THE TWO DIANAS.

BY

ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO.

BOSTON, LITTLE, BROWN, & CO.

1894.

Alexandre Dumas.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

The claim of Alexandre Dumas to be considered first among historical romancists, past or present, can hardly be disputed; and his magic pen finds abundant, rich material for the historical setting of the tale told in the following pages. The period in which the action of "The Two Dianas" is supposed to take place, covers the later years of Henri II. and the brief and melancholy reign of his oldest son, François II., the ill-fated husband of Mary Stuart, whose later history has caused her brief occupancy of the throne of France to be lost sight of. This period saw the germination and early maturity, if not the actual sowing, of the spirit of the Reformation in France. It was during these years that the name of John Calvin acquired the celebrity which has never waned, and that his devoted followers, La Renaudie, Théodore de Bèze, Ambroise Paré, the famous surgeon, and the immortal Coligny began the crusade for freedom of worship which was steadily maintained, unchecked by Tumult of Amboise, or Massacre of St. Bartholomew, until Henri of Navarre put the crown upon their heroic labors, and gave them respite for a time with the famous "Edict of Nantes," made more famous still by its "Revocation" a century later under the auspices of Madame de Maintenon, at the instigation of her Jesuit allies. Those portions of the story which introduce us to the councils of the Reformers are none the less interesting because the characters introduced are actual historical personages, nor can it fail to add interest to the encounter between La Renaudie and Pardaillan to know that it really took place, and that the two men had previously been to each other almost nearer than brothers. It was but one of innumerable heart-rending incidents, inseparable from all civil and religious conflicts, but in which those presided over by the Florentine mother of three Valois kings of France were prolific beyond belief.

How closely the author has adhered to historical fact for the groundwork of his tale, will appear by comparing it with one of Balzac's Études Philosophiques, entitled "Sur Catherine de Médicis," the first part of which covers the same period as "The Two Dianas," and describes many of the same events; the variations are of the slightest.

The patient forbearance of Catherine de Médicis, under the neglect of her husband, and the arrogant presumption of Diane de Poitiers, abetted by the Constable de Montmorency; her swift and speedy vengeance upon them as soon as she was left a widow with her large brood of possible kings; her jealous fear of the influence of the Duc de Guise and his brother the Cardinal de Lorraine, which led her to desire the death of her eldest son, the unfortunate François, because his queen was the niece of the powerful and ambitious brothers, and which also led her to oppose their influence by a combination with two such incongruous elements as the Constable Montmorency and the Protestant Bourbon princes of Navarre, remaining all the while the bitterest foe that the reformed religion ever had,—all these, as described in the following pages, are strictly in conformity with historical fact So, too, is the story of the defence of St. Quentin in its main details, and of the siege of Calais, where the Duc de Guise did receive the terrible wound which caused the sobriquet of Le Balafré to be applied to him, and was cured by the skilful hand of Master Ambroise Paré. So of the Tumult of Amboise, and the painful scenes attending the execution of the victims; and so, finally, of the scene at the death-bed of François II., the controversy between the shrinking conservatism of the King's regular medical advisers, and the daring eclecticism of Paré, proposing to perform the "new operation" of trepanning. It may, perhaps, be said that the Chancellor de l'Hôpital is made to appear in too unfavorable a light; he certainly was something far above the mere bond-slave of Catherine de Médicis.

Dumas himself tells us what basis of truth there is for the sometimes amusing, sometimes serious, but always intensely interesting confusion between Martin-Guerre and his unscrupulous double.

Nowhere, it may be said, in history or romance, is there to be found so touching a glimpse as this of poor Mary Stuart. Here we see naught save the lovely and lovable side of the unfortunate queen, without a hint of the fatal weakness which, as it developed in the stormy later years of her life, made her marvellous beauty and charm the instruments of her ruin.

So much for those portions of "The Two Dianas" which rest upon a basis of fact. History records further that Henri II. was accidentally killed in friendly jousting by the Comte de Montgommery; but with that history ends and romance begins. The personage whom Monsieur Dumas presents to us under that title perhaps never existed; but let the reader be the judge, after reading of the pure and sacred but unhappy love of Gabriel de Montgommery and Diane de Castro, if a lovelier gem of fiction was ever enclosed in an historical setting.

LIST OF CHARACTERS.

Period, 1521-1574.

ILLUSTRATIONS

PORTRAITS.

[Alexandre Dumas]

ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS

DRAWN AND ETCHED BY E. VAN MUYDEN.

[A King's Mistress]

[Mary Stuart and Gabriel]

CONTENTS

Chapter
[I. A Count's Son and a King's Daughter]
[II. A Bride who plays with Dolls]
[III. In Camp]
[IV. A King's Mistress]
[V. In the Apartments of the Royal Children]
[VI. Diane de Castro]
[VII. How the Constable said his Pater Noster]
[VIII. A Fortunate Tourney]
[IX. How One may pass close by his Destiny
without Knowing it]
[X. An Elegy during the Progress of a Comedy]
[XI. Peace or War?]
[XII. A Twofold Knave]
[XIII. The Acme of Happiness]
[XIV. Diane de Poitiers]
[XV. Catherine de Médicis]
[XVI. Lover or Brother?]
[XVII. The Horoscope]
[XVIII. The Last Resort of a Coquette]
[XIX. How Henri II. began to enjoy his Inheritance
during his Bather's Life]
[XX. Of the Usefulness of Friends]
[XXI. Wherein it is shown that Jealousy sometimes
abolished titles even before
the French Revolution]
[XXII. Describes the Most Convincing Proof
that a Woman can give that a Man
is not her Lover]
[XXIII. Useless Devotion]
[XXIV. Shows that Blood-Stains can never be
completely washed out]
[XXV. An Heroic Ransom]
[XXVI. Jean Peuquoy the Weaver]
[XXVII. Gabriel at Work]
[XXVIII. Wherein Martin-Guerre is not Clever]
[XXIX. Wherein Martin-Guerre is a Bungler]
[XXX. The Strategy of War]
[XXXI. Arnauld du Thill's Memory]
[XXXII. Theology]
[XXXIII. Sister Bénie]
[XXXIV. A Victorious Defeat]
[XXXV. Arnauld du Thill is still up to his
Little Tricks]
[XXXVI. Continuation of Master Arnauld du
Thill's Honorable Negotiations]
[XXXVII. Lord Wentworth]
[XXXVIII. The Amorous Jailer]
[XXXIX. The Armorer's House]

THE TWO DIANAS

CHAPTER I
A COUNT'S SON AND A KING'S DAUGHTER

It was the 5th of May, 1551. A young man of eighteen years, and a woman of forty, together leaving a house of unpretentious appearance, walked side by side through the main street of the village of Montgommery, in the province of Auge.

The young man was of the fine Norman type, with chestnut hair, blue eyes, white teeth, and red lips. He had the fresh, velvety complexion common to men of the North, which sometimes takes away a little manly strength from their beauty, by making it almost feminine in its quality; but his figure was superb, both in its proportions and its suppleness, partaking at once of the character of the oak and the reed. He was simply but handsomely dressed, in a doublet of rich purple cloth, with light silk embroidery of the same color. His breeches were of similar cloth, and trimmed in the same way as the doublet; long black leather boots, such as pages and varlets wore, extended above his knees; and a velvet cap, worn slightly on one side and adorned with a white plume, covered a brow on which could be read indications of a tranquil and steadfast mind.

His horse, whose rein was passed through his arm, followed him, raising his head from time to time, snorting and neighing with pleasure in the fresh air that was blowing.

The woman seemed to belong, if not to the lower orders of society, at least to a class somewhere between them and the bourgeoisie. Her dress was simple, but of such exquisite neatness that very quality seemed to give it elegance. More than once the young man offered her the support of his arm, but she persistently declined it, as if it would have been an honor above her condition.

As they walked through the village, and drew near the end of the street that led to the château, whose ponderous towers were in full sight, overlooking the humble settlement, it was very noticeable that not only the young people and the men, but even the gray heads bowed low as the young man passed, while he responded with a friendly nod of the head. Each one seemed to recognize a superior and a master in this youth, who, as we shall soon see, did not know his own identity.

Leaving the village behind them, they followed the road, or rather the path, which, in its winding course up the slope of the mountain, was barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. So, after some objections, and upon the young man's remarking to his companion that as he was obliged to lead his horse it would be dangerous for her to walk behind, the good woman was induced to go in advance.

The young man followed her without a word. One could see that his thoughtful brow was wrinkled beneath the weight of some engrossing preoccupation.

A fine and lordly château it was toward which our two pilgrims, so different in age and station, were thus wending their way. Four centuries and ten generations had hardly sufficed for that mass of rock to grow from foundation to battlements; and there it stood, itself a mountain towering above the mountain on which it was built.

Like all the structures of that age, the château of the counts of Montgommery was absolutely irregular in its formation. Fathers had bequeathed it to their sons, and each temporary proprietor had added to this stone colossus according to his fancy or his need. The square donjon, the principal fortification, had been built under the dukes of Normandy. Then the fanciful turrets on the battlements and the ornamented windows had been added to the frowning donjon, multiplying the chased and sculptured stonework as time went on, as if the years had been fruitful in this granite vegetation. At last, toward the end of the reign of Louis XII., and in the early days of François I., a long gallery with pointed windows had put the last touch to this secular agglomeration.

From this gallery, and still better from the summit of the donjon, could be had an extended view over several leagues of the rich, blooming plains of Normandy. For, as we have already said, the county of Montgommery was situated in the province of Auge, and its eight or ten baronies and its hundred and fifty fiefs were dependencies of the bailiwicks of Argentan, Caen, and Alençon.

At last they reached the great portal of the château.

Think of it! For more than fifteen years this magnificent and formidable donjon had been without a master. An old intendant still continued to collect the rents; and there were some of the servants, too, who had grown old in that solitude, and who continued to look after the château, whose doors they threw open every day, as if the master was to be expected at any moment, while they closed them again at evening, as if his coming were simply postponed till the next day.

The intendant received the two visitors with the same appearance of friendliness that every one seemed to show to the woman, and the same deference which all agreed in according to the young man.

"Master Elyot," said the woman, who was in advance, as we have seen, "do you mind letting us go into the château? I have something to say to Monsieur Gabriel" (pointing to the young man), "and I can only say it in the salon d'honneur."

"Come in, Dame Aloyse," said Elyot, "and say what you have to say to young master here, wherever you choose. You know very well that unhappily there is no one here to interrupt you."

They passed through the salle des gardes. Formerly twelve men, raised upon the estates, used to be on guard without intermission in that apartment. During fifteen years seven of these men had died, and their places had not been filled. Five of them were left; and they still lived there, doing the same duty as in the count's time, and waiting till their turn to die should come.

They passed through the gallery and entered the salon d'honneur.

It was furnished just as it had been the day that the last count had left it. But this salon, where in former days all the Norman nobility had used to assemble, as in the salon of a lord paramount, not a soul had entered for fifteen years, save the servants whose duty it was to keep it in order, and a faithful dog, the last count's pet, who every time that he entered the room called for his master mournfully, and at last had refused to go out one day, and had stretched himself out at the foot of the dais, where they found him the next morning, dead.

It was not without emotion that Gabriel (such was the name that had been given to the young man by his companion) entered this salon, with its memories of other days. However, the impression made upon him by these gloomy walls, the majestic dais, and the windows cut so deep into the wall that although it was only ten in the morning, the daylight seemed to have stopped at the threshold,—the impression, we repeat, was not strong enough to divert his mind for a single moment from the purpose which had drawn him thither; and as soon as the door was closed behind him, he turned to his companion.

"Come, dear Aloyse, my good nurse," said he, "really, although you seem more moved than I, you have no longer the least excuse for refusing to tell me what you have promised. Now, Aloyse, you must speak without fear, and, above all, without delay. Haven't you hesitated long enough, my dear, kind nurse; and have I not, like an obedient son, waited long enough h When I asked you what name I had the right to bear, and to what family I belonged, and who my father was, you replied, 'Gabriel, I will tell you the whole story on the day that you are eighteen,—the age at which he who has the right to wear a sword attains his majority.' Now, to-day, this 5th of May, 1551, I have lived eighteen full years; so I called upon you this morning to keep your promise, but you replied with a solemn visage which almost terrified me, 'It is not here in the humble dwelling of a poor squire's widow that I should make you known to yourself, but in the château of the counts of Montgommery, and in the salon d'honneur in that château.' Now we have come up the mountain, good Aloyse, have crossed the threshold of the noble counts, and here we are in the salon d'honneur; so, speak!"

"Sit down, Gabriel, for you will allow me to call you by that name once more."

The young man took her hands with a most affectionate movement.

"Sit down," she repeated, "not on that chair, nor on that sofa."

"But where do you want me to sit, then, dear nurse?" interrupted the young man.

"Under this dais," said Aloyse, with an accent of deep solemnity.

The young man complied.

Aloyse nodded her head.

"Now, listen to me," said she.

"But do you be seated too," said Gabriel

"Will you permit me?"

"Are you laughing at me, nurse?"

The good woman took her place on the steps of the dais, at the feet of the young man, who was all attention, and devoured her with a gaze full of kindliness and curiosity.

"Gabriel," said the nurse, when she had at last made up her mind to speak, "you were scarcely six years old when you lost your father and I lost my husband. You had been my foster-child, for your mother died in giving birth to you. From that day, I, your mother's foster-sister, loved you as if you were my own child. The widow devoted her life to the orphan. As she had given you her breast, she gave you her heart too; and you will do me this justice, will you not, Gabriel, that in your belief, my thoughts, when you have been away from me, have never failed to be with you and watching over you?"

"Dear Aloyse," said the young man, "many real mothers would have done less than you have. I swear it; and not one, I swear again, could have done more."

"Every one, in fact, was as eager to serve you as I, who had been the first to show my zeal." continued the nurse. "Dom Jamet de Croisic, the worthy chaplain of this very château, and whom the Lord called to himself three months since, instructed you very carefully in letters and science, and according to what he said, you had nothing to learn from any one in the matter of reading and writing and knowledge of history, especially of the great families of France. Enguerrand Lorien, the intimate friend of my dead-and-gone husband, Perrot Travigny, and the old squire of our neighbors, the counts of Vimoutiers, taught you the science of arms, the management of the lance and sword, horsemanship, and in fact all the knightly accomplishments; and then the fêtes and tournaments which were held at Alençon at the time of the marriage and coronation of our Lord King Henri II., gave you an opportunity to prove, two years since, that you have taken advantage of Enguerrand's instructions. I, poor know nothing, could only love you and teach you to worship God. That is all that I have tried to do. The Holy Virgin has been my guide, and here you are to-day, at eighteen, a pious Christian man, a learned gentleman, and an accomplished knight; and I hope that with God's help, you will not fail to show yourself worthy of your ancestors, MONSIEUR GABRIEL, SEIGNEUR DE LORGES, COMTE DE MONTGOMMERY."

Gabriel involuntarily rose to his feet, as he cried,—

"Comte de Montgommery! I!" Then he went on, with a proud smile on his lips,—

"Oh, well, I hoped so, and I almost suspected it; in fact, Aloyse, in the days of my boyish dreams I said as much to my little Diane. But what are you doing to my feet, Aloyse, pray? Rise, and come to my arms, thou saintly creature! Don't you choose to acknowledge me as your child any more now that I am heir of the Montgommerys? Heir of the Montgommerys!" he repeated, as if in spite of himself, trembling with pride as he embraced the good old soul. "Heir of the Montgommerys! And I bear one of the oldest and most honorable names of France! Yes; Dom Jamet has taught me the history of my ancestors, reign by reign, and generation by generation. Of my ancestors! Embrace me again, Aloyse! I wonder what Diane will say to all this. Saint Godegrand, Bishop of Chartres, and Sainte Opportune, his sister, who lived in Charlemagne's day, were of our family. Roger de Montgommery commanded an army under William the Conqueror. Guillaume de Montgommery made a crusade at his own expense. We have been allied more than once to the royal families of Scotland and France; and the noblest lords of London and the most illustrious noblemen of Paris will call me cousin. My father, too—"

The young man stopped short, as if he had been struck; but he soon continued:—

"But, alas! for all this, Aloyse, I am alone in the world. This great lord is nothing but a poor orphan, and the descendant of so many royal ancestors has no father. My poor father! I can only weep just now, Aloyse. And my mother, too,—both dead! Oh, do tell me of them, so that I may know what they were like now that I know that I am their son! Come, begin with my father. How did he die? Tell me all about it."

Aloyse remained dumb. Gabriel looked at her in amazement.

"I ask you to tell me, nurse," he said again, "how my father died."

"Monseigneur, God alone can tell you!" said she. "One day Jacques de Montgommery left the hotel where he was then living, in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul in Paris. He never came back to it. His friends and his cousins sought for him, but to no purpose. He had disappeared, Monseigneur! King François I. ordered an inquiry, which came to nothing. His enemies, if he fell a victim to treachery, were either very cunning or very powerful. You have no father, Monseigneur; and yet the tomb of Jacques de Montgommery is missing in the chapel of your château, for he has never been found, living or dead!"

"That is because it was not his son who sought him!" cried Gabriel. "Ah, nurse, why have you kept quiet so long? Did you hide the secret of my birth from me because it would have been my duty either to save my father or to avenge him?"

"No; but because it was my duty to save yourself, Monseigneur. Listen! Do you know what the last words were that were uttered by my husband, brave Perrot Travigny, who had a religious devotion to your family? 'Wife,' said he, a few minutes before he breathed his last, 'don't even wait till I am buried; just close my eyes, and then leave Paris with the child as fast as ever you can. You will go to Montgommery; not to the château, but to the house which belongs to us, thanks to Monseigneur's bounty!

"'There do you bring up the descendant of our masters with no affectation of mystery, but without display. The good people of our country will respect him, and will not betray him. But, above all things, hide his origin from himself, or he will show himself and be his own destruction. Let him know only that he is of gentle birth, and that will be enough to satisfy his dignity and your own conscience. Then, when years shall have brought him discretion and gravity, as his blood will make him brave and true,—when he is about eighteen, for instance,—tell him his name and his descent, Aloyse. Then he can judge for himself of his duty and his ability. But until then be very careful; for formidable enmities and invincible hatred will be on his track if he should be discovered, and those who have stricken and brought down the eagle will not spare the eaglet.' He said those words and died, Monseigneur; and I, in obedience to his commands, took you, poor orphan of six years, who had hardly seen your father, and I brought you with me to this village. The count's disappearance was already known here; and it was suspected that implacable foes were threatening any one who bore his name. You were seen and acknowledged without hesitation in the village, but by tacit agreement not a soul asked me a question or expressed any surprise at my silence. A short time after, my only son, your foster-brother, my poor Robert, was carried off by a fever. God seemed to will that I should have no excuse for not devoting myself entirely to you. May God's will be done! Everybody made a pretence of believing that it was my son that lived, and yet they all treated you with the deepest respect and a touching obedience. That was because you already strikingly resembled your father, both in face and in heart. The lion-like instinct showed itself in you: and it was easy to see that you were born to be a master and a leader of men. The children of the neighborhood soon got into the habit of forming themselves into a little company under your command. In all their games you marched at their head, and not one of them would have dared to refuse you his respect. You became a young king of the province; and it was the province which brought you up, and which has looked on in admiration to see you daily growing in pride and beauty. The quit-rent of the finest fruits, and the tithe of the harvest, were brought regularly to the house without my having to ask for anything. The finest horse in the pastures was always kept for you. Dom Jamet, Enguerrand, and all the varlets and retainers at the château offered you their services as naturally due to you; and you accepted them as your right. There was nothing about you that was not gallant and brave and large-hearted. In your slightest actions you showed to what race you belonged. They still tell by the village firesides in the evening how you once traded off my two cows for a falcon with one of the pages. But all these instincts and impulses only betrayed you to those who were to be trusted, and you remained hidden and unknown to the evil-disposed. The great excitement aroused by the wars in Italy, Spain, and Flanders against the Emperor Charles V. helped not a little, thank God! to protect you; and you have at last arrived safe and sound at that age when Perrot told me that I might trust to your good sense and your discretion. But you, who are ordinarily so sober and so cautious, behold! your first words are all for a rash outburst, vengeance, and exposure."

"Vengeance, yes; but exposure, no! Do you suppose, Aloyse, that my father's enemies are still living?"

"I don't know, Monseigneur; but it would be much safer to assume that some of them are. And suppose that you make your appearance at court, still unknown, but with your well-known name, which will attract universal attention to you,—brave but without experience, strong in your worthy ambition and in the justice of your case, but without friends or allies, or even any personal repute,—and what, pray, will happen then? Those who hate you will see you come, while you will not see them; they will attack you, and you will not know where the blow comes from, and not only will your father not be revenged, but you yourself, Monseigneur, will be destroyed."

"And that, Aloyse, is just the reason why I am so sorry that I have had no time to make friends for myself and win a little bit of renown. Ah, if I had been warned two years since, for instance! But never mind! It is only a little delay, and I will soon make up for lost time. And indeed for other reasons I am very glad that I have been at Montgommery these last two years; but I must be off so much the quicker now. I will go to Paris, Aloyse; and without concealing the fact that I am a Montgommery, I need not say that I am the son of Comte Jacques. Fiefs and titles are no less plentiful in our family than in the royal house of France, and our branches are sufficiently numerous in England and France for an unimportant scion to fail of recognition. I can take the name of Comte d'Exmès, Aloyse, and that will neither conceal nor reveal my identity. Then I shall find—whom shall I find at court? Thanks to Enguerrand, I am equally conversant with men and affairs. Shall I pay my addresses to the Constable de Montmorency, the hard-hearted mumbler of pater-nosters? No; and I quite agree with the face you made, Aloyse. To the Maréchal de Saint-André, then? He is neither young nor enterprising enough. Would not François de Guise be preferable? Yes; he is the man for me. Montmédy, St. Dizier, and Bologne have already shown what stuff he is made of. It is to him that I will go; and under his banners I will win my spurs. In the shadow of his name I will conquer a name for myself."

"Will Monseigneur allow me to remind him that the honest and faithful Elyot has had time to put by a handsome sum for the heir of his former masters. You may maintain a royal establishment, Monseigneur; and the young men, who are your tenants, and whom you have drilled in playing at war, are in duty bound and will be only too glad to follow you to battle in good earnest. It is your right to call them about you, as you well know, Monseigneur."

"And we will use this right, never fear, Aloyse; we will use it."

"Is Monseigneur really willing to receive all his domestics and retainers, and the tenants of all his fiefs and baronies, who are consumed with the desire to pay their respects to him?"

"Not yet, please, good Aloyse; but tell Martin-Guerre to saddle a horse and be ready to go with me. I must, first of all, take a ride about the neighborhood."

"Are you going in the direction of Vimoutiers?" said good Aloyse, smiling mischievously.

"Perhaps so. Don't I owe old Enguerrand a visit and my thanks?"

"And with Enguerrand's congratulations, Monseigneur will not find it at all amiss to receive those of a certain fair damsel called Diane. Am I not right?"

"But," said Gabriel, laughing, "that same fair damsel has been my wife and I her husband these three years; since I was fifteen, that is to say, and she nine."

Aloyse lost herself in thought.

"Monseigneur," said she, "if I did not know how sober-minded and open you are, notwithstanding your extreme youth, and that your every emotion is a serious and profound one, I should keep back the words which I am going to venture to say to you. But what is a joking matter to others is often a matter of serious importance to you. Remember, Monseigneur, that no one knows whose daughter Diane is. One day, the wife of Enguerrand, who had gone to Fontainebleau at that time, with his master, Comte de Vimoutiers, found, as she was going into her house, a child in a cradle at her door, and a heavy purse of gold on her table. In the purse was a considerable sum of money, half of an engraved ring, and a paper on which was this one word, 'Diane.' Berthe, Enguerrand's wife, had no child of her own, and she welcomed joyfully these other maternal duties which were asked at her hands. But on her return to Vimoutiers she died, just as my husband died, to whom your father intrusted you, Monseigneur; and as it was a woman who brought up the male orphan, so it was a man to whose care the female child fell. But Enguerrand and I, both intrusted with a like task, have exchanged our duties? and I have tried to make of Diane a good, pious woman, while Enguerrand has brought you up to be clever and wise. Naturally you have known Diane, and naturally, too, you have become attached to her. But you are the Comte de Montgommery, as can be proved by authentic documents and by public repute, while no one has yet appeared to lay claim to Diane, by producing the other half of the golden ring. Take care, Monseigneur! I know well that Diane is now a mere child of scarcely twelve years, but she will grow, and will be exceedingly beautiful; and with such a nature as yours, I say again, everything is apt to be serious. Take care! It may be that she will always remain what she is now,—a foundling; and you are too great a nobleman to marry her, and too true a gentleman to lead her astray."

"But, nurse, when I am going away, to leave you, and to leave Diane—" said Gabriel, thoughtfully.

"That is all right, then. Forgive your old Aloyse for her uneasy foreboding; and if you choose, go and see that sweet and lovely child whom you call your little wife. But don't forget that you are being impatiently awaited here. You will soon be back, will you not, Monsieur le Comte?"

"Very soon; and kiss me again, Aloyse. Call me your child always, and accept my thanks a thousand times, dear old nurse."

"A thousand blessings on thee, my child and my lord!"

Master Martin-Guerre was waiting for Gabriel at the gate, and they both mounted, and left the château.

CHAPTER II
A BRIDE WHO PLAYS WITH DOLLS

Gabriel took a by-path well-known to him, so as to go more quickly; and yet he let his horse slacken his pace, so that it seemed almost as if he were allowing the handsome beast to adapt his gait to his own train of thought. Emotions of very different sorts succeeded one another in the young man's mind, by turns passionate and gloomy, haughty and subdued. When he remembered that he was the Comte de Montgommery, his eyes sparkled, and he drove his spurs into his horse as if drunken with the breeze which fanned his temples; and then he would say to himself, "My father has been murdered, and his death is not avenged!" and his rein would drop listlessly from his hand. But all at once he would reflect that he was going into the world to fight, to make a name for himself, formidable and dreaded, and to pay all his debts of honor and of blood; and he would start off at a mad gallop as if he were really on his way to fame at that moment, until the thought came to him that he would be obliged to leave his little Diane, so blithe and pretty, when he would relapse into gloom again, and would gradually slacken his pace to a walk; as if he could thus delay the cruel moment of separation. "But," thought he, "I will come back again, after I have found my father's enemies and Diane's relatives;" and Gabriel, spurring his steed on fiercely once more, flew as swiftly as his own hopes. His destination was at hand; and surely in that young heart thirsting for happiness, joy had driven away gloom.

