THE TWO DIANAS.

BY

ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO.

BOSTON, LITTLE, BROWN, & CO.

1894.

The Fatal Joust.

ILLUSTRATIONS

ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS

DRAWN AND ETCHED BY E. VAN MUYDEN.

[The Fatal Joust]

[A Criminal's Speech against himself]

[The Forest of Château-Regnault]

CONTENTS

Chapter
[I. Wherein It Seems As If The Misunderstandings
Were About To Begin Again]
[II. A Criminal's Speech against Himself]
[III. Justice]
[IV. Two Letters]
[V. A Protestant Conventicle]
[VI. Another Trial]
[VII. A Perilous Step]
[VIII. The Imprudence of Precaution]
[IX. Opportunity]
[X. Between two Duties]
[XI. Omens]
[XII. The Fatal Joust]
[XIII. A New Order of Affairs]
[XIV. Results of Gabriel's Vengeance]
[XV. Change of Temperature]
[XVI. Guise and Coligny]
[XVII. Reports and Denunciations]
[XVIII. A Spy]
[XIX. An Informer]
[XX. A Child King and Queen]
[XXI. End of the Italian Journey]
[XXII. Two Appeals]
[XXIII. A Perilous Confidence]
[XXIV. The Disloyalty of Loyalty]
[XXV. The Beginning of the End]
[XXVI. The Forest of Château-Begnault]
[XXVII. A Glimpse at the Politics of the
Sixteenth Century]
[XXVIII. The Tumult of Amboise]
[XXIX. An Act of Faith]
[XXX. Another Specimen of Politics]
[XXXI. A Ray of Hope]
[XXXII. Well-Guarded Slumber]
[XXXIII. A King's Death-Bed]
[XXXIV. Adieu, France!]
[Conclusion]

THE TWO DIANAS

CHAPTER I
WHEREIN IT SEEMS AS IF THE MISUNDERSTANDINGS WERE
ABOUT TO BEGIN AGAIN

Arnauld du Thill was not at once taken back to the dungeon which he occupied in the conciergerie of Rieux. He was taken to a room adjoining that where the court was sitting, and was left alone for a few moments.

It might be, they told him, that after questioning his adversary, the judges would desire to hear him further. Left to his own reflections, the crafty scamp began by congratulating himself upon the effect he had evidently produced by his clever and bold speech. Brave Martin-Guerre, notwithstanding the righteousness of his cause, would surely find it hard to be so persuasive.

At all events Arnauld had gained time. But on thinking matters over more carefully he could not conceal from himself that he had gained nothing else. The truth which he had so audaciously distorted would finally overwhelm him on all sides. Could he hope that Monsieur de Montmorency himself, whose testimony he had dared to invoke, would take the risk of using his position to shield the avowed misdeeds of his spy? It was doubtful, to say the least.

The result of Arnauld's cogitations was that he gradually relapsed from hope to anxiety, and all things considered, said to himself that his position was not the most encouraging in the world.

He lowered his head under these discouraging thoughts, when some one came to take him back to prison.

So the tribunal had not thought best to question him further after Martin-Guerre's explanations! Another cause for anxiety.

All this, nevertheless, did not prevent Arnauld du Thill, who noticed everything, from observing that it was not his ordinary jailer who had come to take him, and was with him at that moment.

Why the change? Were they redoubling their precautions against his escape? Did they hope to make him confess? Arnauld determined to be on his guard, and said not a word during the whole walk.

But behold! another cause of amazement. The room to which this new custodian conducted Arnauld was not the one he ordinarily occupied.

The latter had a barred window and a high chimneypiece, which were lacking in the other.

However, everything bore witness to the recent presence of a prisoner,—crumbs of bread still fresh, a half-emptied cup of water, a straw pallet, and a half-opened chest within which could be seen a man's clothes.

Arnauld du Thill, who was well used to restraining his emotions, made no sign of surprise, but as soon as he found himself alone, he hastened to overhaul the chest.

He found nothing but clothes in it; nothing else to indicate its owner. But the clothes were of a color and cut which Arnauld seemed to remember. Especially two jerkins of brown cloth, and yellow tricot breeches, which were neither of a common shade nor shape.

"Oho," said Arnauld, "that would be strange!"

Just as night began to fall, the unknown jailer entered.

"Hallo, Master Martin-Guerre!" said he, laying his hand familiarly upon the pensive Arnauld's shoulder in a way to signify that the jailer knew his prisoner very well, even if the prisoner did not know his jailer.

"What is the matter, pray?" Arnauld asked this very friendly official.

"Well, it's just this, my dear fellow," the man replied; "your affair seems to be looking brighter and brighter. Who do you suppose has obtained leave from the judges, and now asks of yourself the favor of a few moments' conversation?"

"My faith, I can't imagine!" said Arnauld. "How should I know? Who can it be?"

"Your wife, my friend; even Bertrande de Rolles herself, who is beginning to see, doubtless, which one of you has the right on his side. But if I were in your place, I would refuse to receive her,—that I would."

"Why so?" asked Arnauld du Thill.

"Why?" repeated the jailer. "Why, because she has denied you for so long, of course! It is quite time for her to come over to the side of justice and truth, just when to-morrow at the latest the decree of the court will proclaim it publicly and officially! You agree with me, do you not? and I will send your ungrateful spouse about her business without ceremony."

The jailer took a step toward the door, but Arnauld stopped him with a gesture.

"No, no!" said he, "don't send her away. On the other hand, I want to see her. In short, since she has obtained leave from the judges, show Bertrande de Rolles in, my dear friend."

"Hum! Always the same," said the jailer. "Always easy-going and good-natured. If you allow your wife to reassert her former ascendency so quickly, you take a great risk. However, that's your business."

The jailer withdrew, shrugging his shoulders compassionately.

Two minutes later he returned with Bertrande de Rolles. It was growing darker every instant.

"I will leave you alone," said the jailer, "but I shall come to take Bertrande away before it is quite dark: those are the orders. So you have hardly a quarter of an hour; use it to quarrel or to make up, as you choose."

And he left the cell again.

Bertrande de Rolles came forward, shame-faced and with bent head, toward the pretended Martin-Guerre, who remained seated and silent, leaving it for her to begin the conversation.

"Oh, Martin!" said she at last, in a weak and hesitating voice, when she was at his side; "Martin, can you ever forgive me?"

Her eyes were wet with tears, and she was literally trembling in every limb.

"Forgive you for what?" replied Arnauld, who did not propose to commit himself.

"Why, for my stupid mistake," said Bertrande. "Of course I did very wrong not to recognize you. But was there not some excuse for my mistake, since it seems that at times you were deceived yourself? So it was necessary, I confess, to make me believe in my error, that the whole province, Monsieur le Comte de Montgommery, and justice, which knows everything, should prove to me that you are my true husband, and that the other is only a fraud and an impostor."

"But let us see," said Arnauld; "which is the acknowledged impostor,—the one whom Monsieur de Montgommery brought hither, or the one whom they found in possession of Martin-Guerre's goods and name?"

"Why, the other!" replied Bertrande; "the one who deceived me so, and whom during the last week I have still called my husband, stupid, blind fool that I was!"

"Aha, so the thing seems to be pretty well established now, does it?" asked Arnauld, with emotion.

"Mon Dieu! yes, Martin," Bertrande replied in some confusion. "The gentlemen of the court and your master, the worthy nobleman, told me just now that they had no longer any doubt, and that you were surely the true Martin-Guerre, my dear, good husband."

"Ah, indeed," said Arnauld, whose cheek paled in spite of himself.

"Thereupon," continued Bertrande, "they gave me to understand that I would do well to ask your forgiveness, and to become reconciled to you before they pronounce judgment; so I asked and obtained leave to see you."

She stopped a moment, but seeing that her pretended husband gave no sign of replying, she went on,—

"It is only too certain, good Martin-Guerre, that I have been very guilty toward you. But I implore you to reflect that it has been entirely involuntary on my part, as I call the Holy Virgin and the child Jesus to witness! My first mistake was the not having unmasked and discovered the fraud of this Arnauld du Thill. But could I imagine that there could be such a perfect resemblance in the world, and that the good God would amuse Himself by making two of His creatures so exactly alike? Alike in feature and in form, but not, it is true, in character and heart; and it was that difference which should have opened my eyes, I confess. But why? Nothing warned me to be on my guard. Arnauld du Thill talked to me of the past just as you yourself would have done. He had your ring and your papers, and not a single one of his friends or relatives suspected him. I acted in good faith. I attributed the change in your disposition to the experience you had gained in your extensive travels. Consider, my dear husband, that under the name of that stranger it was you whom I always loved, you to whom I submitted joyfully. Consider that, and you will forgive me for the first mistake, which led me—without intending it or knowing it, so help me God!—to commit the sin for which I shall pass the remainder of my days asking pardon from Heaven and from you."

Bertrande de Rolles again paused in her justification to see if Martin-Guerre would not speak to her and encourage her a little. But he remained persistently silent, and poor Bertrande, with sinking heart, continued,—

"Even if it be impossible, Martin, for you to bear ill-will toward me for this first involuntary wrong, the second, unfortunately, deserves beyond question all your reproaches and all your anger. When you were not at hand, I might mistake another for you; but when you had presented yourself, and I had leisure to compare you with the other, I should have recognized you at once. But consider whether even in that matter my conduct does not admit of some excuse. In the first place, Arnauld du Thill was, as you say, in possession of the title and name which belong to you, and it was extremely repugnant to my feelings to admit a supposition which would make me guilty. In the second place, I was hardly allowed to see you and speak with you. When I was confronted with you, you were not dressed in your ordinary dress, but were wrapped in a long coat which hid your form and your gait from me. Then, too, I was kept secluded almost as closely as Arnauld du Thill and yourself, and I hardly saw either of you except before the court, always separately and at a considerable distance. In the face of that terrifying resemblance, what means had I of determining the truth? I made up my mind, almost haphazard, in favor of him whom I had called my husband just before. I implore you not to be angry with me for it. The judges to-day assure me that I was mistaken, and that they have abundant proofs of it. Thereupon I come to you, penitent and abashed, trusting only in your kind heart and the love of former days. Was I wrong to rely thus on your indulgence?"

After this direct question, Bertrande made another pause; but the false Martin still remained dumb.

Surely, in thus renouncing Arnauld du Thill Bertrande was adopting a curious method of softening his heart toward her; but she was acting in perfect good faith, and committed herself more and more irrevocably to that view which she believed to be the true one, in order to touch the heart of him whose forgiveness she supposed herself to be imploring.

"As for myself," she resumed humbly, "you will find my disposition much altered. I am no longer the scornful, capricious, ill-tempered virago who made life such a burden to you. The cruel treatment which I have undergone at the hands of that wretched Arnauld, and which ought to have condemned him in my eyes, has had one good result, at least,—in bending and taming my spirit; and you may expect to find me in future as easily managed and obliging as you yourself are gentle and kind-hearted. For you will be gentle and kind with me as you used to be, will you not? You are going to prove that now by forgiving me; and then I shall know you by your good heart, as I know you already by your features."

"So you do recognize me now, do you?" said Arnauld du Thill, at last.

"Oh, yes! indeed, I do," replied Bertrande; "but I blame myself for having waited for the judgment and decree of the court."

"So you do recognize me?" said Arnauld, persisting in his question. "You do realize now that I am not that intriguing scoundrel who had the assurance to call himself your husband no longer ago than last week, but that I am the real, legitimate Martin-Guerre, whom you have not seen before for many years? Look at me. Do you recognize me now, and acknowledge me as your first and only husband?"

"To be sure I do," said Bertrande.

"By what marks do you recognize me?" asked Arnauld.

"Alas!" said Bertrande, frankly, "only by the outward appearance of your person, I confess. Were you beside Arnauld du Thill and dressed like him, the resemblance is so exact that very likely I could not tell you apart even now. I know you for my true husband because I was told that I was to be taken to him, because you occupy this cell, and not Arnauld's, and because you receive me with the calm severity which I deserve; while Arnauld would be trying still to abuse me and deceive me—"

"Wretched Arnauld!" cried Arnauld himself, harshly. "And you, weak and credulous woman—"

"Don't spare me!" was Bertrande's rejoinder. "I much prefer your reproaches to your silence. When you have said to me all that you have at heart—for I know how kind and indulgent you are—you will soften toward me and forgive me!"

"Very well!" said Arnauld, in a somewhat milder tone. "Don't be downhearted, Bertrande; we will see."

"Ah!" exclaimed Bertrande, "what did I say? Yes, you are, indeed, my own dear Martin-Guerre!"

She threw herself at his feet, and bathed his hands with her honest tears,—for she really believed she was talking with her husband; and Arnauld du Thill, who was observing her distrustfully, could find no excuse for the least suspicion. Her expressions of joy and penitence were not ambiguous.

"Very good!" Arnauld muttered to himself; "you shall pay for all this some day, ingrate!"

Meanwhile he seemed to give way to an irresistible impulse of affection.

"I am weak, and I feel that I am yielding," said he, pretending to wipe away a tear which was not there; and, as if in spite of himself, he breathed a kiss upon the lowly head of the fair penitent.

"What ecstasy!" cried Bertrande; "he has almost forgiven me!"

At this moment the door opened, and the jailer reappeared.

"Humph! Made it up, have you?" said he, testily, as his eye fell upon the sentimental tableau presented by the happy pair. "I was sure of it,—you're such a milksop, Martin!"

"What's that? Do you blame him for his kind heart?" said Bertrande.

"Ha, ha! Come, come!" said Arnauld, laughing in the most fatherly way.

"Well, as I said before, it's his business," replied the unmoved jailer; "and it's my business now to carry out my orders. The time has expired, and you cannot stay a minute longer, my weeping beauty."

"What! must I leave him already?" asked Bertrande.

"Yes. You will have time enough to see him to-morrow and all the rest of your days," was the reply.

"True, he will be free to-morrow!" rejoined Bertrande. "To-morrow, dear, we will begin again our peaceful life of former days."

"Postpone your caresses till to-morrow, too," observed the fierce jailer, "for now you must leave."

Bertrande kissed once more the hand which Arnauld du Thill held out to her royally, waved a last adieu to him, and preceded the jailer from the cell.

As the latter was closing the door, Arnauld called him back.

"May I not have a light, a lamp?" he asked.

"Yes, to be sure, just as you have every evening," said the jailer; "that is, until curfew,—nine o'clock. By our Lady! we don't treat you as harshly as Arnauld du Thill; and then, too, your master, the Comte de Montgommery, is so generous! You are well taken care of to oblige him. In five minutes I will bring your candle, friend Martin."

The light was brought to him very shortly by a turnkey, who withdrew at once, wishing the prisoner good-night, and reminding him anew to extinguish it at curfew.

Arnauld du Thill, when he found himself alone, quickly removed the linen suit that he wore, and clothed himself no less speedily in one of the famous suits, composed of a brown jerkin and yellow tricot small-clothes, which he had discovered in Martin-Guerre's chest.

Then he burned his former costume piece by piece in the flame of his candle, and mingled the ashes with those which were lying on the hearth.

It was all done in less than an hour; and he was enabled to extinguish his light and go virtuously to bed even before the curfew tolled.

"Now, we will see!" said he. "I seem to have been beaten before the court; but it will be very pleasant to succeed in deriving the means of victory from my defeat."

CHAPTER II
A CRIMINAL'S SPEECH AGAINST HIMSELF

We can readily understand that sleep hardly visited Arnauld du Thill's eyes that night. He lay stretched upon his straw litter, his eyes wide open, entirely engrossed with reckoning up his chances, laying plans, and marshalling his resources. The scheme he had devised, of substituting himself for poor Martin-Guerre once more, was an audacious one doubtless, but its very impudence endowed it with some chance of success.

Since luck favored him so marvellously, should he let his own audacity betray him?

No; he quickly adopted the course he was to follow, and left himself free to adapt his movements to events as they might shape themselves, and to unforeseen circumstances.

When day broke, he examined his costume, found it unexceptionable, and devoted himself anew to acquiring Martin-Guerre's gait and attitudes. His mimicry of his double's good-natured demeanor was so perfect as almost to be exaggerated. It must be confessed that the miserable blackguard would have made an excellent comedian.

About eight o'clock in the morning, the cell-door grated on its hinges.

Arnauld du Thill suppressed a startled movement, and assumed an air of tranquil indifference.

The jailer of the night before reappeared, introducing the Comte de Montgommery.

"The devil! now the crisis is at hand!" said Arnauld du Thill to himself. "I must be on my guard."

He waited anxiously for Gabriel's first word when he should look at him.

"Good-morning, my poor Martin-Guerre," Gabriel began.

Arnauld breathed again. The Comte de Montgommery had looked him straight in the face as he called him by name. The misunderstanding began again, and Arnauld was saved!

"Good-morning, my dear, kind Master," he said to Gabriel, with an effusiveness of gratitude which was in truth not wholly feigned.

He had the assurance to add,—

"Is there anything new, Monseigneur?"

"The sentence will be pronounced this morning in all probability," Gabriel replied.

"At last! God be praised!" cried Arnauld. "I long for the end, I confess. There is no conceivable doubt now,—nothing more to fear, is there, Monseigneur? The right will surely triumph?"

"Indeed I hope so," said Gabriel, gazing at Arnauld more intently than ever. "That villanous Arnauld du Thill is reduced to desperate remedies."

"Is he really? And what infernal scheme is he hatching now?" asked Arnauld.

"Would you believe it?" said Gabriel; "the impostor is trying to renew the old confusion."

"Can it be?" cried Arnauld, with uplifted hands. "What is his pretext, in God's name?"

"Why, he has the assurance to claim," Gabriel replied, "that after the hearing was at an end, yesterday, the jailers made a mistake, and took him to Arnauld's cell, and you to his."

"Is it possible?" said Arnauld, with a capitally feigned gesture of surprise and indignation. "What proof does he give in support of that impudent statement,—upon what does he base it?"

