the Bourgeois, who opened his eyes once for a moment, and looked in the face of the good friar while his lips quivered with two inarticulate words, “Pierre! Amélie!” That was all. His brave eyes closed again forever from the light of the sun. The good Bourgeois Philibert was dead.
“'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,'” repeated the Recollet. “'Even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.'”