Looking over the hedge which enclosed old Enguerrand's orchard, Gabriel spied Diane's white dress among the trees. To tie his horse to a willow-tree and leap the hedge at a bound was the work of but a moment; glowing with pride and triumph, he fell at the young girl's feet.

But Diane was weeping.

"What is it, my dear little wife," said Gabriel; "and whence this bitter sorrow? Has Enguerrand been scolding us because of a torn dress, or because we made a slip in saying our prayers; or has our pet bullfinch flown away? Tell me, Diane dear. See, your faithful knight has come to comfort you."

"Alas! Gabriel, you cannot be my knight any more," said Diane; "and that is just why I am sad and am crying."

Gabriel supposed that Diane had learned from Enguerrand her play-fellow's name, and that perhaps she wished to test him. He replied,—

"What has happened, pray, Diane, lucky or unlucky, that can ever make me give up the dear title which you have allowed me to assume, and which I am so proud and happy to bear? See, here I am at your knees."

But Diane did not seem to understand; and she wept more bitterly than before, as she hid her face on Gabriel's breast, and sobbed,—

"Oh, Gabriel, Gabriel! We must not see each other any more."

"And who is to prevent us?" he rejoined quickly.

She raised her lovely fair head and her eyes swimming with tears; then with a little pout, altogether sober and solemn, she replied, sighing profoundly,—

"Duty."

Her sweet face assumed an expression that was so despairing and so comical at the same time that Gabriel, fascinated, and entering, as he supposed, fully into her thoughts, could not forbear a laugh; and taking the child's fair face in his hands, he kissed it over and over again; but she nervously drew away from him.

"No, my friend," said she, "no more of these little chats of ours. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! they are forbidden us now."

"What stories has Enguerrand been telling her?" said Gabriel to himself, persisting in his error; and he added aloud, "Don't you love me any longer, then, dear Diane?"

"I! not love you any longer!" cried Diane. "How can you think and say such things, Gabriel? Are you not the friend of my childhood, and my brother for my whole life? Have you not always been as kind and loving as a mother to me? When I laughed, and when I wept, whom was I sure to find at my side, to share my joy or my sorrow? You, Gabriel! Who carried me when I was tired? Who helped me to learn my lessons? Who took the blame for my mistakes, and insisted on sharing my punishment when he couldn't succeed in having it all himself? You again! Who invented a thousand games for me? Who made sweet nosegays for me in the meadows? Who hunted out goldfinches' nests for me in the woods? You, always you! I have found you always, in every place and at all times, so kind and generous and devoted to me, Gabriel. I shall never forget you, Gabriel; and while my heart lives, you will live in my heart. I should have liked to give you my life and my soul, and I have never dreamed of happiness except when I have dreamed of you. But all this, alas! doesn't keep us from being obliged to part, never to see each other again, no doubt."

"And why not? Is it to punish you for mischievously letting your dog Phylax into the poultry-yard?" asked Gabriel.

"Ah, no, for something very different, believe me!"

"Well, what is it, then?"

She rose, and as she stood with her arms hanging by her side, and her head cast down, she said,—

"Because I am somebody else's wife."

Gabriel did not joke any more, and a vague dread pierced his heart; he replied with a trembling voice,—

"What do you mean by that, Diane?"

"I am no longer Diane," was the reply, "but Madame la Duchesse de Castro, since my husband's name is Horace Farnèse, Duc de Castro."

And the child could not help smiling a little through her tears as she said it. "My husband" indeed, and she a child of twelve! Oh, it was magnificent: "Madame la Duchesse!" But she speedily became sad again when she saw Gabriel's suffering.

The young man was standing before her, pale, and with a frightened look in his eyes.

"Is this a joke? Is it a dream?" said he.

"No, my poor friend, it is a sad truth," replied Diane. "Didn't you meet Enguerrand on the way? He started for Montgommery half an hour since."

"I came by the short cut. But go on and finish your story."

"Why is it, Gabriel, that you have been four days without coming here? Such a thing never happened before, and it made us unhappy, don't you see? Night before last I had very hard work to go to sleep. I hadn't seen you for two days, and was very uneasy, and I made Enguerrand promise that if you didn't come the next day we should go to Montgommery the day after that. And then, as if we had had a presentiment, Enguerrand and I fell to talking of the future, and then of the past, and of my relatives, who seemed, alas! to have forgotten me. It is a wretched tale that I have to tell you, and I should have been happier perhaps if they had really forgotten me. All this serious talk had naturally made me a little sad, and had wearied me; and I was, as I said, a long while going to sleep, and that is why I awoke rather later than usual yesterday morning. I dressed myself in a great hurry, told my beads, and was just ready to go downstairs when I heard a great commotion under my window before the house door. There were magnificent cavaliers there, Gabriel, attended by squires, pages, and varlets, and behind the cavalcade was a gilded carriage, quite dazzling in its splendor. As I was looking curiously at this retinue, and marvelling that it should have stopped at our modest dwelling, Antoine came and knocked at my door, and gave me a message from Enguerrand that I should come down at once. I don't know why I was afraid to go, but I had to obey, and I obeyed. When I went into the great hall, it was filled with these superb seigneurs whom I had seen from my window. I then fell to blushing and trembling, more alarmed than ever; you can understand that, Gabriel, can't you?"

"Yes," said Gabriel, bitterly. "But go on, for the thing is becoming decidedly interesting."

"As I entered," continued Diane, "one of the most elaborately dressed of the gentlemen came to me, and offering me his gloved hand, led me up to another gentleman no less richly adorned than he, to whom he said, bowing low,—

"'Monseigneur le Duc de Castro, I have the honor to present to you your wife. 'Madame,' he added, turning to me, 'Monsieur Horace Farnèse, Duc de Castro, your husband.'

"The duke saluted me with a smile. But I, in my confusion and grief, threw myself into Enguerrand's arms, as I spied him standing in a corner.

"'Enguerrand! Enguerrand! this is not my husband, this prince; I have no husband but Gabriel. Enguerrand, tell these gentlemen so, I beg you.'

"The one who had presented me to the duke knitted his brows.

"'What is all this fol-de-rol?' he said to Enguerrand sternly.

"'Nothing, Monseigneur; mere childishness,' said Enguerrand, pale as a ghost. And he said to me in an undertone, 'Are you mad, Diane? What do you mean by being so rebellious?—refusing thus to obey your relatives, who have found you out, and come to claim you!'

"'Where are these relatives of mine?' said I, aloud. 'It is to them that I must speak.'

"'We come in their name, Mademoiselle,' replied the frowning gentleman. 'I am their representative. If you don't believe what I say, here is the order signed by Henri II., our Lord the King; read it.'

"He handed me a parchment sealed with a red seal, and I read at the top of the page, 'We, Henri, by the grace of God;' and at the foot the royal signature, 'Henri.' I was blinded and stunned and overwhelmed. I was dizzy and delirious. All that crowd of people with their eyes on me! And even Enguerrand abandoning me! The thought of my relatives! The name of the king! All this was too much for my poor little head. And you were not there, Gabriel!"

"But it seems as if my presence could have been of no use to you," was Gabriel's reply.

"Oh, yes, Gabriel, if you had been there, I would have continued to resist; while, as you were not there, when the gentleman who seemed to be managing the whole thing said to me, 'Come, there has been delay enough. Madame de Leviston, I leave Madame de Castro in your hands; we shall expect you presently in the chapel,' his tone was so sharp and imperious, and seemed to allow so little remonstrance, that I let myself be led away. Gabriel, forgive me; I was worn out and bewildered, and I hadn't an idea in my head."

"Go on! that is very easily understood," said Gabriel, with a bitter smile.

"They took me to my chamber," Diane resumed. "There, this Madame de Leviston, with the help of two or three women, took a fine dress of white silk from a great chest. Then, in spite of my shrinking, they undressed me and dressed me again. I scarcely dared to take a step in such fine clothes. Then they put pearls in my ears, and a string of pearls about my neck; my tears fell fast upon the pearls. But these ladies no doubt only laughed at my embarrassment, and at my grief too, perhaps. In half an hour I was ready, and they were so kind as to say that I was charming thus arrayed. I think it was true, Gabriel; but I cried away all the same. I at last convinced myself that I was going through a dazzling but dreadful dream. I stepped without any exertion of my own, and went back and forth like a machine. Meanwhile the horses were stamping at the door, and squires, pages, and varlets were standing in attendance. We descended the stairs. Again the gaze of the whole assemblage seemed to go right through me. The gentleman with the harsh voice offered me his hand again, and led me to a litter all of satin and gold, where I was to take my seat on cushions almost as beautiful as my dress. The Duc de Castro rode by the side of my litter, and so the procession slowly ascended to the chapel of the Château de Vimoutiers. The priest was already at the altar. I don't know what words were said over me or to me; but I felt suddenly, in the midst of this strange dream, that the duke placed a ring on my finger. Then, after twenty minutes or twenty years, I didn't know which, a fresher air seemed to be blowing on my face. We were leaving the chapel; they called me 'Madame la Duchesse.' I was married! Do you hear that, Gabriel? I was married!"

Gabriel replied only with a wild burst of laughter.

"Just think, Gabriel," continued Diane, "I was so entirely beside myself that it was not until just as I was going into the house again that it occurred to me for the first time, having recovered myself a little, to look at the husband whom all these strangers had come to force upon me. Until then I had not looked at him, Gabriel, although I had seen him. Oh, my poor dear Gabriel, he isn't half as handsome as you are! He is only moderately tall, and for all his fine clothes he looked much less distinguished than you in your plain brown doublet. And then he had an expression as impertinent and overbearing as yours is sweet and refined. Add to this hair and a long beard of a bright red. I have been sacrificed, Gabriel. After he had talked a while with the man who had passed himself off as the king's representative, the duke approached me and took my hand.

"'Madame la Duchesse,' said he, with a very cunning smile, 'I beg you will pardon the stern necessity which compels me to leave you so soon. But you may or may not know that we are in the midst of a war with Spain, and my men-at-arms demand my presence immediately. I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again soon at court, where you will go to take up your abode near his Majesty the King, after this week. I trust you will deign to accept some trifling presents which I will leave here for you. Au revoir, Madame. Continue to be light-hearted and fascinating, as befits your age, and amuse yourself, and play with all your heart, while I am fighting.'

"With these words he kissed me familiarly on the forehead, and his long beard pricked me: it is not soft like yours, Gabriel. And then all these fine gentlemen and ladies saluted me, and away they went, Gabriel, one by one, leaving me at last alone with my father Enguerrand. He didn't understand this transaction much better than I. They had given him the parchment to read, wherein the king commanded me, so far as he could make it out, to marry the Duc de Castro. The gentleman who represented his Majesty was the Comte d'Humières; Enguerrand recognized him from having seen him formerly with Monsieur de Vimoutiers. All that Enguerrand knew more than I, was the melancholy fact that this Madame de Leviston, who had superintended my toilette, and who lives at Caen, would come one of these days to take me to court with her, and that I must be always ready. There is the whole of my strange and mournful story, Gabriel. Ah, no, I forgot. When I went back into my chamber I found a great box, and what do you suppose was in it? You could never guess. A superb doll, with a complete outfit of linen and three dresses,—white silk, red damask, and green brocade,—all for the use of the doll. I was beside myself with rage, Gabriel, to think that these were my husband's presents! The idea of treating me like a little girl! The red dress is most becoming, to the doll, because her complexion is painted so naturally. The little shoes are lovely, too; but the whole affair is shameful, for it seems to me that I am no longer a child."

"Yes! you are a child, Diane," replied Gabriel, whose anger had insensibly changed to sadness; "nothing but a child! I have no grudge against you for being only twelve years old, for that would be unfair and absurd. But I see that I have done wrong to allow myself to feel so earnest and deep a sentiment for such a young and fickle creature; for my grief has taught me how dearly I loved you, Diane. I repeat that I wish you no ill, but if you had been stronger, and had mustered up sufficient force to resist such an unjust command, if you had only known how to obtain a little delay, Diane, we might have been very happy together, since you have found your relatives, and they seem to be of noble birth. I, too, Diane, have come to tell you a great secret which was not revealed to me till this very day. But what's the use now? It is too late. Your weakness has broken the thread of my destiny, which I thought I held in my hand at last. Can I ever fasten the ends together again? I foresee that my whole life will be filled with thoughts of you, Diane, and that my youthful love will always hold the first place in my heart. But you, Diane, in the lustre of the court, and in the continual whirl and excitement of parties and festival-making, will soon lose sight of him who has loved you so dearly in the time of your obscurity."

"Never!" cried Diane. "And see, Gabriel, now that you are on the spot, and can encourage and help me, do you want me to refuse to go when they come after me, and to say no to all their prayers and entreaties and commands, so that I may always stay with you?"

"Thank you, dear Diane, but don't you see that henceforth, in the sight of God and man, you belong to another? We must do our duty and abide our fate. We must, as the Duc de Castro said, go each to his place,—you to the dissipations of the court, and I to the battlefield. I only pray God that I may see you again some day!"

"Yes, Gabriel, I shall see you again, and I shall always love you!" cried poor Diane, throwing herself, sobbing, into her friend's arms.

But just at this moment Enguerrand appeared in a path close by, with Madame de Leviston at his heels.

"Here she is, Madame," said he, pointing to Diane. "Ah! is that you, Gabriel?" said he, as he saw the young count. "I was just on my way to Montgommery to see you when I met Madame de Leviston's carriage, and had to retrace my steps."

"Yes, Madame," said Madame de Leviston, addressing Diane, "the king has written to my husband that he is in haste to see you, and so I have anticipated the date of our departure. If you please, we will set out in an hour. Your preparations will not require much time, I fancy, will they?"

Diane looked at Gabriel.

"Courage!" said he, gravely.

"I am very happy to say," resumed Madame de Leviston, "that your good foster-father can and will go to Paris with us, and will overtake us to-morrow at Alençon, if agreeable to you."

"If it is agreeable to me!" cried Diane. "No one has yet named my relatives to me, but I shall always call Enguerrand Father."

And she held out her hand to Enguerrand, who covered it with kisses, so that she might have an opportunity to steal another glance undercover of her tears at Gabriel, who stood there thoughtful and sad, but none the less resigned and determined.

"Come, Madame," said Madame de Leviston, who was vexed a little perhaps by these leave-takings and delays, "remember that you must be at Caen before night."

Diane, almost suffocated with her sobs, rushed off without more ado to her chamber after signing to Gabriel to wait for her. Enguerrand and Madame de Leviston followed her, and Gabriel waited.

After an hour or so, during which the luggage that Diane was to carry with her was stowed away in the carriage, Diane appeared, all ready for the journey. She asked Madame de Leviston, who followed her about like a shadow, to allow her to take one last turn around the garden, where she had spent twelve years in careless, happy play. Gabriel and Enguerrand walked behind her while she made this visit to her old haunts. Diane stopped before a bush of white roses which Gabriel and she had planted the year before. She picked two roses, one of which she fastened in her dress, while she breathed a kiss upon the other and gave it to Gabriel. The young man felt that she slipped a paper in his hand at the same time, and he put it hastily into his doublet.

When Diane had said adieu to all the paths and all the groves and all the flowers, she had to make up her mind to take her departure. When she reached the carriage which was to take her away, she shook hands with each of the servants, and with the good folks from the village, who knew and loved her every one. She had not strength to say a word, poor child; she only gave each of them a kind nod of the head. Then she embraced Enguerrand, and Gabriel last of all, with no signs of being embarrassed by Madame de Leviston's presence. In her friend's embrace she found her voice a moment, and when he said, "Adieu! adieu!" she replied, "No, au revoir!"

Then she entered the carriage that was waiting, and childhood, after all, seemed not quite to have lost its hold on her, for Gabriel heard her ask Madame de Leviston, with the little pout which became her so well,—

"Have they put my big doll up there somewhere?"

Away went the carriage at a gallop.

Gabriel opened the paper Diane had handed him; in it he found a lock of the fair yellow hair that he used to like so to kiss.

A month later, Gabriel, having arrived in Paris, presented himself to Duc François de Guise, at the Hôtel de Guise, under the name of Vicomte d'Exmès.

CHAPTER III
IN CAMP

"Yes, gentlemen," said the Duc de Guise, as he entered his tent, to the noblemen who were in attendance upon him; "yes, to-day, this 24th of April, 1557, in the evening, after having entered Neapolitan territory on the 15th, and taken Campli in four days, we are laying siege to Civitella. On the 1st of May, having made ourselves masters of Civitella, we will sit down before Aquila. On the 10th of May we shall be at Arpino, and on the 20th at Capua, where we will not be caught napping, as Hannibal was. On the 1st of June, gentlemen, I hope to show you Naples, please God."

"And how about the Pope, my dear brother?" said the Duc d'Aumale. "His Holiness, who was so very free with his promises of assisting us with the papal troops, has abandoned us so far to our own resources, so it seems to me; and our army is hardly strong enough to take such risks in a hostile country."

"Paul IV.," said François, "is too deeply interested in the success of our forces to leave us without assistance. What a beautifully clear, bright night it is, gentlemen! Biron, do you know whether the partisans, of whose expected rising in the Abruzzi the Caraffas told us, have begun to make any stir yet?"

"They don't budge, Monseigneur; I have late news that can be depended on."

"Well, our musketry will wake them up," said the Duc de Guise. "Monsieur le Marquis d'Elbœuf," he resumed, "have you heard aught from the convoys of provisions and ammunition which we should have met at Ascoli, and which surely ought to come up to us here, I should say?"

"Yes, I have heard from them, Monseigneur, but at Rome; and since then, alas—"

"Merely a little delay," the Duc de Guise broke in,—"surely it is nothing but a little delay; and after all, we are not altogether unprovided. The taking of Campli helped out our commissariat somewhat; and if I should enter the tent of any one of you gentlemen an hour from now, I'll warrant I should find a first-rate supper on the board, and seated at table with you some disconsolate widow or pretty orphan from Campli, whom you make it your duty to console. Nothing could be better, gentlemen. Besides, it is the bounden duty of the conqueror, and is what makes victory so sweet, is it not? Well, I will keep you no longer now from your pleasures. To-morrow, at daybreak, I will send for you to concert the means of cutting into this sugar-loaf of Civitella; till then, gentlemen, a good appetite, and good-night."

The duke smilingly escorted his generals to the door of his tent; but when the curtain which formed the door had fallen behind the last of them, and François de Guise was left alone, his manly features at once assumed a careworn expression, and seating himself at a table and leaning his head on his hands, he said beneath his breath with much anxiety,—

"Can it be that I should have done better to renounce all personal ambition, to content myself with being simply Henri II.'s general, and to limit my achievements to the recovery of Milan and the liberation of Sienna? Here am I in this kingdom of Naples of which in my dreams I have heard myself called the king; but I am without allies, and shall soon be without provisions; and all my officers, with my brother at their head, with not an energetic, capable mind among them, are already beginning to be disheartened, and to lose their courage, I can see plainly."

At this moment the duke heard a step behind him. He turned quickly, with an angry greeting on his lips for the bold intruder; but when he saw who it was, instead of reproving him, he held out his hand to him.

"You are not the man, Vicomte d'Exmès, are you," said he, "you are not the man, my dear Gabriel, ever to think twice about going on with an undertaking, because bread is scarce and the enemy plenty?—you, who were the last to go out of Metz, and the first to enter Valenza and Campli. But have you come to tell me anything new, my friend?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, a courier has arrived from France," Gabriel replied. "He is, I think, the bearer of letters from your illustrious brother, Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine. Shall I have him brought before you?"

"No, but let him hand you the despatches that he has, Viscount, and do you bring them to me yourself, please."

Gabriel bowed, left the tent, and came back almost immediately, bringing a letter sealed with the arms of the house of Lorraine.

The six years that had passed since our story opened had scarcely changed our old friend Gabriel, except that his features had taken on a more manly and determined expression. He would at once have been picked out as a man who had put his own worth to the proof and knew it well. But he had always the same calm and serious brow, the same true and open look, and, let us say at once, the same heart full of the hopes and illusions of youth; and well it might be so, for he was only twenty-four even now.

The Duc de Guise was thirty-seven; and although his was a noble and generous nature, his mind had already returned from many places where Gabriel's had never yet been; and more than one disappointed ambition, more than one burnt-out passion, more than one fruitless contest, had sunk his eye deep in his head, and worn the hair from his temples. Yet he none the less understood and loved the chivalrous and devoted character of Gabriel; and an irresistible attraction drew the man of years and experience toward the trustful youth.

He took his brother's letter from Gabriel's hands, and said to him before opening it,—

"Listen, Vicomte d'Exmès: my secretary, Hervé de Thelen, whom you knew, died under the walls of Valenza; my brother D'Aumale is only a soldier, gallant but without ability; I need a right arm, Gabriel, a confidential friend and assistant. Now, since you came to me at my hotel at Paris, some five or six years since, I should say, I have become convinced that you have a mind above the ordinary, and better still, a faithful heart. I know nothing of you but your name,—and there never lived a Montgommery who wasn't brave; but you came to me without a word of recommendation from any one, and notwithstanding, I was attracted by you at once! I took you with me to the defence of Metz; and if that defence is to furnish one of the fairest pages of my life's story, if after sixty-five days of assault we succeeded in driving from before the walls of Metz an army of a hundred thousand men and a general who was called Charles V., I must remember that your gallantry, conspicuous at every turn, and your keen mind, always on the watch, had no inconsiderable share in that glorious result. The following year you were still with me when I won the battle of Renty; and if that ass Montmorency, well christened the—but I must not insult my foe, I must rather praise my friend and my brave companion,—Gabriel, Vicomte d'Exmès, the worthy relative of the worthy Montgommerys. I must say to you, Gabriel, that on every occasion, and more than ever since we came into Italy, I have found your assistance, your advice, and your affection of advantage to me, and have absolutely only one fault to find with you, and that is being too reserved and discreet with your general. Yes, I am sure that there is, somewhere or other in your life, a sentiment or a thought that you are hiding from me, Gabriel. But what of that? Some day you will confide it to me, and the important thing is to know that there is something for you to do. Pardieu! I also have something to do,—I, Gabriel; and if you say the word, we will join our fortunes, and you will help me, and I you. When I have an important and difficult undertaking to intrust to another, I will call upon you. When a powerful patron becomes essential to the furtherance of your plans, I will be on hand. Is it a bargain?"

"Oh, Monseigneur," Gabriel replied, "I am yours, body and soul! What I desired, first of all, was to be able to trust in myself and induce others to trust in me. Now I have succeeded in acquiring a little self-confidence, and you condescend to have some regard for me; so I have succeeded in my ambition up to the present time. But that a different ambition may hereafter summon me to fresh exertions, I do not deny; and when that time comes, Monseigneur,—since you have been kind enough to allow me to take such a step,—I will surely have recourse to you, just as you may count upon me in life or in death."

"Well said, per Bacco! as these drunken dogs of cardinals say. And do you be quite easy in your mind, Gabriel, for François de Lorraine, Duc de Guise, will spare no warmth to serve you in love or in hatred; for one or the other of these passions is at work in us, is it not, my master?"

"Both, perhaps, Monseigneur."

"Ah! so? And when your heart is so full, how can you resist letting it overflow into the heart of a friend?"

"Alas, Monseigneur, because I scarcely know whom I love, and have no idea at all whom I hate!"

"Indeed! Just suppose, then, Gabriel, since your enemies are to be mine henceforth,—just suppose that old rake Montmorency should happen to be among them!"

"It may very well be so, Monseigneur; and if my suspicions have any foundation—But we must not bother about my affairs at this crisis; it is with you and your far-reaching plans that we have to do. How can I be of service to you, Monseigneur?"

"In the first place, read me this letter from my brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine, Gabriel."

Gabriel broke the seal and unfolded the letter, and after having cast a glance at it, handed it back to the duke, saying, as he did so,—

"Pardon, Monseigneur, but this letter is written in peculiar characters, and I cannot read it."

"Ah!" said the duke, "was it Jean Panquet's courier who brought it, then? It must be a confidential communication, I see,—a grated letter, so to speak. Wait a moment, Gabriel!"

He opened a casket of chased iron and took from it a paper with pieces cut out at regular intervals, which he laid carefully upon the cardinal's letter. "There," said he, handing it to Gabriel, "read it now!"

Gabriel seemed to have some hesitation about doing as he was bid; but François took his hand and pressed it, and said again, with a look of perfect confidence and good faith, "Come, read it; there's a good fellow!"

So the Vicomte d'Exmès read as follows:—

"Monsieur, my most honored and illustrious brother (ah, when shall I be able to call you by that one little word of four letters,—Sire!)—"

Gabriel stopped again; and the duke said, smiling,—

"You are astonished, Gabriel, and no wonder; but I trust that you have no suspicions of me. The Duc de Guise is not another Constable de Bourbon, my friend; and may God keep Henri's crown on his head, and grant him long life! But is there no other throne in the world save the throne of France? Since chance has placed me on an absolutely confidential footing with you, Gabriel, I do not wish to hide anything from you; but I am anxious to make known to you all my plans, and all my dreams, which are not, I think, such as could spring from a commonplace soul."

The duke rose and strode up and down the tent.

"Our family, which is allied to so many royal houses, may well, in my mind, Gabriel, aspire to any height of greatness. But the mere aspiration is nothing; attainment is my ambition. Our sister is Queen of Scotland; our niece, Mary Stuart, is betrothed to the Dauphin François; our grand-nephew, the Duc de Lorraine, is the chosen son-in-law of the king. And that is not all: in addition, we claim to represent the second house of Anjou, from which we are descended in the female line. Thence we derive our claims or rights—it's all the same thing—to Provence and Naples. Let us be content with Naples for the moment. Would not that crown look better on a Frenchman's head than on a Spaniard's? Now, what was my purpose in coming to Italy? To seize that crown. We are in alliance with the Duc de Ferrara, and closely bound to the Pope's nephews, the Caraffas. Paul IV. is an old man, and my brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine, will succeed him. The throne of Naples is tottering, and I will mount it; and that is why, mon Dieu! I left Sienna and the Milanais behind me to pounce upon the Abruzzi. It was a glorious dream; but I fear greatly that it will never be more than a dream. For just consider, Gabriel, that I had less than twelve thousand men when I crossed the Alps! The Duc de Ferrara had promised me seven thousand; but he kept them on his own territory. Paul and the Caraffas had boasted how they would stir up a powerful faction in my interest in the kingdom of Naples, and agreed to furnish me with troops and money and supplies; but they have not sent me a man or a wagon or a sou. My officers are beginning to draw back, and my troops are murmuring. But it makes no difference; I will go on to the bitter end. I will not leave this promised land which my foot is now upon except at the last gasp; and if I do leave it, I will return! I will return!"