"This is what he says," said Gabriel. "It seems that he, like you, was not taken back at once to prison yesterday. The court, when they withdrew to consult, thought that they might desire to question one or both of you further; so the guards left him in the vestibule below, as they left you in the courtyard. Now he swears that was the cause of the error, and that it had been the custom to leave Arnauld in the vestibule and Martin in the courtyard. The jailers, when they went to take their respective prisoners, naturally confused the one with the other, according to his story. As for the guards concerned, they are the same ones who 'have always had charge of the two, and these human machines only know their prisoners, without being able to distinguish their persons. He bases his new claims upon such absurd reasons as those; and he is weeping and shrieking and asking to see me."

"Have you seen him, Monseigneur?" asked Arnauld, eagerly.

"My faith, no!" said Gabriel. "I am afraid of his tricks and his wiles. He would be quite capable of deceiving me and leading me astray again. The blackguard is so bold and clever withal."

"Ah, Monseigneur defends him now!" rejoined Arnauld, feigning discontent.

"I am not defending him, Martin," said Gabriel; "but we must agree that his brain is full of expedients, and that if he had applied himself to earning an honest living with half the skill—"

"He's an infamous villain!" cried Arnauld, vehemently.

"How severe you are upon him to-day!" replied Gabriel. "But I was thinking to myself as I came along, that after all he has not caused anybody's death; that if his condemnation is pronounced in a few hours, he will surely be hanged within a week; that capital punishment is perhaps an excessive penalty for his crimes, and that in short we might, if you choose, ask for mercy to be shown him."

"Mercy for him!" Arnauld du Thill repeated with some hesitation.

"It requires thought, I know," said Gabriel; "but come now,—you have thought about it; what do you say?"

Arnauld, with his chin in one hand, and rubbing his cheek with the other, remained for some seconds pensive without replying; but at last, having made up his mind, he said firmly,—

"No, no! no mercy! That will be much better."

"Oho!" replied Gabriel, "I did not know you were so vindictive, Martin; you are not generally so, and only yesterday you were pitying your adversary, and would have asked nothing better than to save his life."

"Yesterday, yesterday," muttered Arnauld, "yesterday he had not played us this last trick, which is to my mind more shameful than all the others."

"That is very true," Gabriel remarked. "So you are very decidedly of the opinion that the culprit should die?"

"Mon Dieu!" replied Arnauld, with a sanctified air, "you know, Monseigneur, how my soul revolts at violence and revenge, and all deeds of blood. My heart is torn to be compelled to yield to so cruel a necessity, but it is a necessity. Consider, Monseigneur, that so long as this man who resembles me so closely is still in the land of the living, I can never lead a peaceful, happy life. This last bold stroke which he has just struck shows that he is incorrigible. If he is sentenced to be kept in prison he will escape; if he is banished he will return, and therefore I shall always be anxious and in torment, expecting every moment that he will come back to worry me, and unsettle my whole life again. My friends and my wife will never be sure that they really are dealing with me, and suspicion will always be rife. I must always be on the watch for renewed struggles and fresh attacks on my identity. In short, I can never say I am really in possession of my own personality. Therefore I must in my grief and despair do violence to my character, Monseigneur; I shall doubtless mourn all the rest of my days for having caused the death of a fellow-creature; but it must be, it must be! To-day's imposture removes my last scruples. Arnauld du Thill must die! I yield to necessity."

"So be it, then, he shall die," said Gabriel. "That is to say, he shall die if he is condemned, for judgment has not been pronounced yet."

"What do you say? Isn't it certain?" asked Arnauld.

"It is probable, but not certain," was Gabriel's reply. "That devil of an Arnauld addressed a very crafty and convincing speech to the judges yesterday."

"Cursed fool that I was!" thought Arnauld.

"While you, on the other hand, Martin," continued Gabriel, "you, who have just demonstrated to me with such admirable eloquence and conviction the necessity for Arnauld's death, could not, you will remember, find a single word to say before the court yesterday, nor could you adduce a single argument or a single fact to aid in the triumph of truth. You were confused and remained almost dumb, in spite of my urgency. Although you had been informed as to your adversary's arguments, you did not know how to meet and reply to them."

"The reason is, Monseigneur," was Arnauld's response, "that I am at my ease with you alone, while all those judges frightened me. Besides, I confess that I relied upon the righteousness of my cause. It seemed to me that justice would plead for me better than I could for myself. But that seems not to be the case with these men of the law. They want words, nothing but words, I can see now. Ah, if it could only begin again, or if they would hear me even now!"

"Why, what would you do, Martin?"

"Oh, I would pluck up a little courage, and then I would speak. It would not be a difficult matter by any means to demolish all the proofs and allegations of Arnauld du Thill."

"I tell you that would not be an easy matter!" said Gabriel.

"Pardon me, Monseigneur," replied Arnauld; "I can see the weak points in his strategy as clearly as he can see them himself, and if I had been less timid, and if words had not failed me, I would have told the judges—"

"Well, what would you have told them, pray? Just tell me."

"What would I have told them? Why, nothing could be simpler."

Thereupon Arnauld du Thill set to work to refute his speech of the evening before, point by point. He unravelled the events and the mistakes of the double existence of Martin-Guerre and Arnauld with so much the more facility, because he had tangled them up himself. The Comte de Montgommery had left certain matters still obscure in the minds of the judges, because he had been unable to explain them to his own satisfaction, but Arnauld du Thill elucidated them with marvellous clearness. The result of his discourse was to show Gabriel the two destinies of the honest man and the rascal as clearly and sharply defined and distinguished, for all the confusion there had been in. regard to them, as that between oil and water when put in the same vessel.

"Have you then been collecting information at Paris on your own account?" asked Gabriel.

"Without doubt I have, Monseigneur; and in case of need I could furnish proofs of what I say. I am not easily excited, but when I am driven into my last intrenchments, I can make energetic sorties."

"But," Gabriel continued, "Arnauld du Thill invoked the testimony of Monsieur de Montmorency, and you do not reply to that."

"Indeed, I do, Monseigneur. It is very true that this Arnauld has been in the constable's service, but his was a disgraceful employment. He must have been a sort of spy for him, and that fully explains why he attached himself to you, to follow you about and watch your movements. But though such people are employed, they are not acknowledged. Do you suppose that Monsieur de Montmorency would choose to accept the responsibility for the doings and sayings of his emissary? No, indeed! Arnauld du Thill, perched at the bottom of the wall, would not really dare to call upon the constable; or if he did venture in despair of his cause, Monsieur de Montmorency would deny him. Now, to sum up—"

And in his clear and logical resume, Arnauld successfully demolished, bit by bit, the edifice of fraud which he had so skilfully constructed the preceding day.

With such facility in argument, and such a flow of words, Arnauld du Thill would have made a very distinguished advocate of our times. He had the misfortune to live three hundred years too soon. Let us have pity on his shade!

"I believe that all this is unanswerable," he remarked to Gabriel when he had finished. "What a pity it is that the judges cannot hear me again, or that they have not heard me now!"

"They have heard you," said Gabriel.

"How so?"

"Look!"

The door of the cell opened, and Arnauld, entirely bewildered and somewhat alarmed, saw the president of the tribunal and two of the judges, standing grave and motionless on the threshold.

"What does this mean?" asked Arnauld, turning toward Gabriel.

"It means," replied Monsieur de Montgommery, "that I suspected my poor Martin-Guerre's timidity, and wished that his judges, without his knowledge, should hear the unanswerable speech they have just heard."

"Wonderfully well done!" rejoined Arnauld, breathing freely once more. "I am a thousand times obliged to you, Monseigneur."

Turning to the judges, he said in a tone which he tried to render bashful,—

"May I think, may I hope, that my words have really established the justice of my cause in the enlightened minds which are at this moment arbiters of my destiny?"

"Yes," said the president; "the proofs which have been furnished us have convinced us."

"Ah!" said Arnauld du Thill, triumphantly.

"But," continued the president, "other proofs, no less certain and conclusive, compel us to state that there was a mistake yesterday in remanding the two prisoners to their cells,—that Martin-Guerre was taken to yours, Arnauld du Thill, and that you are now occupying his."

"What!—how's that?" stammered Arnauld, thunderstruck. "What do you say to it, Monseigneur?" he added, addressing Gabriel.

"I say that I knew it," replied Gabriel, sternly. "I say again, Arnauld, that I desired to make you out of your own mouth furnish proofs of Martin's innocence and your own guilt. You have forced me, villain, to play a part which I abhor; but your unparalleled insolence yesterday made me understand that when one enters upon a struggle with such as you he must use the same weapons, and that frauds can only be conquered by fraud. However, you have left me nothing to do, but have been in such haste to betray your own cause that your cowardice has led you on to meet the trap that was set for you."

"To meet the trap, eh?" echoed Arnauld. "So there was a trap, was there? But, in any event, you are abandoning your own Martin in my person; don't deceive yourself about that, Monseigneur!"

"Do not persist, Arnauld du Thill," interposed the president. "The mistake about the cells was contrived and ordered by the court. You are unmasked beyond a peradventure, I assure you."

"But since you agree that there was a mistake," cried the irrepressible Arnauld, "who can assure you, Monsieur le President, that a mistake was not made in executing your orders?"

"The testimony of the guards and jailers," said the president.

A Criminal's Speech against himself.

"They are in error," retorted Arnauld. "I am really Martin-Guerre, Monsieur de Montgommery's squire, and I will not submit to be convicted in this way. Confront me with your other prisoner, and when we stand beside one another dare to choose between us,—dare to distinguish Arnauld du Thill from Martin-Guerre, the culprit from the innocent! As if there had not already been confusion enough in this cause, you must needs add to it. Your conscience will prevent your coming to any such conclusion. I will persist to the end, and in spite of everything, in crying, 'I am Martin-Guerre!' and I defy the whole world to give me the lie or to produce facts to contradict me."

The judges and Gabriel shook their heads, and smiled gravely and sorrowfully at this shameless and unblushing obstinacy.

"Once more, Arnauld du Thill," said the president, "I tell you that there is no longer any possibility of confusion between Martin-Guerre and yourself."

"Why not?" said Arnauld. "How can he be recognized? What mark distinguishes us?"

"You shall know, miserable wretch!" said Gabriel, indignantly.

He made a sign, and Martin-Guerre appeared upon the threshold.

Martin-Guerre without a cloak! Martin-Guerre mutilated, and with a wooden leg!

"Martin, my good squire," said Gabriel to Arnauld, "after miraculously escaping from the gallows which you helped him to ascend at Noyon, was less fortunate at Calais in avoiding an act of vengeance which was only too justifiable, intended to punish one of your infamous deeds: he was hurled headlong into an abyss in your stead, and compelled to suffer amputation of one leg; but by the mysterious working of the divine will, which is just when it appears most cruel, that catastrophe has now served to establish a point of distinction between the persecutor and the victim. The judges here present can no longer be deceived, since they may now recognize the criminal by his shamelessness, and the innocent man by his disfigurement."

Arnauld du Thill, pale and overwhelmed, and crushed beneath the terrible words and withering glances of Gabriel, no longer tried to defend or to deny himself; the sight of poor crippled Martin-Guerre rendered all his lies of no effect.

He fell heavily to the floor, an inert mass.

"I am lost!" he muttered,—"lost!"

CHAPTER III
JUSTICE

Arnauld du Thill was, indeed, lost beyond recall. The judges at once met for deliberation, and within a quarter of an hour the accused was summoned before them to listen to the following decree, which we transcribe literally from the records of the time:—

"In consideration of the examination of Arnauld du Thill, called Sancette, alias Martin-Guerre, now confined in the conciergerie at Rieux:

"In consideration of the testimony of divers witnesses, to wit, Martin-Guerre, Bertrande de Rolles, Carbon Barreau, etc., and especially that of Monsieur le Comte de Montgommery:

"In consideration of the avowals of the accused himself, who, after trying in vain to deny it, finally confessed his crime:

"From which said examination, depositions, and avowals it appears:

"That said Arnauld du Thill has been duly convicted of fraud, forgery, false assumption of surname and baptismal name, adultery, rape, sacrilege, larceny, and other crimes:

"The court has condemned, and does now condemn and sentence said Arnauld du Thill:

"First. To do penance in front of the church of Artigues, on his knees, clad only in his shirt, with head and feet bare, having a halter about his neck, and holding in his hands a torch of burning wax:

"Secondly. To ask pardon publicly of God and the king and the outraged law, as well of the said Martin-Guerre and Bertrande de Rolles, husband and wife:

"And this done, said Arnauld du Thill shall be delivered into the hands of the public executioner, who shall cause him to be led through the streets and public places of the said village of Artigues, still with the halter around his neck, until he shall be before the house of said Martin-Guerre:

"There to be hanged by the neck upon a gallows to be erected to that end on that spot, and his body to be afterward burned.

"And, in addition, the court has discharged from custody said Martin-Guerre and said Bertrande de Rolles, and does now remand said Arnauld du Thill to the judge of Artigues, who will cause this decree to be carried into effect according to its form and tenor.

"Given at Rieux the 12th day of July, 1558."

Arnauld du Thill listened to this anticipated judgment with a gloomy and sombre air, although he repeated his confession, recognized the justice of the decree, and showed some repentance.

"I implore God's clemency," said he, "and the pardon of mankind, and am disposed to meet my fate like a Christian."

Martin-Guerre, who was present at this scene, furnished fresh proof of his identity by bursting into tears at the words of his arch-enemy, hypocritical though they might be.

He conquered his ordinary bashfulness so far as to ask the president if there were not some means of obtaining mercy for Arnauld du Thill, whom he freely forgave for the past so far as he was concerned.

But good Martin-Guerre was informed that the king alone had the right to interpose, and that for such an extraordinary and notorious crime he would surely refuse to exercise his right of pardon, even though the judges themselves should ask it of him.

"Yes," Gabriel muttered to himself; "yes, the king would refuse to show mercy. And yet he may well need that mercy should be shown himself! But in this case he would do right to be inflexible. No mercy! Never any mercy! Justice!"

Martin-Guerre's thoughts probably did not resemble his master's; for in his absolute need to forgive somebody, he at once opened his arms and his heart to the penitent and humble Bertrande de Rolles.

Bertrande was not even put to the trouble of repeating the prayers and promises which in her last very useful blunder she had poured out upon the forger Arnauld du Thill, when she believed she was speaking to her husband. Martin-Guerre gave her no time to lament anew her errors and her weakness. He cut short her first attempt to speak with a loud kiss, and carried her off, triumphant and delighted, to the blissful little house which he had not seen for so many years.

In front of that very house, which had at last reverted to the hands of its true owner, Arnauld du Thill, a week after his conviction, suffered the penalty which his crimes so well deserved.

Folks came from twenty leagues around to be present at the execution, and the streets of the wretched village of Artigues were more densely thronged that day than those of the capital.

The culprit, it must be said, showed a certain amount of courage in his last moments, and at least ended his shameful life exemplarily.

When the executioner had cried aloud to the people three times, according to custom: "Justice is done!" and while the crowd was slowly melting away in horrified silence, within the house of the victim of the culprit's wiles a man was weeping, and a woman praying; they were Martin-Guerre and Bertrande de Rolles.

His native air, the sight of the locality in which his youth had been passed, the affection of his kinsfolk and his old friends, and, above all, the loving attentions of Bertrande, in a very few days banished from Martin's face every trace of unhappiness.

One evening in this same month of July he was seated under the vine at his door, after a peaceful, happy day.

His wife was within, busy with her housekeeping cares, but Martin could hear her coming and going, so that he was not alone; and he looked off to the right at the sun, which was just setting in all his glory, giving promise for the morrow of as beautiful a day as that which had just passed.

Martin did not see a horseman who rode up on his left, and dismounting, approached him noiselessly.

He stood a moment observing with a grave smile Martin's attitude of dreamy and peaceful contemplation. Then he reached out his hand, and without a word touched him on the shoulder.

Martin-Guerre quickly turned, and rose with his hand to his cap.

"What! You, Monseigneur!" he said, with much emotion. "Pardon me, I did not see you coming."

"Don't apologize, my good Martin," replied Gabriel (for it was he); "I did not come to disturb your peace of mind, but on the other hand to assure myself of it."

"Oh, Monseigneur has only to look at me, then!" said Martin.

"That's what I was doing, Martin," observed Gabriel. "So you are happy, are you?"

"Happier, Monseigneur, than the birds of the air or the fish in the sea."

"That is easily explained," returned Gabriel, "for you have found rest and plenty in your own home."

"Yes," said Martin-Guerre, "without doubt that is one of the reasons of my contentment. It may be that I have travelled sufficiently, seen enough battles, watched and fasted and suffered in a hundred ways sufficiently, to have earned the right, Monseigneur, to take pleasure in refreshing myself with a few days' rest. As for the plenty," he continued, in more serious fashion, "I have found the house well supplied,—too well supplied, in fact. The money does not belong to me, and I don't want to touch it. Arnauld du Thill brought it here, and I propose to restore it to its rightful owners. Much the greater part of it belongs to you, Monseigneur, for it was the money intended for your ransom which he stole. That sum is put aside all ready to be handed to you. As for the balance, it makes little difference how or where Arnauld obtained it; the gold would soil my fingers. Master Carbon Barreau thinks as I do, honest man, and having enough to live on, he declines to accept the unworthy heritage of his nephew. When the expenses of the trial are paid, the rest will go to the poor of the province."

"But in that case your property will not amount to much, my poor Martin," said Gabriel.

"I ask your pardon, Monseigneur. One does not serve a master so generous and open-handed as yourself for a long while without having something laid by. I brought a very respectable sum in my wallet from Paris. Besides, Bertrande's family were comfortably situated, and have left her some property. In short, we shall still be the magnates of the neighborhood when I have paid our debts and made all proper restitution."

"Touching this matter of restitution, Martin, I hope you will not refuse from my hand that which you scorned as a legacy from Arnauld. I beg you, my faithful servant, to keep, as a remembrance and a slight recompense, the sum which you say belongs to me."