The duke stamped on the ground as if to take possession of it; his eyes shone; and he was noble and beautiful to look upon.

"Monseigneur," cried Gabriel, "how proud am I that I may be allowed to be your companion, to have such a trifling part as I may in such a glorious ambition!"

"And now," the duke said, smiling, "that I have given you the key to my brother's letter twice over, I fancy that you will be able to read and understand it So go on with it, while I listen."

"'Sire!' That is where I left off," said Gabriel.

"I have to inform you of two items of bad tidings and one of good. The good news is that the nuptials of our niece, Mary Stuart, are finally fixed for the 20th of next month, and are to be celebrated in due form at Paris on that day. One of the other pieces of news, of an evil tenor, comes from England. Philip II. of Spain has landed there, and is urging every day upon Queen Mary Tudor, his wife, who is passionately devoted to him, a declaration of war against France. No one has any doubt that he will succeed, although his wishes are directly opposed to the interest and the desire of the English people. There is talk already of an army to be assembled on the frontiers of the Low Countries, under the command of Philibert Emmanuel of Savoy. In that event, my dearest brother, we are suffering so from scarcity of troops here at home that Henri will be forced to recall you from Italy, so that our plans in that direction will at least have to be postponed. And consider, François, how much better it would be to delay their execution for a while than to compromise them; let there be no headstrong recklessness. It will be in vain for our sister, the Queen Regent of Scotland, to threaten to break with England, for you may believe that Mary of England, altogether infatuated with her young husband, will pay no attention to it; so take your measures accordingly."

"By Heaven!" broke in the Duc de Guise, bringing his fist down violently on the table, "you say only too well, my brother; and it takes a sly fox to smell the hounds. Yes, Mary the prude will surely allow herself to be led astray by her lawful husband; and no, of course I cannot openly disobey the king when he calls upon me to send his soldiers to him at so serious a crisis; and I would rather hold my hand from all the kingdoms on earth. Well, then, one obstacle the more in the way of this accursed expedition; for I leave it to you to say if it is not accursed, Gabriel, in spite of the Holy Father's blessing! Come, Gabriel, tell me frankly, for my ear alone, you do look upon it as hopeless, don't you?"

"I should not like, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "to have you class me with those who easily lose their courage; and yet, since you ask my opinion in all sincerity—"

"Enough, Gabriel! I understand you and agree with you. I foresee that it is not at this time that we are fated to accomplish together the great things that we were planning just now; but I swear to you that this is only a postponement, and to strike a blow at Philip II. in any part of his dominions will always be equivalent to attacking him here at Naples. But go on, Gabriel, for if I remember aright we have other evil tidings still to hear."

Gabriel resumed his reading.

"The other troublesome affair that I have to tell you of will be of no less serious moment, because it concerns our family's private matters; but there is no doubt still time to avert it, and so I make haste to give you notice of it. It is necessary that you should know that since your departure Monsieur le Connétable de Montmorency has shown, and quite naturally, the same ugly and bitter spirit toward us, and has never ceased to be envious of us, and to fume and swear, as has always been his custom whenever the king showed any favor to our family. The approaching celebration of our dear niece Mary's nuptials with the dauphin is not calculated to put him in a good humor. The balance which it is to the king's interest to preserve between the two houses of Guise and Montmorency is depressed considerably in our favor by this event; and the old constable is making a terrible clamor and outcry for something to counterbalance it. He has found this counterpoise, my dear brother, in a match between his son François, the prisoner of Thérouanne, and—"

The young count did not finish the sentence. His voice faltered, and every drop of blood left his face.

"Well, what's the matter, Gabriel?" asked the duke. "How pale you are and how discomposed! Did you have a sudden attack of pain?"

"Nothing, Monseigneur, absolutely nothing, except possibly a little over-fatigue and a slight dizziness; but I am all right again now, and will go on if you please. Let me see, where was I? The cardinal was saying, I think, that there was a remedy. Oh, no, farther along. Here's the place:—"

"In a match between his son François and Madame Diane de Castro, the legitimatized daughter of the king and Madame Diane de Poitiers. You will remember, brother, that Madame de Castro, who was left a widow at the age of thirteen, her husband, Horace Farnèse, having been killed at the siege of Hesdin six months after the wedding, remained for five years at the convent of the Filles-Dieu at Paris. The king, at the constable's solicitation, sent for her to return to court. She is a perfect pearl of beauty, my brother, and you know that I am a competent judge. Her charms made a conquest of all hearts at first sight, and of the father's heart more than all the rest. The king, who had already endowed her with the duchy of Chatellerault, has added the duchy of Angoulême to her possessions. She has been here only two weeks, and yet her supreme influence over the king is already an admitted fact. Her fascination and her sweet disposition are, no doubt, the moving causes of his very great fondness for her. At last things have got to such a point that Madame de Valentinois, who for some unknown reason has thought fit to invent another mother for Madame de Castro, seems to me just at present to be very jealous of this newly risen power. So it will be a very good thing for the constable if he succeeds in getting such a potent ally into his household. Between ourselves, you know that Diane de Poitiers never can refuse much of anything to the old villain; and although our brother D'Aumale is her son-in-law, Anne de Montmorency is still more closely connected with her. The king, moreover, is inclined to make some amends for the preponderating force which he sees that we are beginning to wield in his council and his armies. And this infernal marriage is very likely to be brought about."

"Again your voice falters, Gabriel," the duke interposed; "rest a bit, my boy, and let me finish the letter myself, for it interests me exceedingly. For, to tell the truth, that will give the constable a dangerous advantage over us. But I thought that great gaby of a François was already married to a De Fiennes. Come, give me the letter, Gabriel."

"But I am all right, upon my word, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, who had been reading a few lines ahead, "and I am perfectly well able to read the few lines that remain."

"This infernal marriage is very likely to be brought about. There is only one thing in our favor. François de Montmorency is bound by a secret marriage to Mademoiselle de Fiennes; and so a divorce is a necessary preliminary. But for that, the Pope's assent must be obtained; and François is just setting out for Rome to obtain it. So make it your business, my dear brother, to anticipate him with his Holiness, and through our friends the Caraffas and your own influence to induce him to reject the petition for a divorce, which will be supported, let me warn you, by a letter from the king. But the threatened position is of sufficient importance to call forth your best energies to defend it, as you defended St. Dizier and Metz. I will act with you to the best of my ability, for it will need all we both can do. And with this, my dear brother, I pray God to grant you a long and happy life."

"Well, nothing is lost yet," said the Duc de Guise, when Gabriel had finished reading the cardinal's letter; "and the Pope, who refuses to supply me with soldiers, might at least be willing to make me a present of a bull."

"So, then," said Gabriel, trembling with emotion, "you have some hope that his Holiness will refuse to ratify this divorce from Jeanne de Fiennes, and will be opposed to this marriage of François de Montmorency?"

"Yes, yes! indeed, I have hopes of it. But how deeply moved you are, my friend! Dear Gabriel! he does enter passionately into our interests! I am quite as heartily at your service, Gabriel, be sure of that. And come now, let us talk about your affairs a little; and since, in this undertaking, of which I can foresee the issue only too plainly, you will scarcely have an opportunity, I imagine, to swell the list of noteworthy services for which I am in your debt, by any fresh exploits, suppose I make a beginning of paying my debt to you? I don't choose to be too heavily in arrear, my good fellow. Can I be of help or assistance to you in any way whatever? Tell me now; come, tell me frankly."

"Oh, Monseigneur is too kind," replied Gabriel; "and I do not see—"

"For these last five years, when you have been continually fighting under me," said the duke, "you have never accepted a sou from me. You must be in need of money; why, God bless me, everybody needs money. It is not a gift or a loan that I offer you, but payment of a debt. So let's have no empty scruples; and although we are, as you know, rather pressed for money, still—"

"Yes, I do know very well, Monseigneur, that the want of a little means sometimes causes your grandest schemes to fall through; and I am so far from being in need myself that I was going to offer you some thousands of crowns, which would come in very handily for the army, and are quite useless to me, really."

"And which I will gladly accept, for they come at a very good time, I confess; and so one can do absolutely nothing for you, O young man without a wish! But stay," he added in a lower tone, "that rascal Thibault, my body-servant, you know, at the sack of Campli, day before yesterday, put aside for me the young wife of the procureur of the town, the beauty of the neighborhood, judging from what I hear, always excepting the governor's wife, on whom no one can lay his hand. But as for me, upon my word, I have too many other cares in my head, and my hair is getting grizzly. Come, Gabriel, what would you say to my prize? Sang-Dieu! but you are built just right to make amends for the loss of a procureur! What do you say to it?"

"I say, Monseigneur, with regard to the governor's wife, of whom you speak, and upon whom no hand has been laid, that it was I who fell in with her in the confusion, and carried her away, not to abuse my rights, as you might think. On the contrary, my object was to shield a noble and beautiful woman from the violence of a licentious soldiery. But I have since discovered that the fair creature would have no objection to adopting the cause of the victors, and would be very glad to shout, like the soldier of Gaul: 'Væ victis!' But since I am now, alas! less inclined than ever to echo her sentiments, I can, if you desire, Monseigneur, have her brought here to one who can appreciate better than I, and more worthily, her charms and her rank."

"Oh, oh!" cried the duke, laughing heartily. "Such extraordinary morality almost savors of the Huguenot, Gabriel. Can it be that you have a secret leaning toward those of the religion? Ah, take heed, my friend! I am by conviction, and by policy, which is worse, an ardent Catholic, and I will have you burned without pity. But come, joking apart, why the deuce are you so strait-laced?"

"Because I am in love, perhaps," said Gabriel.

"Oh, yes, I remember, a hate and a love. Well, then, can't I show my good-will to you by putting you in a way to meet your foes or your love? Are you in want of a title, for example?"

"Thanks, Monseigneur; I am no longer in need of that, and as I said to you in the first place, my ambition is not for vague and empty honors, but for a little personal renown. Therefore, since you conclude that there is nothing more of importance to be done here, and I am not likely to be of much use to you, it would be a very great gratification to me to be commissioned by you to carry to Paris, for the marriage of your royal niece, for instance, the flags you have won in Lombardy and in the Abruzzi. My happiness would leave nothing to be desired if you would deign to give me a letter to his Majesty, which should bear witness to him and to the whole court that some of these flags have been taken by my own hand, not altogether without danger to myself."

"Indeed, I will! That is very easily done; and more than that, it is quite right too," said the Duc de Guise. "I shall be very sorry to part with you; but in all probability it will only be for a short time, if war breaks out on the Flemish frontier, as everything seems to indicate, and we will meet again there, will we not, Gabriel? Your place is always where there is fighting to be done; and that is why you are so anxious to get away from here, where there is nothing to be had now but weariness and ennui, by Heaven! But we will have better sport in the Low Countries, Gabriel, and I trust that we shall enjoy it together there."

"I shall be only too glad to follow you, Monseigneur."

"Meanwhile, how soon would you like to be off, Gabriel, to carry to the king this wedding gift, of which your brain conceived the idea?"

"The sooner the better, I should say, Monseigneur, if the marriage is to take place on the 20th of May, as Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine informs you."

"Very true. Well, then, you shall go to-morrow, Gabriel; and you will have none too much time either. So go and get some rest, my friend, while I write the letter which will commend you to the king's notice, as well as the reply to my brother's, of which you will kindly take charge; and say to him besides, that I hope for a favorable result to the matter in which the Pope is concerned."

"And perhaps, Monseigneur," said Gabriel, "my presence at Paris may help along the result you desire to that matter, and so my absence may be of some service to you."

"Always mysterious, Vicomte d'Exmès! but I am used to it from you. Adieu, then; and may the last night that you pass near me be a pleasant one!"

"I will return in the morning to get my letters and your blessing, Monseigneur. Ah! I leave with you my retainers, who have followed me in all my campaigns. I ask your permission to take with me only two of them and my squire, Martin-Guerre; he will answer all my needs; he is devoted to me, and is afraid of only two things in the whole world,—his wife and his shadow."

"How is that?" said the duke, laughing.

"Monseigneur, Martin-Guerre fled from his native place, Artigues, near Rieux, to get away from his wife Bertrande, whom he adored, but who used to beat him. He entered my service after Metz; but either the Devil or his wife, to torment him or punish him for his sins, kept appearing to him from time to time in his own image. Yes, all of a sudden, he would see by his side another Martin-Guerre, a striking likeness of himself, as like as if it were his reflection in a mirror; and by our Lady! that frightened him. But for all that he has an utter contempt for bullets, and would carry a redoubt single-handed. At Renty and at Valenza he twice saved my life."

"Take this valiant coward with you by all means, Gabriel. Give me your hand again, my dear friend, and be ready in the morning. My letters will be waiting for you."

Gabriel was ready to start bright and early the next day; he passed the night dreaming without closing his eyes. He waited on the Duc de Guise to receive his last instructions, and pay his parting respects, and on the 26th of April, at six in the morning, he set out for Rome, and thence for Paris, attended by Martin-Guerre and two of his followers.

CHAPTER IV
A KING'S MISTRESS

It is the 20th of May, and we ask our readers to go with us to the Louvre at Paris, and to the apartments of the wife of the Great Seneschal, Madame de Brézé, Duchesse de Valentinois, commonly called Diane de Poitiers. Nine o'clock in the morning has just struck on the great clock of the château. Madame Diane, all in white, in a decidedly coquettish negligé, is leaning or half reclining on a bed covered with black velvet. King Henri, already dressed in a magnificent costume, is sitting on a chair at her side.

Let us glance a moment at the scene and the dramatis personæ.

The apartment of Diane de Poitiers was resplendent with all the magnificence and taste which that fair dawning of art called the Renaissance had had the skill to lavish upon a king's chamber. Paintings signed "Le Primatice" represented various incidents of the hunting field, wherein the Huntress Diane, goddess of woods and forests, naturally figured as the principal heroine. The gilded and colored medallions and panels repeated on all sides the intertwined armorial bearings of François I. and Henri II. In like manner were memories of father and son intertwined in the heart of the fair Diane. The emblems were no less historical and full of meaning, and in twenty places was to be seen the crescent of Phœbus-Diane, between the Salamander of the conqueror of Marignan, and Bellerophon overthrowing the Chimæra, a device adopted by Henri II. after the taking of Boulogne from the English. This fickle crescent appeared in a thousand different forms and combinations which did great credit to the decorators of the time: here the royal crown was placed above it, and there four H's, four fleurs de lis, and four crowns together made a superb setting for it; again it was threefold, and then shaped like a star. The mottoes were no less varied, and most of them were written in Latin. "Diana regum venatrix" (Diana, huntress of kings),—was that a piece of impertinence or of flattery? "Donec totum impleat orbem" can be translated in two ways,—"The crescent is to become a full moon," or "The king's glory will fill the whole world." "Cum plena est, fit æmula solis," can be freely translated, "Beauty and royalty are sisters." And the lovely arabesques which enclosed devices and mottoes, and the superb furnishings on which they were reproduced,—all these, if we should attempt to describe them, would not only put our magnificence of the present day to the blush, but would lose too much in the description.

Now let us cast our eyes upon the king.

History tells us that he was tall, supple, and strong. He had to resort to regular diet and daily exercise to combat a certain tendency to stoutness; and yet in the chase he left the swiftest far behind, and carried away the palm from the strongest at the jousts and tourneys. His hair and beard were black, and his complexion very dark, which gave him so much more animation, if we may believe contemporary memoirs. He wore, at the time we make his acquaintance, as indeed he always did, the colors of the Duchesse de Valentinois,—a coat of green satin slashed with white, glistening with pearls and diamonds; a double chain of gold, to which was suspended the medal of the order of Saint Michael; a sword chased by Benvenuto; a collar of white point de Venise; a velvet cloak dotted with golden lilies hung gracefully from his shoulders. It was a costume of singular richness, and suitable to a cavalier of exquisite elegance.

We have said in brief that Diane was clad in a simple white peignoir of a singularly thin and transparent stuff. To paint her divine loveliness would not be so easy a matter; and it would be hard to say whether the black velvet cushion on which her head lay, or the dress, startling in its purity, by which her form was enveloped, served best to set off the snows and lilies of her complexion. And surely it was such a perfect combination of delicate outlines as to drive Jean Goujon himself to despair. There is no more perfect piece of antique statuary; and this statue was alive, and very much alive too, if common report is to be believed. As for the graceful motion with which these lovely limbs were instinct, we must not attempt to describe it. It can no more be reproduced than can a ray of sunlight. As for age, she had none. In this point, as in so many others, she was like the immortals; but by her side the youngest and most blooming seemed old and wrinkled. The Protestants babbled about philters and potions, to which they said that she had recourse to enable her to remain always sixteen. The Catholics replied that all she did was to take a cold bath every day, and wash her face in ice water even in winter. Her prescription has been preserved; but if it be true that Jean Goujon's "Diane au Cerf" was carved from this royal model, that prescription has no longer the same effect.

A King's Mistress.

Thus was she a worthy object of the affection of the two kings whom one after the other her beauty had dazzled. For if the story of the favor obtained by Monsieur Saint-Vallier, thanks to his fine brown eyes, seems apocryphal, it is almost conclusively proved that Diane was François's mistress before she became Henri's.

"It is said," chronicles Le Laboureur, "that King François, who was the first lover of Diane de Poitiers, having expressed to her one day, after the death of François the dauphin, some dissatisfaction at the lack of animation exhibited by Prince Henri, she told him that he needed to have a love affair, and that she would make him fall in love with her."

What woman wills, God wills; and Diane was for twenty years the dearly and only beloved of Henri.

But now that we have examined the king and the favorite, is it not time to hear what they are saying?

Henri, holding a parchment in his hand, was reading aloud the following verses, not without some interruptions and by-play which we cannot set down here, because they were part of the setting of the piece.

Douce et belle bouchelette,
Plus fraîche, et plus vermeillette
Que le bouton églantine,
Au matin!
Plus suave et mieux fleurante
Que l'immortelle amarante,
Et plus mignarde cent fois
Que n'est la douce rosée
Dont la terre est arrosée
Goutte à goutte au plus doux mois!
Baise-moi, ma douce amie,
Baise-moi, chère vie,
Baise-moi, mignonnement,
Serrement,
Jusques à tant que je die:
Las! je n'en puis plus, ma mie;
Las! mon Dieu, je n'en puis plus.
Lors ta bouchette retire,
Afin que mort, je soupire,
Puis, me donne le surplus.
Ainsi ma douce guerrière,
Mon cœur, mon tout, ma lumière,
Vivons ensemble, vivons,
Et suivons
Les doux soutiens de jeunesse,
Aussi bien une vieillesse
Nous menace sur le port,
Qui, toute courbe et tremblante,
Nous attraîne, chancelante,
La maladie et la mort.[1]

"And what might be the name of this polite versifier who tells us so well what we are doing?" asked Henri when he had finished his reading.

"He is called Remy Belleau, Sire, and promises to rival Ronsard, it seems to me. Oh, well!" continued the duchess, "do you put the value of this lover's poem at five hundred crowns, as I do?"

"He shall have them, this protégé of yours, my beautiful Diane."

"But we must not allow this to make us forget the earlier ones, Sire. Have you signed the warrant for the pension that I promised in your name to Ronsard, the prince of poets? You have, haven't you? Well, then, I have only one favor more to ask at your hands, and that is the vacant abbey of Recouls for your librarian, Mellin de Saint-Gelais, our French Ovid."

"Ovid shall have his abbey, never fear, my fair Maecenas," said the king.

"Ah, how fortunate are you, Sire, to have the power of disposing of so many benefices and offices at your pleasure! If I could only have your power just for one short hour!"

"Haven't you it always, ingrate?"

"Really, have I, my Lord? But you haven't given me a kiss for two whole minutes! That's right, dear. So you say that your power is always at my command? Don't tempt me, Sire! I warn you that I shall avail myself of it to pay the enormous claim which Philibert Delorme has presented to me, on the ground that my Château d'Anet is finished. It will be the glory of your reign; but how dear it is! Just one kiss, my Henri!"

"And for this kiss, Diane, take for your Delorme the sum produced by the sale of the governorship of Picardy."

"Sire, do you think that I sell my kisses? I give them to you, Henri. This Picardy governorship is worth two hundred thousand livres, I should think, is it not? And then I can take the pearl necklace which has been offered me, and which I was very anxious to wear to-day at the wedding of your dear son François. A hundred thousand livres to Philibert, and a hundred thousand for the necklace; this Picardy matter will do very well."

"Especially as you estimate it at quite double its real worth, Diane."

"What! is it worth only one hundred thousand livres? Well, then, it's a very simple matter for me to let the necklace go."

"Nonsense!" said the king, laughing; "there are three or four vacant companies somewhere which will pay for the necklace, Diane."

"Oh, Sire, you are the most generous of kings, as you are the best beloved of lovers."

"Yes, you do really love me as I love you, do you not, Diane?"

"He really has the face to ask such a question!"

"But I, you see, dear, I adore you more and more every day, because you are every day more beautiful. Ah, what a lovely smile you have, sweetheart, and what a sweet expression! Let me kneel here at your feet. Put your fair hands on my shoulders. Oh, Diane, how lovely you are, and how dearly I love you! I could stay here and just gaze at you for hours, nay, for years. I would forget France, I would forget the whole world."

"And even this formal celebration of Monseigneur the Dauphin's marriage?" said Diane, smiling; "and yet it is to be solemnized this very day and in two hours' time. And even if you are all ready in your magnificence, Sire, I am not ready at all, you see. So go, my dear Lord, for it is time for me to call my women. Ten o'clock will strike in a moment."

"Ten o'clock," said Henri; "and upon my word, I have an appointment at that hour."

"An appointment, Sire? With a lady, perhaps?"

"With a lady."

"Pretty, no doubt?"

"Yes, Diane, very pretty."

"Then it can't be the queen."

"Oh, you wretch! Catherine de Médicis has a certain sort of beauty of her own, a stern and cold style of beauty, but undeniable. However, it is not the queen whom I expect. Can you guess who it is?"

"No, I really cannot, Sire."

"It is another Diane, dear,—the living memento of our young affections, our daughter, our darling daughter."

"You said that too loud and too often, Sire," said Diane, frowning, and in a somewhat embarrassed tone. "It was agreed that Madame de Castro should pass for the child of another than myself. I was born to have legitimate children by you. I have been your mistress because I loved you; but I will not put up with your openly declaring me your concubine."

"That shall be as your pride dictates, Diane," was the king's reply; "but you love our child dearly, do you not?"

"I like to have you love her."

"Oh, yes! I love her very much. She is so fascinating, so clever, so sweet! And then, Diane, she reminds me so of my younger days and of the time when I loved you—ah! no more passionately than to-day, God knows, but when I loved you so that I was willing to commit a crime."

The king, who had suddenly fallen into gloomy reflection, raised his head.

"This Montgommery! You didn't care for him, did you, Diane? You didn't care for him?"

"What a foolish question!" said the favorite, with a disdainful smile. "Still so jealous after twenty years!"

"Yes, I am jealous; I am, and shall always be jealous of you, Diane. Surely you didn't love him; but he loved you, the villain,—he dared to love you!"

"Mon Dieu! Sire, you have always lent too willing an ear to the slanders with which these Protestants are always pursuing me. That is not the part of a Catholic king. In any event, whether the man loved me or not, what does it matter, if my heart never for an instant ceased to be wholly yours, for the Comte de Montgommery has been dead many years?"

"Yes, dead!" said the king, in a hollow voice.

"Come, let us not grow mournful over these reminiscences on a day which ought to be a day of rejoicing," said Diane. "Have you seen François and Marie yet? Are they always so lovelorn, these children? Well their terrible impatience will soon be at an end. Think, in two hours they will be made one, and so glad and happy, but still not so delighted as the Guises, whose wishes are fully satisfied by this marriage."

"Yes, but who is in a fury about it?" said the king. "My old Montmorency; and the constable has so much the more reason to lose his head, because I greatly fear that our Diane is not destined for his son."

"But, Sire, didn't you promise him this marriage by way of amends?"

"Certainly I did; but it seems that Madame de Castro has objections—"

"A child of eighteen just out of a convent! What objections can she possibly have?"

"It is to confide them to me that she is probably waiting in my apartments at this very moment."

"Go to her, then, Sire, while I proceed to beautify myself to please you."

"And after the ceremony I shall see you again at the tilting match. I am going to break a lance in your honor once more to-day, and I propose to make you queen of the lists."

"The queen? And who is the other?"

"There is only one, Diane, and you know it very well. Au revoir."

"Au revoir, Sire, and pray don't be rash and careless in this tilting; you make me shudder sometimes."

"There is no danger there, I'm sorry to say; for I could wish that there might be, so that I might seem a little more deserving in your eyes. But time is passing, and my two Dianes are both impatient. Tell me just once more that you love me."

"Sire, I love you as I always have loved you, and as I shall love you forever."

The king, before letting the curtain fall behind him, threw her a last kiss with his hand. "Adieu, my dearly loving and dearly loved Diane," said he. And he left her.

Then a panel hidden by hangings in the opposite wall opened.

"For the love of heaven, have you done enough chattering for to-day?" said the Constable de Montmorency, roughly, as he came into the room.

"My friend," said Diane, rising, "you must have seen that even before ten o'clock, which was the hour of my appointment with you, I did everything I could to send him away. I was quite as uncomfortable as you were, believe me."

"As uncomfortable as I! Pasques-Dieu! no, my dear; and if you flatter yourself that your discourse was either instructive or entertaining—In the first place, what is this new crotchet, of refusing your daughter Diane's hand to my son François, after having solemnly promised it? By the crown of thorns! would one not say that the bastard was conferring a great honor on the Montmorency family by condescending to enter it? The marriage must take place; do you understand, Diane? And you must take measures to see that it does. It is the only means left of restoring the balance between us and the Guises, whom the deuce take! So, Diane, in spite of the king, in spite of the Pope, in spite of everything, I wish that this should come to pass."

"But, my friend—"

"Ah!" cried the constable, "and when I tell you that I wish it so, Pater noster!"

"It shall be as you say, my friend," Diane in her fear of him made haste to say.

[1]

Sweet and lovely little mouth,
Fresher and ruddier than bud of eglantine
At morn!
Sweeter and more fragrant than the immortal amaranth,
And a hundred times dearer
Than the gentle dew which waters the earth,
Drop by drop, in the sweetest month!
Kiss me, sweet friend; kiss me, dear life.
Kiss me lovingly, closely, until I say:
Alas, my love, I can bear no more!
Alas, my God, I can bear no more!
Then take away thy little mouth, till dead I sigh;
Then bestow on me the rest.
Thus, sweet warrior, my heart, my light, my all,
Let us live together; let us live
And follow the sweet delights of youth,
Since near the haven old age threatens us,
Which, bowed and trembling, tottering, brings us
Sickness and death.

CHAPTER V
IN THE APARTMENTS OF THE ROYAL CHILDREN

The king, on returning to his own apartments, did not find his daughter there; but the usher who was in attendance told him that after waiting for him a long while Madame Diane had gone to the rooms set apart for the king's children, leaving word that she should be informed as soon as his Majesty returned.

"Very well," said Henri, "I will join her there. Leave me, for I will go alone."

He passed through a large hall, then a long corridor, at the end of which he softly opened a door, and stood looking behind a long half-drawn curtain. The children's cries and shouts of laughter had drowned the noise of his steps; and he was able, himself unseen, to watch a most delightful and graceful picture.

Standing at the window, Mary Stuart, the beautiful young bride, had gathered around her Diane de Castro, and Elisabeth and Marguerite de France, all three very assiduous to help her, and chattering away for dear life, smoothing out a fold in her dress or fixing a lock of hair that had escaped from its fastening,—in short, giving that finishing touch to her lovely toilette which only women know how to give. At the other end of the room, the brothers, Charles, Henri, and François, the youngest of all, laughing and shouting at the top of their voices, were pushing with all their strength against a door which François the dauphin, the young bridegroom, was trying in vain to open, while the little rogues were determined to prevent him from having a sight of his wife till the last moment.

Jacques Amyot, the preceptor of the princes, was talking seriously in a corner with Madame de Coni and Lady Lennox, the governesses of the princesses.

There in one apartment, within a space that could be covered by one glance, was assembled a large part of the history of the future, its woes, its passions, and its glory. There were the dauphin, who became François II.; Élisabeth, who married Philip II., and became Queen of Spain; Charles, who was Charles IX.; Henri, who was Henri III.; Marguerite de Valois, who married Henri IV., and was Queen of Navarre; François, who was successively Duc d'Alençon, d'Anjou, and de Brabant; and Mary Stuart, who was twice a queen, and a martyr too.

The illustrious translator of Plutarch watched with a gaze at once sad and absorbed the sports of these children and the future destinies of France.

"No, no, François, you shall not come in!" cried rather harshly the brutal Charles Maximilien, who was in after years to give the word for the fearful slaughter of Saint Bartholomew.

And with his brothers' help he succeeded in pushing the bolt, and thus made an entrance out of the question for poor François, who was too frail in any event to have made his way in, even against these children, and who could only stamp in his vexation, and beg from the other side of the door.

"Dear François, how they do torment him!" said Mary Stuart to his sisters.

"Keep quiet, do, Madame la Dauphine, at least until I put in this pin," laughed little Marguerite. "What a fine invention these pins are, and what a great man the one who thought of them last year ought to become!" said she.

"And now that the pin is in place," said gentle Élisabeth, "I am going to open the door for poor François, in spite of these young fiends; for it makes me sad to see him so sad."

"Oh, yes, you know all about that, you do, Élisabeth," said Mary Stuart, sighing; "and you are thinking of your courtly Spaniard, Don Carlos, son of the King of Spain, who fêted us and amused us so at St. Germain."

"See how Elisabeth is blushing," cried little Marguerite, clapping her hands mischievously. "The fact is that he was very fine and gallant, this Castilian of hers."

"Come, come," said Diane de Castro, the eldest of the sisters, in a motherly sort of way, "it isn't right to jest so among sisters, Marguerite."

Nothing could have been more fascinating than the sight of these four lovely maidens, each so different from the others, and each so perfect in herself. Beautiful flowers just opening their buds: Diane, all purity and sweetness; Élisabeth, serious and affectionate; Mary Stuart, all captivating languor; and Marguerite a sparkling madcap. Henri, moved and fascinated, could not feast his eyes enough with the charming picture.

However, he had to make up his mind to go in. "The king!" they cried with one breath; and all, boys and girls together, rushed to meet their king and father. Only Mary Stuart held back a little, and went softly and drew the bolt which was keeping François prisoner. The dauphin lost no time in coming in, and the young family was complete.

"Good-morning, my dears," said the king. "I am very glad to find you all so well and happy. Were they keeping you out, François, my poor boy? But you are going to have time enough now to see your betrothed sweetheart often and always. Are you very fond of one another, my children?"

"Oh, yes, Sire, I do love Mary!" and the passionate boy pressed a burning kiss on the hand of her who was to be his wife.

"Monseigneur," said Lady Lennox, sharply and rather sternly, "one does not kiss a lady's hand in public in that way, especially in his Majesty's presence. What will he think of Madame Mary and her governess?"

"But isn't this hand mine?" said the dauphin.

"Not yet, Monseigneur," said the duenna; "and I propose to fulfil my duty till the last minute."

"Don't be afraid," said Mary, in an undertone to her young husband, who was beginning to sulk; "when she isn't looking, I will give it you again."

The king laughed beneath his beard.

"You are very strict, my Lady; but then you are quite right," he added, checking himself. "And you, Messire Amyot, you are not dissatisfied with your pupils, I trust. Pay great regard to the words of your learned preceptor, young gentlemen, for he is on intimate terms with the great heroes of antiquity. Messire Amyot, is it long since you have heard from Pierre Danot, who was our old master, and from Henri Étienne, our fellow-pupil?"

"The old man and the young one are both well, Sire, and will be very proud and happy to know that your Majesty has deigned to remember them."

"Well, children," said the king, "I wanted to see you before the ceremony, and am very glad that I have seen you. Now, Diane, I am at your service, my dear, so come with me."

Diane bowed low and followed the king from the room.

CHAPTER VI
DIANE DE CASTRO

Diane de Castro, whose acquaintance we made when she was yet a mere child, was now almost eighteen years old. Her beauty had fulfilled all its promise, and had developed in regularity and charm at the same time; the predominant expression of her sweet and lovely face was one of childlike openness and honesty. Diane de Castro in character and in mind was still the child whom we first knew. She was not yet thirteen when the Duc de Castro, whom she had never seen since the day she was married to him, had been killed at the siege of Hesdin. The king had sent the child-widow to pass her mourning period at the convent of the Filles-Dieu at Paris; and Diane had found such warm affection and such pleasant customs there that she had asked her father's permission to remain with the kind sisters and her companions until he should be ready to make some other disposition of her. One could but respect such a devout request; and Henri had not taken Diane from the convent until about a month before, when the Constable de Montmorency, jealous of the preponderance acquired by the Guises in the government, had solicited and obtained for his son the hand of the daughter of the king and his favorite.

During the mouth she had passed at court, Diane had not failed at once to attract universal respect and admiration. "For," says Brantôme, in his work on famous women, "she was very kind, and did nothing to offend anybody; and yet her spirit was very noble and high, and she was very obliging and discreet, and most virtuous." But her virtue, which shone forth so pure and lovely amid the general wickedness of the time, was entirely free from any touch of austerity or harshness. One day some man remarked in her hearing that a daughter of France ought to be valiant and strong, and that her shyness smacked somewhat of the cloister, whereupon she learned to ride in a very few days, and there was no cavalier who was so fearless and dashing a rider as she. After that she always went with the king to the chase; and Henri yielded more and more to her charming way of seeking, without the least pretence for any occasion, however trifling, of anticipating his wishes and making herself agreeable to him. So Diane was granted the privilege of entering her father's apartments whenever she chose, and she was always sure of a welcome. Her touching grace, her modest ways, and the odor of sweet maidenliness and innocence which one seemed to breathe when she was near, even to her smile, which was the least bit sad, combined to make her perhaps the most exquisite and ravishing figure of that whole court, which could boast of so many dazzling beauties.

"Well, my darling," said Henri, "now I am ready to hear what you have to tell me. There's eleven o'clock striking. The marriage ceremony at St. Germain l'Auxerrois is not to be performed till noon, so that I have half an hour to give you, and no more. These are the pleasant moments of my life that I pass with you."

"Sire, what a kind and indulgent father you are!"

"Oh, no, but I love you dearly, my precious child; and I desire with all my heart to do something that will gratify you, so long as I do not thereby prove false to the grave interests of state which a king must always consider before any natural ties. And now, Diane, to prove it to you, I will first of all give you my answer to the two requests you made of me. Good Sister Monique, who loved you and watched over you at your convent of the Filles-Dieu, has been appointed at your recommendation Lady Abbess of the convent of Origny at St. Quentin."

"Oh, how grateful I am, Sire!"

"As for brave Antoine, your favorite servant at Vimoutiers, he will draw a handsome pension from our treasury for life. I am very sorry, Diane, that Enguerrand is no longer alive. We should have liked to show our gratitude in kingly style to the worthy squire who brought up our dear daughter Diane so happily; but you lost him last year, I think, and he has not even left an heir."

"Sire, you are too generous and kind really."

"And more than that, Diane, here are the letters-patent which make you Duchesse d'Angoulême. And this is not a fourth part of what I should like to do for you; for I see that you are sometimes thoughtful and sad, and that is why I was in haste to talk with you, because I longed to comfort you, or to cure your sorrow. What is it, my dear? Aren't you happy?"

"Ah, Sire," replied Diane, "how can I help being happy, being thus surrounded by your love and your continual kindness? I only long for one thing, and that is that the present, so full of happiness, may continue. The future, fine and glorious as it may be, will never equal it."

"Diane," said Henri, in a grave voice, "you know that I took you from the convent to give your hand to François de Montmorency. It would be a grand match, Diane; and yet this alliance, which, I don't conceal from you, would have been of great advantage to the interests of my crown, seems to be very distasteful to you. You owe me at least your reasons for this refusal, which troubles me so, Diane."

"Surely I will not hide them from you, my Father. And in the first place," said Diane, with some embarrassment, "I have been told that François de Montmorency has already been secretly married to Mademoiselle de Fiennes, one of the queen's ladies."

"It is true," replied the king; "but this marriage, contracted clandestinely, without the constable's consent and mine, is rightfully void; and if the Pope decrees a divorce, you certainly, Diane, will not show yourself more exacting than his Holiness. So if this is your only reason—"

"But there is another, dear Father."

"And what is it, pray? How can an alliance which would be esteemed an honor by the highest-born and wealthiest heiresses in France work ill to you?"

"Why, Father, because—because I love some one else," cried Diane, throwing herself, confused and weeping, into her father's arms.

"You love some one, Diane?" repeated Henri, amazed; "and what might be the name of this favored individual?"

"Gabriel, Sire."

"Gabriel what?" asked the king, smiling at her.

"I have no idea, Father."

"How can that be, Diane? In Heaven's name, explain yourself!"

"I will tell you everything, Sire. It is an attachment of my childhood's days. I used to see Gabriel every day He was so courteous and obliging and gallant and handsome and clever and affectionate! He used to call me his little wife. Ah, Sire, do not laugh; it was a very serious and holy sentiment, and the first that ever made its impression on my heart. Other attachments may take their places beside it, but can never destroy it. And yet I allowed myself to be married to the Duc Farnèse, Sire, but it was because I knew not what I did; because I was forced into it, and obeyed blindly like the little girl that I was. Since then I have lived and learned, and have come to understand of what treachery I was guilty to Gabriel. Poor Gabriel! when he left me he didn't shed a tear, but what unutterable sadness there was in the look he gave me! All this has come back to me with the happy memories of my childhood during the lonely years that I passed at the convent. And thus I have lived each of the years that I was with Gabriel twice over,—in fact and in fancy, in reality and in my dreams. And since I have returned to court here, Sire, I have seen among the accomplished gentlemen who surround you like another crown not one who can compare with Gabriel; and François, the obsequious son of the haughty constable, will never make me forget the proud and gentle companion of my young days. And so, dear Father, now that I realize what I did and its effect, I shall remain true to Gabriel so long as you leave me free."

"Have you ever seen him since you left Vimoutiers, Diane?"

"Alas, no, Father!"

"But you must have heard from him at least?"

"Not a word. I simply know from Enguerrand that he left the province after my departure; he told Aloyse, his nurse, that he would never come back until he had made himself an honorable and dreaded name, and that she need not be anxious about him. And with that he left her, Sire."

"And have his family never heard aught of him?" asked the king.

"His family?" repeated Diane. "I never knew of his having any other family than Aloyse, Father; and I never saw any relatives of his when I went with Enguerrand to pay a visit at Montgommery."

"At Montgommery!" cried Henri, while the color fled from his face. "Diane, Diane, I trust he is not a Montgommery! Tell me, for Heaven's sake, that he is not a Montgommery!"

"Oh, no, indeed, Sire for if he had been, he surely would have lived at the château, whereas he lived with Aloyse, his nurse, in her modest dwelling. But what have the counts of Montgommery ever done to you, Sire, to move you to such an extent? Are they enemies of yours? In their province they are mentioned only with the deepest respect."

"Of course, that is true!" said the king, with a nervous, disdainful laugh; "and they have done nothing to me, nothing at all, Diane! What could a Montgommery do to a Valois, pray? But to return to this Gabriel of yours. Was it not Gabriel that you called him?"

"Yes."

"And he had no other name?"

"No other that I know of, Sire; he was an orphan like me, and no one ever mentioned his father in my presence."

"And you have no other objection to make, Diane, to this projected alliance with Montmorency, except your former affection for this young man? No other at all, have you?"

"That one is enough; so my heart tells me, Sire."

"Very true, Diane; and perhaps I should not undertake to overcome your scruples if your friend were on the spot, where we could know and appreciate him, and although he may be, I can guess, of uncertain parentage—"

"But is there not a bar on my escutcheon too, your Majesty?"

"Yes, but at least you have an escutcheon, Madame; and you will be good enough to bear in mind that the Montmorencys no less than the Castros consider it an honor to receive into their family a legitimatized daughter of mine. Your Gabriel, on the other hand—but then, that is not the question now. The important fact in my mind is that he has not turned up in six years, and that he has probably forgotten you, Diane, and has, it is more than likely, given his heart to another."

"Sire, you do not know Gabriel: his is an untutored and faithful heart, which will burn itself out in love for me."

"Very well, Diane. To you no doubt it seems improbable that he would be unfaithful to you; and you are quite right to deny it. But everything leads you to suppose that this young man went to the wars. And if so, is it not probable that he has died there? I afflict you, my dear child, for your fair brow has grown pale, and your eyes are swimming in tears. Yes, I can see that your feeling for him is a very deeply rooted one; and although it has seldom been my lot to meet with such, and I have got into the habit of being incredulous about these great passions, I have no inclination to laugh at this of yours, but I respect it. But just see, my darling, in what an embarrassing position you place me by your refusal, and all on account of a childish attachment whose object is nothing more than a mere memory and a shadow. The constable, if I insult him by withdrawing my pledged word, will be angry, and not unjustly, my child, and will very probably leave my service; and then it will be no longer I, but the Duc de Guise, who will be king. Think for a moment, Diane, of the six brothers of that family: the Duc de Guise has at his command the whole military power of France; the cardinal all the finances; a third controls my Marseilles fleet; a fourth commands in Scotland; and a fifth is about to take Brissac's place in Piedmont. So that from one extremity of my realm to the other, I, the king, cannot dispose of a soldier or a crown without their assent. I speak gently to you, Diane, and explain these matters to you; I stoop to implore where I might command. But I think it much better to let you judge for yourself, and that it should be the father and not the king who obtains his daughter's consent to his plans. And I shall obtain it, for you are a good and obedient child. This marriage will be my salvation, my dear child; it will give to the Montmorencys that measure of influence which it will withdraw from the Guises. It will equalize the two arms of the balance of which my royal power is the beam. Guise will become less overbearing, and Montmorency more at my devotion. What! you do not answer, dear. Do you remain deaf to the prayer of your father, who does not storm at you or use harsh words, but who, on the contrary, enters into all your thoughts, and asks of you only that you will not deny him the first service which you can do him in return for what he has done, and all that he wishes still to do for your happiness and honor? Come, Diane, my dear daughter, you will consent, won't you?"

"Sire," replied Diane, "you are a thousand times more powerful when your voice sues for something that it might command. I am ready to sacrifice myself to your interests, but only on one condition, Sire."

"And what is that, you spoiled child?"

"That this marriage shall not take place for three months, and meanwhile I will send to Aloyse for news of Gabriel, and will resort to every other possible source of information, so that if he is no more, I may know it; and if he is still living, I may at least ask him to return me my plighted word."

"Granted with all my heart," said Henri, overjoyed beyond measure; "and I will say in addition that wiser words never fell from a child's lips. So you shall search for your Gabriel, and I will help you as you have need of me; and in three months you shall marry François, whatever be the result of our investigations, and whether your young friend be living or dead."

"And now," said Diane, sadly shaking her head, "I don't know whether I ought to pray most earnestly for his death or his life."

The king opened his lips, and was on the point of giving utterance to a suggestion not very paternal in character, and of rather doubtful consoling power. But he had only to look at Diane's frank expression and lovely face, to stop the words before they came; and he betrayed his thought only by a smile.

"For good or for ill, she will conform to the customs of the court," he said to himself.

And then aloud,—

"The time has come to go to the Church, Diane; allow me to escort you to the great gallery, Madame, and then I will see you again at the tilting, and at the games in the afternoon. And if you are not too much incensed with me for my tyrannical conduct, perhaps you will condescend to applaud my strokes with the lance, and my passades, my fair umpire."

CHAPTER VII
HOW THE CONSTABLE SAID HIS PATER NOSTER

That same day, in the afternoon, while the jousting and holiday-making was in progress at Tournelles, the Constable de Montmorency was completing his examination, in Diane de Poitiers's closet at the Louvre, of one of his secret agents.

The spy was of medium height and swarthy complexion; he had black hair and eyes, an aquiline nose, a forked chin, and projecting lower lip, and his back was slightly crooked. He bore a most striking resemblance to Martin-Guerre, Gabriel's faithful squire. Any one seeing them separately might well have mistaken either for the other; and he who saw them standing side by side would have taken them for twin brothers, so exactly alike were they in every respect. They had the same features and the same figure, and were apparently of the same age.

"And the courier, what did you do with him, Master Arnauld?" asked the constable.

"Monseigneur, I put him out of the way. It had to be done; but it was in the night and in the forest of Fontainebleau. The murder was laid at the door of robbers. I am very careful."

"Never mind, Master Arnauld; it is a very serious matter, and I blame you for being so ready to play with your knife."

"I shrink at nothing when Monseigneur's service is at stake."

"That's all very well; but once for all, Master Arnauld, remember that if you allow yourself to steal, I will allow you to hang," said the constable, dryly and rather contemptuously.

"Never fear, Monseigneur; I am a man of discretion and foresight."

"Now let's see the letter."

"Here it is, Monseigneur."

"Very well! unseal it without breaking the seal, and read it. For Heaven's sake, do you suppose for a moment that I am going to read it?"

Master Arnauld du Thill took from his pocket a sharp little chisel, and cut carefully around the seal, and unfolded the letter. He turned at once to the signature.

"Monseigneur sees that I was not mistaken. The letter addressed to the Cardinal de Guise is from Cardinal de Caraffa, as that wretched courier was simpleton enough to tell me."

"Read it, then, by the crown of thorns!" cried Anne de Montmorency.

Master Arnauld read as follows,—

"MONSEIGNEUR AND DEAR FRIEND,—Just three words of importance. In the first place, in accordance with your request, the Pope will let the affair of the divorce drag slowly along, and will put François de Montmorency off from consistory to consistory (he arrived at Rome yesterday) before finally refusing the dispensation that he solicits."

"Pater noster!" growled the constable. "May the Devil take them, all these red hats!"

Arnauld continued his reading:—

"In the second place, Monsieur de Guise, your illustrious brother, after having taken Campli, is holding Civitella in check. But before we resolve to send him the men and supplies that he asks, and which we can only give him at a great sacrifice, we must at least be assured that you will not call him away to serve in Flanders, as the report goes is likely to be the case. Just see that he remains with us, and his Holiness will make up his mind to an extensive issue of indulgences, hard though the times may be, to assist Monsieur François de Guise in soundly whipping the Duke of Alva and his haughty master."

"Adveniat tuum regnum," growled Montmorency. "We will remember that, body and blood! We will remember that, even if we have to call the English into France. Go on, Arnauld, go on, by the Mass!"

The spy resumed:—

"In the third place, I have to announce to you, Monseigneur, to encourage you and support you in your endeavors, the speedy arrival at Paris of a messenger from your brother, Vicomte d'Exmès, who is bringing to Henri the flags conquered in this Italian campaign. He is about to set out, and will arrive no doubt at the same time that my letter does, which, however, I have chosen to intrust to our regular courier; his presence, and the glorious trophies which he will offer to the king, will assuredly be of great service to you in conducting your negotiations in every direction."

"Fiat voluntas tua," cried the constable, in a perfect fury of rage. "We will give this ambassador from hell a fine reception. I commend him to you, Arnauld. Is that the end of that cursed letter?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, all but the usual complimentary words, and the signature."

"Good! you see that there is some work cut out for you, my fine fellow."

"I ask for nothing better, Monseigneur, with a little money thrown in to assist in obtaining good results."

"Here are a hundred ducats, knave. You must always feel the money in your hand."

"But I spend so much in Monseigneur's service."

"Your vices cost you more than my service does, you scoundrel."

"Oh, how mistaken Monseigneur is in me! I dream only of leading a quiet life, in happiness and affluence, somewhere in the country, with my wife and children about me, and passing the rest of my days in peace, like an honest father and husband."

"A most charmingly virtuous and bucolic picture, to be sure! Oh, well, then, mend your ways, put by a few doubloons, and marry, and you will be in a fair way to realize these dreams of domestic felicity. What prevents you?"

"Ah, Monseigneur, my fiery spirit! And then what woman would ever have me?"

"Meanwhile, and pending your hymeneal plans, suppose you seal that letter again very carefully, and carry it to the cardinal. You must disguise yourself, you understand, and say that your dying comrade enjoined upon you—"

"You may trust me, Monseigneur. The resealed letter and the substituted courier will seem more authentic than the real articles."

"The deuce take it!" said Montmorency; "we forgot to take down the name of this plenipotentiary whose coming is announced. What is he called?"

"Vicomte d'Exmès, Monseigneur."

"Ah, yes, that was it, villain. Now see that you remember the name. Well! who dares to interrupt me again?"

"Pardon, Monseigneur," said the constable's fourrier, entering. "A gentleman arrived from Italy is asking to see the king on behalf of the Duc de Guise; and I thought I ought to advise you of it, especially since he was very anxious to speak with the Cardinal de Lorraine. He calls himself Vicomte d'Exmès."

"That was very proper of you, Guillaume," said the constable. "Show the gentleman in here. And do you, Master Arnauld, take your place there behind that hanging, and don't let slip this opportunity of having a good look at the man with whom no doubt you will have some business to transact. It is for your benefit that I receive him, so keep your eyes and ears open."

"I am quite sure, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld, "that I have already come across him in my travels. But no matter! It is just as well to be certain of it. Vicomte d'Exmès, is it?"

The spy slipped behind the hangings, as Guillaume appeared, ushering Gabriel into the room.

"Pardon me," said the young man, politely saluting the old constable; "but to whom have I the honor of addressing myself?"

"I am the Constable de Montmorency, Monsieur; what is your will?"

"Pardon me again," said Gabriel; "but what I have to say I must say to the king."

"But you know that his Majesty is not at the Louvre, do you not? and in his absence—"

"I will follow his Majesty or await his return," Gabriel interposed.

"His Majesty is at the fêtes at the Tournelles, and will not return before evening. Don't you know that the marriage of Monseigneur le Dauphin is being celebrated to-day?"

"No, Monseigneur; I only learned of it on my way hither. But I came by way of the Rue de l'Université and the Pont au Change, and did not pass through the Rue St. Antoine."

"Then you ought to have followed the crowd. That would have shown you the way to the king."

"But I have not yet had the honor of being presented to his Majesty. I am an entire stranger at court. I hoped to find Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine at the Louvre. It was his Eminence for whom I inquired, and I can't imagine why I have been conducted to you, Monseigneur."

"Monsieur de Lorraine," said the constable, "loves these sham fights, being a churchman; but I, who am a man of the sword,—I care only for real fighting, and that is why I am at the Louvre, while Monsieur de Lorraine is at the Tournelles."

"If you please, Monseigneur, I will go and seek him there, then."

"But, mon Dieu, stay and rest a bit, Monsieur; for you seem to have arrived from a distance,—from Italy, no doubt, since you entered the city by the Rue de l'Université."

"From Italy, in truth, Monseigneur. I have no reason to conceal the fact."

"You come from the Duc de Guise, perhaps? Well, what is he about down there?"

"Permit me, Monseigneur, to inform his Majesty in the first instance, and to take my leave to the end that I may fulfil that duty."

"So be it, Monsieur, since you are in such haste. No doubt," he added with an assumed air of pleasantry, "you are in a hurry to renew your acquaintance with some fair lady or other. I'll warrant that you are in haste and fear at the same time. Come, now, isn't that so, my young sir?"

But Gabriel put on his coldest and most serious expression, and replied only with a low bow, as he left the apartment.

"Pater noster qui es in cœlis" snarled the constable, when the door had closed behind Gabriel. "Does this cursed fop imagine that I wanted to make advances to him, to win him over to my side, perchance, or to corrupt him possibly? As if I didn't know perfectly well what he is going to say to the king! No matter! if I fall in with him again, he shall pay me dear for his unsociable airs and his defiant insolence! Ho, there, Master Arnauld! Come, come! Where is the blackguard? Vanished too, by the cross! Everybody seems to have taken on a fit of stupidity to-day. The Devil seize them! Pater noster!"