"What, Monseigneur?" cried Martin,—"a gift of such magnificence to me!"

"Go to!" replied Gabriel; "do you imagine that I can pretend to pay you for your devotion? Shall I not always be your debtor? Have no scruples of pride with me, Martin, and let us say no more about it. It is understood that you will accept the trifle that I offer you—less to you than to me, in truth; for you tell me that you do not need this sum to live in comfort and to be highly considered in your province, consequently this will not add much to your happiness. Now as to this happiness of yours; you have not spoken very fully to me about it, but it ought to consist principally in your return to the loved spots which your infancy and your youth knew. Am I not right?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, that is quite true," said Martin-Guerre. "I have felt very contented and happy since I returned, just because I am at home. I gaze with emotion upon the houses and trees and roads, which no stranger would ever look at a second time. In fact, it seems that one never breathes so freely as in the air which he breathed the first day of his life."

"And your friends, Martin?" asked Gabriel. "I told you that I came to set my mind at rest on all matters touching your welfare. Have you found all your old friends again?"

"Alas! Monseigneur, some have died; but I have found a goodly number of the companions of my early days, and they all seem as fond of me as ever. They, too, are glad to acknowledge my frankness, my faithful friendship, and my devotion. My word! but they are ashamed that they could ever have mistaken Arnauld du Thill for me, for he seems to have given them some specimens of a nature very different from mine. There were two or three of them who quarrelled with the false Martin-Guerre because of his evil actions. You should see how proud and contented they are now! In short, they all vie with one another in overwhelming me with tokens of esteem and affection,—in order to make up for lost time, I fancy. Since we are talking about the causes of my happiness, Monseigneur, that is a very potent one, I assure you."

"I believe it, good Martin, I can well believe it. Ah, but in speaking of all the affection which sweetens your life you do not mention your wife."

"Ah, my wife," replied Martin, scratching his ear with an embarrassed air.

"To be sure, your wife," said Gabriel, anxiously. "What! it can't be that Bertrande still torments you as before? Has not her disposition changed for the better? Is she still ungrateful for the kindness of heart and the relenting fate which have given her such a loyal and affectionate husband? Is she still trying, Martin, with her shrewish and quarrelsome ways, to force you to leave your home and your dear old haunts a second time?"

"Oh, no, quite the contrary, Monseigneur," said Martin-Guerre; "she makes me too fond of my haunts and my native province. She waits upon me, coddles me, and kisses me. No more whims or domestic rebellions. Ah, indeed she is so sweet and equable as I never remember to have seen her before. I can't open my mouth that she doesn't come running to me; and she never waits for me to express my wishes, but seems to divine them. It is wonderful! and as I am naturally easy-going and good-natured myself, rather than despotic and domineering, our life is all honey, and our household the most united and happy one in the world."

"I am glad to hear it," said Gabriel; "but you almost frightened me at first."

"The reason for that, Monseigneur, was that I feel a little embarrassment and confusion, if I may say so, when this subject is under discussion. The sentiment I find in my heart when I examine myself on that subject is a very singular one, and makes me a little ashamed. But with you, Monseigneur, I may speak in all frankness and sincerity, may I not?"

"To be sure," said Gabriel.

Martin-Guerre looked carefully around to see that no one was listening, and especially that no one was within hearing. Then he said in a low voice,—

"Well, Monseigneur, I not only forgive poor Arnauld du Thill, at this moment I bless him. What a service he rendered me! He made a lamb out of a tigress, an angel out of a devil. I welcome the fortunate results of his brutal manners, without having to reproach myself for them. For all tormented and harassed husbands, and they say the number of them is enormous, I can wish nothing better than a double,—a double as—persuasive as mine. In short, Monseigneur, although Arnauld du Thill did most certainly cause me much annoyance and suffering, still do you not think that those troubles are more than atoned for, if he did but know it, by his energetic system, whereby he assured my domestic happiness and tranquillity for the rest of my days?"

"There's no doubt of that," said the young count, smiling.

"I am right, then," said Martin, joyfully, "in blessing Arnauld, even though I do it in secret, since I am reaping every hour the happy fruits of his involuntary collaboration. I am somewhat of a philosopher, as you know, Monseigneur, and I always look on the bright side. Therefore I am bound to say that Arnauld has done me more good than harm at every point. He has been my wife's husband in the interim; but he has given her back to me sweeter than a day in June. He stole my property and my friends from me temporarily; but thanks to him, my property returns to my possession in increased amount, and my friends even more closely bound to me. In fact, he was the means of subjecting me to some very rough experiences, notably at Noyon and at Calais; but my life to-day seems only more agreeable for his meddling with it. Wherefore I have every reason to be, and I am, well satisfied with this good Arnauld."

"You have a grateful heart," said Gabriel.

"Oh, but he whom, before all and above all, my grateful heart ought to thank and to reverence," continued Martin, becoming serious again, "is not Arnauld du Thill, my involuntary benefactor, but you, Monseigneur, you, to whom I really owe all these benefits,—my country, fortune, friends, and wife!"

"Again I repeat, enough of that, Martin," said Gabriel. "I ask only that you should have all these good things. And you have them, haven't you? Tell me again if you are happy."

"I repeat, Monseigneur, I am happier than I have ever been."

"That is all I desire to know," remarked Gabriel. "And now I must go."

"What, go?" cried Martin. "Are you really thinking of going so soon, Monseigneur?"

"Yes, Martin, there is nothing to keep me here."

"Pardon me, of course there is nothing. When do you mean to leave?"

"This very evening."

"And you never told me!" cried Martin-Guerre. "And I, sluggard! was dreaming away in utter forgetfulness. But wait, wait, Monseigneur, it will not be long!"

"Wait for what?" asked Gabriel.

"Why, for me to make my preparations for departure, to be sure!"

He rose nimbly and hastily, and ran to the door of the house.

"Bertrande, Bertrande!" he called.

"Why do you call your wife, Martin?" asked Gabriel.

"To get my things ready, and to say adieu, Monseigneur."

"But that's useless, my good Martin; for you are not going with me."

"What! You are not going to take me, Monseigneur!"

"No, I must go alone."

"Never to return?"

"Not for a long while, surely."

"What fault have you to find with me, Monseigneur, I pray you tell me?" asked Martin, sadly.

"None at all, my good Martin; you are the most devoted and faithful of servants."

"Yet you do not take me with you," returned Martin, "although it is natural that the servant should follow his master, that the squire should attend upon his lord."

"I have the best of reasons for it, Martin."

"May I venture to ask what they are, Monseigneur?"

"In the first place," replied Gabriel, "it would be downright cruelty for me to tear you away from this happy life which has come to you so lately, and from the repose you have so well earned."

"Oh, as for that, it is my duty to accompany you, Monseigneur, and to serve you to my last hour; and I would give up Paradise, I believe, for the sake of being at your side."

"Yes, but it is my duty not to abuse your zeal, for which I am grateful with all my heart," said Gabriel. "In the second place, the sad casualty which befell you at Calais will not allow you hereafter to render me such active service as you have done formerly."

"It is true, alas! Monseigneur, that I can no longer light by your side, or attend you in the saddle. But at Paris, at Montgommery, or in the field even, there are many confidential commissions with which you can still intrust the poor cripple, I hope, and which he will execute to the best of his ability."

"I know it, Martin; and I might perhaps be selfish enough to accept your sacrifice were it not for a third reason."

"May I know that, Monseigneur?"

"Yes," Gabriel replied with melancholy gravity; "but only on condition that you will not seek to go to the bottom of it, and that you will be content with it, and not persist any further in following me."

"It must be a very serious and very imperious reason, then, Monseigneur?"

"It is a sorrowful and unanswerable one, Martin," said Gabriel, in a hollow voice. "Until now my life has been an honorable one; and if I had chosen to allow my name to be uttered more freely it would have been a glorious one. In fact, I believe that I may claim, without boasting, to have rendered France and her king great and valuable services; for to speak only of St. Quentin and Calais, I think I may say that at those two places I discharged my debt to my country to the full."

"Who knows it better than I?" said Martin-Guerre.

"Very true, Martin; but in the same degree as this first part of my life has been loyal and unselfish and open to the broad light of day, the balance of my days will be passed in gloom and fear, always seeking to hide itself in the darkness. Doubtless, I shall have the same vigor at my command; but it will be exerted for a cause which I cannot avow, and to attain an end which I must conceal. Thus far, in the open field, before God and man, it has been my pleasure to strive manfully and joyously for the reward of gallantry. Hereafter it is my duty, in darkness and suffering, to avenge a crime. Hitherto I have fought; now I must punish. From being a soldier of France I have become the executor of the will of God."

"Holy Jesus!" cried Martin-Guerre, with hands clasped as if in supplication.

"Therefore," continued Gabriel, "I must needs undertake alone this ill-omened task,—in which I pray Heaven to employ my arm only, not my will, and in which I desire to be merely the blind instrument, not the guiding and directing brain. Since I ask, since I hope and trust, that my fearful duty will employ only half of my own being, how can you think that I would dream of associating you with it?"

"That is very true, and I understand, Monseigneur," said the faithful squire, with lowered head. "I thank you for having condescended to give me this explanation, much as it grieves me; and I accept it, as I promised to do."

"I thank you, too, for your submissiveness," replied Gabriel; "for I assure you that your devotion helps to lighten the heavy burden which is almost too much for me even now."

"But, Monseigneur, is there absolutely nothing that I can do to serve you at this crisis?"

"You can pray God, Martin, to spare me the necessity of taking the initiative in this struggle, which I contemplate with such bitter pain. You have a devout heart, and have led an honest and pure life, my friend, and your prayers may be of more help to me now than your arm."

"I will pray, Monseigneur, I will pray,—how ardently I need not tell you!"

"And now, adieu, Martin," said Gabriel; "I must leave you and return to Paris, to be prepared and on the spot whenever it pleases God to give the signal. All my life I have defended the right, fighting on the side of justice; may God remember that in my favor at the supreme hour of which I speak! May He mete out justice to His servant, even as I have done to mine!"

With his eyes upturned to heaven, the noble youth repeated,—

"Justice! justice!"

For six months past, whenever Gabriel's eyes had been open, they were generally intently fixed upon that Heaven at whose hands he asked for justice; when they were closed, he seemed always to see once more the gloomy Châtelet, in his gloomier reflections, which would at such times make him cry aloud, "Vengeance!"

Ten minutes later he tore himself away with great difficulty from the tearful farewells of Martin-Guerre and Bertrande de Rolles, who had come at her husband's summons.

"Adieu, adieu, good Martin, my faithful friend!" he said, releasing his hands almost by force from the fervent grasp of his squire, who was kissing and sobbing over them. "I must go now. Adieu! We shall meet again."

"Adieu, Monseigneur! God preserve you!—oh, I pray that He will preserve you!"

Poor Martin, choked with grief, could say no more than that.

Through his tears he saw his master and benefactor remount his horse in the fast-gathering darkness, which soon hid from his eyes the sombre figure of the horseman, as it had hidden his life from him for a long time past.

CHAPTER IV
TWO LETTERS

After the happy ending of the complicated trial between the two Martin-Guerres, Gabriel de Montgommery disappeared again for several months, and resumed his wandering, mysterious, and apparently purposeless existence. Again he was seen and recognized in twenty different places; nevertheless, he was never far away from the neighborhood of Paris and the court, always standing back in shadow, so that he might see everything without being seen.

He awaited events; but events arranged themselves very little to his liking. The soul of the young man, entirely absorbed by one idea, did not yet see its way clear to the issue which his righteous vengeance awaited.

The only important occurrence in the world of politics during these months was the conclusion of peace by the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis.

The Constable de Montmorency, jealous of the exploits of the Duc de Guise, and of the new claims to the gratitude of the nation and to his master's favor which his rival was acquiring every day, had finally extorted Henri's consent to that treaty through the all-powerful influence of Diane de Poitiers.

The treaty was signed April 3, 1559. Although concluded in the full tide of victory, it was hardly advantageous to France.

She retained the three bishoprics Metz, Toul, and Verdun, with their dependencies; she was to keep Calais for eight years only, and to pay eight hundred thousand crowns to Great Britain if the place was not restored within that period (but it never was restored, and the eight hundred thousand crowns were never paid). France regained possession of St. Quentin and Ham, and retained Turin and Pignerol in Piedmont.

But Philip II. obtained unconditional cession of the strong posts of Thionville, Marienbourg, and Hesdin. The walls of Thérouanne and Yvoy were razed. He caused the restitution of Bouillon to the bishopric of Liège, the Isle of Corsica to Genoa, and to Philibert of Savoy the greater part of Savoy and Piedmont, which had been conquered under François I.; finally, he insisted upon his own marriage with the king's daughter Élisabeth, and that the Duke of Savoy should be united to the Princess Marguerite. These terms were very advantageous for him, and he could have demanded none more favorable even after the battle of St. Laurent.

The Duc de Guise, coming back in hot haste and furious with rage from the army, warmly and not unjustly accused Montmorency of treason, and the king of fatal weakness in having thus surrendered by a stroke of the pen what the Spanish forces had failed to wrest from France after thirty years of successful fighting.

But the harm was done, and the ominous discontent of Le Balafré was of no avail to repair it.

Gabriel found no satisfaction in this state of things. His vengeance pursued the man in the person of the king, not the king to the detriment of the nation. He would have been glad to avenge himself with his country behind him, but not against her.

However, he made a note in his mind of the natural resentment of the Duc de Guise at seeing the sublime efforts of his genius paralyzed and rendered of no account by underhand intriguing.

The wrath of a Coriolanus might well, if occasion offered, serve to aid Gabriel's projects. Besides, François de Lorraine was not the only malcontent in the kingdom,—far from it.

One day Gabriel encountered near the Pré-aux-Clercs Baron de la Renaudie, whom he had not seen since the morning conference in the Rue St. Jacques.

Instead of avoiding a familiar face whenever he saw it approaching, as he had been in the habit of doing, Gabriel accosted the baron.

The two men seemed made to appreciate each other; they were much alike in more than one respect,—notably in steadfastness and energy of character. Both were born for action, and were passionately devoted to every just cause.

After exchanging salutations, La Renaudie said confidently,—

"Well, I have seen Master Ambroise Paré. You are one of us, are you not?"

"In heart, yes; but in appearance, no," Gabriel replied.

"And when may we expect that you will give yourself to our cause absolutely and without concealment?"

"I will no longer hold with you the selfish language which perhaps angered you against me," Gabriel replied. "On the other hand, I answer thus: I will be at your service when you need me, and when I no longer need you."

"That is generous, indeed!" was La Renaudie's response. "As a gentleman I admire, but as a party man I cannot hope to imitate you. However, if you but await the moment when we need the help of all our friends, know that moment has arrived."

"Pray, what has happened?" asked Gabriel.

"A secret blow is in preparation against those of the Religion. They propose to get rid of all the Protestants at once."

"What leads you to think so?"

"Why, they scarcely take pains to hide it," replied the baron. "Antoine Minard, President of the Parliament, said boldly at a council meeting at St. Germain that it was necessary to strike a decisive blow, if they did not wish to become a sort of republic like the Swiss States."

"What! he uttered the word 'republic'?" cried Gabriel, in surprise. "Doubtless he exaggerated the danger so that an exaggerated remedy might be applied."

"Not so much," rejoined La Renaudie, in a lower tone. "He did not exaggerate very much, in truth; for we, too, have changed our views somewhat since our meeting in Calvin's chamber, and Ambroise Paré's ideas do not seem so bold to us to-day; and then, you see, they are driving us to extreme measures."

"In that case," said Gabriel, eagerly, "I may be one of you sooner than I thought."

"That is pleasant to hear," cried La Renaudie.

"In what direction must I keep my eyes?" asked Gabriel.

"Upon the parliament," said the baron, "for there the issue will be joined. The Evangelical party has a strong minority there,—Anne Dubourg, Henri Dufaur, Nicolas Duval, Eustache de la Porte, and twenty others. To the harangues which call for the vigorous prosecution of heretics, the adherents of Calvinism reply by demanding the convocation of a general council to deal with religious affairs in accordance with the terms of the decrees of Constance and Bâle. They have right on their side; therefore it will be necessary to use violence against them. But we are watching, and do you watch with us."

"Very well," said Gabriel.

"Remain at your house in Paris until you are notified that we have need of you," continued La Renaudie.

"That will be painful for me," observed Gabriel; "but I will do it, provided that you do not leave me to pine in idleness too long. You have written and talked enough, I should think, and now you ought to lay aside words for deeds."

"That is my opinion," rejoined La Renaudie. "Hold yourself in readiness, and be tranquil."

They parted, and Gabriel walked thoughtfully away.

In his thirst for vengeance, was he not allowing his conscience to go astray somewhat? Already it seemed to be driving him on toward civil war; but since events would not come to him, he must go to them.

That same day he returned to his house in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul, where he found his faithful Aloyse alone. Martin-Guerre was no longer there; André had remained with Madame de Castro; Jean and Babette Peuquoy had returned to Calais with the intention of going thence to St. Quentin, whose gates had been opened to the loyal weaver by the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis.

Thus the master's return to his lonesome abode was more melancholy even than usual. Ah, but did not the motherly old nurse love him enough for all? We despair of picturing the worthy creature's joy when Gabriel informed her that he had come to stay with her for some time in all probability. He lived in most absolute secrecy and solitude, to be sure; but he was there by her side, and very rarely left the house. Aloyse could feast her eyes on him, and wait upon him. It was a long time since she had been so happy.

Gabriel, smiling sadly upon her, envied her loving heart its happiness. Alas! he could not share it with her. His life henceforth was even to himself a terrible enigma, of which he both dreaded and longed to know the solution.

Thus his days passed in impatience and apprehension, anxious and bored for more than a month.

As he had promised his nurse, he hardly ever left the house; but sometimes in the evening he would go and prowl around the Châtelet, and on his return would shut himself up for hours at a time in the funeral vault, whither the unknown bearers had secretly brought his father's body.