While the constable was thus venting his ill-humor in curses and Pater nosters, as his wont was, Gabriel, on his way out of the Louvre, was passing through a rather dark gallery, when to his great amazement he saw his squire, Martin-Guerre, standing near the door, although he had ordered him to await him in the courtyard.

"Is it you, Master Martin?" said he. "So you have come to meet me! Very well! Go you ahead with Jérôme, and wait for me with the flags well wrapped up at the corner of the Rue St. Catherine on the Rue St. Antoine. Perhaps Monseigneur le Cardinal would prefer that we should present the flags to the king on the spot, and in the presence of the whole court assembled at the jousting. Christopher will hold my horse and bear me company. Go on! you understand me, don't you?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, I know what I wanted to know," replied Martin-Guerre.

And he started down the staircase ahead of Gabriel with an alacrity which augured well for the speedy execution of his commission. Imagine Gabriel's extreme surprise, when he came out more slowly and like one who dreamed, to find his squire still in the court, and now apparently terrified and pale as a ghost.

"Well, Martin, what is it, and what is the matter with you?" he asked him.

"Ah, Monseigneur, I have just seen him; he passed right near me this very moment, and spoke to me."

"Who, pray?"

"Who? Why, who but the devil, the ghost, the phantom, the monster, the other Martin-Guerre?"

"Still this madness. Martin! Are you dreaming as you stand there?"

"No, no, indeed I was not dreaming. He spoke to me, Monseigneur, I tell you; he stopped in front of me, turned me to stone with his wizard's look, and said to me, laughing his infernal laugh, 'So we are still in Vicomte d'Exmès's service, are we?' Note the plural, 'we are,' Monseigneur; 'and we have brought from Italy the flags taken in the field by Monsieur de Guise?' I said yes, in spite of myself, for he fascinated me. How does he know all this, Monseigneur? And he went on: 'Let us not be afraid, for are we not friends and brothers?' And then he heard your footsteps approaching, Monseigneur, and he added, with a diabolical irony which made my hair stand on end, just these words: 'We shall meet again, Martin-Guerre; we shall meet again.' And he disappeared through that little wicket, perhaps, or more likely into the wall."

"You poor fool!" said Gabriel. "How could he have had the necessary time to say and do all this since you left me up there in the gallery?"

"I, Monseigneur! I haven't stirred from this spot, where you ordered me to await you."

"It must have been another, then; and if not to you to whom have I just been speaking?"

"Most certainly to the other. Monseigneur; to my double, my ghost."

"Poor Martin!" said Gabriel, compassionately, "are you in pain? Doesn't your head ache? Perhaps we have walked too far in the hot sun."

"Oh, yes!" said Martin-Guerre, "I see that you fancy that I am wandering, do you not? But a sure proof that I am not mistaken, Monseigneur, is that I don't know a single word of the orders that you think you gave me."

"You must have forgotten them, Martin," said Gabriel, gently. "Well, then, I will repeat them, my good fellow. I told you to go and wait for me with the flags in the Rue St. Antoine at the corner of the Rue St. Catherine. Jérôme will accompany you, and I will keep Christopher with me; don't you remember now?"

"Pardon, Monseigneur; but how can you expect me to remember what I never knew?"

"At all events, you know it now, Martin," said Gabriel. "Come, let us take our horses again at the gates, where our people ought to be waiting with them, and then be off at once. To the Tournelles!"

"I obey, Monseigneur. The amount of it is that you have two squires; but I am very glad at least that I have not two masters."

The lists for the formal celebration had been laid out across the Rue St. Antoine from the Tournelles to the royal stables. They were in the form of a large square, bordered on each side by scaffolding filled with spectators. At one end were the queen and the court; at the other end was the entrance to the lists where the participants in the games were waiting; the general public filled the two remaining galleries.

When, after the marriage ceremony and the banquet which immediately succeeded it were at an end, the queen and court, about three in the afternoon, took their places on the seats reserved for them, vivas and shouts of joy resounded on all sides.

But this noisy jubilation caused the fête to be marred by an accident at its very beginning. The horse of Monsieur d'Avallon, one of the captains of the Guards, terrified by the uproar, reared and leaped into the arena, and his rider, unhorsed by the shock, hit his head a terrible blow against one of the wooden barriers which made the enclosure, and he was taken up half dead, and given over to the care of the surgeons in an almost hopeless condition.

The king was much moved by this sad casualty; but his passion for games and jousting soon got the better of his sorrow.

"Poor Monsieur d'Avallon," said he, "and such a devoted subject! Let us hope at least that he will be well looked after."

And then he added,—

"Come! the races for the ring can begin at any time."

The game of the ring of that epoch was much more complicated and difficult than the one that we know. The crutch from which the ring was suspended was placed almost two thirds of the way down the lists. It was necessary to ride at a hand gallop the first third, and at a full gallop the second third, and while going at this high rate of speed to carry off the ring on the end of the lance. But the lance must not be allowed to touch the body anywhere; it must be held horizontally with the elbow, high above the head. The game was ended by riding around the arena at a trot. The prize was a diamond ring offered by the queen.

Henri II., on his white steed, magnificently caparisoned in gold and velvet, was the most superb and most graceful cavalier of all. He carried and handled his lance with admirable grace and precision, and hardly ever missed the ring. But Monsieur de Vieilleville pressed him close; and there was a moment when it seemed as if the prize would go to him. He had two rings more than the king, and but three remained to be taken; but Monsieur de Vieilleville, like an accomplished courtier, missed them all three by extraordinary ill luck, and the prize was awarded to the king.

As he received the ring, he hesitated a moment, and his look turned regretfully toward Diane de Poitiers; but the gift was offered by the queen, and it was his bounden duty to present it to the new dauphine, Mary Stuart, the bride of the day.

"Well!" he asked, in the interval which followed this first contest, "are there any hopes of saving Monsieur d'Avallon's life?"

"He still breathes, Sire," was the reply; "but there is almost no chance that he will ever regain consciousness."

"Alas!" said the king, "let us have the gladiators' contest now."

This gladiators' contest was a mock combat with passades and manœuvring, quite new, and a great curiosity in those days; but which would have no special interest, probably, for the imagination of the spectator of our time, or of the readers of this book. We beg to refer to the pages of Brantôme those who are curious to read about the marches and counter-marches of these twelve gladiators, "of whom six were clad in white satin, and six in crimson satin, made up according to the style in vogue in ancient Rome." All of which should be of great historical interest in an age when local coloring had not been invented.

This fine contest came to an end amid general applause, and the necessary preparations were made for beginning the stake-race.

At the court end of the lists several stakes five or six feet long were stuck into the earth at regular intervals. The rules required that the contestants should ride at a hand-gallop in and out among these improvised trees in every direction, without missing or omitting a single one. The prize was a bracelet of marvellous workmanship.

Out of eight courses that were run, the honors remained with the king in three and with Monsieur le Colonel-Général de Bonnivet in a like number. The ninth and last was to be the decisive one; but Monsieur de Bonnivet was no less respectful than Monsieur de Vieilleville had been; and notwithstanding the very willing disposition of his horse, he came in third, and again Henri won the prize.

This time the king sat down beside Diane de Poitiers, and put upon her arm without concealment the bracelet he had received.

The queen turned pale with rage.

Gaspard de Tavannes, who was just behind her, leaned forward and whispered in Catherine de Médicis's ear,—

"Madame, follow me with your eyes, and see what I am going to do."

"And what is it that you are going to do, my good Gaspard?" said the queen.

"To cut off Madame de Valentinois's nose," replied Tavannes, with the utmost gravity and seriousness.

He was just about to leave her, when Catherine, half terrified and half delighted, held him back.

"But, Gaspard, do you realize that it will be your destruction?"

"I do, Madame; but I will save the king and France!"

"Thanks, Gaspard," replied Catherine; "you are a valiant friend no less than a rough soldier. But I command you to be still, Gaspard, and have patience."

"Patience." In truth, that was the watchword by which Catherine de Médicis seemed to have ordered her life up to that time. She, who subsequently was so forward to take her place in the very first rank, had not yet appeared to have any ambition to emerge from the obscurity of the second. She bided her time. And yet she was at this time in the full bloom of a beauty of which Sieur de Bourdeille has left us most minute details; but she sedulously avoided all parade, and it is probably to this modesty that she owed the utter absence of slander in relation to her during her husband's lifetime. There was no one but the brute of a constable who would have dared to call the king's attention to the fact that the ten children that Catherine de Médicis had bestowed on France after ten years of sterility were very little like their father. No other person would have been bold enough to breathe a word against the queen.

It was always Catherine's custom to appear, as she did on this day, not even to notice the attentions which the king lavished on Diane de Poitiers in the sight and bearing of the whole court. After she had soothed the fiery indignation of the marshal she went on talking with her ladies of the races that had taken place, and of the address displayed by Henri.

CHAPTER VIII
A FORTUNATE TOURNEY

The tournaments proper were not to take place until the next and following days; but several gentlemen attached to the court asked the king's leave, as it was still quite early, to break a lance or two in honor of the ladies and for their entertainment.

"So be it, gentlemen," the king replied as a matter of course. "I give you leave with all my heart, especially as it is likely to bother Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine, who has never had to deal with so numerous a correspondence, I fancy, as during the two hours that we have been here. There are two messages that he has received one right after the other, and he seems much preoccupied with them. But never mind! we shall know by and by what the matter is, and meanwhile you may break a lance or two. And here is a prize for the victor," added Henri, taking from his neck the gold necklace that he wore. "Do your best, gentlemen, and remember that if the contest grows warm, I shall be very likely to take a hand in it, and try to win back what I am offering you, especially as I owe something to Madame de Castro. Take notice, too, that at precisely six o'clock the contest will be declared at an end, and the victor, whoever he may be, will receive his crown. Come, you have an hour in which to show off your fine strokes. Be always careful that no harm comes to any one. And, apropos, how does Monsieur d'Avallon?"

"Alas, Sire, he is just at the point of death."

"God rest his soul!" said Henri. "Of all the captains of my Guards he was the most devoted to my service and the bravest. Who is there to take his place? But the ladies are waiting, gentlemen; and the lists are open. How, who shall receive the necklace from the hands of the queen?"

The Comte de Pommerive was the first challenger, and he had to yield to Monsieur de Burie, from whom Monsieur le Maréchal d'Amville soon wrested the field; but the marshal, who was very strong and skilful as well, held his ground against five challengers one after the other.

The king could not contain himself.

"I propose to find out, Monsieur d'Amville, if you are riveted there for all time," he said to the marshal.

He put on his armor, and at the very first onset Monsieur d'Amville lost his stirrups. It was Monsieur d'Aussun's turn next; but after him no other combatant appeared.

"How's this, gentlemen?" said Henri. "What! No one else wishes to tilt against me. Can it possibly be that you are humoring me?" he continued, with a gathering frown. "Ah, mordieu! if I thought so! There is no king here but the victor, and no privileges save those of knightly skill. Come, attack me, gentlemen, boldly."

But no one ventured to try a pass with the king; for they dreaded equally to vanquish him and to be vanquished.

But the king was much annoyed. He began to suspect that perhaps in former tourneys his opponents had not put forth all their science against him; and this thought, which made his prowess seem small in his own eyes, filled him with anger.

At last a new champion passed the barrier. Henri, without a single glance to see who it was, set his horse in motion and rushed at him. The two lances were shattered; but the king, throwing away the fragment, reeled in his saddle, and was forced to cling to the saddlebow to save himself. At that instant six o'clock struck. Henri was beaten.

He leaped quickly and joyously to the ground, threw his reins to a squire, and rushed to seize the hand of his vanquisher to escort him to the queen himself. To his vast surprise he saw a face which was absolutely unfamiliar to him. Moreover, he was a cavalier of fine presence and noble bearing; and the queen, as she passed the necklace around the young man's neck, while he knelt before her, could not forbear remarking it, and smiling upon him.

But he, after bowing to the ground, rose, took a few steps toward the platform appropriated to the court, stopped before Madame de Castro, and offered her the necklace, the prize of victory.

The trumpets were still sounding, so that no one heard the two cries which issued at the same moment from two mouths.

"Gabriel!"

"Diane!"

Diane, pale, and trembling with joy and wonder, took the necklace with a shaking hand. Every one supposed that the unknown knight had heard the king promise the necklace to Madame de Castro; and that he did not wish to disappoint so fair a damsel. It was agreed that his proceeding was very courteous, and bore the stamp of a true gentleman. The king himself put no other construction on the incident.

"I am touched by such extreme gallantry," said he; "but I, who am supposed to be able to call all my nobles by name, I confess that I cannot recall, Monsieur, where or when I have seen you before, and I shall be more than delighted to know to whom I am indebted for the sturdy blow just now which would have unsaddled me, I believe, if, thank God! I had not had such strong legs."

"Sire," replied Gabriel, "this is the first time that I have had the honor of appearing before your Majesty. I have been hitherto with the army, and have only just arrived from Italy. I am called Vicomte d'Exmès."

"Vicomte d'Exmès!" echoed the king. "I shall remember the name of my vanquisher, never fear."

"Sire," said Gabriel, "there can be no vanquisher where you are concerned, and I bring a glorious proof of it to your Majesty."

He made a sign; and Martin-Guerre and the two men-at-arms entered the lists with the Italian flags, which they laid at the king's feet.

"Sire," Gabriel continued, "these are the flags conquered in Italy by your army, and sent to your Majesty by Monseigneur le Duc de Guise. His Eminence, Monseigneur le Cardinal de Lorraine, assures me that your Majesty will not take it ill of me to deliver these trophies to you thus unexpectedly, and in the presence of your court and the French people, who are the deeply interested witnesses of your greatness and glory. Sire, I have also the honor to hand you these letters from Monsieur le Duc de Guise."

"Thanks, Monsieur d'Exmès," said the king. "So this is the secret of all Monsieur le Cardinal's correspondence. These letters are your credentials to our favor, Viscount. But you have a very striking and triumphant way of presenting yourself. But what do I read here? That you have yourself taken four of these flags? Our cousin Guise rates you as one of his most gallant captains. Monsieur d'Exmès, ask of me what you choose; and I swear by all that is holy that you shall have it on the spot!"

"Sire, you overwhelm me; and I put myself entirely at the disposition of your Majesty's favor."

"You were a captain under Monsieur de Guise, Monsieur," said the king. "Would it suit you to hold the same rank in our Guards? I was perplexed as to how I should fill the place of Monsieur d'Avallon, who met such a sad fate here to-day; but I see that in you he will have a worthy successor."

"Your Majesty—"

"Do you accept? Then it's done. You will begin your duties to-morrow. Now we are about to return to the Louvre. You will tell me more at length of the particulars of this Italian war at some future time."

Gabriel saluted him.

Henri gave the word for departure. The crowd dispersed amid shouts of Vive le roi! Diane, as if by magic, found herself at Gabriel's side for an instant.

"To-morrow at the queen's levee," said she in a low voice.

She disappeared under her escort's wing, but leaving hope divine to blossom in the heart of her old-time friend.

CHAPTER IX
HOW ONE MAY PASS CLOSE BY HIS DESTINY WITHOUT
KNOWING IT

When the queen held a levee, it was generally in the evening after supper; so much Gabriel learned, and was told also that his new post of captain of the Guards not only allowed but required him to show himself there. He had no desire to shirk that duty, and his only regret was that he had to wait twenty-four hours before fulfilling it. We can see that in zeal and gallantry Monsieur d'Avallon's place was likely to be worthily filled.

But he had to think about killing those twenty-four hours, one after the other,—those everlasting hours which separated him from the eagerly desired moment. This young man, whose joy made him forget his weariness, and who had as yet hardly seen Paris except on his way from one camp to another, started to scour the city with Martin-Guerre in search of a suitable lodging. He had the good luck, for he was in luck that day, to find vacant the very apartments which had formerly been occupied by his father, the Comte de Montgommery. He hired them, although they were somewhat over-fine for a mere captain of the Guards; but he could make himself easy in that regard by simply writing to his faithful Elyot to send him some money from Montgommery. He also wrote to his good nurse Aloyse to come and join him there.

Gabriel's first purpose was thus attained. He was a child no longer now, but a man who had already proved his manhood, and with whom there must be a reckoning; to the honorable qualities which he had inherited from his ancestors he had been able to add some personal renown. Alone and with no other support than his sword, and no recommendation but his gallant behavior, he had reached high rank at twenty-four. At last he might proudly show himself to her whom he loved, as well as to those whom it was his duty to hate. The latter Aloyse could help him to find; the former had found him.

Gabriel went to sleep with his heart at rest, and slept long and well.

The next day he had to present himself to Monsieur de Boissy, Grand Equerry of France, to furnish his proofs of nobility. Monsieur de Boissy, a man of honor, had been the Comte de Montgommery's friend. He understood Gabriel's motives for concealing his true title, and gave him his word that he would keep his secret. In the next place, Monsieur le Maréchal d'Amville presented Gabriel to his company. Then Gabriel at once began his duties by visiting and inspecting the State prisons in Paris,—a painful necessity which it was a part of his functions to yield to once a month.

He began with the Bastille, and ended with the Châtelet.

The governor handed him his list of prisoners, told him which ones had died or been transferred or set free, and which were sick, and finally made them pass in review before him,—a sad review, a mournful spectacle. He thought his duties were done, when the governor of the Châtelet called his attention to a page in his register which was almost blank, and bore only this extraordinary memorandum, which impressed Gabriel more than all the rest:—

"No. 21, X.—Secret prisoner. If during the visit of the governor or the captain of the Guards he makes the least attempt to speak, have him removed to a deeper and harsher dungeon."

"Who is this prisoner of such importance? May I know?" Gabriel asked Monsieur de Salvoison, governor of the Châtelet.

"No one knows who he is," was the reply. "I received him from my predecessor as he had received him from his. You notice that the date of his imprisonment is left blank. It must have been during the reign of François I. that he was brought here. He has undertaken to speak two or three times, so I am told; but at his first word the governor is bound, under the severest penalties, to close the door of his cell, and to remove him at once to a more rigorous dungeon; and this has always been done. There is now only one dungeon left more severe than that he occupies, and confinement in that means death. No doubt they desire that he should finally come to that; but just now the prisoner makes no attempt to speak. He must be some very dangerous criminal. He is always in shackles; and his jailer, to guard against any possibility of an escape, is in and out of his cell every minute."

"But suppose he speaks to the jailer?" said Gabriel.

"Oh, he is a deaf mute, born in the Châtelet, who has never been outside the walls."

Gabriel shuddered. This man, so completely isolated from the world of the living, and who yet lived and thought, inspired in his breast a feeling of compassion mingled with an undefinable dread. What resolution or compunction, what fear of hell or trust in heaven, could prevent so wretched a being from dashing out his brain against the walls of his dungeon? Could it be the thirst for revenge, or some hope of deliverance that enabled him to retain his hold on life!

Gabriel felt a sort of anxious eagerness to see this man; his heart beat faster than it had ever done before except when he was on his way to see Diane. He had visited a hundred other prisoners with no other emotion than a sort of general compassion for their lot; but the thought of this poor wretch appealed to him and moved him more than all the others, and his heart was filled with sorrow when he thought of his tomb-like existence.

"Let us go to Number 21," he said to the governor with a choking voice.

They went down several damp, black stairways, passed under several arches which resembled the horrible spirals of Dante's Inferno; at last the governor said, stopping before an iron door,—

"This is the place. I am not his jailer; he is in the cell, no doubt. But I have duplicate keys; let us go in."

He opened the door, and they went in, with no light but a lantern, held by a turnkey. Then Gabriel saw before him a mute and frightful picture, such as one hardly sees except in the nightmare of delirium.

For walls, nothing but solid rock, black, moss-grown, and noisome; for this gloomy hole was excavated below the bed of the Seine, and the water, in times of freshet, filled it half full. On these loathsome walls were crawling slimy things; and the icy air was broken by no sound except that made by the regular, dull falling of a drop of water from the hideous arch. A little less alive than the drop of water, a little more alive than the almost motionless slugs, two beings that had been human were dragging out their existence there, one guarding the other, both dumb and awe-inspiring.

The jailer, a sort of idiot, a dull-eyed giant, with a face of deathlike pallor, was standing in the shadow, gazing stupidly at the prisoner, who was lying in the corner on a pallet of straw, shackled hand and foot to a chain riveted to the wall. He was an old man, with a long white beard and white hair. When they entered he seemed to be sleeping, and did not stir; he might have been taken for a corpse or a statue.

But suddenly he sat up and opened his eyes, and his gaze met Gabriel's.

He was forbidden to speak; but this terrible and piercing gaze spoke for him. Gabriel was fascinated by it, and could not remove his eyes. The governor and turnkey overhauled all the corners of the dungeon. He, Gabriel, rooted to the spot, neither moved forward nor back, but stood there transfixed by those blazing eyes; he could not get away from them, and at the same time a thousand confused and unutterable thoughts were whirling through his brain.

The prisoner seemed no longer to view his visitor with mere indifference, and there was a moment when he made a motion and opened his lips as if to speak; but the governor having turned back toward them, he remembered in time the rule laid down for him, and his lips spoke only by a bitter smile. He closed his eyes once more, and relapsed into his corpse-like immobility.

"Oh, let us go out!" said Gabriel to the governor. "For God's sake, let us go out! I must have fresh air and see the sunlight again."

He did not recover his tranquillity and his life, so to speak, until he found himself once more in the throng and tumult of the street. And even then the gloomy vision he had seen remained in his mind and pursued him the livelong day, as he walked thoughtfully hither and thither through the streets.

Something seemed to tell him that the fate of this wretched captive was connected with his own, and that a great crisis in his life was impending. Worn out at last by these mysteriously recurring presentiments, he directed his steps as the day drew to its close toward the lists of the Tournelles. The day's jousting, in which Gabriel had not cared to take part, was just coming to an end. Gabriel could see Diane, and she saw him; and this interchange of glances at once put his gloomy thoughts to flight as the rays of the sun disperse the clouds. Gabriel forgot the unfortunate prisoner whom he had seen that day, to give himself up entirely to thoughts of the lovely maiden he was to see again in the evening.

CHAPTER X
AN ELEGY DURING THE PROGRESS OF A COMEDY

If was a custom handed down from the reign of François I. At least three times a week, the king, the nobles, and all the ladies of the court assembled in the evening in the queen's apartments. There they would chat about the gossip of the day with perfect freedom, and sometimes with a good deal of license. Private tête-à-têtes would often take place amid the general conversation; and, says Brantôme, "as a throng of earthly goddesses were assembled there, every nobleman and gentleman talked with her whom he loved the best." Frequently there was dancing too, or a play.

It was a party of this description that our friend Gabriel was to attend on the evening in question; and contrary to his custom, he arrayed and perfumed himself with considerable solicitude, so that he might not appear to disadvantage in the eyes of her "whom he loved the best," to quote Brantôme once more.

But Gabriel's delight was not altogether unalloyed by a feeling of uneasiness; and certain vague and offensive words which had been whispered in his hearing concerning Diane's approaching marriage had not failed to cause him some inward anxiety. Thanks to the joy he had felt in seeing Diane again, and in believing that he could distinguish in her expression signs of her former affection for him, he had almost forgotten that letter from the Cardinal de Lorraine which had been the cause of his taking his departure so hurriedly; but the rumors which were flying around, and the continual coupling of the names of Diane de Castro and François de Montmorency, which came to his ears only too plainly, brought back memory to his passionate heart. Was Diane reconciled, then, to that hateful marriage? Did she love this François? Distracting doubts which the evening's interview might not avail to solve satisfactorily.

Gabriel resolved therefore to question Martin-Guerre on the subject, for he had already made more than one acquaintance, and like most squires, was likely to have a much more extended knowledge in such matters than his master; for it is a fact of common observation in acoustics that reports of all sorts sound much louder on low ground, and that echoes are seldom heard except in valleys. This resolution came at a so much more fortunate time, because Martin-Guerre had also made up his mind to question his master, whose preoccupation had not escaped his notice, but who had not, in all conscience, any right to conceal his actions or his thoughts from a faithful retainer of five years' standing, and even more than that,—one who had saved his life.

From this mutual determination, and the conversation which ensued, Gabriel came to the conclusion that Diane de Castro did not love François de Montmorency, and Martin-Guerre that Gabriel did love Diane de Castro.

This twofold conclusion was so satisfactory to both parties that Gabriel arrived at the Louvre fully an hour before the gates were opened; and Martin-Guerre, as a mark of respect to the viscount's royal sweetheart, went off to the court tailor to buy a brown cloth jerkin and small-clothes of yellow tricot. He paid cash for the whole costume, and immediately arrayed himself in it so as to exhibit it in the evening in the antechambers of the Louvre, where he was to go in attendance on his master.

Imagine the tailor's amazement half an hour later to see Martin-Guerre appear again in other clothes. He commented on the fact. Martin-Guerre replied that the evening had seemed a bit cool to him, and that he had thought best to clothe himself a little more warmly. However, he was so very well pleased with the jerkin and the small-clothes that he had come to beg the tailor to sell him or make him another jerkin of the same material and like cut. To no purpose did the man of the yardstick remind Martin-Guerre that he would seem to have only one suit of clothes, and that he would do much better to order a different costume; for instance, a yellow jerkin and brown small-clothes, since he seemed to have a weakness for those particular colors. Martin-Guerre would not recede from his idea, and the tailor had to agree not to make a shade of difference in the garments, which he was to make for him at once, since he had none ready-made; but on this second order Martin-Guerre asked for some credit. He had paid cash handsomely for the first; he was the squire of Vicomte d'Exmès, captain of the king's Guards. The tailor had that monumental trust in human nature which has been from time immemorial the traditional propensity of his craft; so he consented, and promised to deliver the second costume complete the next day.

Meanwhile the hour during which Gabriel had had to gnash his teeth outside the gates of his paradise had passed away, and with a number of others, gentlemen and ladies, he had succeeded in making his way to the queen's apartments.

At the first glance Gabriel saw Diane; she was seated beside the Queen-Dauphine, as Mary Stuart was henceforth called.

To approach her at once would have been very presumptuous for a new-comer, and very imprudent too, no doubt. Gabriel resigned himself to await a favorable opportunity when the conversation should become animated and the attention of those who were near be called to other objects. Meanwhile he entered into conversation with a young nobleman of unhealthy pallor and delicate appearance, near whom he chanced to be standing. But after some little talk on matters as insignificant as his person seemed to be, the young cavalier asked of Gabriel,—

"To whom have I the honor of speaking, Monsieur?"