Gabriel seemed to take a gloomy pleasure in going back thus to the day when the outrage had been put upon him, that he might keep up his courage with his wrath.

When he looked upon the forbidding walls of the Châtelet, but above all when he contemplated the marble tomb where the sufferings of that noble life had finally found rest, the terrible morning when he had closed the eyes of his murdered father came back to him in all its horror.

Then his hands would move convulsively, his hair stand on end, and his chest heave with passion; and he would emerge from that terrible communion with the dead with his hatred renewed and more bitter than ever.

During such moments of anguish, Gabriel regretted having allowed his vengeance to follow in the wake of circumstances, for it seemed insupportable to him to have to wait for it.

His blood boiled to think that while he was waiting so patiently his murderous enemies were triumphant and joyous. The king sat peaceably on his throne at the Louvre. The constable was growing rich on the miseries of the people, and Diane de Poitiers rioting in infamous debauchery.

This state of things could not last. Since God's vengeance was sleeping, and the sufferings of the oppressed were growing daily greater, Gabriel determined that he would do without the help of God or man, or rather that he would constitute himself the instrument of divine justice and of human wrath.

Thereupon, carried away by an irresistible impulse, he would place his hand on the hilt of his sword, and make a motion as if to go and seek his revenge.

But then his conscience would awake and remind him of Diane de Castro's letter, written at Calais, in which his beloved had implored him not to undertake to chastise with his own hand, and not to strike even the guilty unless he were to do it involuntarily, and by the will of God.

Then he would read again that affecting missive, and involuntarily let his sword fall back into its scabbard. Stricken with remorse, he would resign himself once more to wait.

Gabriel was one of those men who are born for action, but have not executive ability. His vigor and energy were marvellous when supported by an army, or a small party, or even one great man; but he was not fitted by nature to carry out extraordinary achievements alone, even for a good object, and still less when they were to end in a crime. He was neither a powerful prince nor a startling genius by birth, and the power and the will to take the initiative were equally lacking in him.

When beside Coligny, and again when with the Duc de Guise, he had accomplished marvellous exploits. But now, as he had given Martin-Guerre to understand, his task was a very different one; instead of having enemies to fight in the open field, he had to chastise a king, and there was no one to assist him in that fearful work.

Nevertheless he still relied upon the same men who had formerly lent him their powerful aid,—Coligny the Protestant, and the ambitious Duc de Guise.

A civil war for the defence of religious truth, a revolution to assist in the triumph of a great genius,—such were the objects of Gabriel's secret hopes. The death or deposition of Henri II., or at all events his punishment, would be the result of either of the uprisings. Gabriel would show himself in the second rank, but as one worthy to be in the first. He would faithfully keep the oath he had sworn to the king himself; he would visit his perjury upon his children and his children's children.

If these two chances failed him, then he would have no other resource but to leave everything to God.

But it seemed at first as if these two chances were not likely to fail him. One day, it was the 13th of June, 1559, Gabriel received two letters almost at the same time.

The first was handed to him about five o'clock in the afternoon by a mysterious individual, who refused to deliver it except to himself in person, and would not deliver it to him until he had compared his features with the details of an exact description.

This letter read as follows:—

FRIEND AND BROTHER,—The hour has come; the persecutors have thrown away their masks. Let us thank God! Martyrdom leads to victory.

This evening at nine o'clock call at the house with a brown door, Number 11 Place Maubert.

You must strike three blows upon the door at regular intervals. A man will open it and will say to you, "Do not enter, for you cannot see clearly." You will reply, "I have my light with me." He will then lead you to a stairway with seventeen steps, which you must ascend in darkness. At the top another acolyte will thus accost you, "What do you seek?" Reply, "What is right." You will then be shown into an unfurnished room where some one will whisper in your ear the password, "Genève," to which you will reply with the counter-sign, "Gloire." Thereupon you will be at once conducted to those who have need of you to-day.

Till this evening, friend and brother, prudence and courage. Burn this letter.

L. R.

Gabriel called for a lighted lamp, burned the letter in the messenger's presence, and replied simply,—

"I will be there."

The man bowed and withdrew.

"Well," said Gabriel, "at last the Reformers are losing their patience."

About eight o'clock, as he was still deep in thought concerning La Renaudie's summons, Aloyse entered his room with a page in the Lorraine livery.

He brought a letter which read thus:—

MONSIEUR AND DEAR FRIEND,—I have been six weeks at Paris, having taken my leave of the army, where there was nothing more for me to do. I am assured that you also nave been at home for some time. Why have I not seen you? Have you forgotten me in these days of short memories and ingratitude? No, I know you too well; it is impossible.

Come to me, pray. I will expect you, if you please, to-morrow morning at ten in my apartments at the Tournelles.

Come, if only that we may condole with each other on the profit that has been made of our success.

Your very affectionate friend,

François de Lorraine.

"I will be there," said Gabriel to the page.

When the boy had withdrawn,—

"Well, well," he thought, "the ambitious man too is awake."

Thus encouraged by a twofold hope, he set out a quarter of an hour later for the Place Maubert.

CHAPTER V
A PROTESTANT CONVENTICLE

The house Number 11 Place Maubert, where La Renaudie had appointed a rendezvous with Gabriel, belonged to an advocate named Trouillard. It was already vaguely pointed at among the people as a place of resort for heretics; and the fact that psalms were sometimes heard sung there in the evening gave some credibility to these dangerous rumors. But after all they were only rumors, and it had never occurred to the police to investigate them.

Gabriel had no difficulty in finding the brown door, and following his instructions, he knocked three times at regular intervals.

The door opened as if of itself, but a hand seized Gabriel's in the darkness within, and a voice said,—

"Do not enter, for you cannot see clearly."

"I have my light with me," replied Gabriel, following the formula prescribed by the letter.

"Enter, then," said the voice, "and follow the hand that guides you."

Gabriel obeyed, and took a few steps in that way; then the hand released its hold, and the voice said,—

"Go on by yourself now."

Gabriel felt with his foot the first step of a staircase; he ascended, counting seventeen steps, then stopped.

"What do you seek?" said a different voice.

"What is right," was his reply.

A door opened at once in front of him, and he entered a room very dimly lighted.

A man was there alone; he approached Gabriel and said in a low tone,—

"Genève."

"Gloire," returned the young count at once.

The man then struck a bell, and La Renaudie himself entered by a concealed door.

He came directly to Gabriel and pressed his hand affectionately.

"Do you know what took place in parliament to-day?" he asked.

"I have not left my house until now," replied Gabriel.

"You will learn all about it here, then," said La Renaudie. "You have not yet bound yourself to us, but no matter; we will bind ourselves to you. You shall know our plans, and our strength; there shall be nothing concealed from you henceforth in the affairs of our party, while you may remain free to act alone or with us as you choose. You have told me that you were one of us in spirit, and that is sufficient. I do not even ask your word as a gentleman not to disclose anything that you may see or hear. With you it is a needless precaution."

"Thanks for your confidence," said Gabriel, much affected. "I will give you no cause to repent it."

"Come in with me," continued La Renaudie, "and stay by my side; I will tell you the names of those of our brethren whom you do not know. You can judge for yourself of everything else. Come."

He took Gabriel's hand, pressed the secret spring of the concealed door, and together they entered a large oblong hall, where about two hundred persons were gathered.

A few torches scattered here and there cast only a dim light upon the moving groups. Otherwise there was no furniture, nor hangings, nor seats; a common wooden pulpit for the preacher or orator,—that was all.

The presence of a score or so of women explained, but did not justify (let us hasten to say), the scandalous reports which were spread among the Catholics as to these secret nocturnal meetings of the Reformers.

No one noticed the entrance of Gabriel and his guide. All eyes and all thoughts were fixed upon him who stood on the rostrum at that moment, a sectary of sad mien and grave speech.

La Renaudie told Gabriel his name.

"It is Nicolas Duval, a councillor of parliament," he said beneath his breath. "He is just beginning to describe what took place to-day at the Augustins. Listen."

And Gabriel listened.

"Our regular place of meeting at the palace," the orator continued, "being occupied by the preparations for the celebration of Princess Élisabeth's marriage, we sat temporarily for the first time at the Augustins; and in some mysterious way the appearance of that unaccustomed apartment made us from the very first feel a vague presentiment that something out of the usual course would occur.

"However, Giles Lemaître, the president, opened the sitting in the customary form; and there seemed to be nothing to justify the apprehensions by which some of us had been disturbed.

"The question that had been discussed the Wednesday preceding was reopened. It related to the regulation of religious opinion. Antoine Fumée, Paul de Foix, and Eustache de la Porte spoke successively in favor of toleration, and their eloquent and vigorous language seemed to have made a marked impression on the majority.

"Eustache de la Porte resumed his seat amid loud applause, and Henri Dufaur was just opening his mouth to complete the conquest of those who were still hesitating, when suddenly the great door opened, and the usher of parliament announced in a loud voice, 'The king!'

"The president did not seem in the least surprised, but descended hastily from his chair to meet the king. All the members arose in confusion, some altogether amazed, others very calm, as if they quite anticipated the event.

"The king entered, accompanied by the Cardinal de Lorraine and the constable.

"'I do not come to disturb your labors, Messieurs of the parliament,' he said in the first place, 'but to assist them.'

"After a few meaningless compliments, he concluded his remarks thus:—

"'Peace has been concluded with Spain; but the fomenters of scandalous heresies have taken advantage of the wars in which we have been engaged to gain a foothold in the kingdom; and they must be stamped out, now that the war is over. Why have you not ratified the edict against the Lutherans which I caused to be submitted to you? However, I repeat, go on freely in my presence with the deliberations you have already begun.'

"Henri Dufaur, who had the floor, boldly resumed his speech at the king's command, pleaded earnestly for liberty of conscience, and even ventured to add to his outspoken discourse some sorrowful but severe strictures upon the measures adopted by the king's government.

"'Do you complain of disturbances?' he cried. 'Very well, we know their author.' I might reply as Elias replied to Ahab, "It is thou who tormentest Israel!"'

"Henri II. bit his lips and turned pale, but said nothing.

"Then Dubourg rose, and gave utterance to still more direct and weighty remonstrances.

"'I consider, Sire,' said he, 'that there are certain crimes which should be pitilessly punished, such as adultery, blasphemy, and perjury, but which are condoned every day amid the prevailing licentiousness of the time. But of what are the men accused who are thus to be delivered over to the hand of the executioner? Is it of lèse-majesté? They never omit the name of the prince in their prayers. They have never preached revolution or treason. What! Because they have discovered the great vices and the shameful shortcomings of the Roman hierarchy, by the light of the Holy Scriptures, and because they have demanded that they should be reformed, have they assumed a license which makes them worthy of the stake?'

"Still the king never moved; but we could see that he was with difficulty restraining an outburst of indignation.

"Giles Lemaître, the president, basely essayed to foment his mute wrath.

"'Talk about heretics!' cried he, with feigned indignation. 'Let us deal with them as with the Albigenses; Philippe Auguste burned six hundred of them in one day.'

"This violent language perhaps served our cause better than the more moderate steadfastness of our friends. It became evident that the final result would be at least evenly balanced.

"Henri II. understood that, and determined to carry everything with a sudden coup d'état.

"'Monsieur le Président is right,' said he; 'we must put an end to these heretics, or they will escape us. To begin with, Monsieur le Connétable, let those two rebels be arrested on the spot.'

"With his finger he pointed out Henri Dufaur and Anne Dubourg, and then hurriedly left the hall, as if he could no longer contain himself.

"I need not tell you, friends and brothers, that Monsieur de Montmorency obeyed the king's orders. Dubourg and Dufaur were seized and carried away while occupying their seats as councillors of parliament, and we were left in utter consternation.

"Giles Lemaître alone found courage to speak:—

"'It is just,' said he. 'So may all those be punished who dare to fail of respect to the majesty of royalty!'

"But as if to give the lie to his words, the guards at that moment entered the hall, and proceeded to execute orders which they produced, by arresting De Foix, Fumée, and De la Porte, all of whom had spoken before the king appeared at all, and had confined themselves to defending the principle of toleration in matters of religion, without suggesting the least reproach against the sovereign.

"Thus it became evident that it was not for their remonstrances uttered in the king's presence, but simply for their religious opinions, that five members of parliament, inviolable by law, had been charged with a capital crime, by means of a shameful subterfuge."

Nicolas Duval ceased to speak. Mutterings of grief and anger had interrupted him twenty times, only to follow more closely than ever his description of that momentous and stormy session, which to us at this distance in time seems as if it must have been told of another assembly, and bears a startling resemblance to scenes that were enacted two hundred and thirty years later.

But there was this important difference,—that at the later epoch it was liberty and not royalty which had the last word to say!

The minister David followed Nicolas Duval upon the rostrum.

"Brothers," said he, "before we take counsel together, let us lift up our voices and our hearts to God with a psalm, that He may quicken the spirit of truth in us."

"Psalm forty!" cried several voices in the assemblage, and they all began to sing the stirring words of that psalm.

It was an extraordinary selection to calm excited imaginations. It was much more like a strain of menace, it must be confessed, than like a prayer for guidance.

But wrath was uppermost at that moment in those sturdy souls, and it was with marvellous impressiveness that all present joined in singing these verses, in which the lack of poetic talent was replaced by the emotion which animated them:—

"Gens insensés, où avez-vous les cœurs
De faire guerre à Jésus-Christ?
Pour soutenir cet Ante-Christ,
Jusques à quand serez persécuteurs?
Traîtres abominables!
Le service des diables,
Vous allez soutenant:
Et de Dieu les édits
Par vous sont interdits
À tout homme vivant."[1]

The last stanza was especially significant:—

"N'empêchez plus la predication,
De la parole et vive voix
De notre Dieu, le roi des rois!
Où vous verrez sa malédiction,
Sur vous, prompte s'étendre,
Qui vous fera descendre
Aux enfers ténébreux,
Où vous serez punis
Des maux qu'avez commis
Par tourmens douloureux."[2]

The psalm at an end, it was as if this appeal to God had relieved the oppressed heart at once; silence was restored, and the assemblage was in readiness to deliberate.

La Renaudie was the first to speak, in order to state concisely the condition of affairs and its import.

"Brothers," said he, from where he stood on the floor, "being thus brought face to face with an unprecedented proceeding which overturns all preconceived notions of right and justice, we have now to decide what course of conduct should be adopted by the adherents of the Reformed religion. Shall we still suffer our burdens patiently, or shall we act? Such are the questions which each one of us must propound to his own conscience and answer according to its dictates. You see that our oppressors propose nothing less than a general massacre, and propose to strike us out from the list of the living, as one erases a badly written word from a manuscript. Shall we wait like sheep for the fatal blow; or shall we rather (since law and justice are thus violated by those very persons whose sacred duty it is to protect them) try to do justice with our own hands, and to that end temporarily substitute force for law? It is for you to reply, friends and brothers."

La Renaudie made a short pause, as if to afford time for all their intellects to digest the momentous question; then he resumed, desirous at once to facilitate and hasten the conclusion:—

"Those whom the cause of religion and of truth should hand together are unfortunately, as we all know, divided into two factions,—that of Geneva, and that of the nobility; but when face to face with danger and a common foe, it is fitting, it seems to me, that we should have only one heart and one will. The members of both factions are alike invited to state their opinions and suggest the remedies that occur to them. The advice which offers the best chance of success should be unanimously adopted, from whatever quarter it comes; and now, my friends and brothers, speak freely and confidently."

La Renaudie's speech was followed by a considerable period of hesitation.

Those who listened to him were lacking in just those two qualities, courage and confidence; and in the first instance, notwithstanding the bitter indignation which really filled all their hearts, the power of royalty then enjoyed such great prestige that the Reformers, who were novices at conspiring, did not dare to express at once and without reserve their ideas on the subject of armed rebellion. They were devoted to their opinions, and determined as a body; but each individual recoiled before the responsibility of striking the first blow. They were all ready to follow, but no one dared to lead.

Then, too, as La Renaudie had said, they were suspicious of one another; neither of the two parties knew whither the other would lead it; and their objects were, in truth, too dissimilar to make the choice of roads and guides a matter of indifference to them.

The Geneva faction were really aiming at the foundation of a republic, while that of the nobility simply desired to bring about a change of dynasty.

The elective forms of Calvinism, the principle of equality which was everywhere inculcated by the new church, tended directly toward the republican system as it was in vogue in the Swiss cantons; but the nobility did not wish to go so far, and would have been content, in accordance with the advice of Élisabeth of England, to depose Henri II., and replace him with a Calvinist king. The Prince de Condé's name was whispered about as a suitable selection.

It would be difficult to imagine two more diametrically opposed elements co-operating in a common cause.

Therefore, Gabriel saw regretfully that after La Renaudie's address the two almost hostile camps eyed each other askance, without appearing to think of drawing conclusions from the premises he had so boldly laid down.

A moment or two passed in this unfortunate indecision, amid a confused murmuring of many voices. La Renaudie could but ask himself whether he had not, by being too blunt and outspoken, unwittingly done away with all the effect of Nicolas Duval's recital; but having started on that course, he determined to put everything to the touch, to win or lose all, and so he thus addressed a thin, puny little man with bristling eyebrows and bilious appearance, who made one of a group near him:—

"Well, Lignières, are you not going to speak to our brothers, and tell them what you have at heart?"

"So be it!" replied the little man, and his gloomy countenance lighted up. "I will speak; but I will not yield an inch, or extenuate anything."

"Go on,—you are among friends," said La Renaudie. While Lignières was on his way to the rostrum the baron whispered to Gabriel,—

"That is a dangerous instrument to make use of Lignières is a fanatic,—whether in good or bad faith I know not,—who urges everything to extremes, and is always more repellent than attractive. But no matter! We must know at any price what we have to rely upon, must we not?"

"Yes," said Gabriel, "so that all these closed hearts may open to emit the truth."

"Lignières and his doctrines hot from Geneva will wake them up, never fear," rejoined La Renaudie.

The orator plunged at once in médias res.

"The law has brought about its own condemnation," said he. "What resource remains? An appeal to force, and nothing else. You ask what we ought to do! If I do not reply to that question, here is something which will reply for me."

He held up a silver medal.

"This medal," he continued, "is far more eloquent than any words of mine. For the benefit of those who are too far away to see it I will say what it represents. It bears the image of a flaming sword cutting off the blossom of a lily, whose stalk bends and falls near by; the sceptre and the crown are rolling in the dust."

Then he added, as if he feared that he might be misunderstood,—

"Medals ordinarily serve to commemorate accomplished facts; may this one serve as prophetic of something yet to occur! I will say no more."

Indeed, he had said enough. He came down from the pulpit amid the plaudits of an inconsiderable portion of the assembly, and the in mutterings of a much larger number.

But the general attitude was of stupefied silence.

"Well," said La Renaudie, in a low voice, to Gabriel, "that is clearly not the right chord to strike. We must try another."

"Monsieur le Baron de Castelnau," he continued aloud, addressing a young man of thoughtful appearance and handsomely clad, who was leaning against the wall ten feet from him,—"Monsieur de Castelnau, have you not a word to say to us?"

"I might perhaps have had nothing to say independently; but I should like to say a word or two in reply," the young man responded.

"We are all attention," said La Renaudie.

"This young man," he added, speaking in Gabriel's ear again, "belongs to the party of the nobility; and you should have seen him at the Louvre the day you brought the news of the capture of Calais. Castelnau is frank, loyal, and brave. He will set up his flag as boldly as Lignières, and we shall see if he will be received any more warmly."

Castelnau mounted one of the steps of the rostrum, and spoke from that slight elevation.

"I will begin," he said, "like the orators who have preceded me. We have been iniquitously attacked; let us use like weapons to defend ourselves. Let us do in the open field, amid the panoply of war, what they have done in parliament among the red robes! But I differ in opinion from Monsieur de Lignières as to the rest. I, too, have a medal to show you. Here it is; it is not his. From a distance it seems to you to resemble the crowns from the royal mint which we carry in our purses, and in fact, like them, it does bear the stamp of a crowned head; but in lieu of 'Henricus II, rex Galliæ,' its legend reads, 'Ludovicus XIII., rex Galliæ.'[3] I have done."

The Baron de Castelnau left his place with his head proudly erect. His allusion to the Prince de Condé was flagrant. Those who had applauded Lignières muttered at his words, and vice versa.

But the large majority of those present were still motionless and speechless between the two minorities.

"What do they want, pray?" Gabriel softly asked La Renaudie.

"I am afraid that they don't want anything," was the baron's reply.

At that moment the advocate Des Avenelles asked a hearing.

"This is their man, I fancy," La Renaudie remarked. "Des Avenelles is my host when I am in Paris,—an honest and sagacious fellow, but too cautious, almost to timidity even. His word will be law with them."

Des Avenelles from the beginning justified La Renaudie's prediction.

Said he: "We have listened to many bold and even audacious words; but has the moment really arrived to utter them? Are we not going a little too fast? We are shown a very worthy and lofty purpose, but not a word is said as to the means of attaining it. They must needs be criminal. My heart is more oppressed by the severities to which we are subjected than that of any other member of this assemblage. But when we have so many prejudices to overcome, should we add to the burden by casting upon the cause of our religion the odium of an assassination?—yes, of an assassination; for you cannot obtain by any other means the result which you dare to propose."

Des Avenelles was interrupted by almost unanimous applause.

"What did I say?" whispered La Renaudie. "This advocate is the real expositor of their views."

Des Avenelles continued,—

"The king is in the very bloom and flower of his vigor. To wrest the throne from him, he must be hurled headlong from it. What living man would take upon himself that act of violence? Kings are divine, and God only has the right to govern them. Ah, suppose that some accident, some unforeseen ill, some blow struck by a private hand, should take away the king's life at this moment, and leave the guardianship of an infant monarch in the hands of those arrogant subjects who are our veritable oppressors!—then it would be this guardianship, and not royalty itself, the Guises and not François II., against whom our attacks would be directed. Civil war would be not only justifiable but laudable, and revolution a sacred duty, and I would be the first to cry, 'To arms!'"

This energetic moderation moved the assembly to admiration; and fresh tokens of approbation were showered upon Des Avenelles as a recompense for his prudent courage.

"Ah!" muttered La Renaudie to Gabriel, "I regret now having asked you to come, for you will begin to compassionate us."

But Gabriel, lost in thought, was saying to himself,—

"No, I have no right to reproach them for their weakness, for it is much like my own. While I was secretly relying upon them, they seem to have been relying upon me."

"What do you mean to do, pray?" cried La Renaudie to his triumphant host.

"To maintain a legal attitude and wait!" replied the advocate, firmly. "Anne Dubourg, Henri Dufaur, and three others of our friends in parliament have been arrested; but who says that they will dare to convict them, or even to accuse them? My opinion is that any overt act of violence on our part would result simply in provoking reprisals on the part of those in authority. And who knows that our moderation may not be the salvation of the victims? Let us have the tranquillity of conscious strength, and the dignity which befits a righteous cause. Let us leave all the wrong-doing to our persecutors. Let us wait. When they see that we are moderate in our demands, but resolute, they will think twice before declaring war upon us,—just as I implore you, friends and brothers, to think twice before you give them the signal for reprisals."

Des Avenelles ceased, and the applause was renewed.

The advocate, vain of his success, desired to confirm his victory.

"Let all who agree with me raise their hand," he added.

Almost every hand was raised to assure Des Avenelles that he had spoken the mind of the gathering.

"Let us see, then," said he: "our decision is—"

"To decide nothing at all," interposed Castelnau.

"To postpone until a more favorable moment any extreme measures," Des Avenelles concluded, casting an angry glance at the interrupter.

The minister David suggested singing another psalm to beseech God to deliver the poor prisoners.

"Come, let us be going," said La Renaudie to Gabriel; "all this annoys and angers me. These people only know how to sing. They have nothing seditious but their psalms."

When they were on the street they walked along in silence, both deeply absorbed in their reflections.

At the Pont Notre Dame they parted, La Renaudie returning to the Faubourg St. Germain, and Gabriel going toward the Arsenal.

"Adieu, Monsieur d'Exmès," said the former. "I am sorry to have caused you to waste your time thus. But believe me, I pray, when I assure you that this is not our last word. The prince, Coligny, and some of our most reliable heads were absent this evening."

"My time with you has not been wasted," replied Gabriel. "You will be convinced of that very shortly."

"So much the better, so much the better," rejoined La Renaudie. "Nevertheless, doubt—"

"Have no doubt at all," said Gabriel. "It was necessary for me to know if the Protestants were really beginning to lose patience. It is of more use to me than you can imagine to have learned that they are not tired out yet."

[1]

"Ye men of wrath, why thus conspire ye
To wage mad war against your Saviour Christ,
By showing favor to this Anti-Christ,
Till ye yourselves shall persecutors be?
Ye doers of evil,
The works of the Devil,
You thus are upholding:
And with impious hands
From the Lord's high commands
Are the people withholding."

[2]

"No longer now, with loud unseemly noise,
Seek to delay the utterance of the word
Of the great King of Kings, our God the Lord!
Else shall His malediction from the skies,
Upon ye descending,
To woe never-ending
In hell's darkest recess
Consign ye, to languish
In torment and anguish
Your sins to redress."

[3]These two rare and curious medals are to be seen to-day in the "Cabinet des Médailles."

CHAPTER VI
ANOTHER TRIAL

The disaffection of the Protestants having failed him, there remained still one more hope of assistance for Gabriel in his thirst for vengeance; namely, that furnished by the ambition of the Duc de Guise.

Consequently he was very prompt the next morning at ten o'clock in keeping the appointment François de Lorraine had made with him at the Tournelles.

It was evident that the young Comte de Montgommery was expected; for as soon as his name was announced he was shown into the presence of him who was now called the conqueror of Calais, thanks to Gabriel's daring scheme.

Le Balafré came eagerly forward to meet him, and grasped both his hands affectionately.

"Ah, here you are at last, my forgetful friend," said he. "I have been obliged to send for you, to follow you into your retirement, and if I had not done so God only knows when I should have seen you! Why is it? Why have you not been to visit me since my return?"

"Monseigneur," said Gabriel, in a low tone, "much distressing anxiety—"

"Ah! There it is! I was sure of it!" the duke interrupted him. "So they were false, were they, to the promises they made you h They deceived you, and insulted and tormented you. Oh, I was very suspicious that there was some infamy at the bottom of it all! My brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine, who was present when you arrived at the Louvre from Calais, and heard you spoken of as the Comte de Montgommery, imagined, with his priestly keenness, that you were destined to be the dupe or the victim of those people. Why did you not apply to him? He might have been of some assistance to you in my absence."

"I thank you, Monseigneur," replied Gabriel, gravely, "but you are mistaken, I assure you. All their promises to me were redeemed with the utmost exactitude."

"Oho, but you have such a way of saying it, my friend!"

"I speak as I feel, Monseigneur; but I will repeat that I make no complaints, and that the promises upon which I relied have been fulfilled—to the letter. So let us talk no more of my affairs, I beg, for you know that subject of conversation was never agreeable to me, and it is to-day more painful than ever. I ask you, Monseigneur, in pity not to insist upon your kindly meant inquiries."

The duke was struck with Gabriel's dolorous tone.

"Very well, my friend," said he; "I shall be afraid now of touching unintentionally upon some one of your scarcely healed scars, and I will question you no further about yourself."

"Thanks, Monseigneur," was Gabriel's reply, in a dignified tone, by no means free from emotion.

"But I wish you to be sure of this," continued Le Balafré, "that at all times and places, and for any purpose whatsoever, my influence, my fortune, and my life are at your service, Gabriel; and that if I am ever to be so fortunate as that you should need my help, you have but to hold out your hand to grasp mine."

"Thanks, Monseigneur," Gabriel said again.

"That being agreed between us," said the duke, "on what subject is it your pleasure that we should converse?"

"Why, of yourself, Monseigneur," replied the young count,—"of your glory and of your future plans; those are the subjects which interest rue. In them you will find the magnet which has drawn me to you in all haste at your first call."

"My glory? my plans for the future?" retorted François de Lorraine, with a shake of the head. "Alas! those are gloomy subjects of conversation for me as well."

"What mean you, Monseigneur?" Gabriel exclaimed.

"What I say, my friend. Yes, I confess that I did think I had won some renown; it seemed to me that my name deserved to be pronounced with some respect in France to-day, and with a certain degree of awe throughout Europe. And since my not unworthy past made it my duty to think of the future, I was forming plans based upon my reputation, and dreaming of great achievements,—great for my country, and for myself as well. I would have accomplished them, I have faith to believe—"

"Well, Monseigneur?" said Gabriel, inquiringly.

"Well, Gabriel, since my return to this court six months since, I have ceased to believe in my glory, and have abandoned all my plans."

"Why so, in God's name?"

"Why, in the first place, don't you know of the shameful treaty with which they have crowned our victories? If we had been forced to raise the siege of Calais, if the English still had the gateways of France in their hands,—in short, if defeat at all points had demonstrated the insufficiency or incompetency of our forces, and the impossibility of continuing an unequal conflict, we could not have been asked to sign a more unfavorable and dishonorable treaty than that of Cateau-Cambrésis."

"That is true, Monseigneur," Gabriel remarked; "and every one grieves to think that such a magnificent harvest yielded so little fruit."

"Oh, well," rejoined the duke; "how can you expect me to sow for people who know so little about reaping? And then, too, have they not forced me to remain ingloriously idle by this glorious peace of theirs? There is my sword, doomed for a long time to rust in its scabbard. War everywhere at an end, at whatever cost, puts an end at the same time to my fair dreams of glory; and between ourselves that was one of the main objects sought to be accomplished."

"But you are no less mighty even in this forced inaction, Monseigneur," said Gabriel. "You are respected at court, worshipped by the people, and dreaded by foreign nations."

"Yes, I believe I am beloved at home, and feared abroad," Le Balafré replied; "but do not tell me, my friend, that I am respected at the Louvre. While they are thus publicly reducing to nought the certain results of our success, they are threatening my private influence as well. When I returned from the North, whom did I find in greater favor than ever? That insolent, beaten hound of St. Laurent fame,—that Montmorency, whom I detest!"

"Oh, no more than I do, surely!" muttered Gabriel.

"It was by his influence and for his own purposes that this peace for which we are all blushing was concluded. Not content with thus making my efforts appear of less account, he was very careful to look after his own interests in the treaty, and to have the amount of his ransom after being taken prisoner at St. Laurent repaid to him,—for the second or third time, I believe! To such a degree does he speculate upon his defeat and disgrace."

"And does the Duc de Guise enter upon a rivalry with such as he?" asked Gabriel, with a disdainful smile.

"He shudders at the thought, my friend; but you can see that it is forced upon him! You can see that Monsieur le Connétable is protected by something stronger than glory or renown,—by some person more powerful than the king himself! You can see that my services can never equal those of Madame Diane de Poitiers, whom may the lightning wither!"

"Oh, that God might listen to you!" muttered Gabriel.

"What has that woman done to the king, in Heaven's name?" continued the duke. "Are the people really in the right when they speak of philters and charms? For my part, I believe that they are bound together by some stronger tie than love. It cannot be passion alone which thus indissolubly connects them; it must be fellowship in crime. I would swear that remorse has a place among their souvenirs of the past, and that they are more than lovers,—they are accomplices!"

The Comte de Montgommery shivered from head to foot.

"Do you not agree with me, Gabriel?" Le Balafré asked him.

"I do, indeed, Monseigneur," replied Gabriel, in a hollow voice.

"And to put the finishing touch to my humiliation," the duke went on, "do you know, my friend, what reward I found awaiting me here at Paris, over and above the monstrous treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis? The immediate revocation of my appointment as lieutenant-general of the kingdom. These extraordinary functions became unnecessary in time of peace, so I was told; and without a word of warning, without even a word of thanks, they erased that title, just as one throws upon the dust-heap a piece of drapery which is of no further use."

"Is it possible that no more consideration than that was shown you?" cried Gabriel, desirous to add fuel to the fire which was burning in that incensed heart.

"Why should they show more consideration to a superfluous servant?" said the duke, with clinched teeth. "As for Monsieur de Montmorency, that is another affair altogether. He was and he remains constable. That, mind you, is an honor of which they do not think of depriving him, and which he has earned by forty years of defeat and failure! Oh, by the cross of Lorraine, if the war-wind blows again, they may come and go on their knees to me and implore me, and call me the savior of my country! I will send them to their constable then; let him save them if he can. That is his business, and the duty that devolves upon the office he holds. But for myself, since they condemn me to idleness, I accept the sentence, and will take my ease until the dawn of better days."

Gabriel, after a pause, replied with much gravity of manner,—

"This determination on your part is a grievous one, Monseigneur, and I greatly deplore it; for I was just about to make a proposition to you—"

"Useless, my friend, useless!" exclaimed Le Balafré. "My mind is made up. And then, too, I repeat, and you know it as well as I, the peace has taken from us every hope of renown."

"Pardon, Monseigneur," rejoined Gabriel, "but the peace is the one thing that makes my plan feasible."

"Really?" said François de Lorraine, tempted in spite of himself. "Pray, is it some bold stroke like the siege of Calais?"

"Something still bolder, Monseigneur."

"How can that be?" exclaimed the duke. "Upon my word, you have succeeded in arousing my curiosity thoroughly."

"May I tell you about it, then?"

"To be sure you may; in fact, I beg you to do so."

"Are we quite alone?"

"Entirely; not a living soul is within the sound of our voices."

"Well, then, Monseigneur," Gabriel began resolutely, "this is what I have to say to you: This king and this constable choose to dispense with your services; why do not you dispense with them? They have ejected you from the office of lieutenant-general of the kingdom; assume it once more on your own responsibility."

"How do you mean? Explain yourself!" said the duke.

"Monseigneur, foreign princes fear you, the people adore you, and the army is at your command to a man; you are already more of a king in France than the king himself. You are king by right of genius, he only because the crown is on his head. Dare to speak with the voice of a master, and the nation will listen to you like obedient subjects. Will Henri II. be any stronger in the Louvre than you in your camp? He who now speaks to you will be proud and happy to be the first to address you as 'your Majesty.'"

"Well, this is an audacious and daring scheme of yours, Gabriel," commented the Duc de Guise.

But he did not give the least sign of irritation; on the contrary, his features wore a smile under their simulated expression of surprise.

"If it is an audacious scheme, it is a heart of extraordinary daring to which I propose it," replied Gabriel, firmly. "I speak for the good of France. We need a great man for king. Is it not calamitous that all your ideas of grandeur and of conquest should be thus disgracefully impeded by the caprice of a wanton and the jealousy of a favorite? If you were once at the helm with unfettered hands, where would your genius stop? You would renew the glory of Charlemagne."

"You know the house of Lorraine can trace its descent from him!" said Le Balafré, eagerly.

"Who could doubt it after seeing you in action?" replied Gabriel. "Be in your turn another Hugh Capet for the Valois."

"Yes, but suppose I should be only a Constable de Bourbon?"

"You slander yourself, Monseigneur. The Constable de Bourbon called foreigners to his assistance,—foes they were too. You need make use of none but your own country's forces."

"But where are these forces, which, according to you, are at my disposal?" asked Le Balafré.

"Two parties are offered to you," was Gabriel's reply.

"Who are they, pray?—for you see I allow you to go on, as if all this were something more than a mere figment of your imagination. Who are these two parties?"

"The army and the Protestants, Monseigneur," Gabriel answered. "You have it in your power to assume the position of a military chieftain at once."

"A usurper!" exclaimed Le Balafré.

"Say a conqueror! But if you would prefer, Monseigneur, be the king of the Huguenots."

"How about the Prince de Condé?" said the duke, smiling.