Gabriel replied, "I am Vicomte d'Exmès. And may I venture to ask you the same question, Monsieur?" he added.

The young man looked at him in amazement as he replied,—

"I am François de Montmorency."

He might as well have said, "I am the Devil!" and Gabriel would have shown less alarmed haste in leaving him. François, whose mind did not work very quickly, was entirely dumfounded; but as he was not fond of using his brain, he soon gave up the riddle, and sought elsewhere for auditors who should be somewhat less unceremonious.

Gabriel had taken care to direct his flight toward Diane de Castro; but his progress was arrested by a great commotion about the king. Henri was just announcing that as he desired to close the day by treating the ladies to a surprise, he had caused a stage to be arranged in the gallery, and that a five-act comedy in verse by Monsieur Jean Antoine de Baïf, entitled "Le Brave," would be performed there. This intelligence was naturally greeted with general gratitude and applause. The gentlemen gave their hands to the ladies to escort them into the neighboring salle, where the stage had been erected; but Gabriel was too late to escort Diane, and could do no better than take his place at a short distance from her behind the queen.

Catherine de Médicis perceived him and called him, and he had no choice but to present himself before her.

"Monsieur d'Exmès," said she, "how is it that we didn't see you at the tournament to-day?"

"Madame," replied Gabriel, "the duties of the office which his Majesty has done me the honor to bestow upon me, prevented."

"So much the worse," said Catherine, with a sweet smile, "for you are surely one of our most daring and skilful cavaliers. You made the king reel yesterday, and that is a very rare thing. I should have been glad to be a witness again of your prowess."

Gabriel bowed, feeling decidedly ill at ease under this shower of compliments, to which he knew not how to reply.

"Do you know the play that they are going to give us?" pursued Catherine, evidently very favorably inclined toward the handsome and modest youth.

"I know it only in Latin," was his reply; "for I am told that it is nothing more than an imitation of one of Terence's plays."

"I see that you are as learned as you are valiant," said the queen, "as well versed in literary matters as you are skilful with thrusts of the lance."

All this was said in an undertone, and accompanied by glances which were not exactly cruel. To be sure, Catherine's heart was empty for the moment. But Gabriel, uncouth as Euripides' Hippolyte, received the Italian's advances with an air of constraint and a frowning brow. Ungrateful wretch! when he was to owe to this kindly disposition, at which he turned up his nose, not only the place which he had so longed for at Diane's side, but the most fascinating pouting by which the love of a jealous sweetheart can betray itself.

In fact, when the prologue began, according to custom, to appeal to the indulgence of the spectators, Catherine said to Gabriel,—

"Go and sit there behind me among these ladies, my literary friend, so that I may at need resort to your fund of information."

Madame de Castro had selected her seat at the end of a row, so that there was only the passage-way beyond her. Gabriel, having paid his respects to the queen, took a stool and modestly seated himself in the passage-way by Diane's side, so as to discommode no one.

The play began.

It was, as Gabriel had told the queen, an imitation of the "Eunuchus" of Terence, written in lines of eight syllables, and translated with all the pedantic simplicity of the time. We will abstain from criticising the play. It would be, moreover, an anachronism, for criticism had not yet been invented at that barbarous epoch. It will suffice for us to remind our readers that the principal character is a braggart, a swaggering soldier who allows himself to be duped and bullied by a sycophant.

Now, from the very beginning of the play, the many partisans of the Guises who were in the hall could see in the absurd old bully only the Constable de Montmorency, while the Montmorency faction chose to recognize the ambitious views of the Duc de Guise in the bluster of the swaggering soldier. And so every scene was a piece of satire, and every sally a pointed hit. The two factions laughed uproariously, and pointed at one another with their fingers; and, truth to tell, this comedy which was being enacted in the hall was no less entertaining than that which the actors were performing on the platform.

Our lovers took advantage of the interest which the two rival camps took in the performance to speak quietly and calmly of their love amid the shouts and laughter. In the first place, each pronounced the other's name in a low voice. It was the sacred invocation.

"Diane!"

"Gabriel!"

"Are you really going to marry François de Montmorency?"

"You have made rapid strides in the queen's good graces, haven't you?"

"But you heard her call me."

"And you know that the king wishes this marriage."

"But have you not consented to it, Diane?"

"But haven't you listened to Catherine, Gabriel?"

"One word, just one!" replied Gabriel. "But you still feel some interest, do you, in the feeling which may be aroused in me by another than yourself? Then you must care something for what is passing in my heart."

"I care as much for it," said Madame de Castro, "as you do for what is passing in mine."

"Oh! then let me tell you, Diane, that if you are like me, you are jealous; if you are like me, you love me to distraction."

"Monsieur d'Exmès," said Diane, who tried for an instant to be severe, poor child!—"Monsieur d'Exmès, I am called Madame de Castro."

"But are you not a widow, Madame? Are you not free?"

"Free, alas!"

"Oh, Diane, you sigh. Tell me, Diane, that your childish affection, which made our early years so sweet, has left some trace in the maiden's heart. Oh, tell me, Diane, that you still love me a little! Don't fear that any one will hear you, for everybody near us is taken up with the jokes of that sycophant; they have no tender words to listen to, so they are laughing. Oh, Diane, smile upon me and answer me; do you love me, Diane?"

"Hush! Don't you see that the act is coming to an end?" said the roguish damsel. "Wait at least till the play begins again."

The entr'acte lasted ten minutes,—ten centuries, rather! Fortunately, Catherine, talking busily with Mary Stuart, did not call Gabriel to her side. He would have been quite capable of declining to go, even if it had been his everlasting ruin.

When the comedy began again amid shouts of laughter and noisy applause,—

"Well?" Gabriel inquired.

"Well, what?" replied Diane, feigning an indifference that she was very far from feeling. "Oh, yes, you were asking me, I believe, if I love you. Well, then! Didn't I answer you just now, thus: 'I love you as much as you love me'?"

"Ah!" cried Gabriel, "do you realize what you are saying, Diane? Do you know the extent of this love of mine to which you say that yours is equal?"

"But," said the little dissembler, "if you want me to know about it, the least you can do is to tell me."

"Listen to me, then, Diane, and you will see that since I left you six years ago every action of every hour of my life has tended to bring me nearer to you. It was only on my arrival at Paris a month after your departure from Vimoutiers, that I learned who you were: the daughter of the king and Madame de Valentinois. But it was not your title as a daughter of France that terrified me; it was your title as wife of the Duc de Castro, and yet something said to me: 'No matter! raise yourself to her level; win some renown for yourself, so that some day she may hear your name at least, and may admire you as others fear you.' Such were my thoughts, Diane; and I entered the service of the Duc de Guise, as the one who seemed most likely to put me in a way to win the honorable name at which my ambition pointed, speedily and well. In brief, I was shut up with him within the walls of Metz in the following year, and did my best to bring about the almost-despaired-of result, the raising of the siege. It was at Metz, where I remained to restore the fortification and repair all the damage inflicted in sixty-five days of assault, that I heard of the taking of Hesdin by the imperial troops and the death of the Duc de Castro, your husband. He had never even seen you again, Diane! Oh, I pitied him, but how I did fight at Renty! Ask Monsieur de Guise about it. I was also at Abbeville, Dinant, Bavay, and Cateau-Cambrésis. I was everywhere where the fire of musketry was to be heard; and I can fairly say that there has been no glorious action during this reign in which I have not had some little share.

"After the truce of Vaucelles," said Gabriel, continuing his narrative, "I came to Paris, but you were still at the convent, Diane; and my enforced repose was becoming very wearisome when, by good luck, the truce was broken. The Duc de Guise, who was anxious to give me some token of his good-will, asked me if I would follow him to Italy. If I would! Crossing the Alps in the depths of winter, we made our way through the Milanais, carried Valenza by storm, were allowed free passage through the duchies of Parma and Plaisance, and after a triumphal progress through Tuscany and the States of the Church, we arrived at the Abruzzi. Meanwhile Monsieur de Guise lacked money and troops; yet he took Campli, and laid siege to Civitella; but the army was demoralized, and the success of the expedition compromised. It was at Civitella, Diane, that I learned from a letter from his Eminence, the Cardinal de Lorraine, to his brother of your approaching marriage to François de Montmorency.

"There was nothing more for me to do on that side of the Alps. Monsieur de Guise himself agreed to that, and I obtained from his kindness permission to return to France, fortified with his weighty recommendation, and to bring to the king the flags we had conquered. But my only ambition and desire was to see you, Diane, to speak with you, and to learn from your own lips if you were entering into this new contract of your own free will; and finally, after having told you, as I have just done, of all my struggles and endeavors for these six years, to ask you what I now ask you once more: 'Tell me, Diane, do you love me as I love you?"

"Dear friend," said Madame de Castro, softly, "I will now respond by telling you of my life in return for yours. When I came to court, a mere child of twelve, after the first moments of wonder and childish curiosity, I grew weary of it all; the gilded chains of my life here weighed heavily upon me, and I bitterly regretted our dear woods and fields at Vimoutiers and Montgommery, Gabriel! Every night I cried myself to sleep. But the king my father was very kind to me, and I tried to give him my love in return for his tenderness. But where was my freedom? Where was Aloyse? And, oh, where were you, Gabriel? I didn't see the king every day. Madame de Valentinois was very cold and constrained with me, and seemed almost to avoid me; and I, Gabriel, I had always need of being loved, as you must remember. Oh, I suffered bitterly that first year, dear."

"Poor dear Diane!" said Gabriel, much moved.

"And so," Diane resumed, "while you were fighting, I was pining away. Man acts, and woman waits,—such is destiny. But it is sometimes much harder to wait than to act. After the first year of my loneliness, the death of the Duc de Castro left me a widow, and the king sent me to pass my period of mourning at the convent of the Filles-Dieu. But the tranquil and peaceful life which we led at the convent suited my nature much better than the everlasting intriguing and excitement of the court; so when my mourning was at an end, I sought and obtained the king's leave to remain at the convent. At least, they loved me there,—good Sister Monique above all, who reminded me of Aloyse. I tell you her name, Gabriel, so that you may love her too. And then, not only did all the sisters love me, but I could still dream, Gabriel; I had the time to do it and the right. I was free; and who was the central figure of all my dreams, of the past as well as of the future? Dear friend, you can guess, can you not?"

Gabriel, reassured and enraptured, answered only by a look of passionate affection. Luckily the comedy had become very engrossing. The braggart was being well scoffed at; and the Guise and Montmorency factions were howling themselves hoarse with delight. The lovers might as well have been alone in a desert.

"Five tranquil and hopeful years passed away," continued Diane. "I had had only one misfortune, in the death of Enguerrand, my foster-father. But a second one was not long in coming. The king recalled me to court, and informed me that I was the destined bride of François de Montmorency. I resisted this time, Gabriel, for I was no longer a child, who did not know what she was doing. I resisted. Then my father went on his knees to me, and pointed out to me how deeply this marriage concerned the well-being of the realm. You had forgotten me, no doubt. It was the king who said that, Gabriel. And then where were you, and who were you? In short, the king persisted so, and begged me so appealingly—it was yesterday, yes, only yesterday—that I promised what he wished, Gabriel, but only on condition that, in the first place, my sacrifice should be delayed for three months; and in the second place, I should find out what had become of you."

"But you did promise?" said Gabriel, turning pale.

"I did, but I had not then seen you, dear; and I had no idea that the very same day your unlooked-for appearance was to stir again in my heart both joyful and sad emotions as soon as I recognized you. Ah, Gabriel, handsomer and prouder than of old, but still the same! I knew all at once that my promise to the king was of no effect, and this marriage impossible; that my life belongs to you, and that, if you still loved me, I would love you forever. Well, now, don't you agree that I am no longer in debt to you, and that your life has no reproach to make to mine?"

"Oh, you are an angel, Diane! And all that I have done to deserve your love is nothing."

"And now, Gabriel, since fate has brought us together for a little, let us consider the obstacles which still keep us asunder. The king is ambitious for his daughters; and the Castros and the Montmorencys between them have made him hard to manage, alas!"

"Make your mind easy on that score, Diane, for the family to which I belong has nothing to ask from either of them, and it will not be the first time either that it has been allied with the royal family of France."

"Really, Gabriel! you fill my cup of joy to the full, in telling me that. I am, as you know, very ignorant in heraldic matters; I do not know the Exmès. Down at Vimoutiers I called you Gabriel; and my heart had no need of a sweeter name than that. That is the name that I love; and if you think that your other name will satisfy the king, why, all is well, and I am happy indeed. Whether you are Exmès or Guise or Montmorency, as long as you are not called Montgommery, all is well."

"And why, then, must I not be a Montgommery?" asked Gabriel, beginning to be alarmed.

"Oh, the Montgommerys, our neighbors down yonder, have apparently done the king some injury, for he hates them bitterly."

"Indeed!" said Gabriel, who began to feel a choking sensation in his throat; "but is it the Montgommerys who have injured the king, or is it rather the king who has injured the Montgommerys?"

"My father is too kind-hearted to have ever been unjust, Gabriel."

"Kind to his daughter, yes," said Gabriel; "but where his enemies are concerned—"

"He may be terrible," replied Diane, "as you are against the enemies of France and the king. But what does it matter, and what have the Montgommerys to do with us, Gabriel?"

"But if I were a Montgommery, Diane?"

"Oh, do not say that, dear."

"But if it should be so?"

"In that case," said Diane, "if I found myself thus obliged to choose between my father and you, I would throw myself at the feet of the injured party, whichever it might be, and I would beg my father to forgive you for my sake, or I would beg you to forgive my father for my sake."

"And your voice is so powerful, dear Diane, that the injured one would surely yield to your prayers, if there had never been blood shed; for blood can only be washed out by blood."

"Oh, you frighten me, Gabriel! Come, this is far enough to carry this test of my love; for it was nothing but a test, was it?"

"No, Diane, nothing but a test. God grant that it may prove to be nothing more!" he murmured under his breath.

"And there is not, there cannot be any bad blood between my father and you?"

"I hope not, Diane, I hope not; I should suffer too bitterly in making you suffer."

"That's right, Gabriel. And if you hope not, Gabriel," she added with her lovely smile, "I hope, for my part, to induce my father to give up this marriage which would be my death-warrant. Such a mighty king as he ought to have enough ways of making it up to the Montmorencys."

"No, Diane; and all his treasures and all his power could not make up to them for losing you."

"Ah, that's your way of looking at it. But you did frighten me, Gabriel. But never fear, dear; François de Montmorency doesn't think as you do on this subject, thank God! and he would much prefer the bâton which will make a marshal of him, to your poor Diane. But I, having accepted this happy exchange, will prepare the king for it very gently. I will remind him of the royal alliances of the D'Exmès family, and of your own personal exploits, Gabriel."

She interrupted herself.

"Ah, mon Dieu! see, the play seems to be finished."

"Five acts, how short it has been!" said Gabriel. "But you are right, Diane; and the epilogue is just pointing the moral of the piece."

"Luckily," said Diane, "we have said almost all that we had to say to each other."

"I haven't said one thousandth part of it," said Gabriel.

"No, nor I really," said Diane; "and the queen's advances to you."

"Oh, you wretch!" said Gabriel.

"Oh, no, the wretch is she who smiles at you, and not I who grumble at you, do you hear? Don't speak to her again this evening, will you, dear, just to please me?"

"Just to please you! How good you are! No, I will not speak to her again. But, see, the epilogue is also finished, alas! Adieu! but only for a little while, is it, Diane? Say one last word to me to sustain and comfort me, dear Diane."

"To meet soon again, and forever, Gabriel, my little husband," whispered the beaming maiden in the ear of the delighted Gabriel.

And she disappeared in the pushing, noisy crowd. Gabriel slunk away so as to fulfil his promise of avoiding a meeting with the queen. Such touching fidelity to his oath! And he left the Louvre, convinced that Antoine de Baïf was a very great man, and that he had never been present at a performance which had given him so much pleasure.

As he passed into the vestibule, he picked up Martin-Guerre, who was awaiting him, all radiant in his new clothes.

"Well, Monseigneur, did you see Madame d'Angoulême?" the squire asked his master when they were in the street.

"I did see her," replied Gabriel, dreamily.

"And does Madame d'Angoulême still love Monsieur le Vicomte?" continued Martin-Guerre, who saw that Gabriel was in a good humor.

"Rascal!" cried Gabriel, "who told you that? Where did you learn that Madame de Castro loved me, or that I loved Madame de Castro alone? Be good enough to hold your tongue, villain!"

"Oh, well," muttered Master Martin, "Monseigneur must be beloved, else he would have sighed and would not have insulted me; and Monseigneur must be in love or he would have noticed my new cape and breeches."

"Why do you prate to me of breeches and cape? But really, you didn't have that doublet a short time ago, did you?"

"No, Monseigneur, I bought it this very evening to do honor to my master and his mistress, and I paid cash for it too,—for my wife Bertrande did teach me order and economy, as she taught me temperance and chastity and all the virtues. I must do her that much justice; and if I had only been able to instil a little mildness of temper into her, we should have made the happiest couple in the world."

"It was well done of you, chatterbox, and I will repay your outlay, since it was for me that you incurred it."

"Oh, how generous, Monseigneur! But if Monseigneur wishes me to hold my peace about his secret, he should not give me this new proof that he is loved as dearly as he loves. One never empties one's purse so readily, when the heart is not overflowing. Besides, Monsieur le Vicomte knows Martin-Guerre, and that he is to be trusted. Faithful and dumb as the sword that he wears!"

"Very true; but no more of this, Master Martin."

"I leave Monseigneur to his dreams."

Gabriel was dreaming to such an extent that when he reached his chambers he felt an absolute need of pouring his dreams into a sympathetic ear: and he wrote that same night to Aloyse,—

MY DEAR ALOYSE,—Diane loves me! But no, that is not what I ought to say to you first of all. My dear Aloyse, come and join me here; after six years of separation, I must embrace you once more. The main points of my life are now fixed. I am captain of the king's Guards,—one of the most eagerly sought of all ranks in the army; and the name I have made for myself will help me to reinstate in honor and renown that which I inherit from my ancestors. And I have need of you for this latter task too, Aloyse. And then I need you because I am so happy, because, I repeat it, Diane loves me,—yes, the Diane of former days, my child sister, who has never forgotten her good Aloyse, although she calls the king her father. And then, Aloyse, this daughter of the king and Madame de Valentinois, this widow of the Duc de Castro, has never forgotten, and still loves with her whole dear soul her obscure Vimoutiers playmate. She has told me so within the hour, and her sweet voice still echoes in my heart.

So come, Aloyse, for I really am too happy to be alone in my happiness.

CHAPTER XI
PEACE OR WAR?

On the 7th of June there was a sitting of the king's council, and there was a very full attendance of members of the council of state. About Henri II. and the princes of the blood were this day assembled Anne de Montmorency, the Cardinal de Lorraine and his brother Charles de Guise, Archbishop of Reims, the chancellor Olivier de Lenville, President Bertrand, Comte d'Aumale, Sedan, Humières, and Saint-André and his son.

Vicomte d'Exmès, in his capacity of captain of the Guards, stood near the door, with bared sword.

All the interest of the session was, as usual, centred in the contentions between the rival ambitions of the houses of Montmorency and Lorraine, represented on this occasion in the council by the constable himself and the cardinal.

"Sire," said the Cardinal de Lorraine, "the danger is imminent, and the enemy at our gates. A formidable army is being assembled in Flanders; and Philip II. may invade our territory to-morrow, and Mary of England declare war against you. Sire, you have a crying need for the presence of a gallant leader, young and vigorous, who is not afraid to act boldly, and whose very name would incite terror in the Spaniard by reminding him of recent defeats."

"Like the name of your brother, Monsieur de Guise, for example," said De Montmorency, sarcastically.

"Like the name of my brother, to be sure," replied the cardinal, valiantly; "like the name of the victor of Metz, of Renty, and of Valenza. Yes, Sire, the Duc de Guise is the man whom you should summon home at once from Italy, where men and supplies are lacking, where he is like to be compelled to raise the siege of Civitella, and where his presence and that of his army, which might be so useful against the threatened invasion here, can be of no further use."

The king turned carelessly toward Monsieur de Montmorency, as if to say, "Now it is your turn."

"Sire," the constable replied to his glance, "recall the army, by all means; and this absurd conquest of Italy, about which there has been so much braggadocio, will end, as I have always said, in ridicule. But what need have you of the general? Look at the latest intelligence from the North: the Flemish frontier is quiet; Philip II. is quaking in his shoes; and Mary of England hasn't a word to say. You may still renew the truce, Sire, or dictate terms of peace, as you choose. It is no adventurous captain of whom you now have need, but a shrewd and experienced minister, who is not blinded by the rash impetuosity of youth, and in whose eyes war is not the mere plaything of an insatiable ambition, but who can lay the foundations of an honorable peace on terms consistent with the glory and dignity of France—"

"Like yourself, for instance, Monsieur le Connétable," interrupted the Cardinal de Lorraine, bitterly.

"Like myself," was Anne de Montmorency's proud reply; "and I frankly advise the king not to trouble himself further about the chances of a war which can take place only if he chooses, and when he chooses. Interior affairs, the condition of the treasury, and religious interests have a much stronger claim upon our attention; and a prudent administrator to-day will be worth a thousand times more than the most enterprising general."

"And will have a thousand times greater claim upon his Majesty's favor, eh?" was the cardinal's sharp retort.

"His Eminence has rounded out my reflection for me," continued Montmorency, coolly; "and since he has put the question on that ground, I will venture to ask his Majesty for a proof that my services in behalf of peaceful measures are gratifying to him."

"What proof is that?" said the king, sighing.

"Sire, I beg your Majesty to make a public declaration of the honor which you condescend to do my house by bestowing upon my son the hand of Madame d'Angoulême. I must have this official demonstration and solemn promise, so that I may steadfastly pursue my present course, without having to combat the suspicions of my friends and the clamor of my enemies."

This bold request was received, despite the king's presence, with signs of applause or displeasure, according as the councillors belonged to one or the other faction.

Gabriel turned pale and shuddered; but he recovered his courage somewhat when he heard the Cardinal de Lorraine reply with spirit,—

"The Holy Father's bull, annulling the marriage of François de Montmorency and Jeanne de Fiennes, has not yet arrived, so far as I know, and may not arrive at all."

"Then we must get along without it," said the constable; "secret marriages may be annulled by royal decree."

"But a decree cannot be made retroactive," was the cardinal's retort.

"But such an effect may be given to it, may it not, Sire? Say it aloud, I conjure you, that those who attack me, as well as I myself, may have a certain demonstration of your approbation of my views! Tell them that your royal favor will go so far as to give a retroactive effect to this just decree!"

"No doubt I can do it," said the king, whose feeble indecision seemed to be yielding to this firm and steady language.

Gabriel had to lean heavily upon his sword to save himself from falling.

The constable's eyes shone with delight. The peace party seemed to be on the verge of a decided triumph, thanks to his daring.

But at this moment the sound of trumpets was heard in the courtyard. The air they were playing was an unfamiliar one, and the members of the council looked wonderingly at one another. The usher came in almost immediately, and bowing to the ground, announced,—

"Sir Edward Fleming, herald of England, begs the honor of being admitted to your Majesty's presence."

"Let the herald of England enter," said the king, marvelling, but outwardly calm.

He made a sign, and the dauphin and the princes came and stood about him, while the other members of the council took their places outside the royal circle. The herald, accompanied only by two armed attendants, was ushered in. He saluted the king, who nodded his head slightly from the sofa on which he remained seated.

Then said the herald,—

"Mary, Queen of England and France, to Henri, King of France: For having maintained friendly relations with the English Protestants, enemies of our religion and our State, and for having tendered and promised them aid and protection against the just and deserved penalties incurred by them, we, Mary of England, do declare war by land and by sea against Henri of France. And as a gage of this defiance, I, Edward Fleming, herald of England, do here fling down my gauntlet of battle."

At a sign from the king the Vicomte d'Exmès stepped forward and picked up Sir Edward's glove. Then Henri said coolly to the herald the one word,—

"Thanks!"

Thereupon he took off the magnificent necklace which he wore, and gave it to Gabriel to hand to the herald, and said, inclining his head once more,—

"You may now withdraw."

The herald bowed low and left the hall. A moment later the blare of the English trumpets was heard once more, whereupon the king broke the silence.

"Well, my Cousin de Montmorency," said he to the constable, "you seem to have been a little too hasty in promising peace, and in answering for the good intentions of Queen Mary. This alleged patronage of the English Protestants is a mere pious pretext to conceal the love of our sister of England for her young husband Philip II. War with the husband and wife both! Well, so be it! A king of France need not fear all Europe; and if the Flemish frontier will only give us a little time to look around— Well, Florimond, again? What is it now?"

"Sire," said the usher, re-entering, "a special courier with important despatches from Monsieur le Gouverneur de Picardie."

"Go and see what it is, I beg, Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine," said the king, graciously.

The cardinal returned with the despatches, which he handed to the king.

"Ah, ah, gentlemen," said the king, casting his eye upon them, "a different sort of news this. The forces of Philip II. are assembling at Givet, and Monsieur Gaspard de Coligny advises us that the Duke of Savoy is at their head. A worthy foe! Your nephew, Monsieur le Connétable, thinks that the Spanish troops are about to attack Mezières and Rocroy, so as to cut off Marienbourg. He asks for speedy reinforcements, to enable him to strengthen these places, and hold his own in case he is attacked."

The whole assemblage was in a state of great emotion and excitement.

"Monsieur de Montmorency," said Henri, smiling calmly, "you are not happy in your predictions to-day. 'Mary of England,' said you, 'has not a word to say;' and we have only just been hearing her trumpets sounding. 'Philip II. is afraid, and the Low Country quiet,' you added. Now, the King of Spain seems to be no more afraid than ourselves, while the Flemish are very far from quiet. I must say that I am convinced that the prudent administrator will have to make way for the gallant soldier."

"Sire," said Anne de Montmorency, "I am Constable of France, and war knows even more of me than peace."