"He is fascinating and clever, but you are great and brilliant. Do you suppose that Calvin would hesitate between you?—and there is no doubt that the son of the cooper of Noyon is the dictator of his party. Say one word, and to-morrow you have at your command thirty thousand Reformers."

"But I am a Catholic prince, Gabriel."

"Glory is the true religion of heroes like yourself, Monseigneur."

"I should involve myself in trouble at Rome."

"That will be an excuse for making yourself her master."

"Ah, my friend, my friend!" rejoined the duke, looking keenly at Gabriel, "you hate Henri II. bitterly!"

"As much as I love you, I confess," said the youth, with noble frankness.

"I prize your sincerity, Gabriel," said Le Balafré, with a more serious manner; "and to prove it to you, I will lay bare my heart to you."

"And my heart will close its door forever upon what you may confide to it."

"Listen, then," continued the duke. "I will confess that I have before now sometimes dreamed of this end which you suggest to me to-day. But I think you will agree with me, my friend, in this, that when one sets out with such a goal in view, he should at least be reasonably sure of reaching it, and that to hazard such a step prematurely is to invite destruction."

"True," replied Gabriel.

"Very well," the duke went on, "do you really consider that the time is ripe for the fulfilment of my ambition? Preparations for so momentous a stroke should be made long beforehand, and men's minds must be made up and ready to second them. Now, do you believe that the people have accustomed themselves in advance, so to speak, to the idea of a change of dynasty?"

"They are accustomed to it," said Gabriel.

"I doubt it," returned the duke. "I have commanded armies, have defended Metz and taken Calais, and have twice been lieutenant-general of the kingdom; but all that is not sufficient. I have not yet come near enough to royal power. Doubtless there are discontents, but factions are not a people. Henri II. is young, clever, and brave, and he is the son of François I. There is no such danger in delay as to make one dream of dispossessing him."

"And so you hesitate, Monseigneur?" asked Gabriel.

"I do more than that, my friend, I refuse," replied Le Balafré. "Ah, if Henri II. should die suddenly to-morrow, by accident or disease—"

"So he thinks of that as well!" said Gabriel to himself. "Well, Monseigneur, if that unexpected blow should fall, what would you do?" he continued aloud.

"Then," rejoined the duke, "with a young and inexperienced king, altogether under my influence, I would become in some sort the regent of the kingdom. And if the queen-mother or Monsieur le Connétable undertook to act in opposition to me; if the Protestants raised a revolution,—if, in short, the State should be in danger and needed a firm hand at the helm, opportunities would arise of themselves, and I should become almost necessary. In such a case your scheme might be very welcome, my friend, and I would gladly hearken to you."

"But until then," said Gabriel,—"until this very improbable death of the king?"

"I will resign myself to wait, my friend, and will content myself with preparations for the future. And if the seeds sown in my mind bear fruit only for my son, it will be because God so willed it."

"Is this your last word, Monseigneur?"

"It is my last word," replied the duke. "But I am no less grateful to you, Gabriel, for having had this confidence in my destiny."

"And I, Monseigneur, am grateful to you for having had so much confidence in my discretion."

"Yes," rejoined the duke; "it is understood that all that has passed between us is as if it had never been said."

"Now I will take my leave," said Gabriel, rising.

"What, already!" exclaimed the duke.

"Yes, Monseigneur, I have learned what I desired to know. I will remember your words; they are safely buried in my heart, yet I will remember them. Excuse me, but it was essential for me to ascertain whether the royal ambition of the Duc de Guise was still slumbering. Adieu, Monseigneur."

"Au revoir, my friend."

Gabriel left the Tournelles even more gloomy and anxious than when he had entered there.

"So," said he to himself, "both the human auxiliaries upon whom I thought I could rely have failed me. I have none but God to look to now!"

CHAPTER VII
A PERILOUS STEP

Diane de Castro in her apartments in the royal palace was meanwhile leading a miserable existence of grief and mortal terror.

Yet every tie was not broken that bound her to him who had loved her so dearly. Almost every week André the page was sent to the Rue des Jardins St. Paul, to make inquiries of Aloyse concerning Gabriel's welfare.

The information which he brought back to Diane was far from reassuring. The young Comte de Montgommery was always the same,—moody and anxious and gloomy. The good nurse could not speak of him that her eyes did not fill with tears, and her cheeks lose their color.

Diane hesitated fora long while. Finally, one morning during this same month of June she took a decided step in order to put an end to her dread.

She wrapped herself in a very modest cloak, hid her face under a veil, and left the Louvre at an hour when people were scarcely stirring there, accompanied by André alone, with the purpose of visiting Gabriel at his house.

Since he avoided her and made no sign, she would go to him.

Surely a sister might visit her brother! Indeed, was it not her duty to warn him or console him?

Unfortunately, all the courage which it had cost Diane to resolve upon that step was to be in vain.

Gabriel also selected the lonely hours of the early morning for his wanderings, which he had by no means abandoned; and when Diane knocked with trembling hand at the door of his house, he had already been gone more than half an hour.

Should she await his return? It was always uncertain, and a too long absence from the Louvre might expose Diane to slander.

But no matter; she determined to wait at least until the expiration of the time she had set aside for the visit.

She inquired for Aloyse, for she also desired to see her, and question her with her own lips.

André escorted his mistress into an unoccupied room, and went to inform the nurse.

Not for many years, not since the happy days of Montgommery and Vimoutiers, had Aloyse and Diane met,—the woman of the people and the daughter of the king.

Yet both their lives had been engrossed by the same thought, and anxiety upon the same subject still filled their days with dread, and robbed their nights of sleep.

So when Aloyse, coming hurriedly into the room, would have bowed low before Madame de Castro, Diane threw herself into the good woman's arms, and warmly embraced her, saying as she used to say in the old days,—

"Dear nurse!"

"What, Madame!" exclaimed Aloyse, moved to tears, "do you really remember me? Do you recognize me?"

"Do I remember you! do I recognize you!" returned Diane; "you might as well ask me if I remember Enguerrand's house, or if I would recognize the Château de Montgommery!"

Meanwhile Aloyse with clasped hands was looking at Diane more attentively.

"How beautiful you are!" she cried, sighing and smiling at once.

She smiled, for she had dearly loved the young girl who had developed into the beautiful lady before her. She sighed, for as she dwelt upon her lovely features she could better estimate Gabriel's wretchedness.

Diane understood this look, which was both melancholy and enraptured, and hastened to say, with a slight blush,—

"I have not come to talk of myself, nurse."

"Is it of him, then?" said Aloyse.

"Of whom else, pray? for to you I can lay bare my heart. How unfortunate that I did not find him! I came to console him and myself at the same time. How is he? Always dejected and despairing, is he not? Why has he not been once to the Louvre to see me? What does he say? What is he doing? Tell me, oh, pray tell me, nurse!"

"Alas! Madame," replied Aloyse, "you are quite right in thinking that he is dejected and despairing. Imagine—"

Diane interrupted her.

"Wait a moment, good Aloyse," said she; "before you begin I have a word to say. I could stay here till to-morrow listening to you, you know, without growing weary, or without noticing the flight of time. But I must return to the Louvre before my absence is noticed. So promise me one thing: when I have been here an hour, whether he has returned or not, tell me so, and send me away."

"But, Madame," said Aloyse, "I am quite capable of forgetting the hour myself, and I should not grow weary of talking to you any sooner than you would of listening to me, you see."

"What can we do, then?" asked Diane. "I dread the effect of our combined weakness."

"Let us intrust the difficult duty to some third person," said Aloyse.

"The very thing! André."

The page, who had remained in an adjoining room, undertook to rap at the door when an hour had passed.

"And now," said Diane, taking her seat by the nurse's side, "we can talk at our ease, and tranquilly, if not joyfully."

But this interview, though of the deepest interest to these two afflicted creatures, was nevertheless full of difficulty and bitterness.

In the first place, neither of them knew how far the other was cognizant of the terrible secrets of the Montgommery family.

Then, too, in what Aloyse did know of her young master's later life there were many troublesome matters which she was afraid to mention. In what way could she explain his long absences, his sudden returns, his preoccupation, and his silence?

At last, however, the good nurse did tell Diane all that she knew,—that is to say, all that she had seen; and Diane while listening to her doubtless experienced a delicious pleasure in hearing Gabriel spoken of, mingled though it was with deep grief at learning such sad news of him.

In truth, Aloyse's revelations were not of a nature calculated to calm Madame de Castro's apprehensions, but rather to rekindle them; for this earnest and impassioned witness of the young count's anguish and suffering brought vividly before Diane's mind all the torments by which his life was harassed.

Diane became more and more fully persuaded that if she wished to save those whom she loved it was high time for her to intervene.

An hour is quickly gone, no matter how painful the subject of conversation. Diane and Aloyse were startled and amazed when Andre's rap was heard at the door.

"What! already?" they cried in one breath.

"Well, be it so!" said Diane. "I am going to stay just a quarter of an hour longer."

"Be careful, Madame!" said the nurse.

"You are right, nurse; I must and will go now. But one word: in all that you have told me of Gabriel you have omitted—I mean, does he never speak of me?"

"Never, Madame, I must agree."

"Oh, it is better so!" sighed Diane.

"And he would do better still never even to think of you any more."

"Do you believe, nurse, that he does think of me, then?" asked Madame de Castro, eagerly.

"I am only too sure of it, Madame," said Aloyse.

"Nevertheless, he carefully avoids me; he even shuns the Louvre."

"If he does avoid the Louvre, Madame," said Aloyse, shaking her head, "it is not because of her whom he loves."

"I understand," thought Diane, shuddering; "it is because of him whom he hates.

"Oh!" she said aloud, "I must see him,—absolutely I must."

"Do you wish me, Madame, to tell him from you to go to the Louvre to seek you?"

"No, no,—not to the Louvre!" exclaimed Diane, in alarm. "Don't let him come to the Louvre! I will see—I will be on the lookout for another opportunity like this morning. I will come here again myself."

"But suppose that he has gone out again?" observed Aloyse. "What day will you come, what week,—can you tell at all? He will wait for you; have no fear of that."

"Alas!" said Diane, "poor king's child that I am, how can I say that at such a day or such an hour I shall be free? However, if it is possible, I will send André on before to warn him."

At this moment the page rapped a second time, fearful that he had not been heard before.

"Madame," he cried, "the streets and squares about the Louvre are beginning to be thronged."

"I am coming," replied Madame de Castro; "I am coming.

"Well, we must part, my good nurse," she continued. "Embrace me as you used to do when I was a child, you know, in the old, old happy days."

While Aloyse, unable to utter a word, held Diane close to her breast,—

"Oh, watch over him! take good care of him!" she said in the nurse's ear.

"As I did when he was a child, in the old, old happy days," said Aloyse.

"Oh, better, even better, Aloyse! In that time he was not in such sore need."

Diane left the house without having met Gabriel, and half an hour later she was safely in her apartments at the Louvre. But if she had no reason to feel disturbed at the result of the hazardous step she had taken, her anguish and dread on the subject of Gabriel's unknown designs were even greater than before.

The forebodings of a woman's loving heart are apt to be only too accurate forecasts of the future.

Gabriel did not return home until the day was well advanced. The heat was intense, and he was wearied in body and mind.

But when Aloyse uttered Diane's name and told of her visit, he stood erect with new life, his chest heaving and his heart throbbing.

"What did she want? What did she say? What did she do? Oh, why was I not here? Come, tell me everything, Aloyse,—every word, every movement."

He took his turn at questioning the nurse, hardly giving her time to reply.

"She wants to see me?" he cried. "She has something to say to me? And she doesn't know when she may be able to come again? Oh, Aloyse, Aloyse, I cannot wait in such uncertainty! surely you can see that. I shall go to the Louvre at once."

"To the Louvre! Oh, Heaven preserve us!" ejaculated Aloyse, in terror.

"Yes, to be sure," replied Gabriel, calmly. "I am not banished from the Louvre, so far as I know; and the man who had the honor of restoring Madame de Castro to liberty at Calais surely has the right to pay his respects to her in Paris."

"Of course," said Aloyse, trembling like a leaf; "but Madame de Castro was very particular to say that you were not to come to the Louvre to see her."

"Have I anything to fear there?" said Gabriel, proudly. "That would be one reason more for me to go."

"No," replied the nurse; "it was probably on her own account that Madame de Castro feared your coming."

"Her reputation would suffer much more from a secret and surreptitious action, if discovered, than from a public visit in broad daylight, such as I propose to pay,—such as I will pay her to-day, at this moment."

He called for a servant to bring him a change of clothes.

"But, Monseigneur," said poor Aloyse, at the end of her arguments, "Madame de Castro herself has remarked that you have shunned the Louvre hitherto. You have not thought best to go there once since your return."

"I have not been to see Madame de Castro because she has not summoned me," said Gabriel. "I have avoided the Louvre because I had no reason to go there; but to-day a feeling that I cannot resist urges me to go (although my action may result in nothing), for Madame de Castro wishes to see me. I have sworn, Aloyse, to allow my own will to slumber, and to leave everything to God and my destiny, and I am going to the Louvre at once."

Thus Diane's step bade fair to produce the opposite effect from that contemplated by her.

CHAPTER VIII
THE IMPRUDENCE OF PRECAUTION

Gabriel met with no opposition to his entrance to the Louvre. Since the taking of Calais the name of the young Comte de Montgommery had been heard too often for any one to think of refusing him leave to enter the suite of apartments occupied by Madame de Castro.

Diane, with one of her women, was engaged at the moment on some fancy-work. Very frequently she involuntarily let her hands fall in her lap, and would sit and dream about her interview with Aloyse that morning.

Suddenly André entered in great bewilderment.

"Madame, Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès!" he announced. (The boy had not ceased to call his old master by that name.)

"Who? Monsieur d'Exmès! here!" Diane repeated, overwhelmed.

"Yes, Madame, he is close behind me," said the page. "Here he is."

Gabriel appeared at the door, doing his best to control his emotion. He bowed low to Madame de Castro, who, in her confusion, did not at first return his salute.

However, she dismissed the page and her maid with a gesture, and they were left alone. Then they approached, and their hands met in a cordial grasp.

For some seconds they remained with hands joined, gazing at each other in silence.

"You thought best to come to my house, Diane," said Gabriel at last, in a deep voice. "You wished to see me, to speak with me; so I have hastened to you."

"Did it need that action on my part, Gabriel, to apprise you that I wanted to see you? Did you not know it well enough without that?"

"Diane," Gabriel replied with his sad smile, "I have given sufficient proofs of courage heretofore, so I may venture to confess that in coming to the Louvre, I am afraid."

"Afraid of whom?" asked Diane, who was herself afraid of the effect of her own question.

"Afraid of you!—of myself!" replied Gabriel.

"And that is why you chose rather to forget our former affection?—I speak of the legitimate and sanctified side of it," she hastened to add.

"I should have preferred to forget everything, I confess, Diane, rather than put foot inside the Louvre. But alas! I could not. And the proof—"

"The proof?"

"The proof is that I seek you always and everywhere; that though dreading your presence I would have given anything in the world to see you a moment in the distance. The proof is, too, that while prowling about Fontainebleau, or Paris, or St. Germain, around the royal châteaux, instead of desiring what I was supposed to be on the lookout for, it has been you, your sweet and lovely face, a sight of your dress among the trees, or on some terrace, that I have longed for and invoked and coveted! Last of all the proof lies in this fact: that you had only to take one step toward me to make me forget prudence, duty, terror, everything! And here I am in the Louvre, which I ought to shun. I reply to all your questions. I feel that all this is hazardous and insane, nevertheless I do it. Have I given you proof enough now, Diane?"

"Oh, yes, Gabriel, yes," said Diane, hastily, trembling with excitement and emotion.

"Ah, would to Heaven that I had been wiser," continued Gabriel, "and had adhered to my former resolution to see you no more, to flee from you if you summoned me, and to keep silence if you questioned me! That would have been much better for both of us, Diane, believe me. I knew what I was doing. I preferred to cause you anxiety rather than real grief. Oh, my God! why am I without power to withstand your voice and your look?"

Diane began to understand that she had really been wrong in her desire to be relieved from her mortal uncertainty. Every subject of conversation was painful for them, every question concealed a danger. Between these two beings whom God had created for happiness perhaps, there was no possibility of aught but doubt and peril and misery, thanks to the machinations of man.

But since Diane had thus challenged fate, she had no desire to avoid it; quite the contrary. She would go to the bottom of the abyss to which her anxiety had exposed her, though she were to find there nought but despair and death.

After a thoughtful silence, she began thus:—

"I was desirous to see you, Gabriel, for two reasons;

"I had an explanation to make to you in the first instance, as well as one to ask at your hands."

"Speak, Diane," replied Gabriel. "Lay bare my heart, and rend it at your will. It is yours."

"In the first place, Gabriel, I felt that I must let you know why, after I received your message, I did not at once assume the veil you sent back to me, and enter some convent immediately, as I expressed my intention of doing in our last sad interview at Calais."

"Have I reproached you in the least as to that, Diane?" returned Gabriel. "I told André to say to you that I gave you back your promise, and those were no mere empty words on my part; I meant what I said."

"I also mean to become a nun, Gabriel, and be sure that I have simply postponed carrying out my resolve."

"But why, Diane,—why renounce the world in which you were made to shine?"

"Set your mind at rest upon that point, dear friend; it is not altogether to remain faithful to the oath I took, but to satisfy the secret longing of my soul as well, that I intend to leave this world where I have suffered so bitterly. I must have peace and rest, and I know not now where to find either except with God. Do not envy me this last refuge."

"Oh, but I do envy you!" said Gabriel.

"But you see," continued Diane, "I have had a good reason for not at once carrying out my unalterable purpose; I wished to be sure that you gratified the request I made in my last letter,—that you forbore to make yourself judge and executioner; that you did not attempt to anticipate God's will."

"If one only could anticipate it!" muttered Gabriel.

"In short, I hoped," Diane went on, "that I might be able, in case of need, to throw myself between the two men whom I love, but who abhor each other; and who can say that I might not thus prevent a disaster, or a crime? Surely you do not blame me for such a thought as that, Gabriel?"

"I cannot blame an angel for doing what the angelic nature prompts, Diane. You have been very generous, but it is easy to understand it of you."

"Ah!" cried Madame de Castro, "how can I know that I have been generous, or to what extent I am generous now? I am wandering in darkness and at hazard! Besides, it is upon that very point that I wish to question you, Gabriel; for I desire to know my destiny in all its horror."

"Diane, Diane, it is a fatal curiosity!" said Gabriel.

"No matter!" replied Diane, "I will not live in this fearful perplexity and anxiety another day. Tell me, Gabriel, have you become convinced that I am really your sister, or have you absolutely lost all hope of ever learning the truth as to that strange secret? Tell me, I ask,—nay, I implore you!"

"I will tell you," said Gabriel, mournfully. "Diane, there is an old Spanish proverb which says that we must always be prepared for the worst. I have, therefore, accustomed myself, since our parting, to look upon you in my thoughts as my sister. But the truth is that I have obtained no new proof; only, as you say, I have no more hope, no more means of acquiring proof."

"God in Heaven!" cried Diane. "The—he who might furnish these proofs, was he no longer alive when you returned from Calais?"

"He was, Diane."

"Ah, I see, then, that the sacred promise made to you was not redeemed? Who, then, told me that the king had received you with wonderful favor?"

"All that was promised, Diane, was strictly performed."

"Oh, Gabriel, with what an ominous expression you say that! What fearful puzzle still underlies all this, Holy Mother of God!"

"You have asked me, Diane, and you shall know the whole," said Gabriel. "You shall share equally with me in my awful secret. And, indeed, I shall be glad to know what you think of what I am about to disclose to you,—whether, after you have heard it you will still persist in your clemency, and whether your tone and your features and your movements will not in any event belie the words of forgiveness which may come to your lips.—Listen."

"I listen in fear and trembling, Gabriel."

Thereupon, Gabriel, in a breathless, quivering voice, told Madame de Castro the whole sombre story: of the king's reception of him, and how Henri had again reaffirmed his promise; the remonstrances which Madame de Poitiers and the constable had seemed to be making to him; of the night of feverish anguish that he had passed; of his second visit to the Châtelet, his descent into the bowels of the pestilence-laden prison, and the lugubrious narrative of Monsieur de Sazerac,—in short, everything.

Diane listened without interrupting him, without an exclamation or a movement, as mute and rigid as a statue, her eyes fixed in their sockets, and her very hair fairly standing on end.

There was a long pause when Gabriel had finished his gloomy story. Then Diane tried to speak, but could not, for her tongue refused to perform its office. Gabriel seemed to feel a dreadful species of pleasure as he observed her anguish and her terror. At last, she succeeded in ejaculating,—

"Mercy for the king!"

"Ah!" cried Gabriel, "do you ask for mercy for him? Then you, too, must judge him guilty! Mercy? Ah, your very appeal is a condemnation! Mercy? He deserves death, does he not?"

"Oh, I did not say that," replied Diane, in dismay.

"Indeed you did say it, in effect! I see that you agree with me, Diane. You think and feel as I do. But we come to different conclusions in accordance with the difference in our natures. The woman pleads for mercy, and the man demands justice!"

"Ah!" cried Diane, "rash, insane creature that I am! Why did I tempt you to come to the Louvre?"

As she said these words some one rapped softly at the door.

"Who is there? What is wanted? Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Madame de Castro.

André partially opened the door.

"Excuse me, Madame," said he, "a message from the king."

"From the king!" echoed Gabriel, whose face lighted up.

"Why do you bring me this letter now, André?"

"Madame, they told me it was urgent."

"Very well, give it me. What does the king want of me? You may go, André. If there is any reply, I will call you."

André left the room. Diane broke the seal of the king's letter, and read in a low tone, and with increasing terror, what follows:—

MY DEAR DIANE,—I am told that you are at the Louvre; do not go out, I beg you, until I have visited you in your apartments. I am at a sitting of the council which is likely to end at any moment. When I leave the council-chamber I will come immediately to you. Expect me very soon.

It is a long while since I have seen you alone! I am in low spirits, and feel that I must have a few moments' talk with my beloved daughter. Farewell for the moment.

HENRI.

Diane, with colorless cheeks, crumpled the letter in her hands when she had read it.

What should she do?

Dismiss Gabriel at once? But suppose on his way out he should meet the king, who might arrive at any moment!

Should she keep the youth with her? The king would find him there when he came in.

To warn the king would excite his suspicion, while on the other hand to warn Gabriel would simply arouse his anger by seeming to dread it.

A meeting between these two men, each of whom was so threatening to the other, now appeared inevitable, and it was she herself, Diane, who would gladly shed her own blood to save them, who had brought about the fatal encounter!

"What does the king write to you, Diane?" asked Gabriel, with an assumed tranquillity which was belied by the trembling of his voice.

"Nothing, nothing, really," replied Diane. "A reminder of the reception this evening."

"Perhaps I discommode you, Diane," Gabriel remarked. "If so, I will go."

"No, no, don't go!" cried Diane, hastily. "But then," she continued, "if you have any business which demands your immediate attention elsewhere, I should not like to detain you."

"That letter has troubled you, Diane. I fear that I have wearied you, and will take my leave."

"You weary me, my friend! Can you believe it?" said Madame de Castro. "Was it not I who went in search of you, in some measure? Alas! I fear, very imprudently. I will see you again, but not here—at your own house. The first opportunity that presents itself for me to get away, I will come to see you, and resume this sweet though painful interview. I promise you. Rely upon me. At the moment, you are right, I confess; I am somewhat preoccupied and in pain. I feel as if I were in a burning fever—"

"I see, Diane, and I will leave you," replied Gabriel, sadly.

"We shall meet again soon, my friend," said she. "Now go, go!"

She accompanied him as far as the door.

"If I keep him here," she thought, "it is certain that he will see the king; if he goes away at once, there is at least a chance that they may not meet."

Yet she hesitated still, and was anxious and tremulous.

"Pardon me, Gabriel," said she, quite beside herself, as they stood on the threshold; "just a word more. Mon Dieu! Your narrative has upset me so that it is hard for me to collect my thoughts. What was I about to ask you? Ah, I know! Just one word, but one of much importance. You have not yet told me what you intend to do. I begged for mercy, and you cried, 'Justice!' Pray tell me how you hope to obtain justice!"

"I do not know yet," said Gabriel, gloomily; "I trust in God for the event and the opportunity."

"For the opportunity!" repeated Diane, with a shudder. "For the opportunity,—what do you mean by that? Oh, come back, come back! I cannot let you go, Gabriel, until you have explained to me that word 'opportunity;' stay, I implore you!"

Taking his hand, she led him back into the room.

"If he meets the king elsewhere," thought poor Diane, "they will be quite alone,—the king without attendants, and Gabriel with his sword at his side; whereas if I am present, I can at least throw myself between them, and implore Gabriel to withhold his hand, or intercept his blow. Yes, he must remain.

"I feel better now," said she, aloud. "Remain, Gabriel, and let us renew our conversation, and do you give me the explanation I ask. I am much better."

"No, Diane; you are even more excited than you were," replied Gabriel. "Do you know what has come into my mind as an explanation of your alarm?"

"No, indeed, Gabriel. How should I know?"

"Well," said Gabriel, "just as your cry for mercy was an avowal that the crime was patent in your eyes, so your present apprehensions show that you believe the chastisement would be legitimate. You dread my vengeance for the culprit; and since you appreciate the justice of it, you are keeping me here to warn him of possible reprisals on my part, which, though they might terrify and afflict you, would not astonish you,—which would, on the other hand, seem quite natural to you. Am I not right?"

Diane was startled, so truly had the blow struck home. Nevertheless, collecting all her force, she said,—

"Oh, Gabriel, how can you believe that I could conceive such thoughts of you? You, my own Gabriel, a murderer! you deal a blow from behind at one who could not defend himself! Impossible! It would be worse than a crime; it would be dastardly. Do you imagine that I am trying to keep you? Oh, no, far from it; go whenever you please, and I will open the door for you. I am perfectly calm; mon Dieu, yes!—perfectly calm upon this point at least. If anything worries me, it is no such idea as that, I assure you. Leave me, leave the Louvre, with your mind at rest. I will come again to your house to finish our conversation. Go, my friend, go! You see how anxious I am to keep you!"

As she spoke she had led him into the anteroom, where the page was in attendance. Diane thought of ordering him to stay with Gabriel until he had left the Louvre; but that precaution would have betrayed her suspicion.

However, she could not resist the impulse to call André to her side by a sign, and whisper in his ear,—

"Do you know if the council is at an end?"

"Not yet, Madame," replied André, beneath his breath. "I have not yet seen the councillors leave the hall."

"Adieu, Gabriel," resumed Diane, aloud, with much animation. "Adieu, my friend. You almost force me to send you away, to prove that I have no such object as you allege in keeping you here. Adieu!—but for only a short time."

"For only a short time," said the youth, with a melancholy smile, as he pressed her hand.

He left her: but she stood looking after him until the last door had closed behind him.

Then returning to her room, she fell upon her knees before her prie-Dieu, weeping bitterly, and with palpitating heart.

"O mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she prayed, "in Jesus' name, watch over him who is perhaps my brother, as well as over him who is perhaps my father! Preserve the two beings whom I love, O my God! Thou alone canst do it now."

CHAPTER IX
OPPORTUNITY

In spite of her earnest efforts to prevent it, or rather because of those very efforts, events occurred as Madame de Castro had foreseen and dreaded.

Gabriel had gone from her presence sorrowful and agitated. Diane's fever had communicated itself to him in some measure, and clouded his eyes and confused his thoughts.

He passed mechanically down the stairways and along the familiar corridors of the Louvre, without paying much attention to exterior objects.

Nevertheless, as he was on the point of opening the door of the great gallery, he did remember that on his return from St. Quentin it was there that he had met Mary Stuart, and through the intervention of the young queen-dauphine had succeeded in reaching the king's presence, where the first fraud and humiliation had been practised upon him.

For he had not been deceived and outraged on one occasion only; several times had his enemies trampled upon his hope before its life was finally extinct. After he had first been made their dupe, he would have done well to expect similar treatment, and to have anticipated such exaggerated and cowardly interpretations of the letter of a sacred agreement.

While these irritating reminiscences were coursing through his brain, he opened the door and entered the gallery.

At the other end of the gallery, the corresponding door opened at the same moment.

A man entered.

It was Henri II.,—Henri, the author of, or at least the principal accessory in, the foul and dastardly deception which had forever withered Gabriel's heart and poisoned his life.

The king came forward alone, unarmed and unattended.

The offender and the offended, for the first time since the perpetration of the outrage, found themselves face to face, alone, and scarcely one hundred feet apart,—a distance which could be traversed in twenty seconds with twenty steps.

We have said that Gabriel had stopped short, motionless and rigid as a statue,—like a statue of Vengeance or of Hatred.

The king halted, as he suddenly espied the man whom for nearly a year he had seen only in his dreams.

The two stood thus for a moment without moving, as if mutually fascinated by each other.

In the whirl of sensations and thoughts which filled Gabriel's brain, the poor fellow in his distraction could fix upon no course to adopt, and form no resolution. He waited.

As for Henri, despite his proved courage, the sensation that he experienced was beyond question fear; but at the humiliating thought he held his head erect, banished his first cowardly impulse, and made up his mind what to do.

To call fur help would have been to show fear; to retire as he had come would have been to flee.

He pursued his way toward the door, where Gabriel remained as if nailed to the spot.

Moreover, a superior force, a sort of irresistible and fatal fascination, urged him on toward the pale phantom who seemed to be waiting for him.

The perplexities of his destiny began to unfold themselves around him.

Gabriel experienced a species of blind, instinctive satisfaction as he saw him approach; but still he could not succeed in evolving any distinct thought from the clouds that obscured his intellect. He simply laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

When the king was within a few steps of Gabriel, the personal dread which he had previously thrust away seized him anew, and held his heart fast, as it were in a vice.

He said to himself in a vague way that his last hour had come, and that it was just.

However, his step did not falter. His feet seemed to carry him along of their own accord, and independently of his own dazed will. It is thus that somnambulists go about.

When he was directly in front of Gabriel, so that he could hear his quick breathing, and might touch him with his hand, he mechanically raised his hand to his velvet cap, and saluted the young count.

Gabriel did not acknowledge the salute. He maintained his marble-like attitude; and his hand, like that of a graven image, never left his sword.

In the king's eyes Gabriel was no longer a subject, but a messenger of God, before whom he must bow; while to Gabriel Henri was no longer a king, but a man, who had slain his father, and to whom he owed nothing but bitter hatred.

However, he allowed him to pass without doing aught, and without a word.

The king, on his part, did not move aside nor turn around nor express any feeling at such lack of respect.

When the door had closed between the two men, and the charm was broken, each of them awoke, as it were, rubbed his eyes, and asked himself,—

"Was it not a dream?"

Gabriel slowly left the Louvre. He did not regret the lost opportunity, nor did he repent that he had allowed it to escape him.

He felt a sort of confused joy.

"My prey is coming to me," he thought; "already he is fluttering around my nets, and getting within reach of my spear."

He slept that night more soundly than he had done for a long while.

The king, however, was not so tranquil. He went on to Diane's apartments, where she was expecting him, and welcomed him with such transports of delight as we can imagine.

But Henri was absorbed and restless. He did not venture to speak of the Comte de Montgommery, although he fancied that Gabriel was doubtless coming from his daughter's apartments when they met. However, he did not choose to touch that chord; therefore, while he had set out to pay Diane this visit in a spirit of effusive affection and confidence, he maintained from beginning to end an air of suspicion and constraint.

He then returned to his own apartments, sad and gloomy. He felt displeased with himself and others, and his sleep that night was very troubled and broken.

It seemed to him that he was becoming involved in a labyrinth from which he should never come out alive.

"However," he said to himself, "I offered myself to that man's sword to-day in a measure; so it is evident that he does not wish to kill me."

The king, in order to distract his thoughts and seek forgetfulness for his troubles, determined to leave Paris for a time. During the days immediately following his encounter with the Comte de Montgommery, he went successively to St. Germain, Chambord, and Madame de Poitiers's Château d'Anet.

Toward the close of the month of June he was at Fontainebleau.

He was constantly moving about, and had the appearance of a man wishing to drown his trouble in motion and noise and excitement.

The approaching fêtes in connection with his daughter Élisabeth's marriage with Philip II. afforded an excuse as well as opportunity for this feverish need of continual action.

At Fontainebleau he desired to entertain the Spanish ambassador with the spectacle of a great hunt in the forest, and it was appointed to take place on the 23d of June.

The day broke hot and threatening, and the weather became very tempestuous.

Nevertheless Henri did not countermand the orders he had given, for the excitement would surely be no less in a storm.

He selected the fleetest and highest-mettled horse in his stables, and followed the hunt with a sort of fury; and it happened at one time that carried away by his own ardor and the temper of his horse, he outstripped all his companions, lost sight of the hunt completely, and missed his way in the forest.

Clouds were piling up in the sky, and ominous rumblings were heard in the distance. The storm was about to break.

Henri, leaning forward upon his foaming steed, whose headlong pace he made no attempt to slacken, but on the contrary, urging him on with voice and spur, rode on and on, more swiftly than the wind, among the trees and rocks; the dizzy gallop seemed to suit his humor, for he laughed loud and long.

For a few moments he had forgotten his troubles.

Suddenly his horse reared in terror; a dazzling flash lighted up the sky, and the sudden apparition of one of those huge white rocks which abound in the forest of Fontainebleau, towering aloft at a corner of the path, had startled him.

A loud peal of thunder increased twofold the fear of the skittish animal. He bounded forward, and the sudden movement broke the rein close to the bit, so that Henri entirely lost control.

Then began a furious, fearful mad race.

The horse, with mane erect, foaming flanks, and rigid legs, shot through the air like an arrow.

The king, clinging to the animal's neck to save himself from falling, his hair on end, and his clothes blowing about in the wind, vainly tried to seize the rein, which would have been of no use in his hands.

Any one seeing the horse and his rider pass thus in the tempest would have infallibly taken them for a vision from the infernal regions, and would have thought only of exorcising the evil spirit with the sign of the cross.

But no one was at hand; not a living soul, not an inhabited dwelling. That last chance of safety which the presence of a fellow-man affords to one in peril was lacking to this anointed horseman.

Not a woodcutter, not a beggar, not a poacher, not even a thief, to save this crowned king!

The pouring rain, and the more and more frequent peals of thunder, ever nearer at hand, drove the maddened steed to an even more headlong and terrific pace.

Henri, with staring eyes, tried in vain to recognize the path along which the fatal race was being run. At last he did succeed in fixing his position at a certain cleared space among the trees, and then he fairly shook with terror, for the path led straight to the summit of a steep rock, whose perpendicular wall overhung a deep chasm, a veritable abyss!

The king did his utmost to stop the horse with his hand and voice, but to no purpose.

To throw himself from the saddle was to break his neck against some tree-trunk or granite bowlder, and it was better not to resort to that desperate measure until the last moment.

In any event Henri felt that he was lost, and full of remorse and dread, was already commending his soul to God.

He did not know at just what part of the path he was, or whether the precipice was close at hand or at some distance; but he must be ready, and he was just about to let himself to the ground, at all hazards.

At this moment, as he cast a last look about him in all directions, he saw a man at the end of the path, mounted like himself, but standing beneath the shelter of an oak.

At that distance he could not recognize the man, whose features and form, in addition, were hidden by a long cloak and a broad-rimmed hat. But it was doubtless some gentleman who had lost his way in the forest, as he himself had done.

At last Henri felt that his safety was assured. The path was narrow, and the stranger had only to move his horse forward a step or two to block the king's passage; or by simply reaching out his hand he might stop him in his headlong course.

Nothing could be easier; and even though there were some risk attending it, the unknown, on recognizing the king, ought not to think twice about incurring the risk to save his master.