"Very true, my good cousin, and I am glad to see that you remember Bicocque and Marignan, and that warlike impulses are coming back to you again. Draw your sword from the scabbard, then, and I shall rejoice. All that I wish to say is that we must think now of nothing but war, and of honorable and glorious war. Monsieur le Cardinal de Lorraine, be good enough to write to your brother, Monsieur de Guise, to return immediately. As for internal affairs and family matters, they must be postponed; and I think we shall have to wait for the Pope's dispensation, Monsieur de Montmorency, before considering farther the proposed marriage of Madame d'Angoulême."

The constable made a wry face, while the cardinal smiled, and Gabriel breathed again.

"Come, gentlemen," added the king, who seemed to have shaken off his indifference all at once, "come, we must collect our thoughts now with so many serious matters to consider. The session is at an end for this morning, but the council will meet again this evening. Till evening, then, and God protect France!"

"Vive le roi!" cried the members of the council with one voice.

And the assemblage dispersed.

CHAPTER XII
A TWOFOLD KNAVE

The constable left the king's presence buried in thought. Master Arnauld du Thill put himself in his way, and accosted him in a low voice.

This took place in the grand gallery of the Louvre,

"Monseigneur, one word—"

"Who is it?" said the constable. "Ah, you, Arnauld? What do you want with me? I am hardly in trim to listen to you to-day."

"Yes, I imagined," said Arnauld, "that Monseigneur was vexed by the turn which the marriage project concerning Madame Diane and Monseigneur François has taken."

"How did you know that, you rascal? But after all, what does it matter who knows it? The wind is from a stormy quarter, and favors the Guises, that is sure."

"But to-morrow it may be a fair wind for the Montmorencys," said the spy; "and if there is none but the king against this marriage to-day, why, he will be for it to-morrow. No, the fresh obstacle which bars our way, Monseigneur, is a more serious one, and comes from another quarter."

"And whence can come a more serious obstacle than the disapprobation or even lukewarmness of the king?"

"From Madame d'Angoulême herself, for instance," replied Arnauld.

"You have scented something in that quarter, have you, my keen hound?" said the constable, drawing nearer to him, and evidently becoming interested.

"And how did Monseigneur suppose that I had passed the fortnight that has elapsed?"

"True, it is a long while since I have heard a word of you."

"Neither directly nor indirectly, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld, proudly; "and you, who used to reproach me for being mentioned rather too often in the police-patrol reports, must confess, I think, that for two weeks I have worked shrewdly and quietly."

"True again," said the constable; "and I have been surprised that I haven't had to intervene to get you out of trouble, you varlet, who are always drinking when you're not gambling, and rioting when you're not fighting."

"And the troublesome hero of the last fifteen days has been not I, Monseigneur, but a certain squire of the new captain of the Guards, Vicomte d'Exmès, one Martin-Guerre."

"Yes, I remember now that Martin-Guerre's name has taken Arnauld du Thill's place in the report that I have to examine every evening."

"For instance, who was picked up drunk by the watch the other night?" asked Arnauld.

"Martin-Guerre."

"And who, after a quarrel at the gaming-table on account of dice found to be cogged, struck with his sword the finest of the king's gendarmes?"

"Martin-Guerre again."

"And who only yesterday was taken in the act of trying to carry off the wife of Master Gorju, the ironmonger?"

"Always this same Martin-Guerre," said the constable. "An abominable rascal, to be sure. And his master, this Vicomte d'Exmès, whom I instructed you to keep a sharp watch on, is not likely to be of much more worth than he; for he upholds and defends him, and vows that his squire is the mildest and most sedate of men."

"That is what you used to have the goodness to say of me, Monseigneur. Martin-Guerre believes that he is possessed by the Devil, whereas in truth it is I who possess him."

"What! What do you mean? You are not Satan, are you?" cried the constable, crossing himself in his terror, for he was as ignorant as a fool, and as superstitious as a monk.

Master Arnauld replied only with an infernal leer; but when he thought he had alarmed Montmorency sufficiently, he said,—

"Oh, no, I am not the Devil, Monseigneur. To prove it to you and to reassure you, I ask you to give me fifty pistoles. Now, if I were the Devil, should I have any need of money, and couldn't I draw myself out of all my scrapes with my tail?"

"That's true," said the constable; "and here are your fifty pistoles."

"Which I have well earned, Monseigneur, by gaining the confidence of Vicomte d'Exmès; for although I am not the Devil, I am a bit of a sorcerer, and have only to don a certain brown doublet, and draw on certain yellow breeches, to make Vicomte d'Exmès speak to me as if I were an old friend and a tried confidant."

"Hm! all this has a smack of the gallows," said the constable.

"Master Nostradamus, just from seeing me pass in the street, predicted for me, after one glance at my face, that I should die between heaven and earth. So I resign myself to my destiny, and devote it to your interests, Monseigneur. To know that one is to be hung is a priceless advantage. A man who is sure of meeting his end on the gallows, fears nothing, not even the gallows themselves. To begin with, I have made myself the double of Vicomte d'Exmès's squire. I told you that I would accomplish miracles! Now, do you know, or can you guess, who this viscount is?"

"Parbleu! a lawless partisan of the Guises."

"Better than that. The accepted lover of Madame de Castro."

"What's that you say, villain? How do you know that?"

"I am the viscount's confidant, as I told you. It is I who generally carry his notes to the fair one, and bring back the reply. I am on the best of terms with the lady's maid, who is astonished only to have so changeable a lover,—bold as a page one day, and the next day as shy as a nun. The viscount and Madame de Castro meet at the queen's levees three times a week, and write every day. However, you may believe me or not, their affection is absolutely pure. Upon my word, I should be interested for them, if I were not interested for myself. They love each other like cherubs, and have from childhood, so far as I can make out. I have opened their letters now and then, and they have really moved me. Madame Diane is jealous; and of whom, do you suppose, Monseigneur? Of the queen! But she is altogether wrong, poor child. It may be that the queen thinks about Monsieur d'Exmès—"

"Arnauld," the constable interposed, "you are a slanderer!"

"And that smile of yours is quite as slanderous as my words," replied the blackguard. "I was saying that while it might well be that the queen was thinking about the viscount, it is perfectly certain that the viscount is not thinking about the queen. Their young loves are Arcadian in their simplicity and perfectly irreproachable, and move me like a gentle pastoral of ancient Rome or of the days of chivalry; and yet it doesn't prevent me, God help me, from betraying them for fifty pistoles, the poor little turtle-doves! But confess, Monseigneur, that I was right in saying, as I did at first, that I have well earned those same fifty pistoles."

"Indeed you have," said the constable; "but once more I ask you how you have come to be so well informed?"

"Ah, Monseigneur, pardon me; that is my secret, which you may try to guess if you choose, but which I certainly shall not disclose. Besides, my means of information are of little consequence to you (for I alone am responsible for them, after all) provided you attain your end. Now, your end is to be informed as to all proceedings and plans which may tend to injure you; and it seems to me that my revelation of to-day is not unimportant, and may be of great use to you, Monseigneur."

"You are quite right, you rascal; but you must continue to play the spy on this damned viscount."

"I will, Monseigneur; I am as devoted to you as I am to vice. You will give me pistoles, and I will give you words, and we shall both be content. Ah, there's some one coming into the gallery. A woman! The devil! I must bid you adieu, Monseigneur."

"Who is it, pray?" asked the constable, whose sight was beginning to fail.

"Good Lord! it's Madame de Castro herself, who is going to the king, no doubt; and it is very important that she should not see me with you, Monseigneur, although she wouldn't know me in this dress. She is coming this way, and I must avoid her."

And he made his escape in the opposite direction from that in which Diane was coming.

The constable hesitated a moment; then, making up his mind to satisfy himself of the accuracy of Arnauld's report, he advanced boldly to meet Madame d'Angoulême.

"Were you going to the king's closet, Madame?" said he.

"I was, Monsieur le Connétable."

"I am much afraid that you will not find his Majesty disposed to listen to you, Madame," replied Montmorency, naturally alarmed at this step; "and the serious news he has received—"

"Make this just the very most opportune moment for me, Monsieur."

"And against me, Madame, am I not right? For you have bitter enmity for us."

"Alas, Monsieur le Connétable, I have no enmity against anybody in the world."

"Have you really nothing in your heart but love?" asked De Montmorency, in so meaning a tone that Diane Mushed and lowered her eyes. "And it is on account of that love, no doubt, that you oppose the king's wishes and the hopes of my son?"

Diane in her embarrassment held her peace.

"Arnauld has told me the truth," thought the constable; "and she does love this handsome triumphal messenger of Monsieur de Guise."

"Monsieur le Connétable," Diane found strength to say at last, "my duty calls upon me to yield obedience to the king, but I have the right to implore my father."

"And so," said the constable, "you persist in going to find the king."

"Indeed I do."

"Oh, well! then I shall go and see Madame de Valentinois, Madame."

"As you please, Monsieur."

They bowed, and left the gallery by opposite doors; and as Diane entered the king's closet, old Montmorency was ushered into the favorite's apartments.

CHAPTER XIII
THE ACME OF HAPPINESS

"Here, Master Martin," said Gabriel to his squire on the same day and almost at the same hour, "I must go and make my rounds, and shall not return to the house within two hours. Do you, Martin, in one hour go to the usual place and wait there for a letter, an important letter, which Jacinthe will hand you as usual. Don't lose a moment, but make haste to bring it to me. If I have finished my rounds, I shall be before you, otherwise await me here. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Monseigneur, but I have a favor to ask of you."

"What is it?"

"Let me have one of the Guards to keep me company, Monseigneur, I implore you."

"A guard to keep you company. What is this new madness? What are you afraid of?"

"I am afraid of myself," replied Martin, piteously. "It seems, Monseigneur, that I outdid myself last night! Up to then I had exhibited myself only as a drunkard and a gambler and a bully; but now I have become a rake! I whom all Artigues respected for the purity of my morals and my ingenuous mind! Would you believe, Monseigneur, that I have sunk so low as to have made an attempt at abduction last night? Yes, at abduction! I tried by main force to carry off the wife of Gorju, the iron-monger,—a very lovely woman, so they say. Unfortunately, or fortunately rather, I was arrested; and if I had not been still in your employ, and recommended by you, I should have passed the night in prison. It's infamous!"

"Well, Martin, were you dreaming when you committed this last prank?"

"Dreaming! Monseigneur, here is the report. When I read it, I blushed up to my ears. Yes, there was a time when I believed that all these infernal performances were frightful nightmares, or that the Devil amused himself by taking on my form for the purposes of his horrible nightly deeds. But you undeceived me; and besides, I never see now the one that I used to take for my shadow. The holy priest in whose hands I have placed the guidance of my conscience has also undeceived me; and he who so persistently violates all divine and human laws, the guilty one, the wretch, the villain, is no doubt myself, judging from what is told me. So that is what I shall believe henceforth. Like a hen who hatches out ducklings, my soul has given birth to honest thoughts, which have resulted in wicked deeds. I should not dare to say except to you that I am possessed, Monseigneur, because if I did I should be burned alive at short notice; but it must be, as you can see, that at certain times I really do have, as they say, the Devil in me."

"No, no, my poor Martin," said Gabriel, laughing; "but you have been indulging rather too freely in strong drink for some time, I fancy, and when you are drunk, why, deuce take it! you see double."

"But I never drink anything but water, Monseigneur, nothing but water! Surely this water from the Seine doesn't go to the head—"

"But, Martin, how about the evening when you were laid under the porch dead-drunk?"

"Well, Monseigneur, that evening I went to bed and to sleep, commending my soul to God; I rose also as virtuous as when I went to bed; and it was from you and you only that I learned what I had been doing. It was the same way the night when I wounded that magnificent gendarme, and the other night of this most shameful assault. And yet I get Jérôme to shut my door and lock me into my room, and I close the shutters and fasten them with triple chains; but, basta! nothing is of any use. I must believe that I get up, and that my vicious night-walking existence begins. In the morning when I wake I ask myself. 'What have I been doing, I wonder, during my absence last night?' I go down to find out from you, Monseigneur, or from the district reports, and at once go to relieve my conscience of these new crimes at the confessional, where I can no longer obtain absolution, which is rendered impossible by my everlasting backsliding. My only consolation is to fast and mortify the flesh part of every day by severe scourging. But I shall die, I foresee it, in final impenitence."

"Rather believe, Martin, that this evil spirit will be appeased, and that you will become once more the discreet and sober Martin of other days. Meanwhile, obey your master, and faithfully discharge the commission with which he intrusts you. But how can you ask me to allow you to have any one with you? You know very well that all this business must be kept secret, and that you alone are in my confidence."

"Be sure, Monseigneur, that I will do my utmost to satisfy you. But I cannot answer for myself, I warn you beforehand."

"Oh, this is too much, Martin! Why do you say so?"

"Don't be impatient on account of my absence, Monseigneur. I think that I am there, and I am here; that I will do this, and I do that. The other day, having thirty Paters and thirty Aves to say for penance, I determined to triple the dose so as to mortify my spirit by tiring myself beyond endurance; and I remained or thought that I remained in the church of St. Gervais telling my beads for two hours and more. Oh, well! when I got back here I learned that you had sent me to carry a letter, and that in proof of it I had brought back a reply; and the next day Dame Jacinthe—another fine woman, alas!—complained of me for having been rather free with her the day before. And that has happened three times, Monseigneur; and you wish me to be sure of myself after my imagination has played me such tricks as that? No, no, I am not sufficiently master of myself for that; and although the blessed water does not burn my fingers, still there are times when there is somebody else than Master Martin in my skin."

"Well, I will run the risk," said Gabriel, losing his patience; "and since you have, at all events up to now, whether you have been at church or in the Rue Froid-Manteau, skilfully and faithfully acquitted yourself of the trust I have imposed upon you, you will do the same to-day; and let me tell you, if you need such a stimulus to your zeal, that in this letter you will bring me my happiness or my despair."

"Oh, Monseigneur, my devotion to you doesn't need to be worked upon, I assure you; and if it wasn't for these devilish substitutions—"

"What! are you going to begin again?" Gabriel interrupted. "I must go; and do you start too in about an hour, and don't forget a single point of my instructions. One word more: you know that for several days past I have been anxiously expecting my nurse Aloyse out of Normandy; and you understand that if she comes while I am away, you must give her the room adjoining mine, and make her as welcome as if she were in her own house. You will remember?"

"Yes, Monseigneur."

"Come, then, Martin, we must be prompt to act, and discreet, and, above all, not lose our presence of mind."

Martin replied only with a repressed sigh; and Gabriel left his house in the Rue des Jardins.

He came back two hours later, as he had said, absorbed and preoccupied. As he entered, he saw only Martin, rushed up to him, seized the letter which he had expected with so much impatience, made a gesture of dismissal, and read:—

"Let us thank God, Gabriel," said this letter; "the king has yielded, and our happiness is assured. You must have learned of the arrival of the herald from England, bearing a declaration of war in the name of Queen Mary, and of the great preparations in Flanders. These events, threatening for France, perhaps, are favorable to our love, Gabriel, since they add to the influence of the young Duc de Guise, and tend to lower that of old Montmorency. The king, however, still hesitated; but I implored him, Gabriel: I said that I had found you again, and that you were noble and valiant; and I told him your name—so much the worse! The king, without promising anything, said that he would reflect; that after all, when the affairs of State became less urgent, it would be cruel in him to compromise my happiness; and that he could make some amends to François de Montmorency with which he would have to be content. He has promised nothing, but he will do everything, Gabriel. Oh, you will learn to love him, as I do, this kind father of mine, who is going to bring to pass all the dreams we have dreamed these last six years! I have so much to say to you, and these written words are so cold! Listen, my friend, come to-night at six o'clock during the council. Jacinthe will bring you to me, and we will have a good long hour to talk of the bright future which is opening before us. But I can foresee that this Flanders campaign will claim you, and that you must make it, alas! to serve the king and to deserve my hand,—mine, who love you so dearly. For I do love you, mon Dieu, I do! Why should I try now to conceal it from you? Come to me, then, so that I may see if you are as happy as your Diane."

"Oh, yes, indeed I am happy!" cried Gabriel, aloud, when he had finished the letter; "and what is lacking to my happiness now?"

"The presence of your old nurse, no doubt," unexpectedly replied Aloyse, who had been sitting motionless and silent in the shadow.

"Aloyse!" cried Gabriel, rushing to her and embracing her: "oh, Aloyse, my dear old nurse, if you only knew how I wanted you! How are you? You have not changed a bit. Kiss me again. I have not changed any more than you, in heart at least,—the heart that loves you so. I was worried to death at your delay: ask Martin. And why have you kept me waiting so long?"

"The recent storms, Monseigneur, have washed away the roads; and if I had not been in so great a state of excitement over your letter that it made me brave enough to venture in spite of obstacles of every sort, I should not have been here yet."

"Oh, you did very well to make such haste, Aloyse, you did very well; for really what good is it to be so happy all by one's self? Do you see this letter I have just received? It is from Diane, your other child, and she tells me—do you know what she tells me?—that the obstacles which stood in the way of our love may be removed; that the king will no longer require her to marry François de Montmorency; and last and best of all, that Diane loves me,—yes, that she loves me! And you are at hand to hear all this, Aloyse; so tell me, am I not really at the very acme of happiness?"

"But suppose, Monseigneur," said Aloyse, maintaining the grave and melancholy tone she had assumed at first, "suppose that you had to give up Madame de Castro?"

"Impossible, Aloyse! and just when these difficulties have smoothed themselves all out!"

"Difficulties created by man may always be overcome," said the nurse; "but not so with those which God interposes, Monseigneur. You know whether I love you, and whether I would not give my life to spare yours the mere shadow of trouble; well, then, suppose I say to you: 'Without asking for the reason, Monseigneur, give up all thoughts of Madame de Castro, cease to see her, and crush out this passion for her by every means in your power. A fearful secret, which in your own interest I implore you not to ask me to disclose, lies between you two, to keep you apart.' Suppose I should say this to you, begging you on my knees to do as I asked, what would your reply be, Monseigneur?"

"If it were my life which you asked me to destroy, Aloyse, without asking for the reason, I would gratify you. But my love is a matter outside my own will, nurse, for it also comes from God."

"Oh, good Lord!" cried the nurse, joining her hands, "he blasphemes. But you see that he knows not what he does, so pardon him, good Lord!"

"But you terrify me; don't keep me so long in this deathly anguish, Aloyse, but whatever you would or ought to tell me, speak, speak, I implore you!"

"Do you wish it, Monseigneur? Must I really reveal to you the secret which I have sworn before God to keep, but which God Himself to-day bids me keep no longer? Well, then, Monseigneur, you are deceived; you must be, do you hear, it is absolutely necessary that you should be deceived as to the nature of the sentiment which Diane inspires in you. It is not desire and passion (oh, no! be sure that it is not), but it is a serious and devoted affection, due to her need of the protecting hand of a friend and brother,—nothing more tender or more absorbing than that, Monseigneur."

"But you are wrong, Aloyse; the fascinating beauty of Diane—"

"I am not wrong," Aloyse made haste to say, "and you will soon agree with me; for the proof of what I say will soon be as clear to you as to myself. Know, then, that in all human probability Madame de Castro—courage, my dear boy!—Madame de Castro is your sister!"

"My sister!" cried Gabriel, leaping from his chair as if he were on springs. "My sister!" he repeated, almost beside himself. "How can it be that the daughter of the king and Madame de Valentinois should be my sister?"

"Monseigneur, Diane de Castro was born in May, 1539, was she not? Comte Jacques de Montgommery, your father, disappeared in January of the same year; and do you know of what he was suspected? Do you know what the accusation was against him, your father? That he was the favored lover of Madame Diane de Poitiers, and the successful rival of the dauphin, who is to-day King of France. Now, compare the dates, Monseigneur."

"Heavens and earth!" cried Gabriel. "But let us see, let us see," he went on, making a supreme effort to collect his senses; "my father was accused, but who proved that the accusation had any basis in fact? Diane was born five months after my fathers death; but how does that prove that she is not the daughter of the king, who loves her as his own child?"

"The king may be mistaken, just as I too may be mistaken, Monseigneur; remember that I didn't say, 'Diane is your sister!' But it is probable that she is; or if you choose, it is possible that she may be. Is it any less my duty, my horribly painful duty, to give you this information, Gabriel? I am right to do it, am I not? for you wouldn't give her up without it. Now let your conscience decide as to your love; and may God guide your conscience!"

"Oh, but this uncertainty is a million times more horrible than the calamity itself," said Gabriel. "Mon Dieu! who can solve this doubt for me?"

"The secret has been known to only two persons on earth, Monseigneur," said Aloyse; "and there have been but two human beings who could have answered you: your father, who is buried in an unknown tomb, and Madame de Valentinois, who will not be likely to confess, I imagine, that she has deceived the king, and that her daughter is not his."

"Yes; and in any event, if I do not love my own father's daughter," said Gabriel, "I love the daughter of my father's murderer! For it is the king, it is Henri II., on whom I must wreak vengeance for the death of my father, is it not, Aloyse?"

"Who knows but God?" replied the nurse.

"Confusion and darkness, doubt and terror everywhere!" cried Gabriel. "Oh, I shall go mad, nurse! But no," continued the brave youth, "I must not go mad yet; I must not! I will in the first place exhaust every possible means of learning the truth. I will go to Madame de Valentinois, and will demand from her the secret, which I will sacredly keep. She is a good and devout Catholic, and I will obtain from her an oath which will make me sure of her sincerity. I will go to Catherine de Médicis, who may perhaps know something. I will go to Diane, too, and with my hand on my heart will ask the question of my heart-beats. I would go to my father's tomb, if I but knew where it lies, Aloyse, and I would call upon him with a voice so potent that he would rise from the dead to reply to me."

"Poor dear child!" whispered Aloyse, "so brave and strong, even after this fearful blow; and showing such a bold front to such a cruel fate!"

"And I will not lose a moment about going to work," said Gabriel, rising with a sort of feverish animation. "It is now four o'clock; in half an hour I shall be with Madame la Sénéchale; an hour later with the queen; and at six at the rendezvous where Diane awaits me; and when I see you again this evening, Aloyse, I may perhaps have lifted a corner of this gloomy veil in which my destiny is now shrouded. Farewell till evening."

"And I, Monseigneur, can I do nothing to help you in this formidable undertaking?"

"You can pray to God for me, Aloyse."

"For you and Diane, yes, Monseigneur."

"Pray for the king, too, Aloyse," said Gabriel, darkly, and he left the room precipitately.

CHAPTER XIV
DIANE DE POITIERS

The Constable de Montmorency was still with Diane de Poitiers, and was addressing her in a loud voice, as rough and imperious with her as she had shown herself sweet and gentle with him.

"Well, after all, she is your daughter, isn't she?" he was saying; "and you have the same rights and the same authority over her as the king has. Demand that this marriage take place!"

"But you must remember, my good friend, that having hitherto shown her very little of a mother's affection I can hardly hope to exert a mother's authority over her, and to chastise where I have never caressed. We are, as you know, Madame d'Angoulême and myself, on very cool terms with each other; and in spite of her advances at first, we have only met at very long intervals. Besides, she has succeeded in gaining a very great personal influence over the king's mind; and in truth, I should find it hard to say which of us two is the more powerful at this moment. What you ask me to do, my friend, is very difficult, not to say impossible. Lay aside all thought of this marriage, and let us replace it by a still more brilliant alliance. The king has betrothed his little Jeanne to Charles de Mayenne; we will induce him to bestow little Marguerite's hand on your son."

"My son sleeps in a bed and not in a cradle," replied the constable; "and how, I should like to know, could a young girl, just learning to talk, add to the fortunes of my family? Madame de Castro, on the other hand, has, as you have just reminded me most opportunely, a vast personal influence over the king; and that is why I wish her for my daughter-in-law. Mon Dieu! it is a most extraordinary thing that when a gentleman who bears the name of the foremost noble in Christendom stoops to wed a bastard, he should meet with so many obstructions in carrying out the mésalliance. Madame, you are no more the king's favorite for nothing than I am your lover for nothing. In spite of Madame de Castro, in spite of this fop who adores her, in spite of the king himself, I insist that this marriage shall take place,—I insist upon it."

"Oh, very well, my friend," replied Diane de Poitiers, meekly, "I agree to do the possible and impossible to help you to attain your ends. What more do you want me to say? But at least tell me that you will be kinder to me, and will not rage and storm at me so, cruel one!"

And with her lovely red lips the beautiful duchess lightly touched old Anne's rough grizzled beard, while he grumblingly submitted to the caress.

For such was this singular passion, inexplicable except on the theory of extraordinary depravity, which was nourished by the idolized favorite of a handsome young monarch for an old graybeard who abused her. Montmorency's rough brutality made amends to her for Henri's love-making; and she took more delight in being ill-treated by the one than in being petted and caressed by the other. Prodigious caprice of the feminine heart! Anne de Montmorency was neither clever nor brilliant; and he was, on very good grounds, reputed to be covetous and stingy. The inhuman punishments he had inflicted upon the rebellious population of Bordeaux had of themselves attached a sort of hateful notoriety to his name. He was brave, it is true; but that quality is common in France, and he had up to this time hardly ever been fortunate in the battles in which he had taken part. At the victories of Ravenna and Marignan, where he had held no command, he had not made himself conspicuous above the common herd; at Bicocque, where he was colonel of the Swiss Guards, he had let his regiment be almost cut to pieces; and at Pavia he was taken prisoner. His military celebrity had not since been increased, and St. Laurent had made a pitiable ending to it. Without the favor of Henri II., inspired, no doubt, by Diane de Poitiers, he would not have risen above the second place in the king's council any more than in the army; and yet Diane loved him, coddled him, and obeyed him in everything, being at once the favorite of a manly, handsome young monarch and the slave of a ridiculous old veteran.

Just at this moment there was a discreet knock at the door; and a page, entering at Madame de Valentinois's summons, announced that Vicomte d'Exmès earnestly begged to be allowed a very brief audience of the duchess on a most serious matter.

"The lover himself!" cried the constable. "What can he want of you, Diane? Can he possibly have come to ask you for your daughter's hand?"

"Shall I allow him to come in?" meekly asked the favorite.

"Of course, of course; this incident may help us. But let him wait a moment. Just one word more between ourselves."

Diane de Poitiers gave orders accordingly to the page, who left the room.