In less than one twentieth of the time it has taken to read these words, the three or four hundred paces which separated Henri from his rescuer had been traversed.

Henri, to attract attention, uttered a cry of distress and waved his hand. The stranger saw him, and made a movement; he was doubtless making ready.

But oh, in terror's name! although the maddened horse passed directly before the unknown horseman, he failed to make the slightest attempt to stop him.

Indeed, it seemed as if he fell back somewhat, to avoid any possible contact.

The king uttered a second cry, no longer appealing and imploring, but of rage and despair.

However, he thought that the iron feet of his horse seemed to be now striking on stone, and not on the sod. He had arrived at the fatal precipice.

He whispered the name of God, released his foot from the stirrup, and let himself fall to the ground, at every risk.

The rebound carried him some fifteen paces away; but miraculously, as it appeared, he fell upon a little mound of moss and grass, and sustained no injury. It was full time! Less than twenty feet away was the sheer precipice.

The poor horse, amazed at being thus relieved of his burden, gradually lessened his pace, so that when he reached the edge of the chasm, he had time to measure its width, and instinctively threw himself upon his haunches, with flaming eyes and disordered mane, and foam flying from his distended nostrils.

But if the king had been still upon his back, the shock of his sudden stop would surely have thrown him into the abyss.

Having offered a fervent prayer of thanksgiving to God, who had so evidently protected him, and having soothed and remounted his horse, his first thought was to hasten back and vent his anger upon the wretch who would so basely have left him to die, except for the intervention of God.

The stranger had remained in the same spot, still motionless beneath the folds of his black cloak.

"Wretch!" cried the king, when he had approached within ear-shot. "Did you not see the danger I was in? Did you not recognize me, regicide? And even though it were not your king, ought you not to rescue any man in such peril of his life, when you have only to stretch out your arm to do it, miscreant?"

The stranger did not move, nor did he reply; he simply raised his head slightly, which was shaded from Henri's eyes by his broad felt hat.

The king recoiled as he recognized the pale and dejected features of Gabriel. He said no more, but muttered to himself, lowering his head,—

"The Comte de Montgommery! Then I have nothing more to say."

And without another word, he put spurs to his horse and galloped off into the forest.

"He would not kill me," he said to himself, seized with a death-like tremor; "but it seems that he would let me die."

Gabriel, once more alone, repeated with a gloomy smile,—

"I feel that my prey is coming nearer, and the hour is approaching."

CHAPTER X
BETWEEN TWO DUTIES

The marriage contracts of Élisabeth and Marguerite de France were to be signed at the Louvre on the 28th of June, and the king returned to Paris on the 25th, more cast down and preoccupied than ever.

Especially since Gabriel's last appearance, his life had become a torment to him. He avoided being left alone, and constantly sought means of banishing temporarily the sombre thought by which he was possessed, so to speak.

But he had not mentioned that second encounter to a single soul; he was at once anxious and afraid to unbosom himself on the subject to some devoted and faithful heart; for he himself no longer knew what to think or what course to adopt, and the fearful thought which haunted him had thrown his mind into utter confusion.

Finally he determined to open his heart to Diane de Castro.

Diane had surely seen Gabriel again, he said to himself; there was no question that the young count had just left her when he encountered him the first time, so that Diane might possibly know his plans. In that case, she could and she ought either to set her father's mind at rest or to warn him; and Henri, despite the bitter doubts with which he was ceaselessly assailed, did not believe his beloved daughter capable of treachery toward him, or of conniving at it.

A mysterious instinct seemed to whisper to him that Diane was no less anxious than he. In fact, Diane de Castro, although she knew nothing of the two strange meetings which had taken place between the king and Gabriel, was equally ignorant as to what had become of the latter during the last few days. André, whom she had despatched several times to the house in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul to learn something of Gabriel's movements, had brought her no information. He had disappeared from Paris again. We have seen him haunting the king at Fontainebleau.

In the afternoon of June 26 Diane was sitting pensively in her apartments, quite alone, when one of her women came hurriedly in to announce the king.

Henri's face wore its ordinary grave expression. After the first greetings, he plunged at once into the matter in hand, as if to throw off his troublesome anxiety at the first opportunity.

"Dear Diane," said he, gazing intently into his daughter's eyes, "it is a long time since we have spoken together of Monsieur d'Exmès, who has now taken the title of Comte de Montgommery. It is a long time also since you have seen him, is it not? Tell me."

Diane at Gabriel's name turned pale and shuddered.

"Sire," she replied, "I have seen Monsieur d'Exmès once only since my return from Calais."

"Where did you see him, Diane?" asked the king.

"At the Louvre, Sire, in this very room."

"About a fortnight ago, was it not?"

"I should think it was about that time, Sire," replied Madame de Castro.

"I suspected as much," returned the king.

He paused a moment, as if to rearrange his ideas.

Diane observed him attentively and fearfully, trying to divine the purpose of his unexpected question.

But Henri's serious expression seemed impenetrable.

"Excuse me, Sire," she said, mustering all her courage. "May I venture to ask your Majesty why, after your long silence as to him who saved me from disgrace at Calais, you have done me the honor to pay me this visit to-day, and at this hour, expressly, I should judge, to interrogate me about him?"

"Do you wish to know, Diane?" asked the king.

"Sire, I am so bold," she replied.

"Very well, then, you shall know all," said Henri; "and I pray that my confidence may invite and induce yours. You have often told me that you loved me, my child."

"I have said it, and I say it again, Sire," cried Diane: "I love you as my sovereign, my benefactor, and my father."

"Therefore I may reveal everything to my loyal and loving daughter," said the king; "so listen, Diane."

"I listen with all my soul, Sire."

Henri then described his two encounters with Gabriel,—the first in the gallery of the Louvre, and the other in the forest of Fontainebleau. He told Diane of the strange demeanor, as of mute rebellion, which the young man had adopted, and how on the first occasion he had declined to raise his hand to salute his king, and the second time had declined to raise his hand to save his life.

Diane at this recital could not conceal her grief and her alarm. The conflict which she so dreaded between Gabriel and the king had already manifested itself on two occasions, and might soon appear again in a still more dangerous and terrible form.

Henri, affecting not to notice his daughter's emotion, ended with these words:—

"These are serious offences, are they not, Diane? They almost amount to lèse-majesté! And yet I have concealed these insults from everybody, and dissembled my indignation, because this young man has really suffered at my hands in the past, notwithstanding the glorious service he has rendered my kingdom, which ought doubtless to have been rewarded much more generously." Fixing a piercing glance upon Diane, the king continued,—

"I do not know, Diane, nor do I wish to know, whether you have been made acquainted with the wrong I have done Monsieur d'Exmès; I only wish you to feel that my silence has been due to my appreciation of that wrong and my regret for it. But is it not imprudent for me to maintain silence? Do not these outrages give warning of others more flagrant still? Ought I not to have an eye to Monsieur d'Exmès? Upon these points I have come, Diane, to ask for your friendly advice."

"I am grateful for your confidence in me, Sire," replied Diane, sorrowfully, being thus forced to choose between the duty which she owed respectively to the two men who were dearest to her on earth.

"It is a very natural confidence, Diane," the king returned. "Well?" he added, observing that his daughter seemed to be at a loss.

"Well, Sire," replied Diane, with an effort, "I think that your Majesty is right, and that for you to take some notice of Monsieur d'Exmès's movements will perhaps be the wisest course you can adopt."

"Do you think, then, Diane, that my life is in danger from him?" asked Henri.

"Oh, I did not say that, Sire!" cried Diane, warmly. "But Monsieur d'Exmès seems to have been wounded to the quick, and there may be danger perhaps—"

Poor Diane stopped abruptly, quivering with the torture she was undergoing, the perspiration standing on her forehead in great beads. This species of denunciation, which her moral sense had almost torn from her, was very repugnant to her noble heart.

But Henri put a wholly different construction upon her very evident distress.

"I understand you, Diane," said he, rising and pacing heavily to and fro. "Yes, I foresaw it clearly. You see I must be suspicious of this young man; but to live with this Damocles's sword forever hanging over my head is impossible. The obligations of kings are not the same as those by which other gentlemen are governed. I propose to take effective measures to protect myself against Monsieur d'Exmès."

He walked toward the door as if to leave the room, but Diane threw herself in his path.

What, Gabriel to be accused and perhaps imprisoned! And it was she, Diane, who had betrayed him! She could not abide the thought. After all, Gabriel's words had not been so full of menace.

"Sire, one moment, pray!" she cried. "You are mistaken; I swear that you are mistaken! I have not said a word to imply that your doubly sacred head is in danger. Nothing in Monsieur d'Exmès's confidences could ever make me suspect him capable of crime. Otherwise, great God! would I not have told you everything?"

"Very true," said Henri, stopping once more; "but what did you mean to say, then, Diane?"

"I meant to say simply that I thought it would be well for your Majesty to avoid as far as possible these vexatious encounters where an offended subject is enabled to show his forgetfulness of the respect due to his king. But a regicide's failure to show respect is a very different matter. Sire, would it be worthy of you to try to remedy one unjust act by another equally iniquitous?"

"No, surely not; I had no such intention," said the king; "and I have proved it by keeping these occurrences to myself. Since you have dissipated my suspicions, Diane; since you will answer for my bodily safety to your own conscience and before God; and since in your opinion I may be perfectly tranquil—"

"Tranquil!" Diane interrupted with a shudder. "Ah, I didn't go so far as that, Sire. With what a terrible load of responsibility you overwhelm me! On the contrary, your Majesty ought to be careful and on your guard—"

"No," said the king, "I cannot live in a condition of never-ending dread and apprehension. For two weeks I have entirely ceased to enjoy life. This state of affairs must come to an end. One of two things must happen: either trusting in your word, Diane, I shall go tranquilly on with my life, thinking of the welfare of my realm, and not of my enemy,—in short, without troubling myself further about Vicomte d'Exmès; or I shall see that this man who bears me ill-will is put where he can no longer injure me, by giving information of his outrages; and since I occupy too proud and lofty a position to defend myself, I shall leave that task to those whose duty it is to safeguard my person."

"And who are they, Sire?" asked Diane.

"Why, Monsieur de Montmorency, first of all, as constable and commander-in-chief of the army."

"Monsieur de Montmorency!" echoed Diane, with an accent of horror.

That detested name at once recalled to her mind all the misfortunes of Gabriel's father, his long and harsh captivity, and his death. If Gabriel in turn should fall into the constable's hands, a like fate was in store for him, and his destruction was certain.

In her imagination Diane saw him whom she had loved so dearly immured in a dungeon without light or air, and dying there in one night, or, more fearful still, lingering on for twenty years, and dying at the last cursing God and man, but more than all Diane the traitress, who with her equivocal and hesitating words had basely betrayed him.

There was no proof that Gabriel wished to slay the king, or would be able to do it, while there was no room for doubt that the bitter enmity of Monsieur de Montmorency would have no mercy on Gabriel.

Diane went over all this in her mind in a few seconds, and when the king finally propounded the direct question to her,—

"Well, Diane, what advice do you give me? Since you are better able than I to form an opinion as to the perils which beset my path, your word shall be my law. Ought I to think no more about Monsieur d'Exmès, or ought I, on the other hand, to busy myself with him exclusively?"

She replied in an agony of terror at his last words, "I have no other counsel to offer your Majesty than that of your own conscience. If any other than a man whom you had offended, Sire, had failed to show proper respect to you, or had basely abandoned you when in danger of your life, you would not, I fancy, have come to ask my advice as to the fit punishment to be meted out to the culprit. Therefore some very weighty motive must have constrained your Majesty to adopt a policy of silence which seems to imply forgiveness. Now I confess that I can see no reason why you should not continue to act as you have begun; for it seems to me that if Monsieur d'Exmès had been capable of meditating a crime against you, he could hardly have expected two fairer opportunities than those which were offered him in a lonely gallery in the Louvre, and in the forest of Fontainebleau on the edge of a precipice—"

"You need say no more, Diane," said Henri; "and I will not ask you another question. You have banished a serious anxiety from my heart, and I thank you sincerely for it, my dear child. Let us say no more about this. Now I shall be able to devote my thoughts freely to our approaching marriage festivities. I desire that they shall be magnificent, and that you shall be as magnificent as they. Diane, do you hear?"

"I beg your Majesty to excuse me," said Diane; "but I was just about to ask leave to absent myself from these festivities. I should much prefer, if I must confess it, to remain here by myself."

"What!" exclaimed the king; "but do you know, Diane, that this will be truly a royal display? There will be games and tournaments, all on the most splendid scale, and I myself shall be one of those who hold the lists against all comers. What pressing affairs can you have to keep you away from such superb spectacles, my darling daughter?"

"Sire," replied Diane, in a tone of the utmost gravity, "I have to pray."

A few minutes later the king quitted Madame de Castro, with his heart relieved of part of its anguish.

But alas! he left poor Diane with so much the more anguish at her heart.

CHAPTER XI
OMENS

The king, thenceforth almost free from the anxiety which had weighed upon him, urged on most energetically the preparations for the magnificent fêtes which he proposed to provide for his fair city of Paris, on the occasion of the happy marriages of his daughter Élisabeth with Philip II., and his sister Marguerite with the Duke of Savoy.

Very happy marriages, in sooth, and which surely deserved to be celebrated with such rejoicing and splendor. The author of Don Carlos has told us so well that we need not repeat it, what was the result of the first. We shall see to what the preliminaries of the other led.

The contract of marriage between Philibert Emmanuel and Marguerite de France was to be signed on the 28th of June.

Henri caused the announcement to be made that on that and the two following days there would be lists open at the Tournelles for tilting and other knightly sports.

And upon the pretext of paying a higher compliment to the bride and groom, but really to gratify his own intense passion for sport of that nature, the king declared that he would himself be among the challengers.

But on the morning of the 28th the queen, Catherine de Médicis, who at that time scarcely ever showed herself in public, sent an urgent request to the king for an interview with him.

Henri, we need not say, acquiesced at once in his wife's desire.

Catherine thereupon entered his apartment in much emotion.

"Ah, dear Sire," she exclaimed as soon as she saw him, "in Jesus' name, I implore you not to leave the Louvre until the end of this month of June."

"Why so, Madame, pray?" asked Henri, amazed at this unexpected request.

"Sire, because you are threatened by great peril during these last few days."

"Who has told you that?" demanded the king.

"Your star, Sire, which appeared last night in an observation made by myself and my Italian astrologer, with most threatening indications of danger,—of mortal danger!"

We must know that Catherine de Médicis about this time began to devote herself to those magical and astrological practices which very rarely deceived her in the whole course of her life, if we may trust the memoirs of the time.

But Henri was a confirmed scoffer in this matter of reading the stars, and he smilingly replied to the queen,—

"Well, Madame, if my star portends danger, it may come to me here as well as elsewhere."

"No, Sire," Catherine replied; "it is beneath the vault of heaven and in the open air that peril awaits you."

"Really!—a tempest perhaps?" said Henri.

"Sire, do not joke about such things!" retorted the queen. "The stars are the written word of God."

"Well, then, we must agree," said Henri, "that the divine handwriting is generally very obscure and confused."

"How so, Sire?"

"The erasures seem to me to make the text unintelligible, so that each one may decipher it almost to suit himself. You have read, Madame, in the celestial conjuring book, as you say, that my life is threatened if I quit the Louvre?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Very well. Now, Forcatel only last month saw something very different there. You think highly of Forcatel, Madame, I believe?"

"Yes," said the queen; "he is a learned man, who has already learned to read in the book where we are just beginning to spell."

"Know, then, Madame," rejoined the king, "that Forcatel read for me in these stars of yours this beautiful verse, which has no other fault except that it is utterly unintelligible:—"

"'If this is not Mars, dread his image.'"

"In what does that prediction weaken the one I have told you of?" asked Catherine.

"Just wait, Madame!" said Henri: "I have somewhere the nativity which was cast for me last year. Do you remember what destiny it foretold for me?"

"Very indistinctly, Sire."

"According to that horoscope, Madame, it is written in the stars that I shall die in a duel! Surely, that would be a rare and novel experience for a king. But a duel, in my humble opinion, is not the image of Mars, but the god himself."

"What is your conclusion from that, Sire?"

"Why, this, Madame: that since all these prophecies are contradictory and inconsistent, the surest way is to have no faith in any of them. The deceitful things give one another the lie, you can see yourself."

"So your Majesty will persist in leaving the Louvre during the next few days?"

"Under any other circumstances I should be most happy, Madame, to gratify you by remaining with you; but I have promised and publicly announced that I would be present at these festivities; so I must attend them."

"At all events, Sire, you will not enter the lists, will you?"

"There, again, my pledged word requires me, to my great regret, to refuse you, Madame. But what possible danger can there be for me in these sports? I am grateful to you from the bottom of my heart for your solicitude; yet let me assure you that your fears are altogether imaginary, and that to yield to them would be to imply a false belief that danger could possibly attend this courtly, good-natured jousting, which I by no means propose to have done away with on my account."

"Sire," rejoined Catherine, "I am accustomed to give way to your will, and to-day again I resign myself, but with grief and alarm at my heart."

"You will come to the Tournelles, Madame, will you not?" said the king, kissing Catherine's hand,—"were it for no other object than to applaud my prowess with the lance and convince yourself of the absurdity of your fears."

"I will obey you to the end," replied the queen, as she withdrew.

Along with all the court, except Diane de Castro, Catherine was present at the first day's tilting, where throughout the day the king crossed lances with all comers.

"Well, Madame, the stars seem to have been mistaken," he said jokingly to the queen in the evening.

Catherine sadly shook her head.

"Alas!" said she, "the month of June is not yet at an end."

The second day, the 29th, likewise passed off equally uneventfully. Henri did not leave the lists; and his good fortune was in proportion to his daring.

"You see, Madame, that the stars proved deceptive as to this day also," he again observed to Catherine, when they returned to the Louvre.

"Ah, Sire, now I only dread the third day!" cried the queen.