"If Vicomte d'Exmès comes to you, Diane," the constable went on, "it must be because some unexpected difficulties have arisen; and it must be a very desperate emergency to drive him to resort to so desperate a remedy. Now, listen carefully to what I say; and if you follow my instructions to the letter, I will answer for it that your hazardous interference with the king in this matter will be quite unnecessary. Diane, whatever the viscount asks at your hands, refuse it. If he asks what path he shall take, send him in the opposite direction to that in which he wishes to go. If he wants you to say 'yes,' say 'no;' but say 'yes' if he hopes for a negative answer. Be contemptuous with him, and haughty and ill-tempered, the worthy daughter of the fairy Mélusine, from whom you of the family of Poitiers are said to have descended. Do you understand me, Diane, and will you do as I say?"

"In every respect, my dear Constable."

"Then my fine fellow's threads will be considerably tangled, I fancy. The poor fool, thus to walk right into the jaws of the—" he started to say "she-wolf," but caught himself—"into the jaws of the waives. I leave him to you, Diane; and you must give me a good account of this handsome claimant. Till this evening!"

He condescended to kiss Diane's brow, and went out. Vicomte d'Exmès was ushered in by another door.

Gabriel saluted Diane most respectfully, while she responded with an impertinent nod. But Gabriel, buckling on his armor for this unequal combat of burning passion against frigid vanity, began calmly enough:—

"Madame," said he, "the step which I have ventured to take with reference to you is a bold one, no doubt, and may seem mad. But sometimes in one's life circumstances come to light of such serious moment as to lift us above the ordinary conventions and every day scruples. Now, I am involved in one of these terrible crises of my destiny, Madame. I, who speak to you, have come to put my life in your hands; and if you let it fall, it will be broken forever."

Madame de Valentinois made not the least sign of encouragement. With her body bent forward, resting her chin on her hand, and her elbow on her knee, she gazed at Gabriel with a look of wonder mingled with weariness.

"Madame," he resumed, trying to shake off the gloomy effect of this feigned indifference, "you either know or do not know that I love Madame de Castro. I love her, Madame, with a deep, ardent, overpowering love."

"What is that to me?" seemed to say Diane de Poitiers's careless smile.

"I speak to you of this love which fills my whole soul, Madame, to explain my saying that I ought to understand and excuse, yes, even admire, the blind fatalities and insatiable demands of an engrossing passion. So far from blaming it, as the common people do, or of pulling it to pieces like the philosophers, or of condemning it like the priests, I kneel before it and adore it as a blessing from the Most High. It makes the heart into which it enters purer and more noble and divine; and did not Jesus Himself consecrate it when He said to Mary Magdalene that she was blessed above all other women for having loved so well?"

Diane de Poitiers changed her position, and with eyes half closed stretched herself out carelessly on her couch.

"I wonder how much longer his sermon is going to last," she was thinking.

"Thus you see, Madame," continued Gabriel, "that love is in my eyes a holy thing, and more than that, it is omnipotent. If the husband of Madame de Castro were living still, I should love her just the same, and should not even try to overcome the irresistible impulse. It is only a false love which can be subdued; and true love no more flees from itself than it commands its own beginning. So, Madame, you yourself, chosen and beloved by the greatest king in the world,—you ought not to be, on that account, out of all danger of contracting a sincere passion; and if you had been unable to resist it, I should pity you and envy you, but I would not condemn you."

Still unbroken silence on the part of the Duchesse de Valentinois. Amused astonishment was the only emotion expressed upon her face. Gabriel went on with still more warmth, as if to melt this brazen heart with the flames that were seething in his own.

"A king falls in love with your adorable beauty, as may well be imagined. You are touched by his affection; but may it not be that your heart does not respond to it, much as it would like to do so? Alas! yes. But standing near the king, a handsome gentleman, gallant and devoted, sees you and loves you; and this more obscure but not less powerful passion meets a response in your heart, which has not opened to admit the thought of a king. But are you not a queen too, a queen of beauty, just as the king who loves you is king in power? Are you not as independent and free as he? Is it titles which win hearts? Who could prevent you from having for one day, for one hour even, in your kind and loving heart, preferred the subject to the master? It is not I, at all events, who would have so little sympathy with lofty sentiments as to esteem it a crime in Diane de Poitiers that being beloved of Henri II., she had loved the Comte de Montgommery."

Diane, at this home-thrust, made a sudden movement and half rose from her seat, opening her great bright eyes to their fullest extent. Too few persons at court knew her secret for her not to have felt a shock at these words of Gabriel.

"Have you any substantial proof of this love that you prate of?" she asked, not without a shade of anxiety in her tone.

"I have nothing but moral certainty of it, Madame," replied Gabriel; "but I have that."

"Ah!" said she, resuming her insolent pouting. "Well, then, it is all the same to me if I confess the truth to you. Yes, I did love the Comte de Montgommery. And what next?"

But next, Gabriel had no more positive knowledge, and could only stumble about in the darkness of conjecture. However, he continued:—

"You loved Jacques de Montgommery, Madame, and I venture to say that you still love his memory; for if he disappeared from the face of the earth, it was on your account and for your sake. Very well! it is in his name that I come to beg your indulgence, and to ask you a question which will seem to you, I say again, very presumptuous; but I also repeat that your reply, if you are good enough to reply, will arouse only gratitude and worship in my heart, for upon your reply my life hangs. Again I repeat that if you do not refuse to answer me, I will be henceforward at your service, body and soul; and the most firmly established power in the world may sometime be in need of a devoted heart and hand, Madame."

"Go on, Monsieur," said the duchess, "and let us get at this terrible question."

"I ought to ask it of you on my knees, Madame," said Gabriel, suiting the action to the word.

And then he resumed with beating heart and faltering voice,—

"Madame, it was in the course of the year 1538 that you loved the Comte de Montgommery, was it not?"

"Possibly," said Diane; "and then?"

"It was in January, 1539, that the Comte de Montgommery disappeared, and in May, 1539, that Madame Diane de Castro was born?"

"Well?" asked Diane.

"Well, Madame!" said Gabriel, so low that she could hardly hear him, "there lies the secret which at your feet I implore you to divulge to me,—the secret on which my fate depends, and which shall die with me, believe me, if you will deign to reveal it to me. On the crucifix which hangs above your head, I swear it, Madame; I will yield up my life rather than your confidence. And besides, you will always be able to prove me a liar, for your word would be believed before mine; and I ask you for no proof, but for your word alone. Madame, Madame, was Jacques de Montgommery the father of Diane de Castro?"

"Oho!" said Diane, with a contemptuous laugh, "that is rather a bold question; and you were quite right to precede it with such a lengthy preamble. But never fear, Monsieur, I bear you no ill-will for it. You have interested me like a riddle, and now you interest me still more; for what is it to you, pray, Monsieur d'Exmès, whether Madame d'Angoulême be the child of the king or the count? The king is supposed to be her father, and that should satisfy your ambition, if you are ambitious. Why do you draw me into it; and what claim have you to thus question me about the past to no purpose? You have a reason, no doubt; but what is the reason?"

"I have a reason indeed, Madame," said Gabriel; "but I conjure you not to ask it of me for mercy's sake!"

"Oh, yes," said Diane, "you want to know my secrets and to keep yours to yourself. That would be a very advantageous thing for you, no doubt!"

Gabriel detached the ivory crucifix which surmounted the carved oak prie-Dieu behind Diane's couch.

"By your everlasting salvation, Madame," said he, "swear to keep silent as to what I tell you, and to make no use of it to my disadvantage!"

"Such an oath as that!" said Diane.

"Yes, Madame, for I know you to be a zealous and devout Catholic: and if you swear by your everlasting salvation, I will believe you."

"And suppose I decline to swear?"

"I shall hold my peace, Madame, and you will have refused to save my life."

"Do you know, Monsieur," replied Diane, "that you have strangely aroused my woman's curiosity'? Yes, the mystery with which you so tragically surround yourself attracts me and tempts me, I confess. You have triumphed over my imagination to that extent, I tell you frankly; and I did not suppose that any one could so pique my curiosity. If I swear, it is, I give you fair warning, so that I may learn more about you. From curiosity, pure and simple, I agree to do it."

"And I too, Madame," said Gabriel, "I implore you thus, so that I may learn more; but my curiosity is that of the criminal awaiting his death-sentence. Bitter and fearful curiosity, as you see! Will you take this oath, Madame?"

"Say you the words, and I will say them after you, Monsieur."

And Diane said, after Gabriel, the following words:

"By my salvation, in this life and the next, I swear to reveal to no one on earth the secret which you are about to impart to me, and never to make any use of it to injure you, and to act in all ways just as if I had never known it, and never should know it."

"Very well," said Gabriel, "and I thank you for this first proof of your condescension. Now, in two words, you shall know all: my name is Gabriel de Montgommery, and Jacques de Montgommery was my father!"

"Your father!" cried Diane, springing to her feet in a state of stupefied excitement.

"So that if Diane de Castro is the count's daughter," said Gabriel, "Diane de Castro, whom I love, or whom I thought that I loved to distraction, is my sister!"

"Ah, I see," replied Diane de Poitiers, recovering herself a bit.—"This will be the constable's salvation," she thought to herself.

"Now, Madame," continued Gabriel, pale but firm, "are you willing to do me the further favor of swearing, as before, upon this crucifix, that Madame de Castro is King Henri II.'s daughter? You do not reply? Oh, why do you not reply. Madame?"

"Because I cannot take that oath, Monsieur."

"Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Diane is my father's child, then?" cried Gabriel, tottering.

"I did not say that! I will never assent to that!" cried Madame de Valentinois; "Diane de Castro is the king's daughter."

"Oh, really, Madame? Oh, how kind you are!" said Gabriel. "But, pardon me! Your own interest may induce you to say so. So swear it, Madame, swear it! In the name of your child, who will bless you for it, oh, swear it!"

"I will not swear," said the duchess. "Why should I?"

"But, Madame," said Gabriel, "this very moment you took the same oath simply to gratify your vulgar curiosity, as you told me yourself; and now, when a man's very life is at stake, when by saying these few words, you might rescue two souls from the bottomless pit, you ask, 'Why should I say these words?'"

"But I will not swear, Monsieur," said Diane, coldly and decidedly.

"And if I should marry Madame de Castro notwithstanding, Madame, and if Madame de Castro is my sister, don't you think that the crime will rebound upon you?"

"No," replied Diane, "not when I have not taken my oath to it."

"Oh, horrible! horrible!" cried Gabriel. "But consider, Madame, that I can tell everywhere that you loved the Comte de Montgommery, and were false to the king, and that I, the count's son, am certain of it."

"Mere moral certainty, without proofs," said Diane, with a wicked smile, having resumed her air of impertinent and haughty indifference. "I will say that you lie, Monsieur; and you told me yourself that when you affirm and I deny, you will not be the one to be believed. Consider, too, that I can say to the king that you have presumed to make love to me, threatening to circulate slanders about me if I didn't yield to you. And then you will be lost, Monsieur Gabriel de Montgommery. But pardon me," said she, rising; "I must leave you, Monsieur. You have really entertained me exceedingly, and your story is a very singular one."

She struck a bell, to summon a servant.

"Oh, this is infamous!" cried Gabriel, beating his brow with his clinched fists. "Oh, why are you a woman, or why am I a man? But, nevertheless, take care, Madame! for you shall not play with my heart and my life with impunity; and God will punish you, and avenge me for what you have done,—for this infamy, I say it again!"

"Do you think so?" said Diane. And she accompanied her words with a dry, mocking little laugh which was peculiar to her.

At this moment, the page whom she had called raised the tapestry curtain. She gave Gabriel a mocking salute and left the room.

"Well, well!" said she to herself, "my good constable is decidedly in luck. Dame Fortune is like me,—she loves him. Why the devil do we love him?"

Gabriel followed her out, mad with rage and grief.

CHAPTER XV
CATHERINE DE MÉDICIS

But Gabriel was strong and brave of heart, and filled with steadfast resolution. After the consternation of the first moments had abated, he shook off his despondency, held his head aloft once more, and requested an audience of the queen.

Catherine de Médicis had no doubt heard of this mysterious tragedy of her husband and the Comte de Montgommery; in fact, who knows that she did not herself play a part in it. At that time she was hardly more than twenty years old. Was it not likely that the jealousy of a beautiful but abandoned young wife would cause her to keep her eyes constantly open to every act and every misstep of her rival? Gabriel relied upon her memory to throw light upon the darkness of the path along which he was groping his way, but where he was so much interested in having his course made clear to him both as lover and as son, for his happiness' sake or for his revenge.

Catherine received Vicomte d'Exmès with that marked kindness which she had not failed to show him on every occasion.

"Is it you, my handsome king of the lists?" said she. "To what happy chance do I owe this welcome visit? You very seldom honor us, Monsieur d'Exmès; and I think this is the very first time that you have sought an audience of us in our apartments. But you are and always will be a welcome guest, remember that."

"Madame," said Gabriel. "I do not know how to thank you for such kindness; rest assured that my devotion—"

"Oh, never mind your devotion!" interposed the queen; "but let us come to the object which brings you here. Can I serve you in any way?"

"Yes, Madame, I think that you can."

"So much the better, Monsieur d'Exmès," replied Catherine, with a most engaging smile; "and if what you ask of me lies in my power, I promise beforehand to grant it. That may be rather a compromising agreement, perhaps, but I know you will not make an unfair use of it, my good friend."

"God forbid, Madame! I have no such intention."

"Go on, then, and tell me," said the queen, sighing.

"It is information, Madame, that I have ventured to seek from you,—nothing more. But to me this nothing is everything; so you will excuse me, I know, for recalling memories which may be painful to your Majesty. They relate to something which happened as long ago as the year 1539."

"Oh, dear, I was very young then,—almost a child," said the queen.

"But already very lovely, and most surely worthy of being loved," replied Gabriel.

"Some people used to say so," said the queen, delighted at the turn the conversation was taking.

"And yet," Gabriel went on, "another woman dared to encroach upon the right which was yours by the gift of God, and by your birth and beauty; and not content with drawing away from you, by witchery and enchantment, no doubt, the eyes and the heart of a husband who was too young to see clearly, this woman betrayed him who had betrayed you, and loved the Comte de Montgommery. But in your righteous contempt you may have forgotten all this, Madame?"

"By no means," said the queen; "and this incident, with all the intrigues dating from it, is very clear still in my mind. Yes, she loved the Comte de Montgommery; and then, seeing that her passion was discovered, she basely pretended that it was a mere feint to put the dauphin's affection for her to the proof; and when Montgommery disappeared, poor fellow,—made away with, perhaps, by her own order,—she never shed a tear for him, but appeared at a ball the next day, laughing and gay. Oh, yes, I shall always remember the first schemes by means of which this woman undermined my new-born power; for I was annoyed by them then, and I passed my days and my nights weeping. But since then my pride has come to my aid. I have always fulfilled my duty, and more too: I have compelled, by my dignified conduct, consistent and constant respect for myself as wife, as mother, and as queen. I have given seven children to the King of France; but now I love my husband only with a tranquil sort of affection, as a friend and the father of my sons, and I no longer recognize in him any right to demand any tenderer emotion. My life has been devoted to the public good long enough; and may I not now live a little for myself? Have I not bought my happiness sufficiently dear? If the devotion of some young and passionate heart should be laid at my feet, would it be a crime in me if I did not spurn it, Gabriel?"

Catherine's glances were quite in keeping with her words; but Gabriel's thoughts were elsewhere. As soon as the queen had ceased to speak of his father, he had ceased to listen, and had lost himself in thought. This revery, which Catherine interpreted as being in accord with her own wishes, by no means displeased her. But Gabriel soon broke the silence.

"One last explanation, and the most serious of all," said he. "You are so kind to me! I was sure that in coming to you I should be entirely satisfied. You have spoken of devotion; you may count absolutely on mine, Madame. But complete your work, for Heaven's sake! Since you knew the details of this tragic incident in the life of the Comte de Montgommery, do you know whether there was any doubt at the time that Madame de Castro, who was born some months after the count's disappearance, was really the king's daughter? Did not the tongue of scandal, of calumny, I may say, set afloat suspicion in that direction and ascribe to Monsieur de Montgommery the paternity of Diane?"

Catherine de Médicis looked at Gabriel for some time without a word, as if to satisfy herself of the feeling which had dictated his words. She thought she had discovered it, and began to smile.

"I have noticed," she said, "that you have been attracted by Madame de Castro, and have been assiduously paying court to her. Now I see your motive. Only, before you commit yourself, you wish to be sure, do you not, that you are following no false scent, and that it is really a daughter of the king to whom you are offering your homage? You don't wish, after you have married the legitimatized daughter of Henri II., to discover some fine day unexpectedly that your wife is the Comte de Montgommery's illegitimate child? In a word, you are ambitious, Monsieur d'Exmès. Don't protest, for it only makes me esteem you the more; and more than that, it may be of advantage to my plans for you, rather than detrimental to them. You are ambitious, are you not?"

"But, Madame," replied Gabriel, in great embarrassment, "perhaps it amounts to that—"

"Very good; I see that I have guessed your secret, young gentleman," said the queen. "Well, then! Are you willing to believe a friend? In the interest of these plans of yours, lay aside your views touching this Diane. Give up this doll-faced chit. I don't know, to tell the truth, whose daughter she is, whether king's or count's, and the last supposition may very well be the true one; but if she were born of the king, she is not the woman or the support that you stand in need of. Madame d'Angoulême's is a weak and yielding nature, all feeling and grace, if you please, but without force or energy or courage. She has succeeded in winning the king's good graces, I agree; but she hasn't the tact to take advantage of them. What you need, Gabriel, to help you to the fulfilment of your noble dreams, is a virile and courageous heart, which will assist you as it loves you, which will serve you and be served by you, and which will fill both your heart and your life. Such a heart you have found without being aware of it. Vicomte d'Exmès."

He looked at her in utter amazement; but she continued, warming to her subject:—

"Listen: our lofty destiny makes us queens free from the observance of the proprieties enjoined upon the common herd; and from our supreme height if we wish to be the object of the affection of a subject, we must take some steps forward ourselves, and extend a welcoming hand. Gabriel, you are handsome, brave, ardent, and proud! Since the first moment that I saw you I have felt for you a strange sentiment, and—I am not in error, am I?—your words and your looks, and even this very proceeding to-day, which is perhaps only a well-planned détour,—everything combines to make me believe that I have not to do with an ingrate."

"Madame!" said Gabriel, whose surprise had changed to alarm.

"Oh, yes, you are touched and surprised, I see," continued Catherine, with her sweetest smile. "But you do not judge me harshly, do you, for my necessary frankness? I say again, the queen must make excuses for the woman. You are shy, with all your ambition, Monsieur d'Exmès; and if I had been withheld by scruples which would be beneath me, I might have been deprived of a devotion which is very precious to me. I much preferred to be the first to speak. Come, then! collect yourself once more. Am I such a very terrible object?"

"Oh, yes!" muttered Gabriel, pale and trembling.

But the queen entirely misinterpreted the meaning of his exclamation.

"Come, come!" said she, with a playful pretence of misgiving. "I have not deprived you of your good sense yet, so far as to make you lose sight of your own interests, as you proved by the questions you put to me on the subject of Madame d'Angoulême. But set your mind at ease, for I do not desire your abasement, I say again, but your elevation. Gabriel, up to this time I have kept myself out of sight in the second rank; but do you know, I shall soon shine in the first. Madame Diane de Poitiers is no longer young enough to preserve her beauty and her supremacy. On the day when that creature's prestige begins to wane, my reign will begin; and mark well that I shall know how to reign, Gabriel. The instincts of domination which I feel at work in me assure me of it; and then, too, it is in the very Médicis blood. The king will learn some day that he has no more clever adviser, none more skilful and more experienced, than myself. And then, Gabriel, when that time comes, to what heights may not that man aspire who linked his fortune with mine when mine was still in the shadow; who loved in me the woman, not the queen? Will not the mistress of the whole realm be able to recompense worthily the man who devoted himself to Catherine? Will not this man be her second self, her right arm, the real king, with a mere phantom of a king above him? Will he not hold in his hand all the dignity and all the might of France? A fair dream, is it not, Gabriel? Well, Gabriel, do you choose to be that man?"

She valiantly held out her hand to him.

Gabriel kneeled at her feet and kissed that lovely white hand; but his nature was too frank and loyal to allow him to involve himself in the tricks and falsehoods of a simulated passion. Between deceit and danger he was too honest and too bold to hesitate a moment, so raising his noble head, he said,—

"Madame, the humble gentleman who is at your feet begs you to look upon him as your most obedient servant and your most devoted subject; but—"

"But," said Catherine, smiling, "these are not the worshipful terms which I require of you, my noble cavalier."

"And yet, Madame," continued Gabriel, "I cannot make use of any more tender and affectionate words in addressing you, for—pardon me, I beg—she whom I loved dearly before I ever saw you is Madame Diane de Castro; and no love, even though it be the love of a queen, can ever find a resting-place in this heart, which is always filled with the image of another."

"Ah!" exclaimed Catherine, with colorless cheeks and tightly closed lips.

Gabriel, with head cast down, waited manfully for the storm of indignation and scorn which was impending over him. Scorn and indignation are not apt to be long in coming, and after a few moments of silence,—

"Do you know, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Catherine, struggling to keep down her voice and her anger,—"do you know that I consider you very bold, not to say impudent! Who spoke to you of love, Monsieur? Where did you get the idea that I wished to tempt your bashful virtue? You must have a most exalted and presumptuous opinion of your own deserts to dare to think of such things, and to put such a hasty construction upon a kindness of heart whose only mistake was in bestowing itself in an undeserving quarter. You have very deeply injured a woman and a queen, Monsieur!"

"Oh, Madame," replied Gabriel, "pray believe that my religious veneration—"

"Enough!" Catherine interposed; "I know that you have insulted me, and that you came here to insult me! Why are you here? What purpose directed your steps? Of what importance to me are your love and Madame de Castro, or any of your concerns? You came to seek information from me! Absurd pretext! You desired to make a queen of France the confidante of your passion! It is senseless, I tell you! worse than that, it is an outrage!"

"No, Madame," replied Gabriel, standing proudly erect, "it is no outrage to have met an honest man who chose to wound you rather than deceive you."

"Hold your peace, Monsieur!" replied Catherine; "I command you to hold your peace and to leave me. Consider yourself lucky if I do not yet think best to divulge to the king your audacious offence. But never let me see you again, and henceforth consider Catherine de Médicis your bitter enemy. Yes, I shall come across you again, be sure, Monsieur d'Exmès! And now leave me."

Gabriel saluted the queen, and withdrew without a word.

"Well," he reflected when he was alone again, "one hatred more! But what difference would that make to me if I had only learned something about my father and Diane? The king's favorite and the king's wife for enemies! Fate may be preparing perhaps to make the king himself my enemy. And now for Diane, for the hour has arrived; and God grant that I may not be more sad and despairing when I part from her who loves me than I have been on leaving those who hate me!"

CHAPTER XVI
LOVER OR BROTHER?

When Jacinthe ushered Gabriel into the apartment in the Louvre occupied by Diane de Castro as the king's legitimatized daughter, she, in the pure and honest outpouring of her heart, rushed to meet her well-beloved without undertaking to dissemble her joy. She would not have refused to offer her brow to be kissed; but he contented himself with pressing her hand.

"Here you are at last, Gabriel!" said she. "How impatiently I have been awaiting you, dear! Lately I have not seemed to know whither to turn the full stream of happiness that I feel within me. I talk and laugh when I am all alone, and I am crazy with joy! But here you are, Gabriel, and we may at least have a happy hour together! But what is the matter, my love? You seem cold and serious and almost sad. Is it with such a solemn face and such cool reserve that you show your love for me, and your gratitude to God and my father?"

"To your father? Yes, let us speak of your father, Diane. As for this seriousness at which you wonder, it is my way to receive good fortune with a grave face; for I distrust her gifts, in the first place, having been unused to them heretofore, and my experience has been that she only too often hides a sorrow under the mask of a favor.

"I didn't know that you were such a philosopher, nor so unlucky, Gabriel!" replied the maiden, half in fun and half in anger. "But, come! you were saying that you wished to talk about the king; and I am very glad. How kind and generous he is, Gabriel!"

"Yes, Diane; and he loves you dearly, doesn't he?"

"With an infinite tenderness and gentleness, Gabriel."

"No doubt," muttered Vicomte d'Exmès, "for he may very well believe, poor dupe, that she is his child! Only one thing surprises me," he continued aloud; "and that is, how the king, who must have felt in his heart that he should love you thus dearly, could have allowed twelve years to elapse without ever seeing you or knowing you, and have left you at Vimoutiers, lost, to all intents and purposes. Have you never asked him, Diane, for an explanation of such strange indifference? Such utter forgetfulness, do you know, seems hardly consistent with the kind feeling that he seems to have for you now."

"Oh," said Diane, "it was not he who forgot me,—poor Papa!"

"But who was it, then?"

"Who? Why, Madame Diane de Poitiers, to be sure! I don't know if I ought to say my mother."

"And why did she make up her mind to abandon you thus, Diane? Ought she not to have been glad and proud, and to have glorified herself in the king's sight for having given birth to you, and having thus acquired one claim the more to his affection? What had she to fear? Her husband was dead; and her father—"

"All that is very true, Gabriel," said Diane; "and it would be very hard, not to say impossible, for me to justify in your eyes this extraordinary feeling—is it of pride?—which has made Madame de Valentinois refuse to acknowledge me formally as her child. Don't you know, dear, that in the first place she induced the king to conceal the fact of my birth; that she consented to my being recalled to court only at his urgent request, which was almost a command; and that she didn't choose even to be mentioned in the decree by which I was legitimatized? I have no inclination to complain of her for it, Gabriel, because if it had not been for this inexplicable pride of hers, I should never have known you, and you would not have loved me. But, nevertheless, I have sometimes been pained to think of the sort of repugnance which my mother seems to feel for everything that relates to me."

"A repugnance which may be remorse only," thought Gabriel, with terror; "she was able to deceive the king, and it was not without hesitation and dread—"

"But what are you thinking about, dear Gabriel?" said Diane. "And why do you ask me all these questions?"

"Oh, for no reason at all! A misgiving of my anxious heart,—that's all; don't worry about it, Diane. But, at all events, if your mother does seem to feel only aversion and almost hatred for you, your father, Diane,—your father makes up for her coldness by his affection, doesn't he? And you, if you do feel shy and constrained with Madame de Valentinois, your heart expands in the king's presence, does it not, and recognizes in him a true parent?"